THE FATHER
CONTRACT
Table of Contents
Installment One:
Chapter One, "Homecoming
Weekend"
Chapter Two, "The Parent Problem"
Chapter Three, "Curves"
Installment Two:
Chapter Four, "Phobia and Fantasy"
Chapter Five, "Comfortings"
Chapter Six, "An Opportune
Call"
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 offense 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, Coach 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?" Coach Lewis 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 young coach told them. "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 offense 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, Coach Simmons 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 Gordonsville School hadn't won a championship in football or any other sport in over ten years. The trophies in the Field House display cases were old, and the names on the team pictures were of boys long since gone.
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 New York that paid his tuition and sent him an allowance.
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 University of Chicago better, and the very nice old lady with the fascinating room full of toys and games. PJ had liked her, and there'd been a quiet country day school near Lake Michigan that he'd liked as well, a place where, along with books and his violin, he'd discovered sports--football, soccer, baseball, swimming--all the things that had helped him find his way out of the dark labyrinth he had wandered into. And so, he'd survived, and finally, to his very great good fortune, he'd been sent to Gordonsville. From the very first day it had been like finding a new home.
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 Aldous 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 navel 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 Brigham Hospital in Boston, proof that he really was his parents' child after all. PJ had slept much better ever since.
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 France in November is a lovely place: temperatures mild, Mediterranean water still warm, the hazy blue evening twilight along the coast a constant reminder of this part of the world's beautiful name--Cote d'Azur. It is said to be the playground of the rich and famous, and the rich, at least, were here now, playing their long, endless games against idleness and boredom.
On the coastal road east of Cannes, a sleek midnight-blue Lancia sedan sweeps through the gathering night. Despite increasing darkness, the car shows no lights. The male driver hasn't turned them on. Perhaps the woman beside him has begged him to leave them off so they can enjoy the twilight a moment longer. Perhaps he doesn't think he needs them yet. Perhaps he is distracted by her laughing banter.
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 Mediterranean; then, in the next moment, their lives are violently extinguished. It is that quick.
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 04:53. Groping for the thing and finally grabbing the receiver, he mumbled,"Hello?"
"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 New York, Williamson." The head sounded irritated, his tone matter-of-fact. "I'm afraid it's news that we hate to hear at this time of the night. The parents of one of your boys have been killed in a car accident over in France. I gather it happened yesterday."
"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 anything else 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 any subsequent installment.
Arthur J. Arrington
Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail address: paulkdoctor@gmail.com
PJ left the apartment and started climbing the stairs toward the top floor. Still in bathrobe and slippers, he went slowly, letting the heel of each slipper flop against the edge of each wooden step--flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop.... For some reason, he liked doing that.
It was not until he was climbing the last flight of steps--flop, flop, flop--that he had his first bad moment. Without any warning the thought slipped into his mind, right past his defenses.
You wished your parents dead! You killed them!
The idea so stunned PJ that he swayed for a moment and had to grab the banister to keep from falling forward.
"No!" He said it out loud, trying to push the thought out of his mind. But it persisted.
You wished for them to be dead and now they are.
"That's crazy," he whispered.
Hurrying up the rest of the steps, he ran down the hall to his room. But the thought would not go away.
What kind of kid would want to kill his own parents?
The familiar surroundings of
the room calmed him for a moment. He made his bed carefully, then
sat on it, looking around, glad that Erik was in school so's
he could be by himself and think without interruption. There was his bedstand with its comforting little nightlight and his
clock radio. There on his desk was his homework, piled neatly, ready for the
classes he wouldn't be attending that day. There was his PC. Its empty screen
stared back at him blankly. On the walls were his two team pennants: a
Finally, his eyes turned to his most prized possession--his poster. It was tacked to his closet door where he could see it from either the bed or his desk, covering all the panels from top to bottom. The poster was a full-length, life-size picture of a tall, powerfully-built man in a Boston Red Sox uniform. The man was posed standing, holding a bat across his body with both hands. He stared directly out at PJ wearing a confident smile. A line in bold script at the bottom of the picture declared, "Anything's Possible!"
The baseball player's name was Jack Canon. Jack Canon was the leading hitter in the Major Leagues, the star of the Boston Red Sox team, and PJ thought he was the greatest guy who'd ever lived. Not great like George Washington or Abraham Lincoln or Albert Einstein--PJ wasn't interested in that kind of great--but great in other, more important ways. He was kind, decent, understanding, patient. He also liked kids. In fact, he was like a father figure.
"If you were my father, Jack," PJ whispered, "everything would be different."
You don't want a father, said the voice in PJ's head. You wished yours dead.
"No!" PJ put his hands over his ears. What kind of boy wants to kill his own father?! He didn't want to imagine that thought. He decided to think about Jack Canon instead.
PJ had discovered Jack Canon
while living at a residential psychological treatment center in
It had not been easy. He had no special athletic talent. But exposure to sports and the experience of standing up to tough competition had revealed qualities lying dormant within him. He'd discovered the thrill of personal achievement and, although lacking in natural ability, had found that he could push himself farther beyond physical limits than most other boys. In the hypnotic exhaustion of demanding training, PJ experienced a release from the emotional storms that had so nearly destroyed him.
Basketball would forever elude him. That kind of natural coordination was for others. In football, on the other hand, hard practice and determination had given him competence. And in swimming, his willingness to accept tough repetitive training gave him an advantage where he could excel. Yet it was baseball that had most captured PJ's imagination and love. The whole game fascinated him: the history rich with tradition; the lack of a time-limit; the varying rhythm of action; the game within the game of defense against offence; the pitcher against batter; the unique mixture of team and individual competition.
PJ had no illusions about his own baseball ability. He was strong enough to do some good hitting. But no one was ever going to pick him first for any sandlot game because his pitching was terrible and his fielding shaky. Yet to him, none of that was important. He loved playing the game, and that was all that mattered. He devoured every book he could find about baseball, absorbing history and myth along with names and statistics. He watched every baseball movie hero who came on TV (Crash Davis in "Bull Durham" had headed his list of ideal role models for a time).
Most of the boys in the
It was just at this time that Canon had been starting his spectacular comeback from injury and personal tragedy. Soon PJ, like a million other American boys, knew every detail of that incredible career: the championships in high school and college; a draft to the Minors at age nineteen and then the spectacular Major League rookie year at age twenty-two; his brief struggle with injury a year later; the two glorious record-setting seasons that came after. Then the heartbreaking season-ending injury at age twenty-five, followed shortly by the death of his wife and little boy in a plane crash. After that, an agonizing time of operations and rehabilitation--and then the slow, determined climb back to the "Big Show."
Now, at age 30, Jack Canon was the most famous athlete in the world, the greatest hitter in all baseball, and the man that every Red Sox fan prayed would break the Yankee "Curse of the Bambino" and lead the team to a World Championship. Like every Red Sox fan, PJ knew all about that curse. How the mighty Sox, the power of the early American League, traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees in 1918--and never won a World Series again. The Curse had stood for a long time. But curses could be broken.
"Anything's Possible!" was what Jack Canon said. PJ knew exactly what he meant. It meant never give up! You had to admire the way the 1967 miracle Mets had never given up when they had won it all. You had to admire the way Jack Canon never gave up when he made his comeback against impossible odds. PJ, in fact, had to feel good about himself, the way he'd somehow survived the darkness that had all but destroyed him. You had to believe that if you tried hard enough and never gave up, you could do anything! That was what Jack Canon meant.
From the very first, PJ had been determined to never give up, and the more he read or heard in newspapers or on TV, the more certain he was that Jack Canon stood for everything good. Jack didn't smoke, drink, or use drugs. He never displayed bad sportsmanship. When he was interviewed, he had only positive things to say about other players, managers, or umpires. He spent hours after every game signing autographs for fans, especially kids. PJ's favorite picture of Jack, torn from a magazine and taped to the mirror over his desk, showed Jack down on one knee signing a baseball for a little boy. PJ sometimes pretended that he was that boy. Of course, he never told anyone about that. And he kept his admiration for Jack Canon a secret. Still, he kept the big poster out where everyone could see it. When his friends came by and said, "Hey, nice poster!" he'd casually reply, "Yeah. Jack Canon's a great player." Simple. No big deal. He pretended that he was just another of Jack Canon's million fans.
But no one suspected the real truth--that Jack Canon was PJ's role model, his idea of an ideal dad.
Screening candidates for the role of ideal father was a game PJ often played, the names on his list changing as adult male figures came into and went out of his life. Mr. Fournier was now on the list. For awhile, both Mr. Williamson and Coach Lewis had been on the list too, but PJ had moved Coach Lewis off because he saw him more as an older brother than as a father. And though PJ liked Mr. Williamson a lot, he finally erased his name because Mr. Williamson was like a substitute father to all the boys in the House. PJ didn't want to share his father with anybody! So over the years, the only name that had stayed permanently on PJ's ideal father list was Jack Canon's.
Common sense told PJ that he should move Jack's name off the list for the same reason he moved Mr. Williamson's off: that he was sharing Jack with too many other kids. But he'd found a way around that. He'd discovered that, unlike all the millions of other kids who were fans of Jack Canon, only he, PJ Thorndyke, had a secret relationship with him. It was unique, and he had two proofs of that. One was the poster. PJ had gotten his poster by sending for it in the mail, and when it came, it had been addressed to him personally. No one else. Just him. PJ knew full well that if he could send away for the poster, anyone else could too. But if that were true, why was he the only kid he knew with one? Common sense also told him that you could buy a Jack Canon poster in any Wal-Mart. But in the Wal-Marts he'd gone to, he'd never seen one like it. PJ had a picture in his head of Jack Canon himself carefully rolling up his fan poster, slipping it into a mailing tube, addressing and stamping it, and then sending it to PJ at Gordonsville. That was fun to imagine. Anyway, until he went into another dorm room and saw the same poster, or until he saw it at Wal-Mart, he wasn't about to consider himself a copycat.
And then there was the
second proof--the real clincher. PJ and Jack Canon's son had shared the same
birthday! They would've been exactly the same age if Jack's boy hadn't been
killed in the plane crash! PJ had nearly died himself when he discovered that
fact. It was as if everything merged in his brain. From then on, it was
settled. If (no, when) his real father showed up, he hoped that he'd be just
like Jack Canon, and he made this wish his most cherished. Ever since his stay
at the special place in
Once upon a time, PJ thought, burying his face in his hands. Once upon a time. . . That was all gone now. His parents were dead. They would never come. Hundred, maybe thousands of times, PJ had tried to fathom why they'd treated him the way they had. He'd decided that it couldn't have been because they were mean. Nobody's parents were that mean. So he'd become convinced that his parents had merely forgotten about him. One reason he had tried so hard to do well in school was so they might get glowing reports on his progress and behavior. With luck, such a report would finally get their attention, they would remember their intelligent and dutiful son, and they'd come to rescue him. He'd even written a letter once in a childish scrawl which read, "Dear Mommy and Daddy, please don't forget about me. I love you. Your son PJ." But he hadn't known what address to put on the letter so he'd dropped it out the window, hoping the wind might blow it to where they were living. That's what he'd imagined, anyway.
At another time, he'd developed the awful theory that his parents were mad at him because he didn't love them enough. This dreadful thought actually had some logic to it because there really were lots of times when he hated his parents for not loving him! It had caused him to spend hours racking his brain, trying to invent a perfect phrase that he could use at their next meeting, one that would convince them in one blinding flash that he loved them more than anything in the world.
The final theory he had hit upon, and the one which seemed the most logical to him when he'd brooded on things late at night, was that his parents, and his father in particular, were testing him. Everything that had happened was part of a plan of theirs, so that if he survived and passed all the tests, then eventually they would appear, his father would tell him how proud they were of him, and their life together as a family would begin. PJ had particularly liked this theory because it would have proven that they did love him after all! You didn't test someone if you didn't care for them. Right?
He was sitting on his bed, staring at the Jack Canon poster, thinking about all these things, when a picture suddenly formed in his mind. The picture was so horrible, yet at the same time so clear and real, that it made him dizzy and sick to his stomach.
He saw his other letter, the letter he had sent to his father begging him to come for the Father-Son Dinner. He saw his father and mother reading the letter, agreeing that PJ had at last proved his worth, passed all the tests. His father and mother had gotten in their car, started off for the airport--and that was when they'd been killed. They'd been on their way to the airport so they could fly over and be with PJ for the Dinner. His letter had killed them! He could see it. He saw it just as clearly as he saw his own reflection in the mirror over his desk!
PJ sat stunned. He felt nauseous.
"This is crazy," he whispered. It could not have happened that way at all. The dates were wrong. His parents had been killed yesterday, two days after the Father-Son event. It was impossible.
But he could see it all so clearly.
PJ's stomach heaved. He put a hand to his mouth, ran out down the hallway, and barely made it to a toilet in the bathroom before he threw up all his breakfast, retching over and over with painful, dry heaves. When it stopped at last, he spat, then got shakily to his feet. After rinsing his mouth with water, he went back to his room.
He felt a little better afterwards. He got his toilet kit, returned to the bathroom for a long shower, and brushed his teeth. Once he was cleaned up and dressed, he paced around the room a little bit, then sat at his desk, staring at his face in the mirror. However, there was no avoiding the realization that now haunted him. As long as his parents had been alive there had been hope that someday they might have shown some love for him. It might have been a small hope--just a fraction of a chance--but it had been something. Now, whatever hope there had been had died with them.
OK, PJ thought. So they're gone. When were they ever around? Deal with it. You oughta be good at that by now. It'll be easy.
PJ `s reflection in the mirror stared back at him. It whispered, "Yeah. Easy. Right. . ."
PJ was on his bed reading when Erik returned in the afternoon.
After lunch with Mrs. Williamson, PJ had helped her with some work and then gone upstairs to meticulously clean his room, remaking both his own and Erik's beds in the process. Staying busy and finding a good book to read had kept him from having any more crazy thoughts. By the time Erik came back, PJ was more or less under control.
"Hi," he said, putting the book down.
"Hey." Erik dumped his backpack and gave PJ a sidelong glance. "You doin' OK?"
PJ shrugged. "So-so, I guess. It's not one of the best days. Aren't you supposed to be getting ready for football practice?"
Erik sat at his desk and shook his head. "I'm not goin' if you're not." He looked down at his hands for a moment, then up again. "PJ, I spread the word around. Everyone knows. Some of the guys may come by, you know, to say something. I figured I'd be here if they did. To sort of keep you company, you know?"
"Yeah, OK. Thanks"
Erik looked down again, his face beet-red, and this time he didn't look up when he spoke but kept staring at his hands. "I just want you to know that I'm really sorry . . . well, about what's happened . . . you know . . ."
"Sure. Thanks."
"Look, I hope you won't mind, but I called my dad and told him about it. He may call you or something."
"That's OK, Erik."
Erik finally looked up at him. "It's just that . . . well, I hope all this doesn't mean you're going to leave school or anything like that."
PJ shook his head. "I'll be sticking around."
"I kind of like having you as a roommate."
"Yeah. Me too."
Erik sighed. He turned and got his notebook. "Hey, I got all the homework assignments for us. You want to do `em together?"
The two boys kept busy for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, with PJ glad for the diversion because Erik's prediction came true. Boys from the House, the football team, the swimming team, and PJ's other activities kept stopping by, so he was glad Erik was there to help him deal with all the sympathy. He didn't mind their attentions. In a way it was good to find he had so many friends. But after awhile, the strain of feigning a grief he didn't feel made him irritable, and it was a struggle to conceal it.
Later that night, as things quieted down, it occurred to PJ that his parents' deaths had led to exactly the kind of stupid attention he'd been trying to avoid. For over a year he'd been racking his brains for excuses so he wouldn't become the poor little rich kid whose parents neglected him. Now their deaths, which couldn't be covered up no matter what he did, had turned him into the poor-little-rich-kid orphan, cliché of a hundred stupid grade "Z" movies, books, and TV shows. Shit! No matter where he went, people were going to point him out. He might as well be a leper and wear a bell around his neck. From now on, every new kid, every new master, every new parent was going to hear about the resident rich orphan waif. He would see it in their eyes every time a new boy shook his hand, every time he got a new teacher, every time some kid's mother patted him on the head. It was totally diabolical. Even in their deaths, his worthless parents had managed to screw him again.
Shortly before lights out, he was called downstairs for a phone call. When he picked up the receiver, the voice of Erik's stepfather, Bill, boomed at him. "PJ? Is that you?"
"Yes."
"PJ, this is Bill. Erik's dad."
"Hi, Sir."
"PJ, Erik called me today and told me what's happened. It's terrible. Erik's mother and I are worried about you. We want to know if you're all right."
"I'm OK," PJ said.
"Is there anything we can do? Do you need anything? Is the School taking care of you?"
"It's incredibly nice of you to worry, Mr. Fournier, but I think I'll be all right."
Bill seemed a bit flustered by PJ's reply. He hesitated a moment before getting back on track. "Well, er . . . well, OK. OK, PJ. But look, now listen to me. Erik's got all my numbers--home and work. Now if anything comes up, if you need anything, if there's anything that bothers you--heck, if you just want to talk to someone--then I want you to call me, you hear? I don't care if you call me at work. It's OK. And don't worry if it's the middle of the night. You call, you hear me?"
"Yes, Bill."
"Good. Oh, and PJ, Erik's got my e-mail addresses, too, both home and work. You can always leave a message. OK?"
"I'll remember, Bill."
"All right." The man hesitated once more before asking, "You're sure there's nothing you need?"
"I'm sure."
"Well--OK. Now look, PJ. You and Erik have a game this week, right?"
"That's right."
Well, I'm coming up for that game. I'm going to be there. I want to see for myself that you're all right."
"You don't have to do that, Mr. Fournier," PJ protested.
"Who said anything about 'have to'," Bill replied. "I want to. I'll be there. So I'll see you then, PJ."
"Ok, Bill."
"Now, you call me if you need to."
"I will."
"OK." Bill took a deep breath, and then in a husky voice added, "I'm sorry I didn't get to meet your dad, PJ. If he produced a great kid like you . . . well, he must have been quite a guy."
PJ didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
After another hesitation, Bill went on, "I know you'll miss him a lot, PJ."
"I guess so," PJ responded. He was wishing the phone call would end.
Bill cleared his throat and his voice started booming again. "Well, OK. I guess that's it. You take care of yourself, PJ. You can call me day or night if you need anything."
"I will."
"I'll see you at the game."
"OK."
"You know Erik and his mom and I just think the world of you."
"Thanks, Mr. Fournier."
"Yeah. Well, all right. . . . Goodbye, PJ."
"Goodbye."
PJ hung up the phone with great relief. He appreciated Mr. Fournier's concern, but the conversation had been too drawn out and emotionally draining. Then he debated how much of the call he could safely share with his roommate. Erik probably wouldn't be thrilled about sharing his dad with some other kid. PJ wouldn't have been if it were his dad. And the last thing he needed was to alienate his best friend. In the end, he decided the best policy was to leave things vague. "That was Bill," he said in reply to Erik's inquiring look. "He just called to be sure I was OK. He wants me to tell you if I'm having any problems."
"I told you he'd call," Erik said. "I knew he would. My dad's nice about that stuff."
"Yeah. . ." PJ started changing into his pajamas, hoping Erik would get off the subject. "He. . .he made me feel a lot better."
Shortly after they had both gone to bed, PJ had a panic attack.
All evening the stupid, impossible crazy picture of his parents getting his letter and then dying in a crash on the way to the airport had been getting more insistent. Now it took on a new twist. He could see his parents' bodies lying in a burned car at the bottom of a ravine where they had not been discovered for days. This explained the time difference. They had left in plenty of time to get to the Father-Son Dinner, but because of the delay in finding their bodies, their deaths had only been reported yesterday.
The scenario seemed so real to him that he doubted his ability to keep it out of his dreams. He saw himself flooding his bed with pee and then waking the whole House with screams because a nightmare of his parents burning to death was playing in his head. Anything like that would doom him. A House-rousing nightmare or a major bed-wetting would absolutely seal his fate. He would have to leave the school. For a few moments he was so panic-stricken that he couldn't think clearly. Then he saw what he had to do.
"Erik," he called.
"What is it, PJ?" His roommate switched his bedside light back on and half sat up, staring over at PJ in concern.
"Erik, I don't feel so good. I'm going to ask Mrs. Williamson if I can sleep down there."
"Ok." Erik swung his feet out of bed and sat all the way up. "You want me to come with you?"
"No. I'll be OK. Good night."
"Nite, PJ." But Erik didn't lie down. Instead he remained seated on the edge of the bed, obviously worried, while PJ donned his bathrobe and slippers.
"Good night," PJ told him again and left the room, walking noiselessly on the hall carpets as he went down the three flights of stairs. In front of the housemaster's apartment, he hesitated for a moment, then sighed and knocked. There was a sound of footsteps, and then Mr. Williamson opened the door.
"PJ?" The elderly man drew him inside with a hand on his shoulder. "Come in. What's the matter?"
"Mr. Williamson, can I sleep down here tonight?"
"Of course you can." He put an arm around PJ's shoulders. "You can sleep right on the couch. It's very comfortable." He closed the door and led PJ into his kitchen. "I was just getting ready to have some cocoa. Why don't you join me." At PJ's nod, he poured two steaming cup that they took into the living room. "Would you like me to read to you for awhile?" Mr. Williamson asked.
"Yes, Sir, I'd like that."
Mr. Williamson got down a book from the shelf. He and PJ sat together on the couch, got comfortable, and Mr. Williamson began The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. But shortly, he stopped and looked at PJ. "Did you know that Tom Sawyer was an orphan, PJ?"
PJ shook his head.
"He was. That's why he lived with his Aunt Polly. Do you have an aunt, PJ?"
"No Sir," PJ said softly.
"Well, I guess you'll just have to keep living here at the School with us, then. The housemaster gave him a little hug. "You're not planning on leaving us here at Gordonsville, are you PJ?"
"No, Sir. I like it here."
"Good. I'm glad to hear that. We all like having you here, you know. Everyone would be sorry if you left."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Well, that's all right then. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. . . ." Mr. Williamson smoothed a hand over the open book. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Chapter One. . . ."
As the
housemaster started to read in his deep gentle voice, PJ relaxed and leaned
against his side, forgetting all about crazy thoughts. But he didn't listen to the story, either. Instead,
he thought about what it would be like to see Jack Canon play at
He slept well that night. He didn't wet the couch and he didn't have any nightmares. He would later wonder if Tom Sawyer had anything to do with that. . .
The summons to his lawyers'
office in
After spending a night on
his housemaster's couch, PJ had returned to classes and his normal routine.
Just as he'd anticipated, unwelcome attention had been all too real and unavoidable. He simply endured it with the best grace he could, but what he'd not expected was the outside publicity. His parents' deaths had made the newspapers; a startling article in the international section of the Times; and lurid headlines and gruesome pictures in the tabloids. PJ had scanned these write-ups with his heart in his throat, panic-stricken that he might find his name, but there'd been no mention of him. His parents' lawyers must have stonewalled it, so he was spared seeing a headline in The Inquirer like "Prep School Orphan Heir To Billions."
For a few days, PJ worried
that some schoolmate, desperate for extra pocket money, would drop a dime and
rat him out to the media, but the days passed without any paparazzi storming
the school. It finally dawned on PJ that most kids at Gordonsville never read
any papers. The few that did apparently never made the connection of their
schoolmate with some jet-set car crash in
Unfortunately, his disordered mental state was a tougher problem to solve.
Ever since his attempt at
setting fire to an LA penthouse landed him in the treatment center at
He knew that stress always made his crazy ideas harder to control. Stay calm, he kept reminding himself. Deal with the stress and all will be well. That first night, when he couldn't face sleeping in his room--that had been bad. But he'd maintained control, retreated to the Williamson's couch, and all had been fine. The objective was survival, and the idea was to tackle it day-by-day. Simple in theory. But PJ was finding it a lot harder to manage it in reality.
The absolute worst moment came when he nearly lost it in English class. They were studying Robert Frost's poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," and Mr. Bingham, the English master, had gotten to the lines, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. . . ." Something about the words triggered a gush of emotion in PJ that almost unglued him. The stupid newspaper picture of mangled bodies in a wrecked car filled his mind, and an aching longing for his parents was so strong he thought he might faint. Sudden tears filled his eyes. He came so close to calling out his parents' names that a soft moan escaped his lips. To keep himself quiet and get himself under control, he had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood. No one had noticed except Erik, who was sitting beside him. He'd whispered, "Are you all right?" It'd been a very close call.
In the end, PJ was saved by swim-team practice. PJ's coach was a fanatic for setting difficult, very repetitive workouts early in the season. A lot of the kids found these workouts deadly monotonous, but PJ loved them! The repetitive monotony of swimming the same distance over and over and over numbed his mind, and the extreme physical demands acted as a distraction. With his brain pre-occupied by fundamentals like getting the next breath, crazy thoughts went so far over the event horizon, they weren't even in the same time zone.
Between afternoon football practice and morning swim team workouts, PJ pushed himself so hard that he barely had enough energy to do his homework before crashing into bed. The crazy thoughts retreated. He survived.
Stay focused, he kept telling himself. Check your six, stay ahead of the power curve. Roger, Wilco, and Out.
And for a time, PJ was able to do just that. In the last game of the season, against Franklyn Prep, his Middle School team played far better than they had against Perry, and better yet, he and the other substitutes got more playing time. The final score was Gordonsville 21, Franklyn 10, and both he and Erik scored touchdowns, Erik by pass, PJ by rush!
Then, just as he had things back on an even keel, the Thanksgiving invitations began coming in, raising a new set of unlooked-for complications. The problem began a week before Thanksgiving Break. Suddenly, it was as though no one could have Thanksgiving dinner unless PJ was there at the table. As the celebrity orphan of the hour, he was flooded with invitations: "Hey PJ, want to come for Thanksgiving to my house?"; "PJ, my parents want to know if you can have Thanksgiving with us."; "If you're not doing anything on Thanksgiving, PJ, could you come spend it with me?"
He hadn't anticipated the role of Thanksgiving poster child, but in what he considered a brilliant bit of improvisation, he invented a way of fending off most of the invitations by means of a polite lie: "That's incredibly nice of you. I'd like to come, but I've already accepted another invitation." He varied the words to suit the occasion.
There were, however, two invitations he couldn't get out of so easily.
When Erik's father came up to see the last football game, both he and Erik had insisted that PJ spend Thanksgiving with them. "It'll be neat, PJ" Erik had said excitedly. "We always have a huge turkey dinner and dad has tickets to the Army-Navy game. We can go and try to get on TV!"
The other invitation had come from the Williamsons. Mr. Williamson had stopped PJ in the hallway one day and told him, "PJ, if you haven't already made plans for Thanksgiving, Mrs. Williamson and I would very much like to have you join us that day."
This put PJ in a terrible dilemma. He could only accept one invitation, yet he really couldn't afford to turn down either of them. The stress made his thinking very confused.
He badly wanted to accept Erik's invitation. It sounded like it would be fun! He and Erik could stuff themselves with turkey, throw a football around, stay up late playing video games all night. . . . And going to the Army-Navy game would be a blast. He really wanted to go. But he didn't dare. He was positive that the quickest way to lose his roommate's friendship was to give him any reason to suspect that he was competing with him for his father, who was, after all, on his list of father figures. PJ would never have tolerated that if it was his father, and he didn't think Erik would either. It was just a simple matter of mathematics. The Thanksgiving Break was four days; the school year was nine months. He had nine months in which he and Erik could play football, play video games, and be friends. He was willing to give up four days of fun to protect all the rest.
But if he turned down the invitation, maybe Erik would get mad at him anyway. It was a lose-lose situation.
Then there were the Williamsons. They'd been so nice to him. Not just recently either, but right from his first day at school. How would they feel if he turned down their invitation? And he didn't want to turn it down. It would be super to spend Thanksgiving with them! He would have them all to himself; Mr. Williamson would probably read to him again; they would go for a walk after dinner and Mr. Williamson would tell him all his good stories about the School. They could watch the football games together on TV. That would be fun too.
But if he did that--if he spent Thanksgiving at the School--he could just hear what all the other kids would say about it. The poor little orphan had to spend Thanksgiving with his housemaster because he had no place to go. Not good.
Another lose-lose situation.
Fortunately, a call came from his lawyers, at just the right time, and bailed him out!
Mr. Williamson took him into
his study to tell him the news. "PJ, your lawyers want to see
you. You have an appointment at their
"Oh," said PJ. He was both elated and bewildered and couldn't think of anything to say.
"Apparently they're
sending a private plane for you. You're to be at the airport at nine in the
morning that day. I gather they have arranged for you to spend Thanksgiving in
"Gee, Sir," PJ said, struggling to get his thoughts in order so he wouldn't sound like a complete idiot. "I guess I won't be able to spend Thanksgiving with you, then."
"No," said Mr. Williamson sadly. "And I want you to know that I and Mrs. Williamson are extremely disappointed. We were very much looking forward to having you."
PJ wasn't at all surprised to see that Mr. Williamson really did seem disappointed. That's the kind of person he was. "I'm sorry, Sir," he replied. "But I guess I'd better go if they want me to."
"Yes. I think you have to go, PJ. Just plan on getting up at your usual time. I'll drive you over to the airport. You have an overnight bag?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, you probably know what to pack. Just bring enough for a few days."
"I know what to bring, Sir." PJ looked as sincere as he could. "Sir, I'm disappointed about Thanksgiving and everything."
Mr. Williamson smiled sadly at him. "Let's hope there will be other times, PJ."
And with that, PJ was out
from under one of his invitations. He lost no time in disposing of his other
one. Erik's face fell when PJ told him he was spending Thanksgiving in
"Gee, PJ. I was really counting on you coming. It won't be nearly as much fun if you're not there. I'll have to go to the Army-Navy game by myself!"
"No you won't, dummy. You'll be with Bill."
"Yeah. But it still would be more fun if you were there, too."
"I can watch for you on TV!"
Erik's face brightened. "Hey that's right! That'll be neat! I'll make a sign so you won't miss me."
And so, with a little unintentional help from his lawyers, PJ was able to finish the last few days before Thanksgiving Break with a clear conscience and a relatively untroubled mind.
In the morning on the day before Thanksgiving, PJ dressed in his school uniform of khaki pants, a blue blazer, white long-sleeved shirt with a tee-shirt underneath, and a Gordonsville tie. Mr. Williamson drove him the ten miles to the little county airport, where, as they turned into the parking lot, PJ spotted a gleaming white-and-red business jet sitting on the ramp. "That must be your plane, PJ," Mr. Williamson said.
When they walked across the lot, PJ identified it for him. "It's a Cessna Citation," he said, proud of his aviation knowledge. "It's the same as the one the golfer Arnold Palmer has. I like them better than the Gulfstreams and Lears."
When they entered the little passenger lounge, they were greeted by a pleasant-looking young man wearing dark pants and a crisp white shirt with shoulder epaulets. He grinned at PJ. "I'm your co-pilot, Mr. Thorndyke. The name's Don. If you'd like to board now, we can leave as soon as the captain files his flight plan."
"Isn't anyone here to go with the boy?" Mr. Williamson asked.
"No, Sir. Mr. Thorndyke is our only passenger. We've been told someone
will be meeting him when we arrive at
"Do you know when he'll be coming back?"
"I have no information on that, Sir."
Mr. Williamson looked worried. He took out a little card. "PJ, this has my phone number. Under it I've written the school's office number. Now, don't lose this!"
"I won't." PJ took the card and put it into the pocket of his blazer.
"If someone doesn't
meet you at
"Yes, Mr. Williamson."
The housemaster put his hand on PJ's shoulder and knelt down in front of him. PJ couldn't tell if he was angry or worried. He seemed to be both.
"Now, PJ. You tell those people that your classes start again on Monday and you have to be back no later than Sunday night, understand?
PJ nodded.
"As soon as you know when you'll be back, you call so I can know when to be here to pick you up, right?"
PJ nodded again.
"And if you need anything, or if you have any trouble, or if you're not sure about anything, you call me, okay?"
"I will, Mr. Williamson. Don't worry."
Mr. Williamson nodded.
"All right, PJ. Now you come back safe to us." Then he got up and
told the copilot, "Make sure somebody is there to meet him. Don't let him
go wandering around
"Don't worry, Sir. We'll watch out for him."
Mr. Williamson turned on his heel and quickly left.
PJ picked up his bag. "I'm ready, Mr. Don." And he was ready. As ready as he could possibly be.
* * *
CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT TWO
Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com