Good Man

"God didn't promise days without pain, laughter without sorrow, sun without rain, but He did promise strength for the day, comfort for the tears and light for the way."
- Unknown



In the days following Caroline's overdose she was sent to seek psychiatric help, and if she refused, her children could very well be taken away from her, and after the epiphany that was forcing her body to give up her unborn child, she was no longer willing to lose any more.

It was five minutes after eleven in the morning and she was sitting on a brown leather couch with her hands folded in her lap while her thumbs idly fiddled about as she tried to focus on the window to her left that looked out at the other buildings in San Francisco.

She was loaded, monetarily, so she could afford to see one of the best quack's in the City By The Bay.

"Am I supposed to say something first?" Caroline muttered, still looking out the window, and unsure of what to do.

After all, she'd never been to a psychiatrist's office before. All she knew was from what she'd seen in movies or on television shows.

The psychiatrist, Dr. Bath, shook his head and offered an assuring smile. "No, you don't, Mrs. Pritchard. I can 'start,'" he replied, shifting in his chair across from her with a pad of paper and a pen in hand. "So, what brings you here today?"

Caroline really wanted to roll her eyes. "I overdosed and have to be here or I'll lose my kids..." she answered the obvious. She knew that he knew. Why did he need to ask her something that obvious? Were these part of his mind games?

"Okay...fair enough. What do you hope to accomplish from these sessions?"

Caroline shrugged. "I dunno. What am I supposed to accomplish?" She looked at Dr. Bath and held his eye contact for a moment.

Dr. Bath blinked, thought for a second, then answered with another question. "What do you want to accomplish, then? Maybe 'goals' would be another way to phrase it."

"To be left alone and grieve my way without the threat of my kids being taken away. That's my only goal. This, these series of visits are just...meaningless to me right now, 'kay?"

"Why won't people let you grieve the way you want?"

"I guess..." she trailed off, looking down at her hands. "I guess they feel shut out. I know they want to help, but I don't see how they can. I mean, they lost the same person I did, but he meant more to me than they can ever understand...and they can't understand why I need to be alone now..."

"Where do your children factor in to you wanting to be alone?"

"They look so much like him, my husband. Seeing them is a constant reminder of what that fucker took from me...all of us." Then as an afterthought, she mumbled, "I wanna kill that bastard."

"Why?"

"Why what?" Caroline questioned, looking up at the doctor.

"Why do you want to kill Mike?"

"I don't wanna kill my husband. I wanna kill the fucking psycho that killed..." her voice became lost, not wanting to finish the sentence what with her husband's more-or-less assassination so fresh in her mind.

"Mrs. Pritchard, do you plan on attending the trial?"

To Caroline, it felt as if that question came out of left field.

"I dunno. I haven't really thought about it." Then she added, "I'm not sure how I'd handle it, having to face that monster again."

"Do you think it might bring closure?"

"The only closure it would bring is if the verdict was guilty, the sentence was the death penalty and his soul burns in hell for all eternity."

"Why are you so angry at this man?"

Caroline stared Dr. Bath down as if he were the most stupid bumfuck in the entire history of the world. "Are you fucking serious? That 'man' killed my husband. He shot him in front of me and his fans. My husband bled to death and died in my arms, crying and struggling to breathe, leaving behind his friends, his children and me, and you wanna ask why I'm angry at this 'man?' Why the fuck else would I be angry at him?"

"So are you grieving the man you lost or are you angry at the man who caused it?"

"Both," she spat.

"Fair enough, Mrs. Pritchard; a normal feeling for the situation. How are your children handling all this?"

"I don't know. I s'pose Mikey senses more is wrong -- that a bad man hurt his daddy and now his daddy is in heaven, but Chloe's too young to understand what's going on around her."

"Have you been doing anything with them, such as spending extra time with them?"

Caroline shook her head guiltily. "Not really. I mean, I've watched videos with them. Doodlebops, Disney cartoons, even home movies of Mike. But that was only for a couple days. I've mostly just...passed them off to either godparent's house."

"Was that because of your need to alone or because they remind you of your husband?"

"Both."

"What was going through your mind when you decided to start drinking that night?"

"Morning," she corrected. "I just wanted to dull my thoughts. I wanted it to all go away."

"Why?"

"Because they were deafening."

"What was deafening Mrs. Pritchard?"

"Mike's gasping."

"But why were you hearing it that morning?"

"Because it's all I ever hear. It's why I sleep so much. It's why I bury my head under my pillows. I keep trying to drown it out, but I can't muffle what's inside my head..."

"Why do you think that's happening?"

Caroline found herself once again eyeing Dr. Bath as if he were a fucktard from West Bumfuck.

"Because I witnessed the horrible death of the love of my life. Why else would it be happening?"

"Did you have a chance to say goodbye?"

"No," she answered soberly. "The time I had left with him was spent assuring him he'd be okay...but...but he was saying goodbye. I just couldn't accept it, though. Still can't."

"If you could go back, what would you do differently?"

"Not go to dinner at the Ferry Building. Stay home. Go to Rudy's instead."

"But what if the man was still there...and things still happened? What would you have said differently?"

"If that monster still fired his gun, I woulda jumped in front of Mike and it would've been me saying goodbye and Mike holding me as I died..."



A couple of evenings later, Caroline sat on her couch with her feet tucked up under her while Tre and Giselle hung around once again that week to make sure she didn't do anything else stupid.

As if she really would anymore. She knew it, but they apparently didn't.

Chloe was curled up into her mother's right side, holding a squishy book made of linen and cotton filling. She was chattering away with her toddler speak; only a few decipherable words coming out here and there. Meanwhile, Mikey laid on the opposite side of Caroline; his small body stretched out and his head resting on his mother's lap.

Tre was in the midst of flipping channels on the TV from where he sat at the other end of the sectional couch while Caroline and her children occupied the center where it curved. From what she could hear, the 32-year-old widow could tell her sister was busy messing around in the kitchen to prepare dinner for the five of them, and Caroline was curious to see how it turned out.

This was considering if Caroline could ever recall eating food Giselle had prepared, that was in the least bit edible.

"Can you find one station and stick to it, please?" Caroline asked of Tre.

"I'm looking to see what the score to the Raiders game is so far," he commented, throwing her a glance. "They're playing against your team, y'know?"

"Just because I'm from Buffalo does not make the Buffalo Bills my team. They suck donkey balls. Now, if you wanna talk the NHL, the Buffalo Sabres will kick butt and take names any day over any team."

"Kick butt," Chloe repeated.

"That's right, sweetie," Caroline smirked, leaning down enough to kiss the top of her daughter's head of wispy, dark blonde hair.

Tre smiled and turned his focus back to the television as he came upon the slew of news channels like CNBC, C-SPAN and CNN, only to settle on Fox News.

"What the---" he began, leaning forward a bit more to hear what was being said on screen.

"...and he was interviewed from where he's being held in custody without bail while awaiting trial, which is scheduled for the 1st of October," came the commentary from one talking head.

"When I listened to this interview all I could think of was Charles Manson, in the sense of his position. He's clearly unstable and, if I may say so, psychotic."

"You're not the only one, Henry. A lot of people are rallying behind the prosecution on this case, hoping Dean Calkins gets the most severe sentencing according to California law, which is the death penalty by way of lethal injection."

"Oh, God," Caroline muttered.

Dean Calkins was the name of the man who shot Mike. The people on TV were talking about her husband's killer.

"I don't think America, as a whole, has ever rallied behind a prosecution before like the State of California vs. Calkins case. They want to see Dean Calkins get what he deserves. Not just because he shot the bassist and cofounder of rock group Green Day's Mike Dirnt, but because he shot a good man in front of people who adored him and was left to die in his wife's arms while they waited for help to arrive, that would come too late..."

"Tre, turn it...turn the channel..."

"Very true," the first talking head agreed. "And with that, we're going to show the interview Dean Calkins made from his holding cell this afternoon...

"You've got to be kidding me. Tre...turn the channel, please..." Caroline begged, but Tre didn't comply. He was interested in what the bastard who killed his best friend had to say.

The image on the screen switched from the newsroom to the view of Dean Calkins himself, sitting in a holding cell; flashes from cameras going off.

"I am not sorry about what happened. I see it as doing Mike Dirnt a favor. I secured him a place in heaven. Now he never has to worry about hell or purgatory," he spoke eerily. "Any indiscretions he committed against his soul in life were wiped away when I did what I did. Because of me he never has to feel another ounce of earthly pain again. I set him free."

Tre was utterly horrified by what he was listening to, and also unaware that his insistence to not turn the channel had upset Caroline so incredibly.

The deep, throaty sob was the first inclination. The second was seeing Caroline jump up from the couch out the corner of his eye and make a run for the front hall.

"Shit," Tre mumbled, turning the channel quickly to Nickelodeon and then dropping the remote to the coffee table before running after Caroline.

She had began to run up the stairs but he grabbed her by the waist and turned her around and as she fought his grasp on her, he pulled her tightly against his chest and downright forced her to stay put.

"I'm sorry, Care, I'm so sorry..." he whispered soothingly as he apologized.

"No...no, I'm supposed to get better. I'm supposed to be able to handle this now," she cried. "But I cannot face that...that...that bastard! I want him dead and I want him to rot in hell for all eternity, damnit!"

"He will, Care...shh, he will."

"I want him dead, I want him...I want him to feel the pain I feel, tenfold."

"He will..."

"I want to kill him myself."

"I know you do. We all do. Believe me."

"What's wrong?" came Giselle's voice as she stepped into the front hall from the kitchen and looked upon her husband holding her sister who was a wreck once again.

"Dean Calkins was interviewed on Fox News."

"Oh..." Giselle was unsure of what to say next, so she simply placed a hand on her sister's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"That fucker's happy he killed Mike," Caroline seethed through her tears. "I'm gonna kill him! I'm gonna kill him!"

"Shh, Caroline. The kids are in the other room," Giselle hushed the upset widow.

Those words calmed Caroline right down as she stopped struggling in Tre's arms and simply went limp, exhaling a tired breath. She took in a breath, her face half-buried into Tre's black T-shirt as she let her arms wrap around his body; just clinging for the comfort her offered.

A few moments of uncertain silence and sadness passed before Caroline finally spoke up.

"Tre?" she muttered.

"Yeah?"

There was an ounce of hesitation on her part. Then, "He killed my husband."

"I know, Care," Tre nodded solemnly. "I know."



Dickhead, fuckface, cocksmoker, motherfucker, asshole, dirty twat, waste of semen, I hope you die--HEY!