There are many stories about Micheal Sullivan. Some say he was a decent man. Some say there was no good in him at all. But I once spent six weeks with him in the winter of 1931. This is our story.--Narrated by Micheal Sullivan Jr.
He gazed into her china-blue eyes and kissed her hand in a courtly manner; a knight and his maiden. --Sullivan and Annie
Maybe it was the vaguely Arabic archways mixed in with the other-wise medieval look of the place. Whatever the case, Micheal shuddered, a chill running through him that had nothing to do with the winter weather. --Micheal Jr. and the Rooney House
Annie Sullivan watched, fighting feelings of contempt for the man who had done so much for them. The lanky, almost tall, white haired, white-mustached paterfamilias had been a rakishly handsome young man. Ad even now, in his seventies, his powder-blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and strong chin gave him the sort of distinctive good looks many a lady (though not Annie) still sighed over.
But of later Annie noted a certain shambling gait, and a wearied, even haunted expression, that indicated John Rooney might feel some small burden from carrying so many sins on his shoulder.
A gentle rainfall of piano notes--the opening chords of a melancholy tune--soon filled the room.
The two drank in the sight of their respective fathers melding musically, as Sullivan played along with Rooney, hesitant at first, but gradually catching up.
The beautiful melody caught people off gaurd, and the song soon had people swaying; eyes tearing. -- Peter Sullivan and Connor Rooney watching their fathers play the piano.
Even when I think I knew that we had led a sheltered existence and the inklings that our life was somehow a lie had begun to take shape in my youthful consciousness. -- Micheal. Jr. Narrates
The boy knew he shouldn't be here - even sensed, to some small degree at least, the fool-hardy dangerousness of his own mission. But he was nonetheless as thrilled as he was frightened. What brave thing was his father doing on this dark rainy night? What injustice was he righting?
It all happened so fast Micheal wasn't sure what he was seeing, such a blur of activity the boy didn't even rear away, such a thunder of gunfire his ears seemed to explode, as he froze in wide-eyed horror and fascination, viewing the scene of carnage between his father's feet, shell casings falling and tinkling like wind chimes.
Before that dreadful night, I hadn't known who or what my father was. All I had to guide me were my childish enthusiasm, an imagination fueled by radio, comics, and the movies, and the natural hero worship my brother and I shared for papa.--Micheal Jr. Narrates
You can't protect children forever. If it wasn't this, it would've been something else. -John Roony
It's natural law-- sons are put on this earth to trouble their fathers--John Rooney
But there was no doubt that that night forever changed my father - forever changed us both.- Micheal Jr. Narrates
He leaned a hand against the wall, and then slid to the floor and sat there crying, gun beside him, his head in his hands. He had lots everything. Everything. Micheal was there now, standing over his father as he wept. -- Micheal Sen. after seeing his dead wife and son
That's not our home anymore, it's just an empty building. -Micheal Sen. to his son
Micheal had never seen the look in his father's eyes before -- his expression was apologetic, and also sad. Papa's eyes were red, as if he'd been crying.
Papa, about to open the door, paused and his eyes held the boy - as if he were memorizing Micheal's features -- then slipped out into the night, moving down the sidewalk.
Then, his face blank, he shut the book, pushed it aside, he felt his lower lip begin to tremble and his eyes began to get wet, his whole face quivering, as if he had no control over it, which he didn't.
The boy wept, trying to stay quiet and not attract attention, because his father wouldn't have approved.
But if you go ahead with this... if you open that door, you'll be walking through it alone. And all that trust, all that loyalty, will no longer exist for you... And Mike -- you won't make it. Not with a little boy. --Frank Nitti
To be paid to do what you love... ain't that the American dream. - Maguire
Micheal Sen:"When I say get down, you get down! You don't ask a question! If I say we're stopping to eat, you stay with me! You listen to what I say from now on, or you can get out of the car and take care of yourself. Make up your mind, Micheal! I can't fight them and you at the same time!"
Micheal Jr: "I can't take care of myself fine. You think it's my fault this happened! You never wanted me along anyway!"
Micheal Sen: "Stop it, Micheal! It was not your fault -- none of it."
Micheal Jr: "What are we going to do?"
Micheal Sen: "Something I can't do alone."
Micheal Sen:"Are you going to help me?"--
Micheal Jr: "Yes."
Micheal Sen:"Then I'm going to teach you something."
For my father and me, the road to Perdition was everwinding and (or so it seemed to me then) never-ending.--Micheal Jr. narrates
Micheal, loving this, told his father he thought these were swell; then he asked Papa if he was alright... The man looked a little sick.
Micheal's heart was a triphammer -- he wasn't scared, not really... more exhilarated and even astonished. How many fathers would entrust their car to a boy his age? Who needed a bicycle anyways? Kid's stuff.
"Always trust a bank manager."-Micheal Sullivan
Micheal Jr: So - when do I get my share of the money?
Micheal Sen: How much d'you want?
Micheal Jr: Two hundred dollars.
Micheal Sen: Okay. Deal.
Micheal Jr: Could I have had more?
Micheal Sen: You'll never know.
Harlen Maguire dropped to his knees, as if about to pray, only he didn't clasp his hands; he held them before him, palms up. In the other room, through the open door, the corpse of Alexander Rance beckoned.
But Maguire didn't have his camera. And he was busy looking at his hands anyway-- the hand that had been holding his poor glass-ravaged face, hands covered in blood, dripping with red, and he was startled. It was as if all the blood he had on his hands was finally showing.
Thus the lanscape into which I drove my wounded father was topsoil rich and money poor, a desolate paradise that promised us, if not salvation, respite from the road.--Micheal Jr. narrates
Virginia: "He dotes on you. You don't see it?"
Frankly, he didn't, and just shrugged by way of response; but the next moment, his eyes caught Micheal's, the boy looking up from his work, joy in his face, and he threw a casual wave at his father, before returning to his digging.
Sullivan did not understand the wave of emotion. It came up somewhere deep inside of him, rolling with an awful warmth up his chest into his face and moisture swelled behind his eyes, overtaking him. He excused himself and went back into the house.
He did not want these kind of people to see him weep, nor did he want his son to witness that shameful action.
Micheal Jr: Did you like Peter more than me?
Micheal Sen: No, Micheal, I loved you both the same.
Micheal Jr: But, you were different with me.
Micheal Sen: Was I? Well, maybe that's because Peter...well, he was just a sweet boy. You know? Just sweet. And you... you were more like me. And I didn't want you to be. I didn't mean to be different.
Micheal Jr: Okay. It's okay...'night Pa."
And on impulse, he hugged his father around the neck, being careful not to hurt the man's sore arm. Papa hugged back, not being so careful.
Mr. Rooney: There are only murderers in this room...open your eyes, Mike! This is the life we lead... the life we chose... there's only one guarantee. None of us will see heaven.
Micheal Sullivan: Micheal could.
Mr. Rooney: Then do everything you can to make sure that happens. Take it, Mike. Leave...I'm begging you. It's the only way out.
Micheal Sullivan:And if I don't?
Mr. Rooney: Then I'll mourn the son I lost.
My father is buried next to my mother and brother now; and one day I will join them there in the same cemetery. Connor Rooney is buried there, too. When I first heard, I thought that was a terrible thing - even in the ground should be more discriminating.
I've come to see the rightness of it. We were bound together in life and death, all of us, and my father, mother, and brother will be forever linked to the Rooneys, as will I. -- Micheal Jr. narrates
Micheal Jr: What are you going to do?
Micheal Sen:Just one last thing. Go back to bed, Micheal.
Again he stood beside Micheal and looked at him for a long time - studying him, committing to memory every detail of the child, as if he hoped to recognize the boy in some other lifetime.
Then he stroked his son's hair, thinking how much he loved the child, hoping Micheal knew, and got up and returned to the next room.
Sullivan raised the .45, his eyes brimming with tears.
But there was truth in his voice when Rooney said, "I'm glad it's you."
Hell will be heaven, Sullivan thought, if I can spend eternity making you pay for what you did to them.
The key turned in the lock... and the door opened.
Papa.
Micheal threw himself into his father's arms. Had their embrace been any tighter, it would have hurt.
Micheal closed his eyes, blinking away tears, and the brightness of the dawn. The way the sun was pouring in the window, you would never have known how hard it rained last night.
My memories of the drive to Perdition may be less than trustworthy. Everything I remember prior to that day is a winter memory - largely in black and white, like old movie footage, or some people's dreams.
But the drive to Perdition, in my mind's eye, is in full color, dominated by the clear blue of the sky and the green of the world that had been bleak winter yesterday and was glorious spring today. Surely these recollections are influenced by emotion and time - the last day of winter is not a dead thing, with the first day of spring an explosion of life. Yet that is how I remember it.
I am, after all, the only one left. I'm in my winter now, recalling the spring day we drove to Perdition. -- Micheal Jr. Narrates
They had spoken little, on the first day of the trip to Perdition, but now a new warmth seemed to bind them. Smiling like the child he still was, the boy was enjoying the spring day, drinking in the sun, hanging his head out the window, letting the wind skim over him and roar in his eyes. That his son had retained a certain innocence after this ordeal was a small miracle - that the little revolver Sullivan had given Micheal had never been used gave Sullivan strength and hope.
Somehow it bound them further, this sudeen realization that they both had lived lives filled with incident and interests; Sullivan looked forward to getting to know his son better. And he could tell, from the boy's questions, that Micheal felt the same.
Forgive me, Annie, Sullivan thought prayerfully, for the dangerous road I've taken him down.
And now the boy stood pointing the pistol, shaking not with fear for himself, but for his father - his wounded father, bleeding on the floor, defenseless, barely awake... a fallen soldier.
"I couldn't do it, Papa..." Micheal felt ashamed. But Papa wore the trace of a smile. "I know."
Micheal took his father in his arms and held him, held him close but not tight, not wanting to hurt him, cradling Papa's head against his chest, the boy getting blood all over himself, not caring.
The boy looked around them, dead body on the floor, smell of cordite in the air, his father bleeding.
Papa was saying something; Micheal had to lean close to hear it: "I'm sorry." his father whispered again and again.
And his father died there, in the boy's arms, yet the boy kept rocking him, for a long time, as if the dead man were a baby he was soothing to sleep.
Outside the window, where the wind whispered through, making ghosts of the sheer curtains, the vast, peaceful expanse of blue that was the lake glistened in the dying sun.
That was the last time I ever held a gun. I understood then that Micheal Sullivan's greatest fear was not death, but that his son would follow the same road.
People always thought I grew up ona farm and I guess in a way I did. But I lived a lifetime before that - in those six weeks on the road with Micheal Sulivan in the winter of 1931. When people ask me if he was a decent man, or if there was no good in him at all, I don't answer. I just tell them... he was my father. -- Narrated by Micheal Jr.
