Date: Sun, 1 May 2016 10:16:09 -0400
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: THE FATHER CONTRACT INSTALLMENT FORTY-EIGHT

INSTALLMENT FORTY-EIGHT
from

THE FATHER CONTRACT
by

Arthur J. Arrington

Edited Paul K. Scott

Please consider a donation to Nifty so they will continue to publish our
exciting story of little PJ Thorndyke!


    Chapter Eighty-Eight: Suspicions

In the morning, Mr. Williamson was half inclined to dismiss PJ's trouble as
just what he had said it was: nerves over the impending Championship
game. But when he mentioned it to a few of PJ's masters at lunch, he was
not reassured by what he heard.

"There's been something wrong with that boy all week," said Mr. Darenowski,
his math teacher. "He didn't turn in a homework assignment yesterday. He's
never done that before! Never! And the other day in class, I called on him
for an answer and he said he didn't know. He always knows the answers! I
don't understand it. I'm telling you, there's something wrong."

"And it's been going on longer than a week," added Mr. Bingham, the English
master. "PJ hasn't been the same boy this entire term that he was last
year."

"How so?" Mr. Williamson asked curiously, while at the same time thinking
to himself, That's true. I've been wondering about that as well.

"It's hard to say."

"Come on. You're the language expert," urged Mr. Stevenson, the science
master, who seemed equally concerned. "You're supposed to be able to find
the right words."

"I suppose so," Mr. Bingham agreed, "but I still find it difficult to pin
down. I guess the best way I can put it is that last year, PJ was so
interested all the time. He was always coming to me and telling me what he
was reading and asking questions. This year, he doesn't. His work is still
good, but it's as if he was just going through the motions. And this week,
he's missed doing all his assignments. Just like he did in your class." He
glanced over at his math counterpart.

The science master was frowning at both of them. "He didn't turn in
anything for me either, come to think of it. And I've got him in that
advanced lab course. I thought for sure he'd love it. But, like you say,
it's like he's just going through the motions."

Mr. Williamson came away from this conversation deeply troubled. The next
person he sought out was Coach Lewis. "I'm convinced there's something
bothering him," the coach said after Mr. Williamson had told him his
concerns. "I've been noticing things ever since the first day when he came
for our football camp. And I don't like the way he looks lately. He's so
drawn looking. And sometimes he says the oddest things. It's peculiar. I
tried to have a talk with him last week coming back from our game and he
nearly became hysterical.  There's something going on. I just don't know
what it is."

"Do you think it could have anything to do with Jack Canon?"

Coach Lewis scratched his head. "I don't see how," he said. "PJ hasn't even
seen him all this term."

"Wasn't he at a game three weeks ago?" Mr. Williamson asked.

Coach Lewis gave him a pointed look. "You know, it's a funny thing about
that. I remember PJ told me he was there. In fact, he begged me to put him
back in the game after he'd taken a very tough hit because he wanted Jack
to see him play. I put him back in the game, too, and maybe I shouldn't
have. But I did look around after that. And I never saw Jack there."

Mr. Williamson shook his head, looking puzzled.

"Do you think it's all right to play him in this game tomorrow?" Coach
Lewis asked. "I would hate to keep him out of it. It would kill him not to
play. He's got his heart set on it. But I'll do it if you think I should."

"No." Mr. Williamson shook his head again. "We can't do that to him. You
have to let him play."

"Jack Canon is going to be here tomorrow," the coach told him. "PJ
absolutely thinks the sun rises and sets on him. You ought to hear how he
talks about the guy. And he's always quoting him to the other players. At
the last game, he sat down and talked to that little quarterback we've got,
Phil. The kid had just fumbled and he was all upset. PJ gave him a talk
about how Jack said you had to have courage and not give up. I mean, it
sounded like one of Jack's speeches or TV interviews. The kid went back out
and won the game.  It was uncanny." The coach took hold of Mr. Williams'
arm. "Listen," he went on. "I'll tell you how much PJ thinks of that guy. I
got on PJ about something he did in that game. Never mind what. He
shouldn't have done it. I asked him if that was how Jack would have wanted
him to play. The kid broke down. I mean, he was sobbing. I had to hug him
and hold on to him it was so bad. He begged me over and over not to tell
Jack what he'd done because he couldn't stand the idea of Jack not being
proud of him. I'm telling you, the kid would die for that man! When he
comes tomorrow, ask him to sit down and have a talk with PJ. He can find
out what's wrong. There isn't anything PJ wouldn't tell him."

"Are we absolutely sure Jack Canon is going to be here tomorrow?"
Mr. Williamson asked.

Coach Lewis appeared taken aback for a moment. He said a little anxiously,
"Well, I certainly expect him to be. PJ told me he was coming. He's
supposed to be the speaker at our Father-Son Banquet. He better be here."

Mr. Williamson, feigning a confidence he did not feel, replied, "If PJ said
he was coming, then I'm sure he'll be here."

Coach Lewis looked relieved. "Well, when he gets here, you'll see. I bet he
gets right to the bottom of what's bothering PJ."

After that, Mr. Williamson walked back to his apartment increasingly uneasy
about the whole situation. He went to the desk in his little den and got a
folder out of a drawer. After studying it for awhile, he put the folder
down and stared into space. Then he picked up the phone and dialed
information for Boston. When he got the operator, he said, "I'd like the
number of the office for the Boston Red Sox baseball team, please. Yes,
their main office, not the ticket office. Thank you."

For more than an hour, the housemaster worked his way up the Red Sox
administrative ladder trying to get a phone number for Jack Canon. He got
nowhere. He couldn't even find out where the man was. Finally, someone up
in the management chain told him they didn't give out that information and
to stop asking. He hung up the phone and tried to think. PJ's lawyer. Of
course! He'd know! He rummaged through the folder, found the number for the
New York law firm, and dialed it. When a woman with a very businesslike
manner answered, he explained who he was and said, "I need to get in touch
with PJ's baseball player friend, Mr. Jack Canon. We've lost his number and
PJ said that you'd probably have it.  Could you help me out?"

"Let me check." She put Mr. Williamson on hold, but was back fairly
quickly. "The only number we have for him is his home in Florida." She gave
him both the address and the number. After Mr. Williamson thanked her, she
coolly returned the thanks and without further conversation hung up. The
housemaster shook his head. These were the people who had legal
responsibility for PJ, yet the woman hadn't asked a single thing about the
boy. He put his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes, and dialed the Florida
number. The phone rang and rang. Mr. Williamson counted ten rings, then ten
more. He was about to hang up when the phone was suddenly picked up at the
other end and a young-sounding voice answered, "Hello?"

"Hello," said Mr. Williamson, "may I speak to Mr. Canon, please?"

"He's not here," the young voice said. "He's out fishing with my dad."

"Oh, who is this speaking?"

"My name's Charlie. My mom and I are here using the pool. Jack and my dad
will be home sometime tonight."

"Okay, Charlie. Do you know about what time?"

"I don't know," the boy replied. "It might be kinda late."

The housemaster thought for a moment before asking, "Will Mr. Canon be home
tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah, for awhile," Charlie answered. "I think he said he was goin'
somewhere later this weekend, though."

"I see. All right, thank you, Charlie." Mr. Williamson hung up.

He rubbed his eyes again. Perhaps Jack Canon really was planning to come
tomorrow. But if so, it couldn't be for the game in the morning. Perhaps he
only intended to appear for the Dinner that night. Damn! He had to know for
sure.  And if the situation was what he was begging to suspect it was, he
needed to talk to the man face-to-face. There was only one way to do
that. Mr. Williamson picked up the phone again and called a travel agency
over at the mall. He'd pick his tickets up on the way to the
airport. Hurriedly, he scribbled a note for his wife.

* * *

For PJ, Friday was one long nightmare. Out of habit, he awakened early for
swim practice, only to remember seconds later that he was supposed to sleep
in with Phil, and Erik. Shortly, after that, events of the previous night
came back with a rush. He realized that he was in Erik's bed. He felt achy
and tired. His head throbbed.

He tried to keep still so he wouldn't wake Erik. His roommate was sleeping,
one arm around him, holding him protectively. PJ gave a little sigh and
tried hard to go back to sleep, but he couldn't do it. Thoughts kept
tumbling through his mind. First, he was sure that the whole House would
know he'd wet his bed. Erik had told him that no one knew, but PJ was sure
the word would somehow get out. Someone would've seen and heard them on the
stairs. He dreaded what would happen. The taunting and the teasing. The
pointing fingers and the hated cry of "Baby!" He'd endured years of it when
he'd stayed in that place in Chicago. He couldn't bear to go through it all
again. He wondered if Erik would let him stay where he was and hide in his
bed. It would only be for that one day. If he could just make it to
Saturday, he could play the game and get the Championship for Erik. Then
he'd be able to leave with Jack. He wouldn't ever have to worry about
wetting his bed again.

When he thought about going with Jack, however, he remembered that he would
be leaving Erik. The thought pained him. He closed his eyes tightly to keep
from crying. He put his hand up and very gently placed it on his roommate's
shoulder. He would miss Erik. He would miss Erik terribly. But his roommate
couldn't go with him to where he had to go. "I'm sorry, Erik," PJ whispered
very softly.

Sleep crept up on him without his being aware of it. It was two hours later
when he awoke to Erik's gentle shaking. "Time to get up, PJ."

PJ tried to hide himself under the covers. "Erik, are you sure no one
knows?"

"No one knows, PJ," Erik assured him.

With a sigh, PJ got up.

All that morning he braced for the taunting to start. He looked for it as
he was brushing his teeth, and while he was going down the stairs to
breakfast, and later while he was going to class. At lunch he was certain
he would hear something! Then he was convinced it would start in the locker
room or at football practice. Only when he'd made it out onto the field
without hearing anything did he begin to relax a bit.

Their practice was easy that day, most of it just talk by the coaches
outlining the game plan and reviewing the scouting reports on the Franklyn
Prep team. Afterwards, Coach Lewis took PJ aside. From the first words and
the look on his face, PJ realized he'd relaxed too soon. Somehow his coach
had heard about what'd happened. Mr. Williamson! He told him about my
wetting the bed!  "PJ," Coach Lewis said sympathetically, "are you sure you
feel well enough to play tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, Coach." PJ did his best to shut down this whole line of
questioning with a strong, positive reply. And he felt like killing
Mr. Williamson. He'd trusted him!

But his coach kept going. "You look tired, PJ. Your housemaster's
worried. He doesn't think you've been sleeping too well lately." Definitely
Mr. Williamson, PJ thought. That's the last time I ever trust him!

"I've had a lot of schoolwork lately, Coach," lied PJ. "An' I guess I've
been a little nervous about the game. But I'll be fine. Erik and I are
goin' to bed early tonight."

"Okay."  The young coach ruffled his hair. "And Jack will be here tomorrow
for you, too. That will make you feel better."

PJ nodded. "Yeah. I'll feel better. We're gonna win tomorrow, Coach. I just
know it."

That earned him a smack on the shoulder. "That's the way to think, PJ," the
coach said with a smile. "I know you'll have a great game."

After that, once he got to the locker room, PJ showered in an angry
mood. If Mr. Williamson had told Coach Lewis, he wondered how many others
he'd told. Probably all his masters now thought of him as "PJ, the Bed
Wetter." Well, it didn't matter. He wouldn't have to think about it anymore
after tomorrow.

The Top Floor Gang had dinner together, and afterwards, Erik accompanied PJ
to the Hobby Shop. Since he hadn't done any schoolwork all week, PJ'd had
time to work on Billy's model, which was now nearly completed. He and Erik
put the finishing touches on it and brought it back to the room, where
Brian and Phil admired it along with them. The Corsair fighter plane
gleamed under PJ's desk lamp its distinctive gull wings and sleek nose
giving it the look of some fierce bird of prey. PJ had put on all the
authentic decals and painted the small detail pieces so that it was just
like the pictures in the reference books. "Awesome, PJ," Erik
complimented. "It really looks nice." "It's perfect," Phil said.

"Thanks," PJ was thinking how hard it was going to be to leave them
all. But at least he'd completed Billy's model. He hadn't wanted that to
remain unfinished. Before tears could well up, he suggested, "Listen, you
guys, let's play some Flight Simulator for awhile."

They used PJ's computer. Brian and Erik did their favorite, the Space
Shuttle. PJ and Phil did the Cessna Citation. Then they all tried the SST
and the F-18 fighter.

We always have a lot of fun when we do this," Brian said happily.

"We better think about getting to bed early guys," Erik told
them. "Tomorrow's our biggest game of the season."

"Yeah, come on Brian." Phil tugged at his roommate. "Crash one more time
and then let's go."

"I only crashed once!" Brian protested.

They all got ready for bed, but Brian and Phil lingered in their friends'
room. PJ could tell that neither of them wanted to go to sleep yet.

"PJ, why don't you read to us for awhile," Erik suggested. "You're pretty
good at that."

"Yeah, PJ," Phil said eagerly. "That would be neat.  Pick something good!"

PJ went to his bookshelf, took down The Black Stallion, and stretched out
on Erik's bed with his own roommate next to him. As he began to read, Brian
and Phil curled up on the other bed to listen. PJ began to read. Erik had
already read the book, but it was new to the younger boys! Each time PJ
finished a chapter, they would both beg for "just one more." Finally, his
voice got tired. He closed the book and gave it to Phil. "I think we better
get some sleep now," he said. "Don't stay up all night reading that. Save
it for tomorrow."

The two eleven-year-olds said goodnight and went across the hall to their
room. Erik turned the covers down on his bed. "Don't even think of sleeping
over in your bed tonight, PJ," he said. "You get your skinny butt right in
here again."

PJ looked at him gratefully. "Thanks, Erik. But look, you know what I did
last night. I might do it again. Don't you think . . ."

"If you do it again, we'll both be wet," Erik told him, grinning. "Get in
here with me."

PJ slid under the covers beside him. "Thanks."

Erik put an arm around him and hugged him tightly. "You're safe, PJ," he
told him. "I'm right here with you. I won't let anything happen to you."

PJ's arm wrapped around Erik and he hugged back. After turning out his
reading light, Erik quietly said "PJ? Do you remember how mad you got when
that kid hurt me?"

"I remember."

Erik hugged PJ again. "Well, ever since this summer something's been bad
for you. I know you won't tell me what it is, but I think someone has hurt
you. It makes me so mad. I'd like to kill that person!"

PJ softly replied, "You shouldn't feel that way, Erik. I was wrong to do
what I did."

This was PJ's attempt to deflect his best friend's prying. He knew
perfectly well that Erik wasn't referring to a linebacker. He also
seriously doubted that Erik bought his little ruse.

 And he didn't.

"Whatever," said Erik. "Whoever it is, I'm still mad. You're my brother,
PJ."

PJ hugged him tightly. For some reason, he wasn't worried. With Erik's arm
protecting him, he slept through the night. But he dreamed nonetheless. He
dreamed of being at the bottom of Jack's pool, floating peacefully in the
light, drifting, drifting . . . forever. . . .  Chapter Eighty-Nine: To Be
or Not to Be-that is the Question . . .

Mr. Williamson found that getting to Florida on short notice was more
difficult than he'd imagined. First, he had to drive to Philadelphia, as
there were no commuter flights from Gordonsville at the time he
needed. Like many people who rarely travel, he was a bit bewildered by the
complexity of a large airport. He got lost trying to find the right place
to park, and lost again trying to find his departure gate. At last, he
arrived at it, a little out of breath and just in time to be assigned a
cramped seat on the aisle aboard a crowded aircraft bound for Atlanta.

One there, the immensity of the enormous hub amazed him. But his
Philadelphia experience had taught him at least some of the routine. By
following the signs and occasionally stopping to ask directions, he was
able to negotiate the rail link between terminals and find the correct gate
for his connecting flight to Orlando. This time he was early and had to
wait nearly two hours for a plane which was delayed, only to discover he'd
been given an even more cramped window seat. It was quite dark by the time
they took off, and he saw absolutely nothing out his window except the
wingtip lights for the entire time they were in the air.

He arrived in Orlando late, too late to catch the commuter flight to the
Fort Myers Beach Airport. With great difficulty and amid a snarl of red
tape, he managed to get a refund on his ticket and rented a car. Using a
map the counter agent had marked for him, he maneuvered his way through the
unfamiliar Florida road system to Fort Myers and found a Motel 6 that still
had a vacancy. Here, in a room that smelled heavily of disinfectant, he
spent what was left of the night tossing on a bed that seemed much too
hard, trying to find a comfortable spot on pillows that were too big. So
much for the comforts of travel.

He awoke early and after shaving, he debated calling Jack Canon on the
phone. But he decided that, having come this far, he would just go see the
man, and trust that he would find him at home. When he left the motel room
on the way to his car, he was struck by how clammy the warm air
felt. Accustomed to the crisp chill of Pennsylvania mornings in November,
he found the temperature, the humidity, and the sight of palm trees in the
morning sunlight vaguely upsetting, an alien environment quite outside his
experience and knowledge. He had trouble finding a place to eat breakfast,
finally settling on coffee and a gooey confection from the convenience
store where he filled the gas tank of his rental car. Then, armed with his
map, he set out to find Jack Canon's house.

It proved to be difficult. Either his map was not accurate or the streets
had been changed by all the road and housing construction that seemed to be
in evidence everywhere. There were no landmarks, either because the
highways were lined by nothing but strip malls. He got lost several times
in twisting mazes of side routes that looped on themselves. Part of the
problem was that Florida apparently didn't think street signs were
necessary. Sometimes he drove for blocks without spotting a street
name. One major route changed its name abruptly after an intersection,
completely confusing him. However, by stopping several times for directions
and by being persistent, he finally got himself into what he was sure was
the right neighborhood. Here, the streets were wider, better paved, and
lined on both sides with well-tended palm trees. The homes were large and
separated by immaculate lawns and gardens. The subdivision reeked of
affluence.

Surprisingly, the neighborhood appeared deserted. Mr. Williamson's rental
car, in fact, was the only vehicle in sight. The large houses he passed
were shuttered against the bright Florida sunshine, and there wasn't a soul
around. A single sheet of newspaper blowing along the road in front of him
brought an eerie image into his mind, a scene from the 1950's movie of
nuclear disaster, On the Beach. For a moment, he wondered if he were
somehow the last survivor of some terrible plague that'd struck while he'd
been tossing restlessly on that hard Motel 6 mattress.

He started to look for house numbers. There were none. House numbers, along
with street signs, seemed to be things the people in Florida felt they
could do without. But at last, after finding a number that was barely
visible on a mailbox, he counted up from it and came to what he was fairly
sure was Jack's home. It was a sprawling, one-story structure with cedar
shingles and white shutters situated on a cul-de-sac. Only one other house
was located near it, further around the circle.

When Mr. Williamson pulled into the driveway, it was after nine thirty.

Like all the other houses he'd passed, this one seemed to be
deserted. There was no other car in the driveway, the house was shuttered,
and the blinds in the windows were down. No one looked out at him when he
emerged from his car. The noise of his door closing made seemed loud in the
stillness. The boy he'd talked to on the phone had said that Jack Canon
might be going somewhere for the weekend. As Mr. Williamson walked up the
crushed shell path to the front door, he was convinced that Jack had
already left and that his whole trip was a fiasco. He rang the bell and
waited, expecting to be disappointed. He was surprised, therefore, when the
door suddenly opened and Jack Canon himself stood before him, wearing a
sweat suit and holding a piece of toast!

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Mr. Williamson said
awkwardly, "Uh, good morning, Mr. Canon. I'm sorry to bother you this
early. I don't know if you'll remember me. . . ." He paused, hoping that
Jack would recognize him, but obviously he didn't. Jack kept staring at
him, frowning a little. Mr. Williamson felt a little disconcerted. "Er, I'm
PJ's housemaster at the Gordonsville School. I met you several times when
you visited PJ. You stayed with us one night, if you remember."

"Oh . . ." Jack's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, OK . . . ." He was still frowning
and didn't open the door any wider. "What can I do for you?"

"Well. . ." Mr. Williamson paused again. He'd expected this to be
easier. Finally, he went on. "As I say, I hate to bother you ljke this, but
. . . I wonder if I could come in for a moment and talk to you,
Mr. Canon. About PJ. I'm a little concerned about him."

Canon's frown deepened. He hesitated, looking closely at his visitor, but
finally opened the door wider. "Come on in."

The housemaster followed Jack into a dim hallway. Beyond it, he saw part of
a living room, and beyond that, through sliding glass doors, a patio and
green lawn which gleamed in the bright sunshine.  The part of the living
room he could see had a sofa with clothes and newspapers strewn on it. Jack
led the way through a dining room off to the side of the hall and into a
kitchen beyond, where more newspapers and the remains of a breakfast
covered a round table. "Excuse the mess," Jack said. "I'm not much of a
housekeeper. You want a cup of coffee?" When Mr. Williamson nodded
gratefully, he picked a thick blue mug out of the sink, rinsed it, poured
coffee from a Mister Coffee machine by the stove, and offered the mug to
his guest, at the same time gesturing toward a jar of powdered creamer and
some packets of artificial sweetener. "Help yourself." After unplugging the
Mister Coffee, he gazed around uncomfortably at the clutter and suggested,
"Look, why don't we take our coffee into my den."

He led the way further into the house. They went down a short hallway past
a room with a large entertainment system. Beyond that, a door opened into a
comfortably-furnished study. A long narrow desk, its top just as cluttered
as the kitchen table had been, was at one side. But the housemaster barely
noticed because opposite the door, he was staring at a wall of illuminated
display cases filled with awards, memorabilia, and trophies that dominated
the room. "That's all my baseball stuff," Jack said, waving casually at the
glittering array.

Indicating a nearby chair for Mr. Williamson to use, he settled himself
behind the desk, almost as if he wanted to keep its bulk between the two of
them. After a long sip of his coffee while he waited for his guest to get
comfortable, he asked, "So how is PJ? Playing football these days, I
guess. Right?"

Mr. Williamson stared in shocked surprise! He'd suspected the worst, that
Jack had no clue as to what was going on. But now, confronted with the
actual certainty that his suspicions and concerns had all been correct, he
was still surprised. He felt his heart thud rapidly. Oh God! he
thought. Poor PJ. That poor, lonely, frightened little boy. How could we
all have failed him so completely?

He rubbed his face with one hand. "Mr. Canon," he said slowly, "you don't
know what PJ's been doing?"

"No. Why should I? I haven't seen the kid since last summer."

"So, three weeks ago you weren't at a football game that PJ played in?"

With a suspicious look at him, Jack declared, "Three weeks ago I was in
Boston. I haven't been to Pennsylvania in months."

"PJ said you were." Mr. Williamson sighed and went on sadly, "He said you
came to see him play. I suppose you didn't meet with him at the seventh
game of the World Series either, did you."

Jack leaned forward in his chair. "Was PJ at that game?"

"Yes said Mr. Williamson, nodding. "The boy ran away from school and went
by himself. I only found out about it the other day from his roommate. He
said that PJ had told everyone that you'd sent him tickets and that he met
with you at the game."

For a moment Jack closed his eyes tightly as if he were in pain. When he
opened them again, he looked away and stared into space. "It was him, he
whispered. Jim was right.

"What?" Mr. Williamson asked.

"Jim Wagoneer." Jack kept his eyes averted. "He's a reserve catcher. A
friend of mine. He told me that he thought he caught a glimpse of PJ at the
game. I thought he was wrong."

"Mr. Canon, you say you have heard nothing at all from PJ since when?"

With what seemed like an effort, Jack shifted his gaze back to the
housemaster. "I haven't seen him since last summer."

"But his roommate says that he writes you almost every day on his
computer." Jack closed his eyes again. "Apparently he got answers from you,
too," Mr. Williamson persisted. "He showed them to his roommate and let him
read them."

Stubbornly Jack shook his head. "Nothing. I haven't heard from him and I
didn't write him."

Mr. Williamson looked around. "Do you have a computer here?"

"No. I don't have one here in the house."

"Didn't PJ give you something last Christmas that we could use to check on
this? Please help me, Mr. Canon. I'm getting very concerned about this."

The ballplayer sighed, "Yeah, he gave me something. Hold on." He rummaged
through his desk, checking drawers and looking under stacks of paper. "Just
a minute." He got up, left the room, and was gone for what seemed like a
long time. Mr. Williamson restlessly fidgeted in his chair and was up
pacing around the room when he finally returned, carrying the Palmtop
computer in its leather case. "This was in my bag," Jack said
apologetically. "Took me a little while to find it." He slipped the device
out of the case and turned it on. "Battery's getting low," he muttered. The
housemaster circled around to watch over his shoulder as Jack explained, "I
use this a lot to keep track of all sorts of things. Not so much the
e-mail, though. I haven't really used that at all since . .  . " He
abruptly stopped talking, finishing in a low voice, "not since last
summer."

"If PJ sent you anything, would it show up here?" Mr. Williamson asked.

Jack nodded. He tapped buttons. Suddenly, a long list of dates and
identical three letter codes scrolled up the small LED screen. "Oh, shit,"
he whispered.

"Are those messages?" Mr. Williamson asked. When he didn't get an answer,
he blurted out, "Are those e-mails from PJ?"

"No one else has this address," Jack answered dully. God, look at
that. There's a bunch of them." He was staring at the screen.

Mr. Williamson stared along with him. "Mr. Canon, I know they are personal,
but I assure you, this might be very important. Can we read them? Please
help me.

Without a word Jack opened the first message--the one PJ had written in
September after his birthday party. The two men read PJ's pathetic little
appeal in dead silence.

"Dear God!" Mr. Williamson whispered at last. He looked up at Jack, whose
face was expressionless. "He says here that you sent him away and told him
not to write. What happened?"

"It was . . . Jack shook his head and waved a hand helplessly. "The kid was
always hanging around," he finally said, as if that explained
everything. "It was too much. He wanted a father. I'm the worst possible
. . . I mean, I wasn't even a good father to my own kid. And I was in a
slump. . . .  we were fighting for the Division lead . . . Anyway, I
decided it wasn't a good thing for him to be hanging around me, so I told
him to go."

Mr. Williamson just stared at him.

"Well, what the hell was I supposed to do?" said Jack in a voice that
sounded more desperate than angry. "I couldn't have him hanging around all
the time! I mean, it wasn't good for him! He needed to be with other
boys. I told him to go be more like a normal kid."

"He can't be something that he isn't," the housemaster
answered. "Mr. Canon, PJ is anything but normal. He's very exceptional. And
he certainly hasn't had a normal childhood." He pointed at the Palmtop
screen. "This message must have been written right after his birthday
party." He kept staring at Jack. "Did you send him anything for his
birthday? Presents? Books? A card?"

Jack shook his head again. "Nothing."

Mr. Williamson looked very upset. "PJ showed us two big packages of
presents that he said had come from you. And three cards, all with nice
little things written on them in your handwriting, signed with your name."
He paused, then added, "He must have practiced a lot to make them look so
convincing."

"He bought all the stuff himself?"

"Oh yes." Now it was Mr. Williamsons who made a baffled gesture. "Remember
what I told you at Christmas? He's been doing it for years to make it look
like he was getting things from his parents. He's extremely good at it. He
completely fooled me. I never even suspected. And I should have. I should
have checked. I know him." Taking a deep breath, the elderly man ran his
fingers through his hair. "We have to read all the rest of these!" Jack
nodded and together, they went through all of the remaining messages
one-by-one, including the e-mail from Erik about PJ's nightmares. When
they'd finished, it was all laid out before them: PJ's world, the boyish
triumphs and disasters, his bits of news and gossip, his appeals, repeated
again and again for Jack to answer him--and the terrors and fears that
haunted his nights.

"Please come see me. Please write. I miss you, I miss you," Mr. Williamson
softly said. "He says it over and over." He looked at Jack. "And you never
sent him anything? Nothing at all?"

Canon held up a hand defensively. "I didn't know he was sending these
things."

"This boy obviously loves you deeply. How can you not have known?"

Again, Jack's hand went up in that defensive gesture. "I may have. Maybe I
didn't. I can't remember." He grimaced and shook his head.

The housemaster read the very last message again. "He says here that you
promised to come to the Homecoming game. Is that true?"

Canon sighed. "I may have. I can't remember." He grimaced and sighed
again. "It all goes back to this deal he made with me last year."

"A deal?" Mr. Williamson gave him a sharp look.

"Yeah, well . . . A sort of a contract we made between us . . . .  Jack's
admission was reluctant. "Look, you gotta understand. See . . . well, I was
short of money. And I was trying to negotiate something with the Red
Sox--at least my agent was--and they weren't buying it. I didn't know where
I'd end up playing. Anyway, all of a sudden, out of the blue, the Red Sox
caved in. They gave me a contract with everything I wanted. I mean, all of
it. Hundreds of millions. Well, I found out PJ had done it. He owns the
team, you know."

Mr. Williamson started in surprise. "Are you sure of that? I know I've
heard that rumor, but I didn't really think . . ."

"Oh, he does," Jack told him. "You better believe it. That smart-ass lawyer
of his--Walter's his name--called the front office, and the next thing I
know, I got a contract. So after I find this out, I went to PJ--I already
knew him by that time--and I sort of checked to see what it was he wanted."
He paused as if remembering. Then he continued, "I thought he'd want the
usual kid things. You know. Some autographed baseball cards, game tickets,
a chance to be a bat boy or something. . . ."

"But PJ didn't want that," Mr. Williamson prompted in frustration when Jack
hesitated again.

"No," Jack finally went on. And it was if every word that came now gave him
pain. "He told me he wanted me to be his friend. It took me by
surprise. Well . . . I liked the kid . . ." He leaned forward and put his
face into his hands. "God help me I like him . . ." Mr. Williamson remained
silent until Jack looked up and finished with, "So, in a weak moment, I
agreed to be his friend for a year."

"And visit him, and write him, and buy him a Christmas present,"
Mr. Williamson said.

"Yeah." Canon nodded. "Sure, all that stuff. And I did. I stuck to it. And
I could see the boy was sort of a pathetic case. He'd had a tough time. So
I tried to pump him up a little. You know, to think more of himself, and
. . . and of course it's hard not to like PJ. He's such a . . ." Jack got
up and began walking around the room. "Well, we got sort of close . . ."
His voice choked up, but after a moment he went on, "then I found out what
he really was after."

"A father," Mr. Williamson said.

"Oh, yeah. That's was it, all right. That's what he wanted. And I was
elected. Well . . . I'd already been a father once . . . " Jack stared over
Mr. Williamson's head through the window onto the lawn. "I botched that job
about as well as it could be botched. And as a result killed not only my
wife, but my son, too. I didn't want another kid on my conscience, so I
tried to put him off. But PJ kept trying and trying. . ."

"So you sent him away."

"Yeah." Jack kept staring out the window. Finally he turned and without
looking at the older man, said with a pained expression. "Yeah, I sent him
away. There were other things, too. I was in a slump. It wasn't the best
time for me. I was scared to death practically every day that we weren't
going to make the Series. The kid was a distraction. And I guess it was
always in the back of my mind that he would use me--you know, like try to
manipulate me in some way."

"Did he ever give you any reason to think that?" Mr. Williamson asked. "Did
he ever ask you for anything?"

Jack smiled sadly. "He asked me to take him to the All-Star game. I did,
but I don't think he really enjoyed it too much because I didn't spend much
time with him. That's what he always wanted. Whenever he did ask me for
something, it was to spend time with him."

The housemaster looked hard at him. "Would it really have cost you so much,
Mr. Canon, to have given him some of your time? He didn't want that much. A
visit now and then, maybe a phone call, an e-mail message, a present at
Christmas and his birthday. It wouldn't have taken much to make him
happy. All he wanted was for someone to tell him that he mattered and that
they cared about him. Why was that so difficult?"

"He wanted a father." Jack turned back to the window again.

"Well, why not pretend to be one?" Mr. Williamson suggested. "All it would
take is a small amount of your time."

"I wouldn't be any good for him." Jack sounded almost desperate. "There's
way better than me that could do it."

"Oh, I agree," Mr. Williamson got up out of his chair, shaking his head in
more frustration. "I don't know about better, but certainly there are
others. Myself, for example. My wife and I love PJ. So does his roommate's
stepfather, and his coaches, his teachers, even the father of his young
friend Billy. We all love him and we'd all, any of us, be more than glad to
be his father. "But don't you see . . ." He was right up in Jack's
face. "PJ didn't choose us. Who knows why? The why doesn't matter. There's
only one thing that does matter. He chose you! For whatever reasons, you
are the person he wants to be his father!"

Just for an instant, to Mr. Williamson's surprise, he saw something like
panic in the eyes of the man opposite him. Jack waved his hands
helplessly. "But it's just all wrong!" he said, nearly babbling. "What am
I? I'm a dumb ballplayer. I mean . . . half the time I feel self-conscious
just talking to the kid. He's so goddamn smart! You wouldn't believe the
stuff he knows. He's rich. He dresses different than I do. He's neat and
I'm messy.  You ought to see the way he's always picking up after
me. That's why I lost my temper at him when I sent him away . . ."

He stopped abruptly. "Geez, listen to me!" he yelled in disgust. "I sound
like--I don't know what! Look. . ." He turned to Mr. Williamson. "The
bottom line is, I'm dumb, he's smart. He may like me now. But in a few
years he'll have moved far beyond anything I can give him."

The older man smiled at him. "So what? The boy loves you, Mr. Canon. He
respects you so much. Why not take that chance? If he moves beyond you, it
will be his own choice. And your own loss, in my opinion. Let me tell you
something." He nudged Jack into his own chair and leaned back against the
desk so he could look directly down at the ballplayer. "You need to hear a
story that PJ's coach told me yesterday. You say that you feel
self-conscious talking to PJ and that you're dumb. I think you should know
that PJ has remembered everything you have ever told him and regards it all
as the most important and wonderful lessons he's ever been taught. His
coach said that he constantly talks about you to his teammates and is
always telling them about things you've told him.

"PJ has a friend a year younger. The boy had to go into their game last
week because PJ's roommate, Erik, was injured. The boy fumbled and it cost
a touchdown. He was in tears. The coach told me PJ knelt in front of him
and told him he should never give up, that it took great courage to play,
and he must find that courage within himself to go on after making a
mistake. The coach said it was like hearing one of your speeches
word-for-word. Brian, PJ's friend, went back into the game and they
won. Now, that doesn't sound to me like something a boy would do and say
who didn't value what you'd told him."

Jack stared again out the window.

"The coach told me another thing," Mr. Williamson continued. "He said PJ
had done something in that game that was wrong. He wouldn't tell me in
detail, but I suspected that it was some sort of retaliation against
another player because of Erik's injury. The coach said that when he
confronted PJ, and asked him if he thought you would have approved, the boy
became hysterical and begged him not to tell you because he never wanted
you to hear of anything that would make you less proud of him. The coach
told me that PJ believes you to be the greatest person in the world, and
that he was sure PJ would be willing to die for you. Now, I thought he was
exaggerating a little to make a point when he said that. But I'm getting
very concerned that that may be literally true!"

"What do you mean?" Jack looked up in alarm!

"PJ thinks you made a promise to him to be at his Homecoming today and take
him to the Father-Son Dinner. He's says repeatedly in these e-mails that he
believes in you. In his mind, he's certain you'll keep your word. He's so
sure, that he's not only told his coach and everybody else that you'll be
there, he's also promised that you'll give a speech."

"Jesus . . ." Jack whispered. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

"He says in his last message," Mr. Williamson went on, "that he'll be
waiting for you. He also says that after the game he'll be 'free to leave
with you.' I'm not sure what that means. But it worries me." He glanced at
his watch. "You've already missed the game, Mr. Canon. It's being played
right now. But it might still be possible to make it to the Father-Son
Dinner if we hurry. If you don't show up to take PJ to the Dinner, then,
based on what I know of PJ's past history, I think there is a cause for
grave concern."

"I don't understand," Jack said, staring up at him again. "What concern?
About what?"

"Mr. Canon (the housemaster now began to pace the room much like Jack had
done minutes before), Erik's message said that PJ had been having
nightmares that were getting increasingly worse. Two days ago I was
awakened in the middle of the night by Eric. He told me PJ had had a very
bad dream. When I went to his room, I found PJ huddled on the floor in a
state of hysterics because he'd wet his bed. To my knowledge, he has never
done that before in his previous two years at Gordonsville. But he's had
that trouble in the past. You remember how I told you PJ had been virtually
abandoned by his parents since infancy? When he was seven years old, he was
living in a penthouse apartment in Los Angeles with a governess and a staff
of servants. Apparently he tried on multiple occasions and in childish ways
to communicate with his parents--without getting any response. He began
having night terrors and nightmares of increasing severity, all involving a
general fear of the dark. As I'm sure you know, even now he's still fearful
of the dark."

Jack nodded. "I know he is."

The housemaster kept on. "PJ was found several times balancing on one foot
on the parapet of the apartment patio, inches from a drop of forty
stories. When he was asked what he was doing, he said that he was getting
ready to fly away to see his parents. He was restricted to the apartment
and forbidden to play outside on the balcony. After that, he was found
several times setting fires in various rooms which he said were signal
fires so his parents would be able to find him. His nightmares became worse
and he began to wet his bed regularly. One week later, he locked himself in
his room, piled all his toys and books in the center of his bed, got on top
of it all, doused himself and everything else with lighter fluid, and
attempted to set himself on fire. Fortunately, the matches he took from the
kitchen were either old or wet and wouldn't strike. He was still trying
frantically to get one of them to light when a servant smelled the lighter
fluid and broke down the door."

"Shit." Jack looked away, a blank expression on his face, while
Mr. Williamson finished his story.

"PJ was kept in a very expensive residential treatment facility in Chicago
for a year. Then he was two years more in outpatient therapy before coming
to Gordonsville. I had hoped that he was doing well. But I'm very much
afraid that what we are seeing is a major setback. I'm not sure what he has
in mind or what he'll do."

Except for cool conditioned air blowing through the room vents, there was
silence after Mr. Williamson stopped talking. Jack abruptly got up and
walked over to his trophy wall. He stood facing the glittering
display. "Looks like the kid hasn't had much luck," he finally said. First
his parents. Now me--the lousiest excuse for a father that ever lived. What
a choice he made!"

"I happen to know, Mr. Canon, that PJ considered himself the luckiest boy
in the world to have you as his friend. He told me that himself."

Jack stared down at his hands. "It was right here that he talked me into
visiting him that first time, you know. Right in here." He looked over at
the housemaster. "Most kids when they come here, they want to see the
trophies. That's all they're interested in." He shook his head and smiled
wanly. "Not PJ. Nope, not him. He said he wanted to see them, but as soon
as I brought him in here and started showing them to him, I saw that he
could have cared less. It was me he wanted to see. He used the excuse of
seeing the trophies so he could talk to me alone." Jack shook his head,
remembering. "And how he talked! I'd never seen a kid who talked like
that. You could just tell that he was a great kid. Right from the first
I. . ." He closed his eyes and seemed unable to go on.

At last he opened them again. "He wanted me to come visit him and see a
swim meet. Hell, I didn't even know what a swim meet was. But before I knew
it, he talked me into it. I still don't know how. He even kinda got me
interested in his swimming. And I knew somehow, even then, that he was
special. He reminded me so much of my boy. . ." He rubbed his face with his
hands. "My own poor boy," he whispered.

After a moment he turned to look at Mr. Williamson. "You know, it's
funny. The only trophy on this whole wall that PJ was interested in was the
same one that happens to be the only one I ever cared about." He knelt down
and Mr. Williamson came over to kneel beside him. "It's this one." Jack
pointed. "My first Little League trophy. I guess there was a time when that
trophy meant more to me than anything else. And it's the only one PJ was
interested in. I remember . . ." He stopped suddenly and bent
forward. "These aren't mine!"

He opened the glass door of the case and carefully removed a baseball and a
flat plastic box containing a silver medal. He looked at the writing that
was on the baseball.

"PJ," Jack said. Tears glistened on his cheeks. "These are his! He brought
them to show me when he came last summer on the Fourth of July. He was so
proud of them. You could just see it in his eyes. He showed them to me like
they were the crown jewels. And God help me, God help me, I brushed him
off. I should've made a little thing out of it. I know that's what he
wanted. But I didn't. He was crowding me. There was the All-Star game, the
Batting title, the Division pennant, the League championship, the Series
. . . All those things. I told myself he was a distraction. I thought if I
kept him at arm's length, he'd forget about me."

Jack lifted the baseball up for Mr. Williamson to see. "This is the ball he
hit for a grand slam. It's the first one he'd ever had. He wanted to tell
me all about it and surprise me with it. He must've come in here that night
and put these things in here. And, of course, he put them in next to my
Little League trophy. I know what he was trying to tell me."

"He was trying to tell you what was in his heart," the housemaster quietly
told him.

"I knew." Jack stared dully at the baseball and medal. "But I didn't want
to be a father for a second time. I couldn't! I was . . ."

The housemaster's eyes were on him. "You were scared."

Jack said nothing for awhile. At last, forcing himself to face the facts,
he admitted, "Yeah, I was. I am."

"Aren't we all sometimes," Mr. Williamson said, sympathetically.

 Reverently Jack placed the baseball and medal back beside his Little
League trophy and closed the glass case. "It was here," he muttered, "right
here. This is where it all began."

Next to him, Mr. Williamson straightened up. "Mr. Canon," he asked, "I know
that PJ loves you very much, so do you love him?"

The ballplayer nodded and slowly answered, "Yeah. Oh yeah. I love him."

"Well then, excuse my being blunt, but time is short and I need to get back
to Gordonsville." Mr. Williamson waved a hand at all the trophies and
memorabilia on display. "You've got all this stuff. So, is this it for you?
I mean, you make your living playing what I can't help thinking is a
child's game, and I guess all this proves you're good at it. But it seems
to me that so far you've avoided taking on the serious responsibilities of
family and community that are a mature man's real work. PJ believes what
you tell him about finding courage and facing up to adversity. How about
taking some of your own advice?

Jack glared up at him, but his expression soon softened. "Okay. Maybe I
deserve that."

"Deserve it or not isn't the point," Mr. Williamson said impatiently. "What
are you going to do about it?"

I've got to get to that Dinner." Jack stood up. "We have to leave right now
if we're gonna make it. It'll be faster if I drive straight to Orlando and
catch a flight there. "I'll get my things."

"First I have to make a phone call."

"Use the phone in the kitchen," Canon told him. "This extension is on the
blink. I'll meet you at the car." Jack hurriedly left the room.

Mr. Williamson found his way back to the kitchen, got on the phone, and
called his home number. There was no answer, so he left a message telling
his wife that he was on his way back with Jack Canon and would she please
let PJ know. "It's very important that you tell him," he told the answering
machine. Outside he started the car and waited. Jack ran out of the house
carrying a sport jacket and a duffel bag. He opened the car door, put them
in, and apparently remembered that he'd forgotten something. With a "Hold
on a sec," he raced back into the house and returned with a tie and a small
glittery object in his hand. He got into the car and closed the
door. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."

The older man backed the car out of the driveway and headed it down the
road as fast as the speed limit would allow. Then Jack showed him the
things he'd gone back to fetch. "The Red Sox tie PJ gave me for Christmas,
and this." He held out a shiny brass tie clip in the shape of a baseball
bat. "PJ made it for me. He gave to me for Father's Day. Guess from now on,
I'd better get used to wearing it." After carefully putting both items into
his bag, he turned to look at Mr. Williamson. "You think I'm doing the
thing, don't you?"

 "PJ loves you, Mr. Canon. I happen to like you too. It's why I came down
here in person. Yes, I think you're doing the right thing. And you mind if
I tell you something else?

"Hell, no."

"Life isn't complicated, Mr. Canon. For thousand of years ago we've been
trying to pinpoint what makes us happy and fulfilled. The answer has always
been the same: your family, your offspring, your community. Those are the
basics. Fame, power, wealth, achievement, whatever else--none of it counts
in the long run. Keeping your family strong, nurturing your offspring, and
living honestly should be your life goals. You still feel guilty about what
happened to your son, yet it was because he loved his father that he was
trying to reach out to you. Tragically, fate got in the way. We can't
control fate. But you can still make the most of your chance to be a father
again!

Except for giving directions, Jack was silent as they made their way
through Fort Meyers Beach and reached a main route leading to the
airport. Finally he said, "I'm gonna need your help on this,
Mr. Williamson. Your advice concerning PJ."

"How will you deal with him?" the housemaster asked anxiously.

"I'll negotiate a new contract with him," Jack answered. "A new father
contract. Something permanent. PJ knows all about negotiating. Jesus, does
he! I'm gonna go after some sort of agreement with those lawyers of his,
too. I want legal control of PJ. Guardianship, parental control, maybe
adoption . . ."

At Jack's last word, Jim Williamson's heart leaped up, but he didn't say a
word lest he break the spell.

"You know my biggest problem?" Jack looked the housemaster straight in the
eye. "I just realized that I've been hiding from what I've really known all
along. I love him too much! Given half a chance I'd spoil him rotten. But
with you backstopping me, maybe I won't screw up again!"

He turned to the housemaster and stated in a sincere tone of voice, 'If he
needs a father so badly, and by God I could use a new son, I guess we'd
make a perfect match! I bet you that fellow Walter could arrange an
adoption pretty damn fast, too, Mr. Willamson!

"Call me Jim."

"Okay. But only if you call me Jack. Look, I'm gonna need your help. If PJ
has some wild idea of comin' to live with me, that's gotta be
squashed. He's gotta stay at that fancy school of yours."

I doubt it's a problem, Jack," the housemaster said. "All PJ's friends are
at Gordonsville. As long as you visit him, remember his birthday, and make
it clear that when he needs you. You're there for him, I suspect PJ will be
quite content."

"Humph," Jack snorted sarcastically. "Actually,you don't know him if you
think that. Give that kid an inch, he wants a mile. He can get around me in
a second. He knows every button to push. But yeah, with your help we'll
keep him at that damn place." He sighed before adding, "I feel like a
goddamned square peg in a round hole every time I go there."

Mr. Williamson chuckled. "I assure you, Jack: your fame protects you."

"Uh-huh. Well--" Jack dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "I'm not
gonna mind goin' to the kid's swim meets. The problem comes when my
baseball season starts. But we'll work something out. PJ's pretty
understanding about stuff when you come at him the right way."

"Speaking of understanding," Mr. Williamson said, "PJ apparently believes
in your understanding as well. I have reason to believe he'll tell you
things that he won't share with anyone else. You might keep that in
mind. Don't violate any of his confidences, but if he comes out with
anything that concerns you, let me know and we'll proceed from there."

"Yeah, Jim, I get you."

"Another thing, Jack. It would be good if you could put a stop to PJ's
sneaking around behind our backs."

Now it was Jack's turn to chuckle. "I promise to try. "I'll lay down the
law to him and give him hell if he continues to do that stuff. But I'm not
guaranteeing a thing. I don't think you people have learned who you're
dealing with. PJ's not quite the poor pathetic little angel you seem to
think he is. That's his front. Underneath there's a determined,
manipulative, and devious kid. He can be totally ruthless when he wants
something."

"Oh come, Jack!" the housemaster exclaimed.

"Okay. Don't believe me. But I'm telling you the truth. And I oughta
know. I'm the same way. I guess it takes one to know one. That boy can wrap
you around his little finger without half trying. What makes him so
dangerous is that he's not even aware he's doing it. It comes naturally to
him." Jack paused a moment before adding thoughtfully, "No surprise, I
suppose. "d bet money there's sharp, devious bastards hanging all over his
family tree. How else did he get colossal pile of loot he's sitting on. God
help us when he's older. He's competitive as hell, too. A real killer."
Jack looked at Mr. Williamson and smirked. But that's why I love him!

Now can I ask you a question?"

"Fire away, Mr. Canon!"

We both know that it's better that PJ stay at Gordonsville during the
school year and get a good education and remain with his buddies. That way
when I'm off, I could still visit him when he had games and swim meets, and
he could come to my games when he could. During the summer, we could be
together a lot, but I could also send him to his camp and bring him down
here. Hey, and he wouldn't be sneaking around behind your back anymore. You
think that would be possible?"

"I can't see how you'll have a bit of trouble. Your plan is wonderful!"

Jack looked up ahead and pointed. "Take a left up there at the
intersection"

Mr. Williamson flipped on a turn signal. "I thought we were taking the
interstate to Orlando."

Jack shook his head. "I was just thinking. There's a helicopter we can hire
at the County airport that'll get us up there a lot faster."

"We probably don't have to be in that much of a rush. I left a message for
my wife to tell PJ you were on your way. As long as he knows you're coming,
I'm sure he'll be okay."

"Nope." Jack shook his head a second time. "Once he gets some crazy idea
. . ."

"That left turn takes us straight to the airport. I have a feeling we'd
better get up there as soon as we can!"

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT FORTY-EIGHT

          Editor Paul Scott's e-mail address: paulkdoctor@gmail.com

Keep them cards an' letters comin'!