The Father Contract
By A.J. Arrington
Edited by Paul K. Scott
Text copyright ® 2012 A.J. Arrington
All Rights Reserved
For Joe, Casey, John and the gang,
who always wanted this story,
And for Paul, the editor who made it all possible.
Foreword
History is what we say it is.
~Lenin, Napoleon, Voltaire, and others.
Truth is stranger than fiction.
~Mark Twain.
People tend to forget that the word "history" contains the word "story."
~Ken Burns.
Mr. Burns, of course, was talking about "personal" story within the context of a larger truth. But let's take this one step further and consider the merger of truth and fiction. For example, Homer's account of the Trojan War in The Iliad. A real war. A fictionalized rendering. Or closer to our time and on a far less grand scale, the Babe Ruth story.
Early in
the last century, the mighty Boston Red Sox were the feared power of the new
American League. Five World Championship banners flew in newly-constructed
That particular story happens to form a backdrop to my own--which is, admittedly, a work of fiction. Unless, however, we can admit to universal truths of human nature, which means that what unfolds here is indeed the way things could've happened. . .
My story is about a boy, a rather remarkable boy, who worships a veteran Red Sox baseball player. At times, this player may remind you of the Babe. At times, he may seem like someone capable of removing the Babe's so-called curse. The story, though, is more about the boy than it is about the player. This youngster is like no one you've ever come in contact with, though you'd be fortunate if you did. You see, he possesses quite unusual powers of his own. Sometimes those powers may even approach what we might all too casually dismiss as magic.
In any event, he is, to quote the name of a popular TV show, a "person of interest."
Observe him closely.
Oh yes. One more thing. I and my editor, Paul Scott, encourage you to write in and query us about the characters, and plot, and anything else that you have questions about. We promise to respond to all your comments. For your convenience, Paul's e-mail address will appear at the end of every story installment.
A.J. Arrington
Chapter One: Homecoming Weekend
"PJ, Erik!" Coach Lewis yelled over his shoulder. "You're going in on defense!"
Down on one knee not far away, eleven-year-olds Peter John Thorndyke and his roommate Erik Jantzen had been waiting to hear those words. With excited grins, they grabbed their red-and-blue football helmets and raced over to the young assistant coach on the sideline. Coach Lewis liked to see plenty of hustle, so both boys hustled.
PJ looked at the scoreboard. Ten minutes to go in the fourth
quarter--plenty of time for him and Erik to get into a bunch of plays! The
score was pretty depressing: his team, Gordonsville, was losing to
Holding a roll of masking tape, the coach gave them a big smile as they came running over. "Head Coach just gave me the word, guys. When Perry gets the ball again, it'll be time to put in you subs!" Dropping to one knee, he wrapped tape around each of PJ's thighs to hold the boy's football pants in place, then did the same for Erik. Though a good height for their age, the two boys were the youngest substitutes on the team and were skinny, so when they played, he had to tape their pants to keep them from falling down. Once he'd finished, he tossed the roll onto the grass, remained kneeling between them, and wrapped his arms around their waists in order to give them each a little hug of encouragement. "Erik, you're going in at left linebacker; and PJ, I want you to sub at defensive right end. Now don't forget what we worked on this week."
"We won't, Coach," Erik assured him.
As they watched the play on the field, PJ kept his helmet tucked up under his left arm and put his right on Coach Lewis' shoulder so he could lean against him. The young coach worked with the subs every day, and PJ really liked him a lot. He was kind of like the perfect older brother PJ had always wished he had. Once, after a practice, PJ had almost told him this, but he hadn't because it sounded so sappy and he was afraid Coach Lewis might laugh at him.
Out on the field, the Gordonsville offence lost another five yards. "We're getting killed, Coach," Erik complained.
"Yeah, these guys are better than we thought." He pointed to a tall boy standing in the Perry huddle, the back who'd scored thirty of Perry's thirty-five points. Alongside the other awkward twelve and thirteen-year-olds, he stood out like a swan in a flock of ducks. "There's the real difference. That big kid they got playing tailback is new this year and he's good. But listen, guys, I don't want you worrying about anything more than doing the things we worked on in practice. Maybe you can do better than your older teammates."
Despite the lopsided contest, a fair number of onlookers were still in the stands, parents and other relatives and friends there for Homecoming. all of who cheered the Gordonsville kicker when he got off a nice punt. After the return back was tackled, Mr. Lewis gave PJ and Erik a shove. "OK, boys!" he yelled. "Go get 'em!"
Pulling on his helmet, PJ raced out onto the field, thrilled by the combination of nerves, excitement, and crowd noise. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced in any other sport. He just wished he was big enough and good enough to play every down. Someday he would be. He wouldn't always be eleven.
Standing with his defensive teammates, he adjusted to the tunnel vision and restricted hearing inside his helmet. When the Perry huddle broke, he ran over to his right-end position, only to discover to his dismay that the player he was supposed to guard was almost a foot taller than he was. Still, the coach wanted him to play bump and run, so he dug in, determined to give a good account of himself. However, as soon as the ball was snapped and he executed his "bump," he found himself flat on his back. Worse, the play was going up the middle past him! He bounced to his feet and followed into the pileup as quickly as he could until he heard whistles blowing. Coach Lewis had drilled into them over and over that even if you got knocked on your butt, you still had to get up and follow the play. After all, you might be the one to save a big gain. The next time, PJ promised himself, I'll do better.
Second down. PJ saw his tall end say something to the opposing quarterback and thought, Uh-oh! Here comes a pass play. Be ready! This time when the ball was snapped, he played off the initial contact without getting dumped and pursued his man into the flat. As soon as he saw the receiver's eyes shift up, he knew the pass was on its way! He waved his arms frantically, but the ball dropped through into his opponent's outstretched hands. With a desperate lunge, he grabbed the Perry boy by the waist and hung on, getting dragged along several steps until two more Gordonsville bodies crashed in alongside and brought the runner down. The completed pass had gone for twenty yards, giving the other team a first down.
Shake it off, PJ thought. Shake it off. The offensive huddle broke. Here they come again. He lined up in his stance, moved at the snap of the ball, and managed to throw the tall end opposing him off balance with a pretty good bump. But the Perry quarterback's play call was for a run. The handoff went to the ace tailback, who sliced through the Gordonsville line, broke a tackle, and scampered down the field for another touchdown, with Gordonsville defenders chasing behind in frustration.
PJ pulled off his helmet and trotted to the sidelines where Coach Lewis was waiting. "Sorry, Coach," he said, looking down.
"Sorry?" The coach gave him a puzzled look. "What for?"
PJ shook his head. "I got run over on that first play."
The young man knelt down to look into his face. "Sure, you got knocked down, PJ. The guy is way bigger than you. But you got right back up, didn't you?"
PJ nodded.
"And you followed the play, didn't you?"
PJ nodded again.
"Well, then," his coach said, giving him a pat on the back, "you did everything you could do. No one can do more than that. And on that second play you saved a touchdown. And in the one after that, you threw a hell-of-a block! I'm proud of you!"
The words made PJ glow inside. It was the way he always felt when Coach Lewis praised him. That was the nice thing about him. He got all over you in practice, but in games he was always bucking you up as long as he thought you were doing your best. He managed a little smile. "Thanks, Coach."
With a few quiet words he gave Erik some similar encouragement. "Things will be better now. The other guys have put in their subs, too, on both sides of the ball." He was right. When PJ went back in on defense, he found himself guarding a player that was his own size, so he had a lot more success during the rest of the game. With evenly-matched participants on the field, the Gordonsville offence was able to score a touchdown in the final seconds to make the score 14-42. Best of all, the subs had tied Perry 7-7. Or, as Erik figured it afterwards, they gave up one touchdown to the Perry first string, but whipped their subs 7-0. In short, they left the field with their heads up.
After both teams had given cheers and shaken hands, the Gordonsville players gathered around Mr. Simmons, the elderly head coach whom PJ rarely saw because Coach Lewis did nearly all the work with the second string. PJ stood in back along with Erik and the rest of the younger kids.
"Guys," the gray-haired man told them, "you got beat today by a better team, and that's all there is to it. You've got nothing to be ashamed of. You all played well. We've got one more game this season and we're going to do better. Right?"
The boys gave a cheer, though the old man always did this rah-rah stuff after games, and PJ thought it was sort of corny if it was after a loss. Moreover, when Coach Simmons started praising a few of the starting players, PJ could only think, Those guys didn't play that good. An' they don't do much in practice either. Coach Simmons is too easy on `em. Not like Coach Lewis. He's way better. . .
". . . and I thought the substitutes did a real nice job." PJ jerked alert. Mr. Simmons was looking right toward the outside circle of players where he, Erik, and the other smaller boys were standing. "You youngsters showed me something today," the coach was saying. "You're the future of this team. If you keep going the way you are, then you'll have a fine season next year." PJ looked at his roommate and the two boys grinned at each other.
With a nod, the head coach indicated he was done and held a palm out for the older players around him to slap. Coach Lewis announced, "OK, get changed out. Subs pick up the equipment. I'll see you guys at the Father-Son Dinner tonight." While the coaches and starting players walked off toward the distant Field House, PJ, Erik, and the rest of the substitutes gathered up the loose balls, clipboards, Gatorade jugs, cups, and all the rest of the flotsam and jetsam that had accumulated along the sidelines during the game.
But that remark about the dinner reminded PJ that he still wasn't sure if he was going. A knot of worry formed in his stomach, and he looked over to where his roommate was folding up a table. "Did you talk to your dad yet, Erik?" He tried to make the question sound casual, and used "dad" instead of "stepdad" because that was what Erik always called him.
"Huh?" Erik glanced over at him. "Oh, yeah. It's all set."
PJ relaxed a bit, but not all the way. Until he actually heard the Dinner invitation from Erik's stepfather, he couldn't be sure of it. He knew Erik's parents were divorced, and Erik had assured him that his stepfather was a super guy, but he just wanted to be sure he was welcome to join them.
When the two boys picked up the big Gatorade jug, one on
each side, and started trudging toward the Field House, a tall, bulky man in a
tweed overcoat was waiting in back of the stands. He waved and walked toward them, face split by a wide friendly grin. "Great game, Erik!" he boomed.
"Too bad the team lost, but you boys looked great out there. Your mom
and I were so proud of you. . ." He broke off and put an arm around
Erik's shoulders. "Look. Your mom has gone to wait by the car. You hurry
up and get changed and meet us. We're going over to the
PJ smiled, placing his small hand in the big one he was offered. "Yes, Sir."
Erik made the introduction. "PJ, this is my stepdad, Mr. Fournier."
"Hey, call me Bill," the big man sang out. He frowned for a moment, and said, "Erik tells me your dad had to cancel out at the last minute on this dinner tonight. Is that right?"
PJ nodded without saying a word. He already liked Bill just as Erik had said he would. He could barely wait for that invitation.
"Well if you wouldn't mind, PJ," said a smiling Bill, "I would consider it an honor if you would allow me to stand in for him tonight. Would you come with me and Erik?"
PJ beamed, and immediately assumed what he thought of as his "little boy" act. "Gosh, yes, Mr. Fournier. Thanks a lot! You bet I'll come! I won't be any trouble. An' I've already got my tickets so it won't cost you anything!" It's not that he was being sarcastic. Rather, he thought that at times like these, cuteness was what adults expected.
Mr. Fournier looked kindly into PJ's face. "Erik's told me a lot about you, PJ. I see now why he likes you so much. You're a fine boy. I'm sure your father is very proud of you. I bet he's probably disappointed he can't be here with you tonight."
"Yes, Sir." PJ didn't know what else to say. It certainly is no time for the truth.
After Mr. Fournier had arranged to pick the boys up at seven, he left, while Erik and PJ continued on to the Field House with the Gatorade barrel.
"Your stepfather sure is nice," PJ said.
Erik smiled shyly and turned a little red. "Thanks. My mom and I kinda like him too." After they'd walked on a few steps, he added, "I guess I don't really think of him as my stepfather at all. I just call him 'Dad.'"
"What about your real father?" PJ asked.
Erik shrugged. "I've never met him. I really don't know anything about him."
PJ thought about that for awhile and finally stated, "Well, you're lucky. You're lucky to have Bill. He's neat."
Erik gave his roommate a look. "Well sure I'm lucky. But you're lucky, too. You've got your real dad." PJ didn't answer, hoping they could change the subject.
After a few more steps, Erik laughed and said, "Actually, you're about the only kid I know who does have a real father. Most everyone else has got divorce dads, or live-in boyfriend dads, or older brothers, or uncles, or . . . I don't know what else." And then he added with a wink, "If they called this thing tonight the Significant-Male-Figure-and-Son Dinner, it would probably be a lot more honest!"
Chapter Two: The Parent Problem
PJ deliberately took his time changing. After stripping off his football gear, he stayed a long time in the shower so Erik would be out of the locker room well before him. No way did he want to be with his roommate when Erik met up with the Fourniers to go to lunch. It was bad enough that he was using Erik's stepdad to get into the dinner. He didn't want his roommate's parents to have even the slightest suspicion he might be trying to con a lunch invitation too.
Under the cascading hot water, PJ caught himself checking to be sure his belly button was there, feeling around the small indentation with his forefinger, a nervous habit he'd almost forgotten about. That's stupid, he thought. He soaped and rinsed off twice, deliberately drawing out the process. By the time he was dried off, had his clothes on, and was closing up his locker, everyone else had gone. He was the only person left there.
He walked through a dim hallway under the indoor arena stands and came up a flight of concrete steps into the vaulted lobby of the Field House. Outside, beyond the bank of glass doors at the front, he saw a few of his teammates with their parents, so he stepped quickly over to one of the display cases that lined the sides of the lobby and pretended to examine the trophies until he was sure everyone'd gone. Only then did he emerge from the building onto the front steps. After another furtive look around, he walked briskly toward the Dining Hall for lunch.
The cafeteria was nearly deserted. A few kids were eating with adults, presumably their parents, and PJ curled his lip in disapproval. How unbelievably lame! You guys get a parent up for Homecoming Weekend and they take you to lunch in the cafeteria! Not even the snack bar in town outside the gate! PJ chose a table away from everybody else, ate quickly, and left.
There was more than an hour to kill before the Upper School Varsity game started and he didn't want to go to his house where kids and parents would be milling around, visiting in the rooms or chatting with Mr. Williamson, his housemaster. Instead, he trotted back under the trees to the rear of the Field House. The baseball diamonds on the west side were deserted, so he slipped into the home-team dugout on the JV field where he stretched out on the bench. He was tired from the game and sleepy after eating. Maybe he could nap.
PJ thought about the game he'd just played. Even though the
subs had done pretty darn good, it sucked that they'd lost and he hoped that
either the JV or the Varsity would win in the afternoon. He'd been at The
Gordonsville School for over a year and he liked nearly everything about it,
but they weren't exactly kick-ass in sports.
The
PJ squirmed around to get more comfortable on the hard bench. Still, everything else about the school was great. In fact, he loved the place! Sprawled over four-hundred acres in the rolling, eastern Pennsylvania countryside, the school campus was an awe-inspiring blend of ivy-covered stone Gothic buildings mixed with more modern brick structures, all built in quadrangles connected by walks and surrounded by ancient shade trees. The facilities were certainly tops. The Gordonsville Field House was bigger than most colleges', and the complex of playing fields around it--football, baseball, track, lacrosse, soccer, tennis--would make any athletic director in the country lick his chops. The eight-lane, twenty-five-yard indoor swimming pool was the envy of the Eastern Prep School League and the site of the annual League Championships. PJ grinned to himself. The place could have been a set for that old classic movie he liked, "Goodbye Mr. Chips." It was wonderful. PJ loved his classes, his teachers, his violin lessons, and yes, his sports--everything. He had friends for the first time in his life and his roommate, Erik, was the best friend he'd ever had, period. It was like having a brother.
It was all perfect--except for one thing.
The one big thing.
The big thing that had messed up his life from day one.
My parent problem, PJ thought. That was what he always called it. If only his "parent problem" would go away, his days--and nights--would be a lot more pleasant.
Of course at Gordonsville, as Erik had pointed out, parent problems were neither new nor unusual. The place was lousy with them. Nearly every kid PJ could think of was dealing with a divorced dad or sleep-around mom. It was practically universal. PJ really was just about the only kid who still had two living parents in a regular marriage.
There was only one thing.
Only one little fly in the ointment.
All those other kids--Erik, his other classmates, everybody else--they had someone to call, family to talk to. No matter how screwed-up their families were (and some were really weird), when the evil wind blew, when the big math test loomed, when you were sobbing homesick in your bed at two in the morning, when you were broke on Saturday, or even if you just needed someone for the Father-Son Dinner--those kids all had a number to call. And someone, somewhere, would pick up.
All PJ had was the phone number of
a law firm in
Oh yeah, I've got two parents all right, PJ thought bitterly. Unfortunately, neither one has ever shown the slightest interest in whether I'm alive or dead. They don't care; they never have cared; and all the evidence suggests that they never will care. Ever. Period.
This annoying little fact had caused a lot of trouble for PJ over the years, and from bitter experience, he was on to all the psychological jargon. The self-worth thing, for example. How did one develop any self-esteem if your own parents found you so worthless they didn't give a damn about you? It was a problem. PJ had worked around it by deciding that his parents were just too dumb to see what a really great kid they had. So he was past that now--mostly. Some days were better than others.
Others. . . . He'd been raised by others. That was how he thought of them--the others. There'd been a long dreary succession of nurses, nannies, tutors. . . . He couldn't remember them all. He'd learned early not to remember them. Don't get attached! None of them ever stayed, and when they disappeared, if you were attached, there was pain and grief. Remain aloof. Build a wall--a fortress around yourself. Fill the moat with water, pull up the drawbridges. Stay safe. Stay inside and survive! Of course, survival came at a price, a price no one had ever warned PJ about, and like everything else, he'd been forced to discover it on his own. It was lonely inside the fortress. Lonelier than the darkest night. Getting through all that had been tough. But that hadn't been the worst. Oh, no. . .
The worst had been the whipsaw. That was what PJ called it, the whipsaw. . . . The longing to see your parents, to hear their voices, feel their touch (surely everything would be all right now!), and then, when you did see them, the agony of their indifference and the longing for them to leave so the pain of rejection would ease. That was the worst.
But he was past that too--mostly. A survivor.
PJ hadn't seen his parents for over two years, but that was not unusual. Sometimes a year might go past, or two or even three, and then he would see them briefly, their visits usually lasting only a day or two: a pause from their constant traveling. The longest separation had lasted for three years when he'd been about seven--and that had been a very bad time. . .
His memory was hazy with only a few clear recollections. . .
Wetting his bed, night after night . . . that huge apartment so high up in the air! . . . room after room . . . searching . . . searching . . . Where were they! Why didn't they come! And fire . . . dreaming of it, playing with it . . . a signal . . . it would bring them. And matches . . . the matches!
He remembered the
Of course, there had been a few adjustments to make. An irrational fear of wetting the bed was a permanent scar from the bad time. When PJ started sharing a room with a boy his own age, the consequences of a bedwetting episode had seemed so appalling--being laughed out of school at the very least--he had acted at once to take precautions. He bought, secretly, a rubber sheet, installing it over his mattress while his roommate was out, and he hoarded a supply of fresh sheets and pajamas in his closet. At night, he followed a strict routine of evening liquid restriction and a pre-bedtime pee, sometimes even sleeping with a towel wrapped around his middle when he felt particularly at risk. All in all, the bedwetting fear, while serious, had been manageable. He had it under control.
A more difficult adjustment had been mastering the art of making friends. He'd discovered that learning how to mix, how to fit in, and how to allow others close but not too close, was a tricky business. He'd managed it, aided by two advantages: money and natural intelligence. He had a quick, adaptable mind that easily handled the academic work. Early on, he'd been placed in advanced, elite classes, and Gordonsville was a school where academic achievement was respected, provided one was not a nerd. Plus, he was rich, or at least his family was known to have money, which amounted to the same thing. Wealth was something one never, ever spoke of at Gordonsville, but the financial status of everyone's family was known or inferred, and, as always, money conferred acceptance.
And so he'd settled into Gordonsville, eagerly embracing its life, its opportunities, and its comforting security. It was as close as he had ever come to a happy, normal existence.
Still, not entirely normal. There'd been a couple of other things. . . .
He'd been reading Aldus Huxley's Brave New World. For a month or so in that first year, he became obsessed with a fear that he might not have a belly button because he thought he might've been developed in a test tube like the parentless babies in the book. He'd started checking himself, going into a bathroom stall three or four times a day, pulling his shirt up and putting a finger in his stomach to be sure his naval was there and then tucking his shirt back into his pants before returning to whatever he was doing. Undressing in the locker room for gym, or in his dorm room at night, he was terrified that someone would find out his belly button was missing and point him out as a freak. When he had to take off his clothes, he stood facing a wall or a locker, carefully pulling up his shirt and only removing it the rest of the way after touching that damn stomach to be certain. Anyway, though this had been quite a problem for awhile, as he made friends and became involved in the activities of the school, it eventually had gone away.
Then there had been the recurring fantasy that he wasn't his
parents' child at all but had been adopted, or perhaps found under a bush by
the side of the road. In this fantasy, PJ turned out to be such a
disappointment that his parents had ignored him ever since. Fortunately, before
this delusion could gain real traction, the New York law firm that paid his
tuition had brought him to the city for his yearly clothes' fitting, and while
in their offices when no one was looking, he'd found his birth certificate and
used the opportunity to carefully study it. The document was reassuring,
stating that his mother had given normal birth to him in the
So, after a few minor glitches, a bump or two along the road, all in all PJ had adapted to Gordonsville quite well . . .
except . . .
the whole time, like a snake in the garden, his "PARENT PROBLEM" remained. It was the one thing PJ could not conjure or manage away.
It was fundamental truth which simply would not do. While it was perfectly OK to air complaints about a father's strictness, a mother's drinking, your "rents" messy divorce, or any of a hundred other parenting foibles (PJ heard things like it every day), what was definitely NOT OK was a statement like, "My parents don't care if I'm alive or dead and have never sent me a birthday or Christmas present in my life." An attention-getter for sure, but way too weird! Who would blame anyone for thinking, Hey, if this kid's parents don't want anything to do with him, why should I?
Instant alienation. Instant promotion to "weirdo" status. Remaining at Gordonsville under such circumstances? Impossible.
Right from day one, right from his first hour at Gordonsville, PJ had discovered that his parent problem had gained additional dimension. It wasn't enough that he hurt inside every damn day because they didn't want him. Not enough that he sometimes cried himself to sleep, terrified that Erik would hear him because he still longed so desperately for his parents to love him. No, that wasn't enough. Now he had to cover for the bastards, the two all-time Grade-A gold-plated pieces of crap who had screwed him and hung him out to dry! He was constantly forced to invent excuses for their absence in order to field innocent but potentially lethal questions like, "Hey, PJ. How come your parents didn't come up with you to school?" Or, "Hey, PJ. When are your parents coming to a game?"
He didn't blame his friends for these questions, but he wished they would mind their own goddamned business.
The school didn't make it any easier, either. Gordonsville was always coming up with little zingers to promote parent involvement--stuff like Class Day, Sports Day, Family Concert Night, the School Play Festival--and, of course, Homecoming Weekend with its goddamned Father-Son Dinner. It was enough to drive him crazy!
He'd even started a "Father Wish List." Not only someone who might fill in at the dinner, but a man he admired who might fulfill his desperate need for someone who truly loved him for who he was. PJ's preliminary entries included Mr. Williamson, Coach Lewis, and a baseball hero of his named Jack Canon. Daydreaming about these potential father figures was a comfort to him.
His birthday in September at the very beginning of his first year had precipitated a scary flirtation with total disaster. To avoid awkward questions, he hadn't told anyone that it was his birthday, hoping the day would slip by unnoticed; but of course what he had failed to consider was the fact that the school knew everyone's birthday. To his horror, a cake complete with candles was brought to his house table at dinner while everybody sang "Happy Birthday." Inevitably, this was followed by multiple voices asking, "What presents did you get?"
Answering had taxed his powers of improvisation, but he'd finally put everyone off by inventing a special ski trip that he claimed his parents were giving him for a combined birthday-Christmas present. He'd then spent a bad half-hour on the house phone faking a birthday call from his mother and father while listening to a recording of the weather report repeated over and over. He still wasn't sure how much of that Erik had bought. Erik was not stupid.
PJ heaved a long sigh and shifted position once again on the hard dugout bench. At least he'd dealt with the Father-Son Dinner mess. That'd been a close call! Not going to the Father-Son Dinner would've been a real loser move. Everyone went. A kid who couldn't dredge up some male relative or friend to accompany him was so far out in left field no one would ever talk to him again! He may have signed on with someone else's dad, but at least he was going! In fact, he wasn't in such bad shape. Stevie Springhorn was going to the dinner with his mother's lesbian lover and PJ considered himself light years ahead of that!
So why didn't he feel better?
PJ sighed again, pushed himself up to a sitting position, and stared glumly through the dugout screen at the deserted baseball diamond.
Nothing was really solved. The Father-Son Dinner was just another of an infinite number of events where he would have to shuck and jive, inventing lies to cover for his parents' indifference. Eventually, inevitably, the lies would run out, the facts become known, and when they did, it wouldn't matter a damn how well he had done in class, how good he had been in sports, or how many friends he had. None of it would matter. He would be the kid nobody wanted. Everything else would be spoiled.
He squeezed his eyes shut to stem a sudden flow of hot tears and buried his face in his hands. It was so unfair! The problem should get easier with time, not harder! What had he ever done to deserve this? He pounded his fist on his thigh. He'd beaten down the rejection, beaten down the loneliness, beaten down the pain and grief. He was strong. He was a survivor. Why could he not kill this stupid ache in his heart, this horrible empty feeling? It was like a throbbing tooth you could never pull.
A shuddering sob took him. Damn it! He was crying like a baby. What if someone saw him? Desperately he slammed his clenched fists on the bench--but the tears only came faster.
Stupid, he thought. You're being stupid!
For eleven years he had lived without his parents. He'd survived. Who needed them? He was living proof that you didn't. . . . Right?
I should never have sent that letter. That stupid letter! When will I learn?
After buying two tickets to the Father-Son Dinner, PJ had sent a letter begging his father to come. Hoping against hope, he'd waited for a reply. Even though he'd never received one, he'd never stopped believing one would appear.
PJ's mouth opened in a wordless sound of agony. Racked by sobs, he fell off the bench and crawled into a corner of the dugout where he sat holding his knees, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down his face, mouthing the words, "I hope you die, I hope you die, I hope you die.". . .
But in his heart he was pleading, Please love me. Please love me. Please, please come find me. . .
Chapter Three: Curves
The south of
On the coastal road east of
Who knows? We can't ask them anymore.
On that stretch, east of the famous resort, the road with all its beauty conceals treachery. Narrow and twisting, surprisingly-sharp curves lurk beyond the scenic outlooks, and the road is occasionally used by heavy freight rigs that overflow its narrow lanes, forcing passenger cars onto nearly non-existent shoulders.
Because his headlights are off, the driver misses the emergency markers set on the side of the road. He receives no warning that a disabled tractor-trailer is blocking his lane just beyond the curve. Its big square trailer looms in his windshield. With only a split-second to react, he wrenches the steering wheel sideways. The heavy sedan skids to the left-hand lane--directly into the path of an oncoming, fully-loaded vegetable truck.
The Lancia is constructed of expensive, high-strength materials, equipped with the latest safety features. But it's hit broadside in its most vulnerable spot by a vehicle ten times its weight. No car, no matter how well engineered, can survive such an impact.
Death for the people in the Lancia
is mercifully swift. One moment they are enjoying the sight of the first stars
twinkling over the
The French accident team that cuts the bodies out of the wreckage find PJ's letter in an inside pocket of the driver's dinner jacket. It makes the identification of his father relatively easy. The identification of his mother's body in the front passenger seat proves more difficult.
* * *
PJ's housemaster, James Williamson, was awakened
by the ringing of his bedside phone. The clock beside it read
"Williamson? Is that you?"
Recognizing the headmaster's voice, Williamson came fully awake. The head would never phone at this hour unless it was something serious. "Yes, Headmaster?"
"I've just had a call from
"Good Lord!" Mr. Williamson blinked and shook his head, struggling to grasp the enormity of the situation. "You're sure there's no mistake?"
"I'm afraid not. The family's lawyers are already making arrangements."
"Which boy is it?"
The headmaster hesitated a moment before answering. "I'm afraid it's PJ."
"Oh, no. Both parents, you say?"
"Yes. Mother and father. Both killed."
"Good Lord!" Mr. Williamson said again. Closing his eyes for a moment, he rubbed his face. This was bad.
"Do you feel comfortable breaking it to him? Maybe we should have the nurse do it."
Mr. Williamson sat up straight on the side of his bed. "No, Headmaster. I'll see to it. I'll report back on how things go."
"Thank you, Williamson. You have experience with these things. I'm sure you'll handle this well. Call me if you need me. Goodbye."
"What's wrong, Dear?" his wife asked as he hung up the phone.
"It's PJ's parents. They're both dead. Killed in an automobile accident! This is just awful! PJ has already been through so much! How in the world will he possibly stand this . . . this . . ." He made a frustrated gesture.
"Oh that poor child." Mrs. Williamson got up out of bed and started to dress. "You better tell him now, before the whole house gets up. He should have breakfast with us so we can try to comfort him."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"I'll make some hot chocolate." The elderly woman opened a closet and donned a housecoat. "They're the ones we've never met, aren't they, James?"
He nodded. "PJ's parents have never been here."
"But he went to the Father-Son Dinner Saturday, didn't he?"
"Jantzen's stepfather took both boys. I was ready to take him myself if that hadn't worked out."
"Rooming with Erik has been a good thing for that boy." His wife headed for the kitchen, adding over her shoulder, "I just hope they let him stay here so we can keep on working with him."
With a grunt, Mr. Williamson got into slippers and bathrobe while thinking about how to break the news. James Williamson loved being a housemaster, but the job had a few dark downsides, and this was one of them. Bringing news of a death in the family to a child was never pleasant. He'd had to do it before. And one never knew how it might go, especially to an already emotionally-damaged youngster like PJ. Taking his flashlight, he walked through the living room of the ground-floor apartment he and his wife occupied and opened their door to peer out into the front hallway. It was dark and quiet. No one was up yet, and only the nightlights were on.
He went out, closing the door carefully behind him, and climbed three flights of stairs, making as little noise as possible. PJ and Erik shared a room at the back of the fourth floor in the top of the house. He opened their door quietly, stepping softly into the room.
The boys were asleep. He could see them both clearly in the glow of the little nightlight sitting on PJ's bedstand, a light which PJ wouldn't go to sleep without. Mr. Williamson moved closer to the boy and stood looking down at him. He was sleeping on his stomach, head turned to one side on the pillow, his lips slightly parted, a peaceful expression on his face. The housemaster felt his heart turn over in his chest at the thought of waking him and telling him what had happened. While this little boy had slept, his world had changed forever; but he had to find out, and it would not make the man's job a bit easier if he put it off.
"PJ," he said softly. "Wake up. It's Mr. Williamson."
As soon as PJ awakened and saw his housemaster standing by his bed, he sat right up because he knew something was wrong. "What's h-happened?" he asked, still groggy from sleep.
Mr. Williamson got the chair from PJ's desk and sat down on it between the two beds. "Son," he said gently, "I've got some very bad news." He looked PJ right in the eyes. "The School got a call tonight. Your parents were in a serious automobile accident yesterday."
PJ's mouth opened slightly. He licked his lips, staring at the man. "They're dead, aren't they!" He blurted it out.
Mr. Williamson was taken aback by PJ's shocking intuition, and his mouth fell open. Then he nodded his head. "Yes, PJ. They're both dead."
He waited for a reaction, prepared for tears, shock, hysterics, or just about anything except what he got, which was nothing at all. PJ simply continued to stare at him as if waiting for him to say more.
Suddenly Erik was awake too, sitting up, rubbing his eyes. "Mr. Williamson!" The housemaster cleared his throat and said, "Erik, I think PJ needs to tell you something. And PJ, Mrs. Williamson and I think it might be best if you have breakfast with us this morning. Erik, I want you to come, too. I think PJ should have his best friend with him right now." Getting up, he stepped out into the hallway so PJ could tell Erik what horrible thing had happened.
PJ was anything but stupid. He knew that his behavior at hearing about his parents was hardly what Mr. Williamson had expected, but his actual reaction, relief, had been so powerful that the only way to conceal it was to show no reaction whatsoever! And he knew that his real feelings had to be concealed. No explanation would make Mr. Williamson understand, and things adults didn't understand worried them. There would be trouble. He would have to talk about things he didn't want to talk about. Plus there was Erik. His roommate was staring at him expectantly.
"PJ? What is it? What's happened?"
"It's my parents." PJ kept his face wooden while he tried to work out what to do. Tears were out. He'd never been able to fake crying. "Mr. Williamson says they were in a real bad car wreck."
Erik's eyes widened. "A car wreck! Geez! Are they gonna be okay?"
"Uh-uh." Shaking his head, PJ struggled to arrange his face into an appropriately sad expression. "He says they're both dead."
"Dead! You mean like . . . PJ, that's terrible!"
"Yeah. . . ." PJ had the sad look in place now. He checked it in the mirror over his desk. "Mr. Williamson wants us to have breakfast with him."
The boys got out of their beds, found their slippers and bathrobes, and met Mr. Williamson out in the hall. They allowed him to shepherd them downstairs to his apartment. Both of them were silent.
All through breakfast, while Mrs. Williamson fussed over him, and Mr. Williamson and Erik kept glancing at him with worried looks, PJ kept his face under rigid control. He ate his food, answering when spoken to, but all the while only thinking of the one thing that kept racing through his head: I'll never have to cover for my parents again. No one could blame an orphan if he didn't get any birthday presents, or if no one came to watch his football games. He was free!
At first everything was emotionally easy for him. Over breakfast, Mr. Williamson decided that PJ wouldn't go to class. "Why don't you stay in the house today and let Mrs. Williamson look after you," he suggested.
PJ nodded. Actually, he didn't want to miss his classes, or football practice, or that morning's swim-team practice; but he figured it would look bad if he went, so he agreed to stay inside.
Mrs. Williamson came over and stroked his hair. "PJ," she said kindly, "do you want Erik to say anything to your other friends? To tell them what's happened, I mean? Or do you want to tell them yourself?"
PJ looked at his roommate, and wondered why Erik looked so distressed. It isn't your parents who are dead, he reasoned. He turned his head back to Mrs. Williamson. "It's OK. Erik can tell them."
Mrs. Williamson nodded. "Erik, you'd better go and get ready for school."
After Erik left, PJ sat for a time with Mr. Williamson in the living room. Around him, he heard all the morning house sounds: toilets being flushed, sinks and showers running, feet clattering up and down the stairways, boys talking or laughing in the front hallway. He kept his face fixed in that sad expression, concentrating on the sounds so he could block all other thought out of his mind.
Eventually, the noises died away. Mr. Williamson left to teach his own classes, there was one last clatter of a boy late for school racing down the stairs--and then, silence.
PJ waited for what he thought was a reasonable time, listening to Mrs. Williamson moving in the kitchen. Finally he got up and put his head around the kitchen door. ..Mrs. Williamson? I'd like to go up to my room for awhile...
The woman came over with a worried look on her face and stroked his hair again. ..All right, PJ. But call me if you need anything. I'll come up to see you later...
PJ opened the apartment door and left.
It wasn't until he reached the top of the stairs that an awful thought occurred to him, one which linked him to his parents' deaths. . .
* * *
CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT ONE
NOTE: I and my editor, Paul Scott, encourage you to write in and ask us about the characters and plot and any others that you have questions about, and we promise to respond to you. For your convenience, Paul's e-mail address will appear at the end of this and all subsequent installments.
Arthur J. Arrington
Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail address: paulkdoctor@gmail.com
Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com