Pawn
Chapter One
Working copy 12/16/2010
The big ben alarm clock went off at exactly 9:45am. The golden bells clanged at about 119 decibels. The magnified sound came from a large cast iron pot under the bed. The metal on metal sounded like an army of angry two year olds slamming metal spoons against steel pipes instead of a six inch alarm clock purchased at the local dollar store. Without opening his eyes, he pushed the covers aside, reached under the bed and grabbed the vibrating pot. He slid it across the floor where it slammed into his dresser. A small piece of yellow paper drifted off the dresser, like a yellow leaf falling from a tall oak, and landed inside a half open drawer.
“Wesley, you up?” He heard his mother’s voice from the kitchen.
“Yea. Gonna shower.”
He grabbed the towel on his bedpost then took two steps to his dresser to grab a clean pair of blue boxers. As he tucked them under his arm, he glimpsed the yellow piece of paper fall to the ground. It almost landed in the trash can, but ended up resting on his converse high-tops. He ignored it and went to the shower.
The warm water soothed the pain in his arm, which hadn’t really ached until this very second. He rubbed it and stretched it out over his head just as he’d done during football training last year. He didn’t play football anymore. He couldn’t. When he got kicked out of high school last year, he was banned from all sporting events. But that was okay with him, really, he never seemed to fit with the other kids anyway. He was at the alternative school this year, and as much as he hated to admit it, he really liked it.
He put on his favorite blue and green plaid Bermuda shorts and pale blue Abercrombie t-shirt before reaching for his tennis shoes. The yellow note had stuck to the top of his right shoe. He saw some scribble on it and thought that Eve, his little sister, had written some unintelligible words on it. As it came into focus, he felt his heart race and his face heat up.
“Leave this one alone or else… You know how Eve hates the dark.” Two words ended the message. “We’re watching.”
He crumbled the paper in his hand, made a tight fist, and punched the air. “Ouch!” he belted out, forgetting about his strained shoulder. He shoved the note in his pocket before grabbing the cell phone off his night-stand. He’d forgotten to charge it last night, but luckily, he had turned it off at midnight, as was his routine, so he’d probably have enough juice to make through the day.
As he brushed his nearly shoulder length hair, combing his bangs straight down over his eyes, there was a tap on his door.
“Weeesley. Wesley?” The door slowly opened and the bright hall lights penetrated his dimly lit room. His little sister stood at the door clutching her pooh-bear and her short pig-tails cast a shadow on his floor that looked like a giant monster with enormous ears.
“Look, a monster!” Wes shouted, pointing to the floor. She giggled and threw her stuffed animal at him.
“Stop it. You don’t scare me! I’m not the one afraid of the dark!”
He grabbed her pooh-bear, then picked her up and slung her over his aching shoulder. Her soft little body seemed to form a blanket over his fear. He spun around a couple of times before tossing her on his bed.
He flipped on his overhead light; the shade, spray-painted green, made the room look like a cave. “Hey kiddo. You ready for Halloween?”
“Yea. I’m gonna be a princess.”
“Which one? Cinderella or Snow White?”
“Princess Sapphire. You knew that already. So why’d you ask? I told you that last night.”
“I was tired, and thought maybe I’d dreamed it. Princess Sapphire? I think you’ll be the only one in town.
Eve jumped up on the bed, held an imaginary sword and shouted, “Stop, or I’ll cut your head off! I am Princess Sapphire-ninja girl, destined to be king!”
“Queen!” Wesley corrected her.
“King!” She insisted.
“O.K. You can be king if I can be the prince.”
“Deal.” She said, as she punched his fist with hers.
Wes snatched her up off the bed like she was a loaf of bread and stood her up on his shoulders. The ceiling fan darted just over her head. She ducked and screamed, “Wesley, the fan!”
He eased her down into his arms, where she wrapped around him like a monkey. She laid her head on his shoulder and he felt an urge to build a shield around her. The feeling rushed through him like an electrical charge. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.” A lump formed in his throat and he clasped his hands together around her back.
“It’s okay Wes. I’m not scared. I can stop the fan with my hand. Member when you showed me that trick last summer?”
“Sure do. Some things look scary, but if we touch them, then they aren’t anymore.”
“Can I go with you today Wes?”
“To school? You wanna go to school with me?”
“Yeah! I wanna meet Brian.”
“I’ll bring him here to meet you. You can’t go to my school. Too many “bad kids.”
Sitting Eve up on his shoulders, they walked out of the bedroom, and into kitchen. His mother was standing with her eyes glued to the portable T.V installed just underneath the cabinets.
CNN was on and Anderson Cooper was giving an update on the suicide bombing in Turkey.
“Can I have this bagel?” Wesley asked, not waiting for an answer as he picked it up and began shoving it in his mouth.
“Yeah. It’s yours.” His mom answered, without taking her eyes off the T.V.
He sat Eve down at their 1950’s table in front of a full bowl of cheerios. He patted her head twice before yanking one of her pigtails.
“Stop it, Wesley!” She said, while smiling. She threw a Cheerio at him and he caught it mid-air before tossing it in his mouth.
“Thanks. Gotta go.” He reached in the fridge, grabbed a bottle of grape juice and kissed his mom on her forehead.
He ran out the front door, took two steps towards the edge of the porch before doing a front flip off the top step. He landed solid on both feet, knees bent, right next to his skate board.
“Where are you going, Wesley?” His mother hollered as she stopped the screen door with her hand, just before it swung shut in her face.
“I’m going to school early today, Mom. I have to make up some work.”
“Make up work? But you haven’t missed a day of school all year.”
“Yea, I know. But I broke some pencils so I gotta go an extra hour this week-I’m gonna clean up around the school to make up for it.”
“Some pencils? Wesley. Are you serious?”
“It was a whole box. I was pissed off at Chad. But I didn’t hit him, like last time.”
“All right then. But come straight home! No hanging out with the twins. They only get you in trouble.”
“Don’t worry Mom. I know who to stay away from.” He looked back over his shoulder at his mother, noticing her hair hadn’t been brushed today, and tripped on the cracked sidewalk. He recovered just before falling, and when he turned around to wave, he saw that she’d already gone back inside.
He jogged down the sidewalk, his shoulder length hair swinging behind him. When he got to the corner, he reached in his pocket, pulled out his beat-up flip phone to check for a text.
“Meet me on aisle 4 at the Pig. Trig.”
“Oh man! Not today!” he thought out loud. He’d planned on spending 30 minutes with Julie before her class ended. The teachers had agreed he could help her with math once a week. He didn’t wanna miss this.
He wondered what Julie would say when he didn’t show up in 10 minutes, like he promised. He decided to text her and tell her part of the truth.
“Gotta do something b4 I get 2 skol. Important. Still luv u.” He figured that would keep her from bugging him about it too much. She’d probably ask him about six questions before she finally got tired of his answer, “It was just something I had to do for my mom.” He used this excuse every time. And it wasn’t a far stretch from the truth. The job did benefit his mom. It paid cash, every time. Large amounts. He stashed exactly ninety percent at the bank next door, put a fifty in his pocket and took the rest home to his mom.
His mother thought he was helping Trevor with his landscape business. Well, he had helped Trevor mow his grandmother’s three acre yard this summer, twice, in exchange for the best salmon biscuits and sweet tea in Georgia. So when he brought home fifty, sixty or even ninety dollars after each job, his mom didn’t blink an eye. She thanked him, kissed him on the cheek, and put it in her purse, which sat in the middle of the dining room table no matter what season of the year it was. He knew she needed it for groceries, gas for the ‘92 Plymouth Colt and clothes for his four year old sister, Eve.
His bruises from the last mission had faded from blue to green, but he still had shooting pains when he took a deep breath. When he first signed up, it was for just one job. Now, he’d committed to 6 months. They’d let him leave after that. No questions asked.
“No one leaves early. No one,” echoed in his head over and over.
But now, with a threat hanging over his head, he felt like an internal explosion was about to occur. He’d break more than pencils if anyone tried to hurt is little sister. He pushed his hand deep into his pocket, trying to push the note out of his mind. But it wouldn’t go. He had no clue who the note was from. Although in the beginning, he was told that he may get threats from time to time, most of them would simply be empty attempts to keep him from doing the next job. And his job was to either ignore them, or use them for fuel to complete the next mission. He’d used the latter approach without any trouble. Things were impersonal in this business, until this very moment. He felt like he was about to have a face off with a monster-truck. And standing behind him, holding her pooh-bear, was Eve. This was almost more than he could take.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Peanut Butter and Bananas Chapter Two
Chapter Two
(working copy)
Peanut Butter and Bananas
It was fall in the small town of Buchanan, Georgia, population 941. Pumpkins sat on nearly every front porch, no matter what size or condition. Orange and yellow leaves indicated cooler weather was coming, despite the thermometer reading 81 degrees.
He walked through the automatic doors at the Piggly Wiggly, glad for the cool blast of air-conditioning that immediately cast a slight chill down his back. He weaved through the produce section, grabbing a bunch of bananas before walking to the peanut butter aisle.
“Yo man.” He said, while nodding his head down and to the right, which uncovered one of his eyes. His bangs were below his cheeks, and hung down over his eyes most of the time. Although all his friends bugged him about keeping his face covered like some Calvin Klein model, it was part of the job. He was a private person anyway, so this gave him a great excuse to slink into the background even in the midday sun.
“Wes. What’s up?” Brian said, while hitting Wesley’s right shoulder.
“Hey man. Watch the arm. It’s still bruised.”
“I bet it is! You took a pretty big fall last night. Did you let Coach look at it?”
“Yeah, he said to rest it a few days. It feels broken.”
“You say that every time!”
“No I don’t man. When I jumped off that train last month and sprained my ankle, I never said it felt broken.”
“True. But you hopped around on one foot for three days.”
“But I never said it was broken. So shut-up!” He punched Brian in the gut.
Brian grabbed the extra-large sized peanut butter and they both headed to the check-out. Brian saw Debbi, his sister’s best friend, at register two and pulled Wes in that direction. She winked at him as he put the jar on the conveyor belt. Brian darted off while Wesley walked past the cashier. He stood by the bags holding the bananas like they were a fragile creature.
“Be right back!” Brian shouted from across the store.
“Uh, you gonna buy those?” Debbi asked, knowing that Wesley was just being Wesley. “You need to get those blonde roots touched up.” She added.
“Oh, here.” He said and sat the bananas on top of the jar of peanut butter. “Weigh these twice, cause last week I walked out without paying for a bunch just like this one.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. You didn’t even speak to me last time you were in here. You looked like you hadn’t slept in four days.”
“I had a bad stomach virus.”
“From eating too many bananas!” Brian chided, as he placed two cans of Red Bull on the faded black conveyor belt. It moved like the tread on tired army tank.
“That’ll be $11.22.”
“I got it, man.” Wesley handed her a crisp fifty. It made him feel like a man to hand her cash. Growing up, all he’d ever seen his mom hand the cashier were government food stamps. Last year, just about the time he went to work, they converted to the plastic card. He hated that card, and what it represented. The crisp fifty seemed to cover the shame and made it possible for him to look the cashiers, the produce manager, and even the general manager in the eye. Funny how working for a living had changed his whole outlook on things. It made him feel like an equal, even though his talent and abilities far exceeded those employees, or any resident in this small town. He didn’t see it that way. For him, it was just a job.
They exited. Brian hopped on his skateboard and bumped his way through the unmaintained parking lot. “Wes, where’s your board?”
“You know I can’t text and skate at the same time. Where to?”
“Library!” Brian hollered as he jumped the new sidewalk just in front of the library. The city council voted to renovate this structure less than a year ago. Built in 1891 as the courthouse, it looked more like a miniature Biltmore. The new sidewalks and low brick walls which surrounded the building invited the local skaters. The local police used to stop and tell the skaters to go home, but in the past few weeks, ever since the construction began, no one seemed to care whether or not skaters hung out during the day. It was only after dark that the police would tell the kids to scatter. “Curfew!” they’d holler, blink their lights, and drive on by.
“Hey boys! Got some new graphic novels in. They’re in the first room.” The librarian said, as soon as the door opened. She’d heard the wheels hit the porch and knew who’d be walking in the door before the knob even turned.
“Thanks,” Brian said.
Wesley just nodded in her direction. She knew he meant thanks with his gesture. She’d known Wesley since he was old enough to lay a book on the counter. He was five when his dad first brought him in the library to look at comics. Wesley didn’t talk much to anyone then or now.
Brian grabbed the new Spiderman and turned to page thirteen. The small text, above the first frame said, “8:00pm, Second Street.” He bent the page towards Wesley, who had grabbed the latest Hulk and was reading it. Brian elbowed him and put the book in front of his face.
“Read it, man.”
“I already saw it, man. I read it over your shoulder. I’m checking out this new Hulk. I like the way this artist draws his face. He looks real.”
“So, Wes. You’re still in this thing with me?”
Wesley didn’t respond. He was going back through the events of the morning- focusing on the yellow paper. Questions started popping up. How did the paper end up on his underwear? His mom used a laundry mat a few miles away, so it could have made it to him that way. There was always the window, or the front door for that matter. His mom only locked the doors at night. And that was pointless, really, because they never locked the windows. Someone could have walked right in the front door in broad daylight.
“Wes. Wes! Earth to Wesley! Command center calling Wesley!”
“Oh, Yeah. What did you say?”
“Are you gonna do this next one with me or not?”
“Well, I don’t really have a choice do I? So, I guess so.” He said, exhaling every drop of air in his lungs after the word ‘so.’
“You can’t be unsure, man. You gotta commit, or it just don’t work.”
“I know. They spelled it all out before the last job. I promised them six more months. And I’m not a quitter Brian, you know that. But when my time is up, I’m done with this.” Wes said, while closing the latest pocket-sized Hulk.
“Why all the melodrama? It’s just a job.”
“I’m…well…I’m just ready to work a regular job, you know, like flip burgers.”
“Get outta here, Wes. You’d never be happy flippin’ burgers. Maybe flippin’ the guys that flip the burgers. You feelin O.K. man? You aren’t actin like yourself.”
“Yea man. I’m cool. It’s cool. We’re cool.” He turned and walked out of the small side room and headed for the check-out counter.
“Is that it guys?” The librarian asked, without looking up from her newspaper, just before they approached the counter.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brian said.
“We’re having a bon-fire tonight. You guys coming?”
“Can’t. Gotta work.” Brian said.
“Well, it starts at 7:00. If you get off in time, come on by. Wes, why don’t you come and bring Eve? We’re having a costume contest and pumpkin carving. Your pumpkin won last year didn’t it?”
“No. Second place.” Wes reminded her.
She leaned close to the boys and whispered. “I counted the votes. Yours won, Wes, but somebody changed the outcome. Lacey Worthy’s was nowhere near yours.”
Wesley grinned, nodded his head, and turned to leave.
“Your book, Wesley!” The librarian hollered, just after he hopped up the two steps towards the door.
Brian walked out while Wesley ran back and grabbed the book. Mrs. Loftin tossed it and he caught it in mid-air. He spun on one foot and darted out the nine foot wooden door. It slammed behind him, bell’s clanging as he tucked the book into his back pocket. He pulled out his phone and texted Julie, “C U N 2.” Within 10 seconds he got a reply. “Gud. Need u.” He knew that she needed help with her math lesson, but for a second, he imagined that she meant something deeper. He turned his phone off, tucked it into his front pocket and jogged up the hill towards the school.
(working copy)
Peanut Butter and Bananas
It was fall in the small town of Buchanan, Georgia, population 941. Pumpkins sat on nearly every front porch, no matter what size or condition. Orange and yellow leaves indicated cooler weather was coming, despite the thermometer reading 81 degrees.
He walked through the automatic doors at the Piggly Wiggly, glad for the cool blast of air-conditioning that immediately cast a slight chill down his back. He weaved through the produce section, grabbing a bunch of bananas before walking to the peanut butter aisle.
“Yo man.” He said, while nodding his head down and to the right, which uncovered one of his eyes. His bangs were below his cheeks, and hung down over his eyes most of the time. Although all his friends bugged him about keeping his face covered like some Calvin Klein model, it was part of the job. He was a private person anyway, so this gave him a great excuse to slink into the background even in the midday sun.
“Wes. What’s up?” Brian said, while hitting Wesley’s right shoulder.
“Hey man. Watch the arm. It’s still bruised.”
“I bet it is! You took a pretty big fall last night. Did you let Coach look at it?”
“Yeah, he said to rest it a few days. It feels broken.”
“You say that every time!”
“No I don’t man. When I jumped off that train last month and sprained my ankle, I never said it felt broken.”
“True. But you hopped around on one foot for three days.”
“But I never said it was broken. So shut-up!” He punched Brian in the gut.
Brian grabbed the extra-large sized peanut butter and they both headed to the check-out. Brian saw Debbi, his sister’s best friend, at register two and pulled Wes in that direction. She winked at him as he put the jar on the conveyor belt. Brian darted off while Wesley walked past the cashier. He stood by the bags holding the bananas like they were a fragile creature.
“Be right back!” Brian shouted from across the store.
“Uh, you gonna buy those?” Debbi asked, knowing that Wesley was just being Wesley. “You need to get those blonde roots touched up.” She added.
“Oh, here.” He said and sat the bananas on top of the jar of peanut butter. “Weigh these twice, cause last week I walked out without paying for a bunch just like this one.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. You didn’t even speak to me last time you were in here. You looked like you hadn’t slept in four days.”
“I had a bad stomach virus.”
“From eating too many bananas!” Brian chided, as he placed two cans of Red Bull on the faded black conveyor belt. It moved like the tread on tired army tank.
“That’ll be $11.22.”
“I got it, man.” Wesley handed her a crisp fifty. It made him feel like a man to hand her cash. Growing up, all he’d ever seen his mom hand the cashier were government food stamps. Last year, just about the time he went to work, they converted to the plastic card. He hated that card, and what it represented. The crisp fifty seemed to cover the shame and made it possible for him to look the cashiers, the produce manager, and even the general manager in the eye. Funny how working for a living had changed his whole outlook on things. It made him feel like an equal, even though his talent and abilities far exceeded those employees, or any resident in this small town. He didn’t see it that way. For him, it was just a job.
They exited. Brian hopped on his skateboard and bumped his way through the unmaintained parking lot. “Wes, where’s your board?”
“You know I can’t text and skate at the same time. Where to?”
“Library!” Brian hollered as he jumped the new sidewalk just in front of the library. The city council voted to renovate this structure less than a year ago. Built in 1891 as the courthouse, it looked more like a miniature Biltmore. The new sidewalks and low brick walls which surrounded the building invited the local skaters. The local police used to stop and tell the skaters to go home, but in the past few weeks, ever since the construction began, no one seemed to care whether or not skaters hung out during the day. It was only after dark that the police would tell the kids to scatter. “Curfew!” they’d holler, blink their lights, and drive on by.
“Hey boys! Got some new graphic novels in. They’re in the first room.” The librarian said, as soon as the door opened. She’d heard the wheels hit the porch and knew who’d be walking in the door before the knob even turned.
“Thanks,” Brian said.
Wesley just nodded in her direction. She knew he meant thanks with his gesture. She’d known Wesley since he was old enough to lay a book on the counter. He was five when his dad first brought him in the library to look at comics. Wesley didn’t talk much to anyone then or now.
Brian grabbed the new Spiderman and turned to page thirteen. The small text, above the first frame said, “8:00pm, Second Street.” He bent the page towards Wesley, who had grabbed the latest Hulk and was reading it. Brian elbowed him and put the book in front of his face.
“Read it, man.”
“I already saw it, man. I read it over your shoulder. I’m checking out this new Hulk. I like the way this artist draws his face. He looks real.”
“So, Wes. You’re still in this thing with me?”
Wesley didn’t respond. He was going back through the events of the morning- focusing on the yellow paper. Questions started popping up. How did the paper end up on his underwear? His mom used a laundry mat a few miles away, so it could have made it to him that way. There was always the window, or the front door for that matter. His mom only locked the doors at night. And that was pointless, really, because they never locked the windows. Someone could have walked right in the front door in broad daylight.
“Wes. Wes! Earth to Wesley! Command center calling Wesley!”
“Oh, Yeah. What did you say?”
“Are you gonna do this next one with me or not?”
“Well, I don’t really have a choice do I? So, I guess so.” He said, exhaling every drop of air in his lungs after the word ‘so.’
“You can’t be unsure, man. You gotta commit, or it just don’t work.”
“I know. They spelled it all out before the last job. I promised them six more months. And I’m not a quitter Brian, you know that. But when my time is up, I’m done with this.” Wes said, while closing the latest pocket-sized Hulk.
“Why all the melodrama? It’s just a job.”
“I’m…well…I’m just ready to work a regular job, you know, like flip burgers.”
“Get outta here, Wes. You’d never be happy flippin’ burgers. Maybe flippin’ the guys that flip the burgers. You feelin O.K. man? You aren’t actin like yourself.”
“Yea man. I’m cool. It’s cool. We’re cool.” He turned and walked out of the small side room and headed for the check-out counter.
“Is that it guys?” The librarian asked, without looking up from her newspaper, just before they approached the counter.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brian said.
“We’re having a bon-fire tonight. You guys coming?”
“Can’t. Gotta work.” Brian said.
“Well, it starts at 7:00. If you get off in time, come on by. Wes, why don’t you come and bring Eve? We’re having a costume contest and pumpkin carving. Your pumpkin won last year didn’t it?”
“No. Second place.” Wes reminded her.
She leaned close to the boys and whispered. “I counted the votes. Yours won, Wes, but somebody changed the outcome. Lacey Worthy’s was nowhere near yours.”
Wesley grinned, nodded his head, and turned to leave.
“Your book, Wesley!” The librarian hollered, just after he hopped up the two steps towards the door.
Brian walked out while Wesley ran back and grabbed the book. Mrs. Loftin tossed it and he caught it in mid-air. He spun on one foot and darted out the nine foot wooden door. It slammed behind him, bell’s clanging as he tucked the book into his back pocket. He pulled out his phone and texted Julie, “C U N 2.” Within 10 seconds he got a reply. “Gud. Need u.” He knew that she needed help with her math lesson, but for a second, he imagined that she meant something deeper. He turned his phone off, tucked it into his front pocket and jogged up the hill towards the school.
Silly Band-Chapter Three
Chapter 3
Brian skated ahead of Wesley past the bank, across a one way street, where he stood next to a building that held two things- a pawn shop and his school. Wesley thought the connection of these two entities was a perfect example of the way the world worked.
The bank-well that was where respectable men got their money- the kind of men that wore suits and ties. He often saw ladies in skirts and matching jewelry sets, the kind he’d always wanted to buy for his mom, walking in and out the front doors. A narrow street separated the bank from the pawn shop, the place where ‘other folks’ got their money.
Wesley had written a short essay about the pawn shop when he first started at the alternative school. The teacher told him to pick something that was easy to write about. As he stood and looked at worn bricks, the words came back to him.
Folks who were behind on rent, ‘cause their car broke down and they had to spend their whole paycheck to get it fixed, went to the Pawn Shop. You don’t always have a lot of choices. Sometimes people have to sell things just to get by. They have to dig in their closet for some family treasure, like your dad’s collector Les Paul guitar, and sell it for a fraction of what it’d cost. You didn’t want to, but you were desperate to help your mother keep a roof over your head. As you handed over the guitar, and took the cash, you hoped that in month or two, you’d have enough money to buy it back. But somewhere, deep inside, you knew that it was never really going to happen. You knew the guitar was gone. Forever.
But pawn-shop-people were used to losing things. Only you lost more than a guitar. You lost your dad. That was six years ago, though. But sometimes it felt like only 6 minutes.”The teacher had sat with him, and reviewed the skeleton of the essay, told him that it was “compelling.” It created tension in the reader. “I hope you’ll write more on this, Wesley. It’s got potential to be a really strong essay.” She called it ‘creative non-fiction’. He wasn’t sure what that meant. But he didn’t care enough to ask. “Everyone has a story to tell.” She added. “But some people don’t need to tell theirs. Others do. From the looks of this last paragraph, Wesley, you are one that does.” Then she welcomed him to the school, gently smiled, and left him alone to do his first assignment. Trigonometry.
He had wanted to say, “Everyone here knows the story. So, I don’t need to write it down.” But, he didn’t really feel like talking about it anymore. It didn’t do any good. Everyone in town knew that his dad had lost his life in the service. He had been an army reservist and called up for a one year term at a supply base in Iraq. The official report talked about dying in combat, which made it sound like he’d died in some huge battle. The guys in his dad unit had given his mother the details, though, and she didn’t hide them from Wesley.
“The truck your dad was driving was hit by a home-made explosive, made out of a coke bottle and a torn t-shirt. It was thrown by an 11 year old boy.” Sergeant Washington had explained, standing in their kitchen. “That’s how old I am.” Wesley responded, without thinking. He was in a state of shock, and didn’t feel anything until he saw the man in uniform place the silver dog tags in the palm of his mother’s hand. No one said anything. Not even, “I’m sorry.”
As soon as the tags were in her hand, it was like she melted. She put her other hand on the back of the chair, as if she were blind, feeling for it instead of looking, and slowly slid down into the seat. The Sargent pulled up a chair and sat right in front of his mom, but didn’t say anything. And he didn’t seem to care that tears were streaming down his cheeks. When Wesley saw this, he felt like he was watching a movie, or an introduction to one of his video games.
They sat like that, no one talking, for about fifteen minutes. During those minutes, Wesley changed from boy to man. It happened that fast. After the sergeant left, he held his mother while she sobbed. He put her in the bed, and walked around the house, which all of a sudden felt really empty. Later, when he went to bed he cried. He wasn’t really crying for his dad, though, or even himself. The tears were for his mom. He couldn’t explain it even to himself. He just felt like she had gotten broken and he knew he couldn’t fix it. He cried a lot at night, after his mom went to bed. He didn’t want her to see it. Sometimes he even had short conversations with God about the whole thing. One word conversations. He’d lie in his bed, staring at the blades on his fan, and ask, “Why?” over, and over, and over. He believed that it was a mistake, and that one day his dad would walk back in the door. Well, he believed that until last year. That’s when all the trouble started.
He started hitting things, inanimate things. He’d walk by a car, and feel the urge to kick the tires, and if no one was looking, he’d do it. If he was walking through the woods to go see a friend, which he didn’t particularly like to do, cause he hated snakes, he’d find the biggest stick that he could pick up, and do one of two things. He’d either hurl it through the trees, and enjoy listening to it snap off branches on its way down, or he’d stand next to a big hardwood and smack the stick as hard as he could, feeling anger rush through his arms. When the stick snapped, he’d feel victorious.
“You can’t just be hitting things, Wesley.” He mother tried, fruitlessly, to explain to him.
“Yes, I can. I have to hit something mom, or I’m gonna go crazy.” He got up from the table and walked to his bedroom. She sat at the table, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, because she knew he was right. She’d seen her son transform himself from a quiet, broken person, into someone who would stand his ground, soon after he got the job of splitting wood for Mrs. White. She thought his sense of self was coming from helping someone else, instead of sitting in his room reading comics and feeling sorry for himself. But one day, Wesley told her straight out why he was feeling better. “Mom, when I split wood. I have control of it.”
“Of what? Wesley.”
“Of everything.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I can chop it all up. The terrorists. The boys with the home-made bombs. The guys at school who are a foot taller than me. The dripping faucet. Our shitty car.”
He saw the look on his mom’s face and knew that it stung, but it was the truth. “Well, as long as that’s all you are chopping, I’m fine with it.”
Mrs. White was on a fixed income, but she paid him $5.00 for every load he split. For a 12 year old boy, in the little town of Buchanan, that went a long way. It was enough for two packs of cigarettes, which is what some of his friends tried to get him to buy. But he was staying away from tobacco. His dad had prided himself on staying away from that stuff, kept himself clean, so he could be a top-notch soldier. Wesley knew that one day he’d serve too, and wanted the chance to graduate top of his class in boot camp. He knew that smoking would make it impossible run without a hacking cough, so it was easy to turn down that temptation.
After each load he split, he took his five dollars, and put it in his sock drawer. One afternoon, when his mother was sitting at the kitchen table looking through her wallet for gas money, he walked in on her. She was crying. “I’ll just walk. It’s only two miles.” She said to Wesley. The problem was, it was pouring down rain, and Wesley couldn’t let his mother walk in that weather. It was tornado season. He didn’t say anything back, he just walked into his room, opened his sock drawer, and pulled out fifteen dollars. He came back, and without saying anything, he laid three five dollar bills on the table, beside his mother’s coffee cup. He leaned over, kissed her cheek, wiped the tear from her other cheek and said, “It’s gonna be O.K. mom. You got me.” She didn’t argue. All she could manage to say was, “Thanks, Wes.” It was then that she and Wesley formed a team. She allowed herself to rely on him. And Wesley finally felt like he wasn’t trapped. They never talked about that day. They didn’t need to. They both knew what had happened. He saw himself as the man of the house from that point forward. He’d check the doors at night, making sure she’d remembered to lock them. Many times, she’d be asleep on the sofa, half covered with an afghan, and a library book in her lap. After he’d lock up, he’d wake his mother, “Mom, hey, it’s bed time. I’ve locked up.”
“Oh, I wasn’t asleep.” She’d say every time. Then she’d stand up, take her coffee cup to the kitchen, rinse it out, and head to bed.
The school was right next door to the pawn shop. They were connected in more ways than one. The kids who’d lost something, well, they didn’t mind leaning up against this building between classes. It was their place, in the eyes of the townspeople. Wesley thought it ironic that he’d overheard one of the high school counselors refer to him as one of the ‘lost kids.’ He laughed, and had wanted to say, “Yes, I’ve lost a lot.” Because she’d only been at the high school two years, she didn’t know that his dad had died a hero. She didn’t see the City Council Members hand Wesley a certificate naming a day for his father. All she’d seen was the anger seeping out. Anger at death. Anger at smart-ass teenagers who didn’t know when to keep their mouth shut. He’d only been defending his family’s name, his father’s memory, when Jake said, “You’re a wussy just like your dad!”
The principal privately told Wesley that he understood the reaction, and would have done the same thing in his shoes. “But”, he added, “I think you need a break from this place. I’m gonna recommend you spend the rest of this semester at the alternative school. If you finish all your classes and keep your anger under control, you can come back in Janurary. Deal?” He held out his hand and gave Wesley a warm, secure shake. Something in that handshake made Wesley feel like he was respected.
“Come on Wes!” Brian hollered, as Wesley stood on the other side of the street, reliving the day he got sent here- to the alternative school. He was sure he was gonna hate it. And he did the first day. But when Brian came in the very next day, his best friend since 6th grade, a little spark of hope came into his being.
“Yea man. I’m comin’.” He jogged across the street, walked past the pawn shop, and stood in front of the plate glass door. Coach opened it up, greeted them and handed them the sign-in sheet. “You’re both here early today!”
“I’m gonna help Julie with her Algebra. Mr. Moon said I could.”
“Oh, yea, I forgot about that. What about you Brian?”
“I’m doing my community service hours here this week. Probation Officer said this would work. I’m gonna take out trash and clean the bathrooms. Then, I’ll sweep the front.”
“Alright man. I’ll get you the cleaning supplies.”
“Oh, I gotta clean something too, since I broke those pencils.” Wesley added.
“O.K. I’ll figure out something for you to do.” Coach replied.
Wesley walked right over to Julie, who was sitting with her back to the door and had headphones on. He stood behind her as she watched an ‘educational’ video about domestic violence. He knew she’d jump four feet out of the chair if he surprised her, so he walked around her desk, stood in front of her. He guessed it would take for her about 2 minutes before she noticed him standing there..
Two of her friends saw what was happening. They giggled, semi-whispered her name, and tried waving their hands to get her attention. She was glued to the video, and saw none of the flying arms and commotion around her. Wesley shook his head in their direction. A minute later, she glanced up and saw Wesley. A grin the size of Texas beamed across her face. She glanced back down at her screen while reaching out one of her hands towards him. He took the seven steps between them, grabbed a nearby a chair and slid it next to hers before clasping her hand. Then he leaned over whispered something in her ear. All eyes were on them for the next couple of minutes, even the teachers couldn’t help but stare. Wesley leaned over the metal arm on his chair to get as close as possible to Julie.
“Let’s do some math when you finish this lesson on verbs.” He said, with a tone of authority that even surprised him.
“O.K. Wes.” She responded, without taking her eyes off the screen.
“Transitive or intransitive?” She asked, leaning close to him, after reading the sentence.
“Don’t know that. Let’s google it.” He said, placing his hand on top of hers as it rested on the mouse. He guided the cursor to the “e” and double clicked it.
The first site listed was Wikipedia. Wesley always skipped Wikipedia. He didn’t trust it, because he knew that any human on earth could post on Wiki. He selected the second site, Chompchomp.
“I got it. It’s an action verb. Just think of me. Things I like to do.”
“Jump, flip, hit, smash.” She said, while smiling.
“I do more than that.”
“Eat, run, spin, kick.”
“Tickle.” He said, as he ran his hand up the middle of her back to her neck, which he knew drove her crazy.
“Stop it! Wes.”
The coach, just a few feet away, walked towards them, but before he got there, Julie said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be loud.”
“Wes, you know the deal, You have to be HELPING her, not distracting her.”
“Alright.”
“And take off your hat, Wes.” The coach added. “You know the rules. They are the same every day.”
Wesley took off his hat and put it on Julie’s head. She took it off and hung it on the computer monitor.While Julie finished her test on verbs, Wesley fidgeted with her silly bands, pulling them away from her wrist, and letting them pop back against her skin. After the third pop, she pulled her hand away. He pulled a green one off his arm, and put it on her left hand. She took it off, in a teasing way, and laid it on the desk. “I’m not gonna put this on if you are just going to pop me with it.” As the band took it’s shape on the desk top, Wesley’s eyes enlarged to the size of platters. Before Julie saw the shape, he swiped it up and shoved it in his pocket. He hopped up while raising his hand.
“Coach, can I use the restroom?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Once in the bathroom, Wesley got out his phone, selected camera, and arranged the silly band on the edge of the sink. “Death.” He snapped a shot of the band and sent it to Brian along with a text, “We gotta tlk.” He knew Brian never turned off his phone and waited for a response. During his wait, he rewound the past few days, trying to remember where he got this silly band.
Eve. He got it from Eve. Last night, while he was reading her a bedtime story.
“You want my new silly band?”
She usually got her silly bands from him. And that’s what he thought at the time. But now he knew that this was not the case. He was methodical in his silly band collection. He’d pile them up on his night stand before going to sleep. He never wore more than seven, since that was his lucky number. So, when Eve had given him a green one, he took a green one off his arm and slid it down onto her wrist. “You can only wear one at a time.” He had told her. The rule seemed crazy even to him. But after he heard about some kid who wore about 30 silly bands for more than a few weeks, and they had gotten embedded in his skin, he was a bit fanatical about Eve wearing one at time. “It can’t happen if you are only wearing one.” He tried to explain to her. “But I wanna wear four. I’m four. So I can wear four.”
Wesley’s mother didn’t intercede in this attempt at being a protector. In fact, she hid a smile, finding it humorous that Wesley was using the same argument with his little sister that she had used with him less than five years ago. “It’s just not safe, Eve. Trust me.”
His phone vibrated and he opened the text from Brian. “What the hell? Are you threatening me?” Brian always used ‘complete words’ when texting.
“No. Sum1 iz snding threats 2 me. It ain’t funny.” He heard a knock on the door just as he hit the send button.
“You done?” It was the voice of Buck, a typical rural hunting kid who always seemed to be on the verge of committing an act of kindness. In fact, Wesley was sure that Buck was the one who’d retrieved his cell phone one day, and slid it back into his pocket before anyone noticed. Buck didn’t want to be identified as ‘too nice a guy.’ It just wasn’t cool. Wesley respected that, and didn’t blow his cover. He figured he’d get a chance to pay Buck back someday. That’s the way the world worked, he recently learned.
“Just a minute, Buck.”
His heart was racing now. He felt like punching the bathroom door, or kicking in the sheet rock. Instead, he balled his fists up and shook them up towards God, just before he opened the door. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he made eye contact with Brian, who was pulling trash bags out of the trash cans. Brain did the ‘come here’ head motion which Wesley understood to mean, “Come outside with me.” He walked over to the coach who was helping another student with math.
“Hey, can I help Brian take out the trash? I need to get outta here for a second. I can’t concentrate.”
“Yea man. Go ahead.”
That was the cool thing about this school. The teachers weren’t really ‘teachers.’ Not the kind you’d had since first grade-the shaking a finger in your face and telling you to be quiet type. The coach and three other teachers listened to you. If you needed some fresh air, time to cool off, they usually gave you something to do. There were even some days when Wesley cleaned during his entire 3 hours. But then the next day, he’d get more work done than he had in a whole week at the ‘regular’ high school. One of his teachers, the one who always ran to grab the coach when anyone had a math question, told him that he’d done almost the whole trig class after three weeks. He didn’t really realize he’d done that much work. It had seemed easy. School had been easy for him years ago. But that was before his dad got killed. After that, nothing was easy.
“Wesley. What the hell is going on, man?” Brian said, as soon as they turned the corner of the building.
“Someone’s messing with me, dude. And it’d be fine if it were just me. But it ain’t like that.” He kicked the green industrial trash can as Brain lifted the lid and tossed the white sacks into it.
“Whadda mean?”
“They’re going through Eve.” Wesley reached in his pocket and pulled out the crumpled post it note and handed it to Brian. Then he handed him the silly band.
Brian studied the yellow paper for a minute, then shook his head. “Man, they’re serious, aren’t they?” he shuffled his feet back and forth, like he was practicing some new skateboarding move, before looking up at Wesley. “You know you can’t hold on to this. You gotta turn it over.”
“Yea. I know. But I wanna kill the guy who’s sending me this crap.”
“Well, that may happen. Maybe that’s your next assignment.” Brian chuckled, seeing the humour in the dark situation. He had a knack for that.
“I’m not that lucky. I haven’t been trained for that. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well, if you leave after this next job, then you won’t ever get trained for that.”Wesley reached his hand out for the note, but Brain shoved it into his pocket.
“Let me keep it for you Wes. I know it’ll just drive you crazy and you’ll end up throwing a chair through a window or something.”
“Alright man. We meet at 8. Right? It is 8, isn’t it?”
“Uh huh. Second Street. You already forgot the meeting time? Is this the only thing that’s been distracting you? Are things cool with you and Julie.”
“Julie and I are still the same. I bug her; she likes it, but she pretends she doesn’t. She lets me hold her hand sometimes, if she’s in the mood. When I tell her I broke something, she laughs. When I show her my bruises, she laughs.” Wesley liked it that Julie didn’t fuss over him like his mom did. At first, it bugged him. He wanted her sympathy. But eventually, it felt more like she believed in him, and his ability to recover. When she laughed at his injuries, he got this feeling that she saw inside of him.
She treated him more like a brother, at times, almost delighted to hear about his mishaps. Once though, when he saw Brian talking to her in front of the library, explaining that “Wesley’s gonna be late, he’s got this hamstring thing- from an accident. This had nothing to do with Wesley falling off the train.” It was that statement that sparked a look of genuine concern. From a distance it looked like she was wiping a tear. Later, Brian had confirmed that Julie did, in fact, show some minor grief at Wesley’s accident.
He’d also overheard her telling a friend that she didn’t know what she’d do without Wes. “It’s not just about getting an A in math. I really like him. He’s cute and he’s always saying the funniest things. And, you ought to hear the way he talks about his mother.” Julie had been coached by her dad, since the age of five.
“You can tell how a guy is going to treat you by the way he treats his own mother,” he’d said to her. She’d heard this phrase more in the last year than anything else. He must have noticed the way she tilted her head and smiled when she saw Wesley walking down her driveway.
The second day she and Wesley sat together, he mentioned that he was going to have to leave an hour early the next day to drive his mom to the doctor. That was the moment she took a mental highlighter, glided it over his name, then hit bold, italics and underline.
Brian skated ahead of Wesley past the bank, across a one way street, where he stood next to a building that held two things- a pawn shop and his school. Wesley thought the connection of these two entities was a perfect example of the way the world worked.
The bank-well that was where respectable men got their money- the kind of men that wore suits and ties. He often saw ladies in skirts and matching jewelry sets, the kind he’d always wanted to buy for his mom, walking in and out the front doors. A narrow street separated the bank from the pawn shop, the place where ‘other folks’ got their money.
Wesley had written a short essay about the pawn shop when he first started at the alternative school. The teacher told him to pick something that was easy to write about. As he stood and looked at worn bricks, the words came back to him.
Folks who were behind on rent, ‘cause their car broke down and they had to spend their whole paycheck to get it fixed, went to the Pawn Shop. You don’t always have a lot of choices. Sometimes people have to sell things just to get by. They have to dig in their closet for some family treasure, like your dad’s collector Les Paul guitar, and sell it for a fraction of what it’d cost. You didn’t want to, but you were desperate to help your mother keep a roof over your head. As you handed over the guitar, and took the cash, you hoped that in month or two, you’d have enough money to buy it back. But somewhere, deep inside, you knew that it was never really going to happen. You knew the guitar was gone. Forever.
But pawn-shop-people were used to losing things. Only you lost more than a guitar. You lost your dad. That was six years ago, though. But sometimes it felt like only 6 minutes.”The teacher had sat with him, and reviewed the skeleton of the essay, told him that it was “compelling.” It created tension in the reader. “I hope you’ll write more on this, Wesley. It’s got potential to be a really strong essay.” She called it ‘creative non-fiction’. He wasn’t sure what that meant. But he didn’t care enough to ask. “Everyone has a story to tell.” She added. “But some people don’t need to tell theirs. Others do. From the looks of this last paragraph, Wesley, you are one that does.” Then she welcomed him to the school, gently smiled, and left him alone to do his first assignment. Trigonometry.
He had wanted to say, “Everyone here knows the story. So, I don’t need to write it down.” But, he didn’t really feel like talking about it anymore. It didn’t do any good. Everyone in town knew that his dad had lost his life in the service. He had been an army reservist and called up for a one year term at a supply base in Iraq. The official report talked about dying in combat, which made it sound like he’d died in some huge battle. The guys in his dad unit had given his mother the details, though, and she didn’t hide them from Wesley.
“The truck your dad was driving was hit by a home-made explosive, made out of a coke bottle and a torn t-shirt. It was thrown by an 11 year old boy.” Sergeant Washington had explained, standing in their kitchen. “That’s how old I am.” Wesley responded, without thinking. He was in a state of shock, and didn’t feel anything until he saw the man in uniform place the silver dog tags in the palm of his mother’s hand. No one said anything. Not even, “I’m sorry.”
As soon as the tags were in her hand, it was like she melted. She put her other hand on the back of the chair, as if she were blind, feeling for it instead of looking, and slowly slid down into the seat. The Sargent pulled up a chair and sat right in front of his mom, but didn’t say anything. And he didn’t seem to care that tears were streaming down his cheeks. When Wesley saw this, he felt like he was watching a movie, or an introduction to one of his video games.
They sat like that, no one talking, for about fifteen minutes. During those minutes, Wesley changed from boy to man. It happened that fast. After the sergeant left, he held his mother while she sobbed. He put her in the bed, and walked around the house, which all of a sudden felt really empty. Later, when he went to bed he cried. He wasn’t really crying for his dad, though, or even himself. The tears were for his mom. He couldn’t explain it even to himself. He just felt like she had gotten broken and he knew he couldn’t fix it. He cried a lot at night, after his mom went to bed. He didn’t want her to see it. Sometimes he even had short conversations with God about the whole thing. One word conversations. He’d lie in his bed, staring at the blades on his fan, and ask, “Why?” over, and over, and over. He believed that it was a mistake, and that one day his dad would walk back in the door. Well, he believed that until last year. That’s when all the trouble started.
He started hitting things, inanimate things. He’d walk by a car, and feel the urge to kick the tires, and if no one was looking, he’d do it. If he was walking through the woods to go see a friend, which he didn’t particularly like to do, cause he hated snakes, he’d find the biggest stick that he could pick up, and do one of two things. He’d either hurl it through the trees, and enjoy listening to it snap off branches on its way down, or he’d stand next to a big hardwood and smack the stick as hard as he could, feeling anger rush through his arms. When the stick snapped, he’d feel victorious.
“You can’t just be hitting things, Wesley.” He mother tried, fruitlessly, to explain to him.
“Yes, I can. I have to hit something mom, or I’m gonna go crazy.” He got up from the table and walked to his bedroom. She sat at the table, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, because she knew he was right. She’d seen her son transform himself from a quiet, broken person, into someone who would stand his ground, soon after he got the job of splitting wood for Mrs. White. She thought his sense of self was coming from helping someone else, instead of sitting in his room reading comics and feeling sorry for himself. But one day, Wesley told her straight out why he was feeling better. “Mom, when I split wood. I have control of it.”
“Of what? Wesley.”
“Of everything.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I can chop it all up. The terrorists. The boys with the home-made bombs. The guys at school who are a foot taller than me. The dripping faucet. Our shitty car.”
He saw the look on his mom’s face and knew that it stung, but it was the truth. “Well, as long as that’s all you are chopping, I’m fine with it.”
Mrs. White was on a fixed income, but she paid him $5.00 for every load he split. For a 12 year old boy, in the little town of Buchanan, that went a long way. It was enough for two packs of cigarettes, which is what some of his friends tried to get him to buy. But he was staying away from tobacco. His dad had prided himself on staying away from that stuff, kept himself clean, so he could be a top-notch soldier. Wesley knew that one day he’d serve too, and wanted the chance to graduate top of his class in boot camp. He knew that smoking would make it impossible run without a hacking cough, so it was easy to turn down that temptation.
After each load he split, he took his five dollars, and put it in his sock drawer. One afternoon, when his mother was sitting at the kitchen table looking through her wallet for gas money, he walked in on her. She was crying. “I’ll just walk. It’s only two miles.” She said to Wesley. The problem was, it was pouring down rain, and Wesley couldn’t let his mother walk in that weather. It was tornado season. He didn’t say anything back, he just walked into his room, opened his sock drawer, and pulled out fifteen dollars. He came back, and without saying anything, he laid three five dollar bills on the table, beside his mother’s coffee cup. He leaned over, kissed her cheek, wiped the tear from her other cheek and said, “It’s gonna be O.K. mom. You got me.” She didn’t argue. All she could manage to say was, “Thanks, Wes.” It was then that she and Wesley formed a team. She allowed herself to rely on him. And Wesley finally felt like he wasn’t trapped. They never talked about that day. They didn’t need to. They both knew what had happened. He saw himself as the man of the house from that point forward. He’d check the doors at night, making sure she’d remembered to lock them. Many times, she’d be asleep on the sofa, half covered with an afghan, and a library book in her lap. After he’d lock up, he’d wake his mother, “Mom, hey, it’s bed time. I’ve locked up.”
“Oh, I wasn’t asleep.” She’d say every time. Then she’d stand up, take her coffee cup to the kitchen, rinse it out, and head to bed.
The school was right next door to the pawn shop. They were connected in more ways than one. The kids who’d lost something, well, they didn’t mind leaning up against this building between classes. It was their place, in the eyes of the townspeople. Wesley thought it ironic that he’d overheard one of the high school counselors refer to him as one of the ‘lost kids.’ He laughed, and had wanted to say, “Yes, I’ve lost a lot.” Because she’d only been at the high school two years, she didn’t know that his dad had died a hero. She didn’t see the City Council Members hand Wesley a certificate naming a day for his father. All she’d seen was the anger seeping out. Anger at death. Anger at smart-ass teenagers who didn’t know when to keep their mouth shut. He’d only been defending his family’s name, his father’s memory, when Jake said, “You’re a wussy just like your dad!”
The principal privately told Wesley that he understood the reaction, and would have done the same thing in his shoes. “But”, he added, “I think you need a break from this place. I’m gonna recommend you spend the rest of this semester at the alternative school. If you finish all your classes and keep your anger under control, you can come back in Janurary. Deal?” He held out his hand and gave Wesley a warm, secure shake. Something in that handshake made Wesley feel like he was respected.
“Come on Wes!” Brian hollered, as Wesley stood on the other side of the street, reliving the day he got sent here- to the alternative school. He was sure he was gonna hate it. And he did the first day. But when Brian came in the very next day, his best friend since 6th grade, a little spark of hope came into his being.
“Yea man. I’m comin’.” He jogged across the street, walked past the pawn shop, and stood in front of the plate glass door. Coach opened it up, greeted them and handed them the sign-in sheet. “You’re both here early today!”
“I’m gonna help Julie with her Algebra. Mr. Moon said I could.”
“Oh, yea, I forgot about that. What about you Brian?”
“I’m doing my community service hours here this week. Probation Officer said this would work. I’m gonna take out trash and clean the bathrooms. Then, I’ll sweep the front.”
“Alright man. I’ll get you the cleaning supplies.”
“Oh, I gotta clean something too, since I broke those pencils.” Wesley added.
“O.K. I’ll figure out something for you to do.” Coach replied.
Wesley walked right over to Julie, who was sitting with her back to the door and had headphones on. He stood behind her as she watched an ‘educational’ video about domestic violence. He knew she’d jump four feet out of the chair if he surprised her, so he walked around her desk, stood in front of her. He guessed it would take for her about 2 minutes before she noticed him standing there..
Two of her friends saw what was happening. They giggled, semi-whispered her name, and tried waving their hands to get her attention. She was glued to the video, and saw none of the flying arms and commotion around her. Wesley shook his head in their direction. A minute later, she glanced up and saw Wesley. A grin the size of Texas beamed across her face. She glanced back down at her screen while reaching out one of her hands towards him. He took the seven steps between them, grabbed a nearby a chair and slid it next to hers before clasping her hand. Then he leaned over whispered something in her ear. All eyes were on them for the next couple of minutes, even the teachers couldn’t help but stare. Wesley leaned over the metal arm on his chair to get as close as possible to Julie.
“Let’s do some math when you finish this lesson on verbs.” He said, with a tone of authority that even surprised him.
“O.K. Wes.” She responded, without taking her eyes off the screen.
“Transitive or intransitive?” She asked, leaning close to him, after reading the sentence.
“Don’t know that. Let’s google it.” He said, placing his hand on top of hers as it rested on the mouse. He guided the cursor to the “e” and double clicked it.
The first site listed was Wikipedia. Wesley always skipped Wikipedia. He didn’t trust it, because he knew that any human on earth could post on Wiki. He selected the second site, Chompchomp.
“I got it. It’s an action verb. Just think of me. Things I like to do.”
“Jump, flip, hit, smash.” She said, while smiling.
“I do more than that.”
“Eat, run, spin, kick.”
“Tickle.” He said, as he ran his hand up the middle of her back to her neck, which he knew drove her crazy.
“Stop it! Wes.”
The coach, just a few feet away, walked towards them, but before he got there, Julie said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be loud.”
“Wes, you know the deal, You have to be HELPING her, not distracting her.”
“Alright.”
“And take off your hat, Wes.” The coach added. “You know the rules. They are the same every day.”
Wesley took off his hat and put it on Julie’s head. She took it off and hung it on the computer monitor.While Julie finished her test on verbs, Wesley fidgeted with her silly bands, pulling them away from her wrist, and letting them pop back against her skin. After the third pop, she pulled her hand away. He pulled a green one off his arm, and put it on her left hand. She took it off, in a teasing way, and laid it on the desk. “I’m not gonna put this on if you are just going to pop me with it.” As the band took it’s shape on the desk top, Wesley’s eyes enlarged to the size of platters. Before Julie saw the shape, he swiped it up and shoved it in his pocket. He hopped up while raising his hand.
“Coach, can I use the restroom?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Once in the bathroom, Wesley got out his phone, selected camera, and arranged the silly band on the edge of the sink. “Death.” He snapped a shot of the band and sent it to Brian along with a text, “We gotta tlk.” He knew Brian never turned off his phone and waited for a response. During his wait, he rewound the past few days, trying to remember where he got this silly band.
Eve. He got it from Eve. Last night, while he was reading her a bedtime story.
“You want my new silly band?”
She usually got her silly bands from him. And that’s what he thought at the time. But now he knew that this was not the case. He was methodical in his silly band collection. He’d pile them up on his night stand before going to sleep. He never wore more than seven, since that was his lucky number. So, when Eve had given him a green one, he took a green one off his arm and slid it down onto her wrist. “You can only wear one at a time.” He had told her. The rule seemed crazy even to him. But after he heard about some kid who wore about 30 silly bands for more than a few weeks, and they had gotten embedded in his skin, he was a bit fanatical about Eve wearing one at time. “It can’t happen if you are only wearing one.” He tried to explain to her. “But I wanna wear four. I’m four. So I can wear four.”
Wesley’s mother didn’t intercede in this attempt at being a protector. In fact, she hid a smile, finding it humorous that Wesley was using the same argument with his little sister that she had used with him less than five years ago. “It’s just not safe, Eve. Trust me.”
His phone vibrated and he opened the text from Brian. “What the hell? Are you threatening me?” Brian always used ‘complete words’ when texting.
“No. Sum1 iz snding threats 2 me. It ain’t funny.” He heard a knock on the door just as he hit the send button.
“You done?” It was the voice of Buck, a typical rural hunting kid who always seemed to be on the verge of committing an act of kindness. In fact, Wesley was sure that Buck was the one who’d retrieved his cell phone one day, and slid it back into his pocket before anyone noticed. Buck didn’t want to be identified as ‘too nice a guy.’ It just wasn’t cool. Wesley respected that, and didn’t blow his cover. He figured he’d get a chance to pay Buck back someday. That’s the way the world worked, he recently learned.
“Just a minute, Buck.”
His heart was racing now. He felt like punching the bathroom door, or kicking in the sheet rock. Instead, he balled his fists up and shook them up towards God, just before he opened the door. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he made eye contact with Brian, who was pulling trash bags out of the trash cans. Brain did the ‘come here’ head motion which Wesley understood to mean, “Come outside with me.” He walked over to the coach who was helping another student with math.
“Hey, can I help Brian take out the trash? I need to get outta here for a second. I can’t concentrate.”
“Yea man. Go ahead.”
That was the cool thing about this school. The teachers weren’t really ‘teachers.’ Not the kind you’d had since first grade-the shaking a finger in your face and telling you to be quiet type. The coach and three other teachers listened to you. If you needed some fresh air, time to cool off, they usually gave you something to do. There were even some days when Wesley cleaned during his entire 3 hours. But then the next day, he’d get more work done than he had in a whole week at the ‘regular’ high school. One of his teachers, the one who always ran to grab the coach when anyone had a math question, told him that he’d done almost the whole trig class after three weeks. He didn’t really realize he’d done that much work. It had seemed easy. School had been easy for him years ago. But that was before his dad got killed. After that, nothing was easy.
“Wesley. What the hell is going on, man?” Brian said, as soon as they turned the corner of the building.
“Someone’s messing with me, dude. And it’d be fine if it were just me. But it ain’t like that.” He kicked the green industrial trash can as Brain lifted the lid and tossed the white sacks into it.
“Whadda mean?”
“They’re going through Eve.” Wesley reached in his pocket and pulled out the crumpled post it note and handed it to Brian. Then he handed him the silly band.
Brian studied the yellow paper for a minute, then shook his head. “Man, they’re serious, aren’t they?” he shuffled his feet back and forth, like he was practicing some new skateboarding move, before looking up at Wesley. “You know you can’t hold on to this. You gotta turn it over.”
“Yea. I know. But I wanna kill the guy who’s sending me this crap.”
“Well, that may happen. Maybe that’s your next assignment.” Brian chuckled, seeing the humour in the dark situation. He had a knack for that.
“I’m not that lucky. I haven’t been trained for that. Not yet, anyway.”
“Well, if you leave after this next job, then you won’t ever get trained for that.”Wesley reached his hand out for the note, but Brain shoved it into his pocket.
“Let me keep it for you Wes. I know it’ll just drive you crazy and you’ll end up throwing a chair through a window or something.”
“Alright man. We meet at 8. Right? It is 8, isn’t it?”
“Uh huh. Second Street. You already forgot the meeting time? Is this the only thing that’s been distracting you? Are things cool with you and Julie.”
“Julie and I are still the same. I bug her; she likes it, but she pretends she doesn’t. She lets me hold her hand sometimes, if she’s in the mood. When I tell her I broke something, she laughs. When I show her my bruises, she laughs.” Wesley liked it that Julie didn’t fuss over him like his mom did. At first, it bugged him. He wanted her sympathy. But eventually, it felt more like she believed in him, and his ability to recover. When she laughed at his injuries, he got this feeling that she saw inside of him.
She treated him more like a brother, at times, almost delighted to hear about his mishaps. Once though, when he saw Brian talking to her in front of the library, explaining that “Wesley’s gonna be late, he’s got this hamstring thing- from an accident. This had nothing to do with Wesley falling off the train.” It was that statement that sparked a look of genuine concern. From a distance it looked like she was wiping a tear. Later, Brian had confirmed that Julie did, in fact, show some minor grief at Wesley’s accident.
He’d also overheard her telling a friend that she didn’t know what she’d do without Wes. “It’s not just about getting an A in math. I really like him. He’s cute and he’s always saying the funniest things. And, you ought to hear the way he talks about his mother.” Julie had been coached by her dad, since the age of five.
“You can tell how a guy is going to treat you by the way he treats his own mother,” he’d said to her. She’d heard this phrase more in the last year than anything else. He must have noticed the way she tilted her head and smiled when she saw Wesley walking down her driveway.
The second day she and Wesley sat together, he mentioned that he was going to have to leave an hour early the next day to drive his mom to the doctor. That was the moment she took a mental highlighter, glided it over his name, then hit bold, italics and underline.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Crossing Over
I picked up a cup from the sink, dumped out its contents, and placed it on the top rung of my dishwasher. The phone rang. It was just before10 pm, which meant whomever was calling either didn’t know me very well, or it was an emergency. I meant to turn off my phone at 10, but since I’d forgotten to, I just ignored it.
I grabbed a bowl and put it next to the cup. The phone’s ringing increased in volume, but I just shoved a handful of silverware into the lower shelf basket, trying to pretend that I didn’t hear it. The next level of volume, though, penetrated my serenity. I wiped my hands on my pants and walked towards the table, which was scattered with various school papers, pens and a few napkins left from dinner. The phone glowed and twirled in a semi-circle as I reached for it, almost teasing me. I picked it up with my damp hand, not looking at the caller ID before I answered.
“Hello.”
“Hey, it’s me.”
My heart jumped. I recognized the voice and immediately felt my face flush.
“Hey you. Gomer, what are you doin’ calling me?”
“I want to see you.”
“I’d like to see you, too. You want to meet me somewhere in Atlanta in a few weeks?”
“No. I want to see you….. now. Can I come see you?”
I leaned against the chair and propped my knee on it to stabilize myself.
“You’re kidding? You mean right now.”
“Yes. Now. As in-- I want to leave here in 10 minutes. I can be there by 11:30. That’s not too late, is it?”
I breathed fast and ran my fingers through my hair. I looked up at the clock and imagined him arriving, in less than two hours. Thoughts of his wispy blonde hair and blue eyes made my palms sweat. Images of candlelight and white table cloths floated by then sailed away. They were replaced by a sense of the earth turning beneath me while I hovered above the land, watching it move underneath me.
“Kathy. There is something I need to ask you. But I need to see you, look you in the eyes, hold your hands,…. Can I come over?” His voice jolted me back to earth.
“Sure you can.” I didn’t even really think it through; it just seemed like the ONLY thing that I could possibly say. One of those moments when you know that it doesn’t make any real logical sense, but somewhere deep down inside of you, you know its supposed to happen.
“O.K. Then, I’ll see you in a little while.” He said matter-of-factly, as if this were something that happened every day.
“You’re serious. You are really going to drive over here tonight?” I started to get the feeling I’d had years ago when it was the day before Christmas Eve. It was an intangible moment, spiritual mainly, but I knew from experience that there would be evidence of the magical moment.
“Yes. I’ll text you when I’m getting off the exit. It’s exit 51, right?”
“Uh huh. Then turn left and drive about 13 miles. At the light go right, then you go about two miles. I’m the fourth street on your left.”
“I’ve googled it; so I’ve got directions. I’ll see you soon. Around 11:30. O.K.? I can’t wait!”
“Oh my goodness. You are really about to drive over here.” I uttered, which was more for my own understanding than his. I needed to clarify the reality.
“Yes, I am. I’m getting my coat right now. I’ll call you when I get to Woodstock.
“O.K. Be careful. Bye.”
I laid the phone down on the table and scanned my surroundings. Random shoes, an empty bag of chips and three backpacks littered my living room. Just as an animal will clear away leaves and brush to create a space for sleeping, I instinctively began sweeping up items with both hands. When a pile stood knee high, I looked for a place to toss everything. A nearby empty laundry basket offered itself to me. So I began flinging things in its direction, most of them landing in it. Sorting things didn’t seem important.
After the large objects were removed from the floor, the specs of food particles and tiny bits of paper seemed to jump up out of nowhere. I grabbed the vacuum and shoved it around both the dining room and living room- as if a million dollars rested on finishing the job in less than 3 minutes. I wanted time to get a shower and then make some type of refreshments for us. Any type of meeting with my once in a lifetime love, could not occur without food. After I slung the vacuum back into the laundry room, I opened the fridge to scan the fare. A few containers with unknown contents sat next to yogurt, butter, cream cheese and a new pack of blueberry muffins. I opened the crisper drawers and found that 2 oranges were left from the sack I’d bought earlier in the week.
“Muffins and oranges. With hot tea and honey.” I said outloud. “Perfect!”
I wiped the dining room table after collecting the papers and books and piling them into one of the chairs. Then I headed straight to the shower.
I heard the buzz of my phone as I was towel drying my hair, and dove across my bed to answer it. It was a text message. “Just hit I-20.” That meant I had about an hour to kill. My palms began to sweat even in my cool bedroom. I pulled on pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and headed to the living room to make sure the fire in the wood stove was still burning.
The fire had a bed of coals that would make any pioneer feel proud. The radiating heat almost scalded my face. I sat and stared at the embers, glowing white, while brushing out my hair. It seemed like everything I had understood to be true, like the fact that a square has four equal sides, that the sun rises in the east, had just been re-configured. I suppose there is a moment, after a scientist does intense research, striving to understand a tiny particle, when something so random occurs, and almost seems like a ‘chance’ experience, that the whole picture shifts. Things fall into place and the surroundings grow quiet. That is what I was feeling. The quiet. Warmth surrounded me and it wasn’t all coming from the stove. It seemed to descend from above and below. Like a wave, not the kind that knocks you down and scares you, but like warm sea water, on a cool day. It almost pulls you in, and you let your body relax and float into the giant mass of life. Then you find yourself up to your neck, and feel the cool wind on your face, and something like enormous understanding flows all over you. The threatening sea is now wrapping itself around you, protecting you.
The phone was now in my pocket, so I would not miss the next call. If he called me at exit 51, that would leave me with 10 minutes of heart-pounding, quick breathing. I glanced at the clock. If his calculation was right, I had about 20 minutes left. “Oh my gosh! Tea. Muffins!”
I got the oranges out and sliced them on a bright yellow plate. The juice ran out and seemed to represent my heart at that very moment. I was cutting it open, and letting things run out that I had held in for years. Hopes, dreams, that I dared not even allow into my head, were just running out, and I wasn’t reaching for a napkin.
I reached on my tip-toes to try and grab a couple of candles from the top shelf. Pointless. I had to grab a chair. I always tried to get stuff without a chair, I guess somehow hoping that I’d finally grow that extra 2 inches I’d waited for till I was about 18, before giving up. I slid a chair up to the counter and began digging for candles. I found 3 tall white ones, left over from Christmas, and a couple of short red ones. I grabbed the crystal holders and set them in place using the old, melt-the-bottom-of-the-candle-first trick.
I felt my pocket vibrate, and was almost too scared to read the text. But, I couldn’t NOT look. “Exit 51 up ahead. My heart is pounding.”
My face, I had to do something with my face. I didn’t wanna put on too much make-up. But, I wanted my tired face to reflect the brightness that I felt.
I looked on the kitchen hook for my purse, which held my tiny make-up bag. No purse. I glanced at the table, the door knob, the sofa….still no purse. “The car! It’s in the car!”
I dashed outside into the very cold, still, night and grabbed my purse, Before turning to go back inside, I glanced up and saw a perfectly white moon, just between the branches on the tall pine tree hanging over my head. It seemed to nod, even wink at me, before I darted back inside. I went directly to the restroom and studied my face. My cheeks were glowing pink, probably from the fire, but quite possibly the frigid air had added another layer of intensity to it. My nose, too, was a nice pink color. I took off my glasses and studied my eyes. Lines around the corners, which didn’t bother me at all, seemed to soften my whole face. I put on a slight amount of mascara, a light pink lipstick, and decided that would be just right. I brushed my hair again, noticing the few gray hairs that were blending nicely with my new highlights. Funny how my own conclusion at looking at myself was summed up in one word, “pretty.” I felt pretty, and I smelled pretty. I brushed my teeth and scooted random bathroom items to the edge of the counter. I wiped the mirror before grabbing a pair of socks off the floor and hanging up a bath towel that was lying next to the bathtub.
I ran back to the kitchen to make sure I had left the garage light on. My pocket vibrated and I almost couldn’t get my hand into my pocket. When I looked at the screen I saw that it was a call, not a text. “Hello.”
“I’m on 48. I’ll be there in 10 minutes, Kathy.”
I swallowed. Hearing him say my name felt like his hand had just caressed my heart.
“Hello. Can you hear me?”
“Hello. Can you hear me?”
“Yes. I hear you. Watch out for deer. And that road has a few strong curves.”
“Okay. See ya in just a little bit. Bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Candles. I needed to light them. I looked over at the mantle and noticed 3 Christmas candles sitting beside the nativity scene. I ran my hands around to feel for a lighter and after a few swipes, my fingers landed on it. I quickly lit the first tall, red candle, then tipped it to the side to light the short green Santa candle before walking around the room to light the others. I put two on the hand-made children’s table that sat directly in front of the wood stove. The seven or eight candles cast a nice golden glow over everything, and softened the dust bunnies and random toys and shoes that were wedged between pieces of furniture. I placed our plates on the little table before glancing out the window to look for headlights. My pocket vibrated again.
“I’m at the red light. I turn left here?”
“Um, right, left, correct.” My heart jumped and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.
“Fourth street?”
“Fourth. On your right. Across from the church. Second house on right.” I wasn’t speaking in complete sentences. My brain wouldn’t let me.
“I’m beside the high school.”
“Less than a quarter mile. Start counting streets.”
“O.K. See you in a minute.” He hung up and I stood- absolutely terrified, excited, and anxious. A mixture of joy, not unlike what I felt at the birth of my own child, and the intense grief I felt during the days following the death of my mother, swirled around my being and threatened to pull me down to the floor while lifting my soul to the stars.
I opened my kitchen door and stuck my head out. A cold blast of icy air froze the tears that had already started down my cheeks. I came back to the window, glanced down the street and immediately saw headlights. I knew they were his. The truck drove under the street light and I saw his silhouette. I ran to the door and opened it again, this time waving my hand. He turned in my driveway and I blinked the garage light. He opened his door, and an overhead light came on. I saw him leaning over his passenger seat before he looked up and saw me. Walking out to meet him didn’t seem right, so I stood on my threshold, observing him walking towards me. When he was about 4 feet away, I held out both my arms as a child does when a parent comes home. He wrapped himself around me. I let myself fall into his warm chest, inhaled deeply and whispered in his ear, “Welcome home.”
I listened to his breathing, which was as fast as mine, and noticed the familiar scent that seemed to fill a part of me, that had laid like an empty room for many, many years. We both exhaled and relaxed into each other’s being.
“Thank you.” He whispered.
“Come on in.”
He stepped into the kitchen and I said, “Would you please just stand here for a minute. I want to remember this moment for the rest of my life. I didn’t think I would ever see you standing here in my kitchen.” A flashback hit me, from 6 years earlier, of my husband asking me, “What would you do, Kathy, if Luke Greene walked in this house right now?”
“If he were single, I would take his hand, and get the children, and walk out of this house with him.”
“You are that certain?” He said, in complete disbelief.
“Of course I am that certain. I’ve had 20 years to learn about life and love. And the love I had for him, and he for me, is just that once in a lifetime thing.”
“So, I’ve always been number two.”
“Since you put it that way. Yes. You have been.” The hurt in his eyes was deep. But I wasn’t concerned with him anymore. I was more concerned with being honest with myself, about who I was and where I was going.
“But, Luke Greene is not going to walk in this house.” That phrase rolled around over and over as I stood looking at him, his white beard, his gentle forehead wrinkles, and the blonde curls that peeked out from under his hat.
He walked over to me, kissed my cheek and held my face in his hands. “Kathy, you are beautiful. More beautiful today than ever.”
“Can I pick you up?” he asked, in a bashful tone.
“Sure you can.” Before I could finish speaking he scooped me up into his arms and carried me into my livingroom. He sat me down on the sofa before taking a seat beside me.
“Thank you for letting me come see you. I know this seems crazy. But it’s not.”
“Well, Mr. G, you have just done something that I thought would remain an unfulfilled dream.”
“And what is that?”
“You are sitting beside me, in my home, on my sofa.” I reached for his hand and he turned his palm up to meet mine.
“Thank you.” He repeated. And it seemed like he was wanting to say more, but just didn’t have any words. I knew just how he felt, and decided that words would only limit our conversation so I simply squeezed his hand and reached for his other one. He slid close to me, put his arm around me, and pulled my head to his chest.
I closed my eyes, listened to his heart, and felt a release inside of me. Tears came and I didn’t try to stop them. Images of children, a home, a front yard, a porch swing, big trees, sunsets, spilled milk, tucking children in bed, sitting at the dinner table with him beside me, came flashing through my mind at such a rapid speed, that I didn’t even try to focus on any of them.
“Are you O.K.?” he asked.
“Better than O.K. I’m really, really happy you came tonight. I don’t care what happens tomorrow, or even in the next 5 minutes really. This, right now, is enough.”
We sat in the golden room, the silence swirled around us. I looked at him, then at the wood stove with a red glow dancing behind the glass doors, then back at him again. He reached up, and with his thumb, brushed away the tears dropping off my chin. He kept his hand on my chin, leaned close to me, pressed his lips on my forehead, and then whispered, “Can I kiss you?”
How can a woman, forty-seven years old, with three kids, having been married and divorced, feel like she has never been kissed before? Well, it happens. It sounds insane. But it really did seem like I was about to experience something for the first time. Now I know that I wasn’t imagining things. It was a first.
“Yes. You can.”
His hands, placed on both sides of my head, gently pulled me towards him. He leaned close and said, “Open your eyes. I want to see you looking at me.”
He tilted his head, and brushed his lips lightly over mine. We both gasped.
He pulled away, looked at me and smiled. He moved his thumb to my lower lip and pulled it down gently before coming towards me and pressing his mouth on mine. I closed my eyes. The room began to spin, a rush of energy shot through me and the desire to be consumed, completely, came crashing into me like an unexpected wave.
I don’t know how long we continued with a blending of our physical and spiritual selves. It seemed like a lifetime, but in reality it probably wasn’t more than 6 or 7 minutes. I think we both understood that too much of whatever it was that we were feeling might put us in a place that we weren’t ready for.
“Let me make us some tea.” I offered, almost as a way to bring myself down to earth for a moment.
“That sounds nice.”
“I’ve got some muffins to heat up, too.” I said, while pushing myself towards the kitchen, which was harder than I imagined it would be. While I stood in front of the microwave, watching the muffins spin, I had thoughts swirling around me like a soft, warm tornado.
He’s sitting in my livingroom right now. Twighlight Zone ain’t got nothin’ on this.
I got two cups from the cabinet and opened packets of vanilla chai tea. “Do you like vanilla chai?”
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m sure it’ll be great!” He responded with enthusiasm.
“Do you like sugar and milk in your tea?” I asked from the kitchen.
“Fix it how you like it. I do like it sweet.”
We sat on the sofa, with the muffins, oranges and tea in front of us. The fire crackled. The candles flickered. I sat beside this man, the person who had been in my life almost thirty years ago, and felt exactly the same way, thought the same thoughts that I had thought then. I remembered asking myself the same questions then, that were bubbling up right now. But this time, though, I knew the answers.
“Thank you for the tea. It’s perfect.” He said, while looking into me. Not at me.
“I made yours just like mine, cream and sugar.”
“Kathy. I want to ask you something. You know, I drove over here so I could talk to you. And it may seem really strange, but this has been gnawing at me for a while.”
“I will listen to whatever you want to talk about. This is your time.”
He took my hands in his, and looked at them, not at my face. And I looked at him looking at our hands, thinking about how beautiful his eyelids were. His long, blonde eyelashes, seemed to announce his inner beauty.
“Kathy, if I were really sick. I mean, if I were, um, about to cross over into the next life, and I asked you to come see me, would you come? Would you come hold my hand as I left this world? I’ve thought about this a lot. And it’s something I need to know.” He paused. But I could tell he wasn’t finished with his thoughts, because he was still looking at his hands holding mine, and he was trembling. “I would give your number to my son Mike, and explain to him who you are, and ask him to call you.” At that point he looked up at me and stated, “Would you sit beside me, hold my hand, and say good-bye?”
I wanted to ask, “Do you have a terminal illness? How long do you have to live? What’s the matter?” But my censoring mechanism must have been on supercharged, because the only thing that came out of my mouth was, “Yes. I’d come.”
He looked down at our hands again, and sighed. His breathing slowed down and a slight smile emerged. “Good. Then. I just needed to know how you felt about that. And if you’d come. I’m not sick.” He quickly added. He must have known what I was thinking. “I just had a physical and everything checked out great. But you never know. I am fifty. And you know what else? I can’t imagine being on my way out of this life, and you not being beside me.”
I can’t recall what I said next. Or what I did. From that point onward, well, it was again like seeing evidence that a square doesn’t have four sides. Something huge shifted in my universe. Almost as if my ship, pointed in one direction my entire life, was just set one degree closer towards the east. I can see in the distance, due to the gift of a super powerful telescope, that my final destination, my final years of life, will be very different than what I had imagined.
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