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Jacob's Bell
By John Snyder - Copyright 2011

     Jacob’s Bell is a story about love, loss, successes and failures, family tragedy, repentance, redemption, reconciliation, forgiveness and ultimately – happiness.

SUMMARY

Jacob's Bell
By John Snyder - Copyright 2011

Part One - Jacob's Despair

Chapter 1

     There was a deafening screech, then a loud thud, which jolted Jacob MacCallum upright from the peace of his deep slumber as the train pulled into Chicago. He last remembered the soothing, almost hypnotic sound, a rhythmic click-clack of iron wheels rolling on steel tracks. The boxcar, which carried him from the West, had a musty stench about it. Jacob’s head was throbbing. His breath reeked of whiskey and tobacco. He laid his head back down on his knapsack and lit the stub of a cigarette as he watched the sunlight trickle through the cracks into the emptiness of the darkened wooden boxcar. Jacob had become accustomed to traveling this way as he criss-crossed the country looking for odd jobs and handouts to support him.

     As the train slowed, Jacob prepared to disembark. It was wise not to linger after the train pulled into the yard. Though hopping a freight train wasn’t a serious crime, they were cracking down. If discovered, he could be arrested, or worse.

      As Jacob slid the door open, the bright morning sun hit his face, forcing him to squint. He raised his hand to shield his eyes while they adjusted to the light. The sun revealed the weathered skin of a sixty year old man who appeared much older; the cumulative result from many years of hard living on the streets. Jacob lived a callous life and he had the scars to prove it. His face and head had more stitches than a fine country quilt from countless fights, falls and knocks to the skull.

     The son of Irish immigrants, Jacob grew up on the tough side of town. The skills he learned as a lad with his knuckles proved handy over the years, getting him out of plenty of tight spots, and in just as many. He spent most of his time riding the rails and hanging out on the streets with rough necks and hooligans. His fighting skills were honed in prison, where he fought for recreation and for the amusement of the guards. Mostly though, his fighting, just like his drinking, got him more into trouble than anything else.

     Jacob jumped from the boxcar while it was still moving and began his journey into town. He puckered his lips and drew one last time on what was left of his cigarette, attempting to savor the last of its nicotine. Then, he tossed the smoldering butt onto the tracks. He rubbed his hand over his unshaven face, where the stubble of a white beard was beginning to sprout. I’m getting too old for this, he thought to himself as he walked across the train yard. Jumping freight trains, sleeping on the ground and enduring the elements was not as easy as it once was.

     He hadn’t done this all his life, though. Jacob did have three children who were now grown. Emma, his eldest, married a doctor and lived somewhere in Baltimore, Maryland. Frankie was the youngest. The last Jacob heard Frankie was living with his older brother Tom and his family in Chicago. It was Tom and Frankie that Jacob had come to see. He needed to put things straight between himself and his two sons. Jacob had been riddled with guilt over the years for the tragedy he brought upon his oldest son, which would cause Tom to limp for the rest of his life.

      Five years had passed since he had last seen his sons; even longer since he had seen Emma. He hardly knew his grandchildren and had yet to meet Tom’s youngest, Michael, who was born three years before. His relationship with his children was chilly at best. And, over the years it had thawed immensely just to reach that level of warmth. Tom’s parting words from Jacob’s last visit still echoed in his head. “Now, get the hell out of here and never come back again!” His encounters with Emma had a similar history. Jacob’s family wanted little to do with him. And, they had good reason.

     As he made his way through the streets of Chicago, he noticed that there were not many young men about, and the ones that were wore uniforms. It was 1944 and World War II was in full fury. Most of the young men of Chicago, like young men in every other city and town in America, were being consumed by the Great War. He wondered about Frankie. Was he, too, wearing a uniform?

     Jacob often pondered about his youngest child. He knew Tom and Emma were fine. They were strong, sometimes even stubborn, much like him, but Frankie was different. He was more like his mother, sensitive and overly generous. Frankie was far less independent that his siblings. The turmoil that Jacob had brought upon his family seemed to have a more profound effect on Frankie, but in a quiet sort of way. He never lost his temper or showed anger toward Jacob as Tom and Emma had. Frankie had always been less emotional, more withdrawn - but Jacob knew that what he had done deeply scarred his youngest child. Through it all though, Frankie seemed to show Jacob more love and respect than his siblings.

     It was a brisk morning in late September. The mood on the street was robust and confident, one shared by Jacob, evident by his cocky gait. Jacob projected a tough exterior, but on the inside he was hurting. He was haunted by memories of the past, filled with regrets and what ifs. He longed for love and companionship that had been absent from his life for so many years. For most of the last two decades Jacob had been in an alcohol-induced fog, a time of denial and self-pity mixed with intermittent periods of remorse, sobriety and attempts at reconciliation. After what he had done, he had little hope of resolution with his children.

     Jacob stopped, slung his coat over his shoulder and inserted a tattered cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

     “Got a light?” he asked a passerby.

     “Sure, pal.”

     Jacob leaned his head into the palms of the stranger’s hands as they cupped the matchstick. He drew the flame onto the end of his cigarette then, stood upright and inhaled deeply.

     Jacob exhaled and said, “Know a place where a fella can get a drink this early?”

     “Down the street, turn the corner and at the end of the block is a joint called Kelly’s.”

     “Thanks.”

     Jacob headed to Kelly’s for a morning fix of liquid courage before he would begin his quest to find his sons and attempt to extinguish the burning in his heart. As he strolled through the warehouse district of the city, his memory took him back to a distant time, some thirty years before. He was dressed in an expensive suit partially hidden by a fashionable woolen topcoat. His shoes were shined and made of expensive Italian leather, his hair full and slicked back in a way that accentuated his chiseled features and strong jaw, features that attracted the attention of the ladies when he walked by. He was surrounded by associates, greeted warmly by those who passed him, and regarded with much respect. After all, he was among the most rich and powerful men in Chicago.

     “Hey, old man, watch where you’re going!”

     Jacob was jolted back into the present as he bumped shoulders with a man on the sidewalk. In his younger day, the guy’s rude remark most likely would have put him on the receiving end of one of Jacob's well-established right hooks. But ol’ Jacob was tired, tired of fighting, tired of running - just plain ol’ tired. He let the incident pass offering a muted apology.

     “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

     “Well why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

     “I said I was sorry.”

     The encounter caused Jacob to accidentally drop his coat onto the ground. He stared down at the pathetic piece of cloth, riddled with holes, the pockets ripped at the sides. Honestly, it wasn’t worth the effort to bend over and pick it up, but it was all Jacob had, a far cry from the fine woolen topcoat he once wore.

     Jacob stopped in front of Kelly’s and looked up at the sign over the front door. He flicked his spent cigarette out into the street then, opened the door and walked inside. The place was practically empty. The bar keep, chewing on a half smoked cigar, was sweeping the floor. Five shabbily dressed patrons sat at a table playing poker, and there was a guy in the corner booth sleeping. The place smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The glow of the morning sun, which crept through the pub’s smoggy windows, provided the only light in the dim establishment. The sunlight, which flowed into the smoke filled room, gave the illusion of beams of light spilling onto the dirty wooden floor.

     Jacob pulled out a stool and bellied up to the bar. The bartender disregarded him and just kept sweeping. Jacob sat patiently for a few moments then, became irritated at being ignored.

     “Hey, Buddy!” Jacob called out.

     Still, the bartender kept sweeping.

     “Hey, Buddy. I’m talking to you.”

     The bartender looked up and said, “I’m not your buddy.”

     “Well, I’d like a drink. You are the bartender aren’t you?”

     Without answering, the man walked behind the bar, stopped across from Jacob, leaned over and said, “What’ll ya have?”

     “A tall glass of whiskey.”

     The man poured whiskey into a dirty glass and put it on the bar in front of Jacob. As Jacob reached for it the man pulled it back.

     “You pay first, then, you drink.”

     Jacob rummaged through his pockets for the price of the booze. Finding it, he slapped it down on the bar. The bartender released his grip on the glass, grabbed the money and slid the drink toward Jacob. Friendly place, Jacob thought.

     As he sat there sipping his whiskey, Jacob listened to the men playing cards as they cursed loudly and laughed at the punch lines of off colored jokes. He grabbed a box of matches sitting on the bar and fumbled through his pockets for a cigarette. He searched frantically, checking his pants, his shirt, his sweater and his coat - nothing. He was out. He sat there for a moment, thinking about bumming a smoke from one of the guys playing cards. Concluding that could lead to trouble, he reconsidered. He looked in the bartender’s direction, who was now wiping off some tables behind him. Out of the question, he said to himself. Then he glanced at the man sleeping in the corner booth. Sitting on the table by the sleeping man’s elbow was a half a pack of Lucky Strikes, Jacob’s preferred brand, but these days he wasn’t too particular. The thought crossed his mind to sneak over and snag the pack. The sleeping stranger probably wouldn’t even notice, but everyone else surely would. A smoke sure would go good with this whiskey, he said to himself.

     Jacob looked down at his feet. This must be my lucky day, he laughed inwardly. There, just below the bar, was a long cigarette butt. Someone had taken just a few drags on it and snuffed it out on the floor. Fortunately for Jacob, the bartender wasn’t that conscientious about his cleaning. Jacob bent over and lifted the discarded cigarette to his lips. Lighting it, he smiled, and then resumed sipping his whiskey.

     His thoughts returned to his past, to happier times, like the day, more than thirty years before, when he and Nick, his best friend and business partner, made that big deal. He remembered how happy they were the day they both struck it rich. Little did he know, that day which seemed so fulfilling at the time, would lead to his life slipping into a deep, dark abyss.

     Whatever became of Nick, he wondered. He’s got to be doing better than me. He thought about the beautiful home he once owned. Some called it a mansion. He drove fancy cars and wore imported suits with silk shirts and ties.

     He looked down at his clothes, all tattered and torn, pants with patches, worn out shoes. He had cardboard stuffed in his shoes to cover the holes in their soles. He laughed out loud then joked to himself; I’ve got holes in my soles and a hole in my soul. All of the sudden, it wasn’t funny anymore. He did have a hole in his soul, and it ached.

     How could my life have turned out this way? I had it all - everything. Now I have nothing, no money, no home, no fancy cars, and most importantly, no family. Nothing!

     Of all the things he missed, it was his family that he longed for the most. But he knew that part of his life he could never recapture. Jacob took another swig of whiskey and swallowed hard. He puffed on his cigarette and blew out a ring of smoke, watching it rise toward the ceiling where it disappeared in the slow whirling blades of the ceiling fan. Drifting back into the past, his expression became an empty stare.

     He and Nick had known each other since they were boys. It was Nick who introduced Jacob to Amanda. That was a day Jacob will always remember. She was stunningly beautiful with her pale blonde hair and blue eyes. They fell deeply in love; a love that still caused Jacob much anguish.

     I should have listened to Nick.  My life would be far different today if I had.

     “Ouch, damn it!” Jacob’s cigarette had burned down to his fingers. His yell caused the men playing cards to turn and stare. The bartender dropped the glass he was washing, and the gentleman sleeping in the corner began to stir. Jacob felt rather uncomfortable. He extinguished the cigarette then, tilting his head back he poured the remaining whiskey down his throat. He put the glass on the bar, picked up his coat and walked out the door.

     The light of the outdoors glared in his eyes. He staggered slightly for a brief moment, partially because of the gleaming sun, but mostly because of the whiskey he had consumed. He sat down on a bench in front of the building. After a few minutes, the front door of Kelly’s swung open. It was the man who had been sleeping in the corner.

      “Hey, mate,” the disheveled man said with a British accent. 

     “Mind if I sit here a spell?” he asked, while lighting one of his Lucky Strikes. “Care for a smoke?”

     Ah ... That was music to Jacob's ears.

     “Sure. Don’t mind if I do.”

     “I haven’t seen you around here before. You from Chicago?”

     “No,” Jacob said. “Just passing through. I’m here to see my sons. How about you?”

     “I live down the street. I rent a room there. It isn’t much, but it’s a warm place to bunk. Would you care for a nip?” the British gentleman said as he pulled a bottle of scotch from inside his coat.

     “No. I’ve got to be going. I have to get to my sons’ place.”

     “Oh, come on, mate. A few nips on the bottle will warm you up inside.”

     Jacob thought for a moment. He wanted to find Tom and Frankie and straighten things out. He had so much he wanted to tell them. But he was afraid … afraid that Tom would reject him again. After what Jacob had done, and all that he had not done, he couldn’t blame Tom for his feelings of distain, though he wished they were different.

     “Maybe just a few nips, then I must go.”

     Actually, this was exactly the excuse Jacob was looking for, a kind stranger willing to share a bottle of scotch and his Lucky Strikes. This was a perfect reason to put off his meeting with Tom and Frankie. The truth was Jacob wasn’t up for rejection today, anyway. He spent several hours with his new found friend, long enough to help put an end to the bottle of scotch and to the Lucky Strikes. After bidding the man goodbye, Jacob staggered down the street where he entered another drinking establishment, remaining there for the next several hours.