cw: death, suicide mentions, violence mentions
​“He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.” 
—Mary Shelley, Frankenstein 
    I rolled the car window up to hear the radio better. The newscaster reported that a prisoner named Baych Fels had hung himself in his jail cell in Bayport. The police had found the man in the afternoon, hanging from his cell bars by two socks tied together. Earlier, they had arrested him for vagrancy. They said he was drunk and disorderly at the time of his arrest and had scuffled with them. As part of their standard procedure, they had taken his belt away before locking him up. They hadn’t taken his socks, though. 

    Baych Fels is my mom’s uncle’s name. When I got home, I asked Mom if she had spoken to Grandma recently.

    “No,” she said. “Why?” 

    “I heard something odd on the radio on my way home.” I told her what I’d heard. She called my grandmother and asked her if she knew where Baych was. 

    “No,” she said, “probably in Florida, though, picking oranges. It’s that time of year.” Mom told Grandma what I’d told her. 
​
   “I’ll call the police in Bayport,” Grandma said, “and let you know what I find out.” About thirty minutes later, she called back. It was Baych.
***
    My earliest memory of Baych is from when I was about ten years old. We were visiting my grandparents; Baych was there. My grandparents had put him up in a room over their garage.  They sent me to get him for lunch. He was lying in bed, reading, wearing a pair of thick store-bought reading glasses. He had a full head of wavy salt-and-pepper colored hair. His face was rough-looking, his nose a little crooked, having been broken a few times. He had scars over both eyes. Even so, I liked the way he looked—rugged, like a tough old cowboy. When he saw me, he said, “Hey there, young feller. Who might you be?” 

    “I’m Lee Turner.” 

    “Billie Faye’s Lee?” 

    “Yessir.” 

    “Well, Mr. Turner, I’m pleased to meet you.” 

    He closed his book and placed it on the table next to his bed. Tapping the cover, he said, “LBJ is one of the sharpest politicians we’ve had in a long time. The Kennedys, they don’t respect him, them in their suits and Harvard schooling. But I like him. I like him a lot.” 

    I didn’t know what Baych was talking about, but I enjoyed being spoken to like a grown-up. 

    Baych knew a lot about politics and was well-traveled. He had a regular route, going to places where crops were ripening, arriving in time to help with the picking. He traveled by train mostly; free, he said. He met many people, some not so pleasant, but Baych was easy-going, not a troublemaker.  

    In my teens, Dad told me that Baych had a drinking problem. Periodically, he would go on a binge and disappear. A few months later, he’d show up, bedraggled, broke, and in need of a place to stay. When we hadn’t seen him for a while, Dad would say he missed him and wouldn’t mind seeing him for a “couple of hours.” He always found jobs for Baych to do whenever he was with us—a room to paint, some yard work. We weren’t a wealthy family, but Dad would give him a few dollars. He said people need their dignity, and one way to get it is to work and earn their own money. 

    The last time I saw Baych was the summer before I started college. He’d been on the wagon for a while and was staying with my grandparents. Grandma cooked a big meal and invited us over. During dinner, Baych told us about his latest adventures. After a while, he excused himself and went out to his room over the garage. I waited a bit, then went out to see him. When I came in, he was getting ready for bed. We talked about college. He wanted to know what I was going to study.  

    “Music,” I said. 

    He laughed. “You don’t need to study that. I’ve heard you play. You’re gonna be famous someday.” 

    I’d always wanted to ask Baych something but had never had the courage before. 

    “I want to ask you something personal,” I said. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” 

    “All right.” 

    “You seem to have a good life. You travel, meet people, do many different things, not like my dad, cooped up in an office all day.” 

    “I like it.” 

    “So…I was wondering. Why do you drink?” 

    He looked away and started folding his clothes, placing them neatly on the chair beside his bed. He didn’t say anything. 

    “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sorry if I did. It’s just—I don’t know, I worry about you when you’re away.”
​ 
      He looked at me. 

    “It’s good you’re going to college,” he said. “Johnson and McNamara have made a mess over there in Vietnam. Best to stay out of it if you can.”  

    ​Those were his last words to me. 
***
    Every so often, I pass a man or a group of men sitting on a sidewalk, propping up a wall, drinking. I nod to them or wave. The men, bleary-eyed, struggling to tie their shoes or button their shirts, don’t say anything. And I think of Baych, and I wonder. One afternoon, in a jail cell in Bayport many years ago, in the last minutes of his life, did Baych tie the knot that ended his life; and whether he did or didn’t, did he willingly walk into the night? 
​​Gershon Ben-Avraham writes short stories and poetry. His short story, “Yoineh Bodek,” (Image) received “Special Mention” in the Pushcart Prize XLlV: Best of the Small Presses 2020 Edition. Kelsay Books published his chapbook God’s Memory in 2021. Ben-Avraham holds an MA in Philosophy (Aesthetics) from Temple University. 
header image: Jimmy Chan via Pexels