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There’s a box in Määnin’s lap. It’s about the size of a shoebox, the kind you might stash keepsakes and mementoes in; but this one is…more than that. So much more. It’s far from the only box he’s dealt with today – he’s moving home, after all – but it’s the only one he won’t let anyone else touch. He can’t chance that, can’t risk anything happening to it. The contents are far too precious: they used to be his whole world.
“This is it, Toms: finally leaving Vörå.” He keeps his voice down, though the social worker busybodies are too distracted buzzing around with the last of his meagre belongings to listen in. “I can’t pretend that I’m not sad, that it’s going to be easy; not when I’ve been here all my life…but sometimes you just have to know when you’re beaten. Like that fight with 1G3B, huh? And you were always the best thing about this town for me: the reason to stay. Still, I hope I’m not going to regret it.” And that’s not a tear running down his cheek, it’s just the chill air making his eyes water.
Tommy doesn’t reply, of course; but there’s no need for it anyway. Words are unnecessary. Everyone knows what’s going on here: an old man getting bundled off to where he won’t be so much bother anymore; and it’s almost enough to make Määnin smile - the idea that he’s still able to cause a bit of trouble, even at eighty-one. They were packing up around him, taking no real notice of any objections he made; so he’s taken Tommy out to the little porch, and now they’re perched on a bench where he can talk to him in relative privacy.
A small breeze attempts to ruffle what’s left of his hair. He still uses pomade on the thinning, wispy strands that remain, unwilling to give up that small scrap of vanity when he used to be so meticulous about his style. In the same way his glasses might be bifocals now, but the lenses are heavily tinted, almost as dark as his trademark shades used to be. Another tiny gust, and the cool air is digging down under the collar of his shirt, too; finding the minute holes in his jeans. These days he tends to prefer clothes that are easier to pull on and gentler on his increasingly fragile skin than the thick fabric is, but today it seems fitting to go back to the double-denim. He must be even skinnier than when he was in his twenties, because the ancient jacket practically hangs off his left shoulder. Perhaps the loss of appetite over the last weeks has affected him more than he realised? (Maybe the social workers have a point when they say he’s not coping; but he sure as heck isn’t going to give them the satisfaction of admitting it.) Even after all this time, the old thing still smells of cigarettes, beer, and questionable life choices.
“I don’t regret this, though: you and me. Growing old with the love of my life…even if it took us a few years to realise that’s what we were to each other.”
Some days he could weep (if it wouldn’t be so out-of-character) for the time they lost; and others, he’s sure that the slow-burn of it all brought them closer when they finally got together: made them appreciate each other that little bit more. It was certainly a backstage conversation he’ll never forget, though they’d had to go all the way to Helsingfors to have it! There haven’t been many occasions he’s been grateful to those KAJ idiots; but that invitation ended up meaning a lot more to him and Tommy than simply the chance to play to a bigger audience. He should probably have thanked them while he had the chance; but there’s no point in dwelling on what ifs.
Määnin closes his eyes for a moment. It's pleasant outside, in a painful way: the smells and sounds swirling his thoughts of what it has always meant to him to live here – to belong to this town. So many memories; a thousand stories and anecdotes hiding around every corner: the bars they used to go to; the Grillen; the garage where they both picked up work every once in a while, and where he bought his first car…even the ditch he managed to flip it over into.
“You were so mad at me for that crash! I’ll never forget how furious you got because I’d gone out without you, and you reckoned that if you’d been there, I would have driven more carefully…even though we both knew that wasn’t true. We used to egg each other on to be more reckless, if anything; and not just behind the wheel.” He huffs a laugh. "We both have the scars to prove it." Some deeper than others.
So, yes, Määnin’s always been proud to be from Vörå; to be rooted here, and to have stayed, even when Vörjeans’ fifteen minutes of fame beckoned. He couldn’t ever really have imagined leaving; but the Powers-That-Be have decided that he wasn’t looking after himself properly, that he needs to be in an old folk’s home; and they’ve found him a place in a ‘nice’ one just outside Vasa. They can call it a ‘sheltered complex’ all they like; he’s not daft, he knows what they mean. Even just a couple of months ago he’d’ve fought the idea tooth-and-nail; but now? No, now there are no real excuses not to go – nothing keeping him tethered, or anchored, here. Has he softened in his old age, or just realised that he has to pick his battles instead of fighting everything the way he used to? He’s not even sure of the answer to that. Still, the young man he once was is in there somewhere – the one so angry at the world for so long. The one who had a reputation as the Toughest Guy In Vörå to uphold; who started an onstage fight with a band full of much bigger guys; who barely even flinched at getting zapped by a shock collar.
And that memory makes him grin. “Hah, Toms: do you remember the day at the radio station? That Seesar guy, I think he hated me; so no way was I going to show any fear…even though I was actually nearly soiling myself! I had to play it up, really; and it made you laugh so hard, which was worth it.” Making Tommy laugh – seeing that sunburst smile break through the habitual cloudy frown - was always worth a little pain. “Plus the money it helped raise. Although when we watched the recording, it did look like Freppa enjoyed shocking me a bit too much: maybe it served me right for taunting him so badly about his poor mamm.” Not that anything ever really happened with Marlene, of course: even way back then, Määnin only truly had eyes for his best friend. Winding poor Fredrik up, though? That was fun. “I miss him. Never thought I’d say that aloud; but I’ve always felt it in here,” he taps over his heart, not far from where the pacemaker sits. “Can you believe it’s been nearly ten years since he…?” The words won’t come, as if the muscles in his throat tighten against them; like they remember being electrocuted into contraction in that studio. “Clean-living Freps the first to go, though? That was a bit unfair. When I got dragged into rehab, who would have guessed that I’d end up being the last one standing, eh?”
Tommy still doesn't answer, as the wind rustles leaves in the overgrown garden.
“Mr Mannerheim-Tall?”
He absolutely does not jump, despite the fact that he hadn’t heard anyone sneak up. All those years spent so close to the booming amps caught up with him a while ago, and he should really be wearing his hearing aids; but he doesn’t like the way they feel: clumsy, clashing with the arms of his glasses.
A hand settles gently on his shoulder, as though he could shatter…and honestly? Today he feels like he just might. “Jean Filip? We’re all done: everything’s in the van, and your taxi’s here. It’s time to go.” Then she turns without waiting for a reply; giving him just a moment more in his own home. Their home. His and Tommy’s.
“Come on, Toms: time for one last road trip.”
Määnin strokes over the box with fingers that have been too arthritic to play the bass for a long time now. It’s a small thing, really, for what it contains: heavy, but not as heavy as it should be given how much it weighs on his heart. In all the years he smoked, he never thought of the ashes he flicked away as having any substance; yet the ones in this container do. Maybe he’ll scatter them eventually, somewhere they used to hang out; but for the time being he’s keeping what’s left of his husband close as he stands and makes his slow, reluctant way to the car. They grew up side-by-side; performed shoulder-to-shoulder on stage; and ultimately walked hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm through their marriage. Always together – virtually inseparable – yet, as he settles into the back of the taxi, this is the only way Määnin can hold Tommy now.
Just a box in his lap.