Timing

Rich listened to the man on the phone and then said, “Graven images? No sir. We are a photographic service, not a funeral home.” Rich wrote something on his pad. “Oh, I see. You are getting married but want no graven images? Got it. Well, here at Silva, we do photography.”

Rich gestured to Pete as if to say, ‘Where do these weirdos come from?’

Pete was waiting to discuss his first wedding shoot. It had been a huge break for him. He looked around the office. A large light table, for examining negatives, stood against one wall. Another wall was covered by a black and white mural of Salvador Dali flying through the air with cats and water.

Rich continued. “You want an artist to record the wedding? Like a painter? I see. As I said, we are photographic artists. If you contact the courts, they could recommend a court artist to help you…” Rich looked at his watch and then at Pete, who smiled.

“Of course. Mr. Charles? If I may? Should you decide you also want a photographer to cover your wedding or any other event, we have a team of talented men and women who will happily provide you with the best photographic service. Yes. Thank you.” Rich hung up the phone.

He rolled his eyes. “No graven images? How about holograms?” Pete laughed. “Now, Pete, where were we?”

“We were looking at the Crinoline wedding.”

Rich held up the folder. “Right. Got it here.” Rich shuffled through the prints. He murmured, sighed and leaned across his desk.

“What is this crap? This is a wedding shoot?”

Pete stammered. “Of course. I got some good stuff, Mr. Silva.”

Rich slid one of the photos across the desk to Pete. “Like this?” It featured one of the bride’s maids just after the bouquet toss. The bouquet soared over her head, out of reach. Her expression said it all.

Pete cleared his throat. “I thought she was going to get it. But it’s still a good shot. Kind of poignant.”

“Pete. Was this a wedding shot by Diane Arbus? No one pays for poignancy. Don’t you get it? Weddings are happy, happy, joy, joy, joy… Did I say happy? No one wants to be reminded of their sad, dreary lives. Ever wonder why no one hires us to cover their funerals?”

Rich let that sink in for a moment. He slid another picture to Pete.

“Pete, you don’t want them bursting into tears every time the wedding album comes out. What’s this?”

Pete glanced at it. “That’s the groom and the bride’s little brother.”

“The kid is sticking out his tongue.”

“He’s taking his big sister away. It’s cute.”

“I can just see that over their sofa. What about this?”

The picture showed three bride’s maids laughing together, standing in light streaming down from a stained glass window. In the shadows behind them, two groomsmen observed the young women.

Pete said, “It’s beautiful. Look at that light. It had to be taken.”

“If you want to do predators and prey, work for National Geographic. Don’t do weddings.”

Pete felt deflated. He lived to take pictures. His heroes were the legendary Weegee and Cartier-Bresson, masters of capturing ‘the moment’.

“I don’t know, Pete. Your stock group shots are alright. You have a good sense of light. Decent composition, but… I don’t know. Maybe you’re not ready.”

“Please don’t send me back to grade school portraits, Mr. Silva.” Pete blinked away a tear.

“Let me think about it… Oh, here. Who’s the gangster?”

“The bride’s father. The groom was late. He was waiting.” In the picture he stood, stone-faced, cigarette poised, searching the distance. The church edifice rose behind him.

“Was he packing heat?”

“You mean a gun? I don’t think so. The groom drove up right after I took that.”

“You know this was a wedding, right? He looks like he’s about to light a fuse with that cigarette. Look at the length of that ash.”

“I was getting coverage, Mr. Silva. You know, personality stuff.”

“Well, he’s got personality alright. Al Capone looked better in a monkey suit.”

“He’s really a nice guy. Once the groom showed, he mellowed out. Here look…”

Pete found a picture of the two fathers shaking hands. Their smiles looked genuine.

Silva shook his head. “What? They’re about to wrestle?”

“That was them playing… They’re friends…”

The phone buzzed. Silva hit a button. The receptionist spoke, “Do you have a moment? The Crinolines are here…”

“Send them in.” Rich looked at Pete. “Hey, hey! It’s showtime…”

The office door opened and a young couple entered. Pete and Silva stood to greet them.

Pete introduced them. “Carol and Don Crinoline, this is my boss, Rich Silva.” They all shook hands and sat.

Rich showed them the standard pictures of the family groupings and wedding participants. Carol took the lead over most of the choices. She would look at Don to make sure he was on board. They seemed happy with Pete’s work.

Carol looked at Pete. “Is that it? I saw you rushing around shooting all sorts of things.”

“Oh, well… there’s a few…”

Rich offered the Crinolines the folder he discussed with Pete.

Carol and Don flipped through a few. Carol burst into laughter.

“I can’t believe you got Billy sticking his tongue out at Donny.” She nudged Don with her elbow. “You started it, didn’t you?”

Don chuckled. “Good thing Pete was behind me. Wouldn’t look good for a grown man to be sticking his tongue out at a poor little kid.”

Carol looked at Rich. “That’s a game they always play with each other. So silly. We need to order that for Billy to keep.”

Pete and Rich stole looks at each other.

“And here’s Mary, missing the bouquet. I so wanted her to catch it. Her boyfriend just broke up with her.”

Don said, “One of the guys, Tom, asked her out. She’ll be okay.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful!” Carol held up the shot of the bride’s maids standing in the beam of light.

“That’s Tom over on the left. He’s a good guy.”

“We want one of those too.” They shuffled through some others.

“Oh, my God. Look at my father! I didn’t know he still smoked. What’s he doing?”

“I think he was wondering why I was late.”

“He looks so worried. He loves you so much.”

Donny looked at Pete and Rich with a laugh. “Or plotting my demise, if I didn’t show.”

Carol hit Don’s shoulder playfully. “Oh stop. Seriously, he never reveals so much emotion. I didn’t think he cared that much. Here’s your mother.”

Carol held the print up for Rich and Pete. Watching their vows, the woman clutched a handkerchief. Her face revealed a fretful past and hopes for the future in one brief instant.

“She’s so wonderful.” Don nodded. Carol continued, “You know, that day… We were the stars taking our vows, but really, it isn’t just about us two. What we do affects so many around us.” Carol took Don’s hand. They smiled and bumped shoulders in solidarity.

Carol returned to the folder. “I don’t want to take more of your time.”

Rich smiled. “This is why we are here. Take all the time you want.”

Don saw a picture and smiled. “Ahhh, you got it.”

Carol gasped, “I didn’t know you took that!” Carol held up a picture of Don holding her from behind in low light. In the image, their hands entwined. She smiles enigmatically as he whispers something to her.

Carol reacted to Pete in mock outrage. “You are nothing but a voyeur!” They all laughed. “How big can we make that? I want it framed in our room.”

Rich closed the deal. “So, you are happy with Pete’s work?”

“These are amazing! How did you get these? And so many!”

Pete beamed. “You all kept me pretty busy.”

Rich brought out the order form to sign. He talked nonstop, as they completed their order. Carol and Don left the office in high spirits.

Rich told Pete to sit. Pete looked hopeful.

“So, Pete… We have a few weddings booked. You up to taking on another?”

“You bet, Mr. Silva.”

“Like I said, keep pushing that little button. You’re bound to get something good.”

The Old Nome Hotel

At first glance, the old hotel looked different than Jeremy remembered. It resembled a mountain when seen through the trees in the dwindling light. Jeremy realized the mist drifting through the towers gave the impression of movement. At first sight of it, Jeremy’s horse, King, pulled back. The massive structure loomed. But appearances were not the only cause of Jeremy’s hesitation.

He stroked King’s mane gently. “You’ve been here before, King. Is that why you balk?”

This was his tenth and final year paying tribute at the manse. Jeremy would collect his due. His pot of gold. His liberty.

Old Nome had done a spectacular job transforming the decrepit old house into this imposing structure. Considering its remote location, Nome had made a go of it and over time, its dubious reputation spread. People willingly traveled here, out of their way, to sleep for a night or two in a legendary haunted mansion. Many came away believing.

Some didn’t leave at all. Which is not to say they stayed. Stories about guests disappearing only added to its allure.

No one in their right mind actually believed the place to be haunted. Yet, those well-grounded people also never crossed its threshold.

Ten years and Jeremy’s final payment had come due. Now everything would change. He could finally go home.

An attendant met them at the gate and held the reins of Jeremy’s horse, which trembled at the stranger’s approach. Jeremy dismounted and cooed to King, as he patted its withers.

“Go King. Eat your fill. We’ll be off in the morning.”

The little man laughed as he led the steed around to the stables.

Jeremy entered the lobby and once more gazed at the grand, high ceilings with their intricate carvings and muted colors.

Nome approached with his hand out. “You came.” They shook hands. Nome rested against his walking stick. He looked up at Jeremy, who stood a head taller.

“How could I not? We agreed, didn’t we?”

“Perhaps you’ll stay this time?”

Jeremy laughed. “Oh no, old man. I will hold you to your word.”

Nome smiled mysteriously. “If you think you can. Many have tried. Perhaps you will.”

Their laughter entwined and echoed coldly, as they slapped each other’s backs in an embrace.

Nome said, “Come. There is much to do.”

Jeremy followed the old man, who walked briskly despite his limp.

Jeremy smiled at his ongoing, internal debate about the inn-keeper. Did his head look like a cabbage found by the roadside? Or a giant potato? Jeremy laughed to himself, resolving it was a curious hybrid of the two. Regardless, Nome’s out-sized nose and cavernous, clever eyes, peering from beneath a singular mossy brow, ensured no one took the liberty of plopping him into a stew pot.

Nome took Jeremy directly to his room up the narrow stairs, on the third floor.

“Here ye be. Shake the dust off and come down for some grubs.”

Jeremy thanked him and closed the door.

Small and spare, the room suited him. The dorm window overlooked the grounds and stables. A deep rosy glow faded over rolling hills in the west.

Jeremy traveled light. He almost hit his head on the ceiling as he turned to put his satchel on the cot. A small sink under a smaller mirror squeezed into one corner. The communal toilet was down one floor at the end of the hall. The hook on the door held his jacket.

The only décor, a heavy picture frame, barely fit the wall between the sink and the window. It featured a postcard-sized picture of three faeries sitting for a family portrait. They bore no resemblance to Nome.

Jeremy rinsed his face and descended to the main floor.

The staff greeted him with a cheer as he entered the dining area. They treated him like long lost family.

Undine ran to him and gave him a warm hug. She smiled up at him. He always felt immersed in a peaceful seascape when gazing into her gentle blue eyes.

She spoke. “Is it really you?”

“At last.”

“Back to stay?”

“Nome will determine that, won’t he?”

Undine shared a look with him that Jeremy dared not interpret. He felt a tug on his sleeve.

Sylphie came and went without fanfare, like a refreshing breeze. She offered Jeremy the single large chair at the foot of the table. She sat next to him. Hardly noticed but when absent, when candles flickered, Jeremy knew Sylphie stood at hand.

Nome sat opposite Jeremy. They nodded to each other soberly. Sylphie gave Jeremy a questioning look. Her dark eyes drew him in like a tunnel. Nome slapped the table and broke his trance. Sylphie touched Jeremy’s elbow.

“We must speak. But not here.”

Nome coughed conspicuously. “There will be no hogging of the guest with whispers and glances, Sylphie. Let us celebrate!”

Jeremy followed Sylphie’s glance and saw Undine watching them. He didn’t want to get caught in their emotional tug-o-war.

At that, the cook, stocky Sal, entered with a platter laden with steaming, juicy delicacies. The platter eclipsed his head but he handled it deftly. Sal placed it in the middle of the table and everyone dug in, Sal included. Plates and cutlery were considered an unnecessary formality. Food fights are more dignified. No one went hungry.

Being a cook, Sal carried a rich mixture of scents with him, peat smoke, sage, exotic tobacco, meat, onions and garlic. He snapped a napkin and sailed it over the table where it came to rest atop Jeremy’s head. This triggered additional cheering and laughter, making Sal’s eyes flicker brightly.

Undine ensured the mead flowed freely. She paid extra attention that Jeremy’s glass never emptied. Undine would appear from behind and lay her hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

“My, but you are thirsty, after your long ride, me Jero! Let me fill you up.” Her pitcher was always at the ready.

As the evening progressed, their voices and laughter gained volume in proportion to the quantities of drink. Memories flitted about like a lost bird. Each had his or her spin and color to add.

Jeremy got so drunk it took three of them to boost him up the stairs to his room. Sal pushed from the rear while Sylphie and Undine pulled on his arms. Their laughter brought hotel guests out of their rooms. But the protests turned to shouts of encouragement and hilarity.

Sal left him at his door. But Sylphie and Undine lingered. Neither wanting to leave him with the other.

“Stop touching him Sylphie.”

“I’m only steadying him, lest he fall.”

They guided Jeremy into his room and Undine pulled Sylphie out. Then she slammed the door. Jeremy heard their giggles recede down the hall.

Jeremy lit a candle, placed it into the wall sconce and slumped into the one chair. He could not sleep. His eyes remained open but unfocused.

Time passed and Jeremy noticed his candle flickering. He glanced up to see his door opening. Sylphie crept in, holding her finger up, signaling for silence.

She shut the door without a sound and knelt by Jeremy’s side.

“Jeremy, my boy. You must go without delay. You’re not safe.”

Jeremy responded, “But…”

Sylphie shushed him. “No debates, boy.” She gestured for him to take his things. He grabbed his satchel and followed her down the stairs.

Silently, they moved through the gloom, following the flickering light down to the main floor and into the kitchen. Sylphie paused to take a meat cleaver from the rack and signaled Jeremy to follow her. They went to a secret door behind the pantry.

A draft of cool, musky air rushed by when Sylphie opened it. She guided him down into the dark basement, closing the door behind her. Then she stopped him. Sylphie groped his face and pulled his collar down so she could speak directly to him.

Whispering, she placed the cleaver firmly into his hand. “Keep this. You must go. Follow the corridor. Stay to the left. And don’t stop.”

She turned up the staircase. Jeremy took her hand but she pulled away. “I said go. There’s no time. It’s late.” Sylphie ran back up the stairs in silence.

Jeremy could barely discern the corridor Sylphie directed him to follow. He ran his hand along the wall of rough brick, walking quickly as he dared, down the slight incline, into even deeper darkness.

It seemed to go forever. There were turns. Had he walked a mile? More?

A door stopped him. His foot bumped into it before he hit his face. He rattled the latch. Though stiff, it was not locked. Eventually, the door showed signs of submitting to Jeremy’s efforts. After throwing his weight into it a few times, the hinges gave way with a shriek.

Golden light filled the windowless room. Jeremy looked back into the dark corridor to let his eyes adjust. A pot of gold stood on a pedestal in the middle of the room. Gold coins lay strewn about the stone floor. But for that, the room was bare.

Jeremy shut and barred the door. He sank the cleaver into the hardwood and stood back, taking stock of his situation.

He lifted the pot with some effort. It took both hands. He would not get far hauling such an unwieldy object. He opened his bag and poured the gold coins into it. The satchel reached capacity before the pot fully emptied. Jeremy set the pot aright and watched amazed as it refilled itself.

He mumbled, “No good to me if I cannot carry it.”

Jeremy closed his bag and found he could haul it if he took his time. He prayed the handle would hold. He opened a second door, which revealed another tunnel. Jeremy left this door open for what meager light it would offer. He grabbed the heavy bag and ran until the darkness enveloped him. After a brief rest, he took up his burden again and continued groping his way.

Though physically fit, the satchel became too heavy to carry. How far had he walked? How deep ran this tunnel? Where did it lead?

Jeremy set down the satchel and sat on it to catch his breath. A glow drew his attention from back down the tunnel. A distant roar of billowing flames approached.

Nowhere to turn, Jeremy grabbed his bag and ran into the darkness. A wind picked up and roared past him, feeding the inferno. Wind and flames became deafening. The gale pulled at his bag and resisted his every step. Wind fed flames gained strength and closed on him. Jeremy felt the heat cooking his back. He screamed. He stumbled. But the wind held him upright.

Jeremy felt an additional force slowing him as the flames gained on him. Rising water surged past him toward the fire. The flames receded. Jeremy could breathe again. But the water kept filling the tunnel. It rose to his waist and he could make no progress against the stiff current.

Desperate, Jeremy hugged his satchel of gold. Dirt and stones showered down on him. Bracing against the current, he tried to protect his eyes from the falling debris while clutching his bag. It almost slipped from his grasp.

“No! Please!”

The water rose to his chest. The current stopped pulling at him but continued rising.

The dirt and rocks tapered off. Jeremy looked up and saw daylight. He thought if the water kept rising, he could tread water up to open air. But not if he tried to keep his precious bag of gold.

When the water reached his nose, Jeremy had no choice but to let go of his baggage. He jumped and grabbed onto the lower lip of the opening. The water buoyed him up. The current swirled around and knocked him into the walls of the well. But Jeremy kept his wits. Unencumbered, he half climbed and half swam to the top.

Soon, the water welled to the surface and washed him onto level ground. Jeremy lay in the mud. Water ran over him and he sputtered and coughed. Feeling like a discarded rag, Jeremy crawled away from the sinkhole and collected his wits. He had nothing else.

The sun shone warmly. But Jeremy felt wet and cold to his bones. He had just lost a fortune, had no clue about his location, where to go, or how to begin again. With a groan, Jeremy rolled onto his back, shut his eyes and thanked God for his life.

Jeremy lay soaking in the sun. He had to get up. To move. He was spent, wrung out.

A bird called. A gentle gust moved the grass and tickled his face. A sound made him look up.

A wolf stood silhouetted on the rise. Two others joined it. They saw him and tentatively approached. As they loped and then began to run, they spread out to circle him.

Jeremy stood and shielded his eyes from the sun. The wolves were white. Jeremy had nowhere to hide.

The lead wolf reached Jeremy and leaped up, almost knocking him down. It licked his face in greeting. The other wolves circled him and sniffed his legs. Jeremy began to laugh and to cry.

The wolves knew him. They were his. Jeremy had come home.

He shouted and energized, began to run helter-skelter with them, an old game.

Jeremy walked over the rise accompanied by his wolves. There, King, his horse looked up and whinnied in greeting. King pranced around its corral.

Jeremy felt whole.

Martha Didn’t Show

“Where’s Martha? You lose her?” That was Tim leaning out the driver’s window, talking to Ben. Ben sat in his hot rod, idling, facing the other direction.

“Naw. She didn’t show.” Ben tapped his steering wheel. He won the game tonight but looked anxious.

“I thought I saw her.”

“You’re joking.” Ben cursed.

“She got in with someone. Maybe with Shay…?”

“Oh, man… What’s she doing with that ass?”

“Guess you’d have to ask him, or her about that…”

It was the traditional Friday night gridlock, down Bentfork’s three-block Main Street. After the game, that was the place. Three blocks up, and three blocks back. Repeat. Horns honking. Engines revving. Squealing tires for about twenty feet at the one light. Mainly kids laughing and talking and idling the night away.

My friend Larry’s brother, Tim, let us ride along with him, in his back seat. I’d heard about this all my life. This was my first Friday night cruise.

Traffic didn’t move in either direction. Everyone passed the time, talking out their window to whoever happened to be sitting in traffic, headed the other way. Only no one moved. Anyone with a destination walked.

Sometimes people left one car and piled into another, like the world’s biggest Chinese fire drill.

Ben and his jock friends rumbled away in his souped-up hot rod. He had three red ‘5s’ painted on the door, five fifty-five. He raced the Triple Nickle at the fair-grounds, in season. You could hear that big engine over a block away.

But I liked the Demolition Derby better.

I asked, “Why’d you say that about Martha, Tim?”

“Just jazzin’ him. He wants everyone believing Martha’s his girl.”

“Oh…” Martha’s my sister. It is amazing what you don’t know about someone you’ve known your whole life. “So, who is she going out with?”

“I don’t know. Don’t you know?”

“I ain’t seen nobody hanging around.”

“Is she stuck up, or what?”

“That’s a loaded question, Tim. You like her?”

“Course I do. She’s beautiful. Me and about fifty other guys. But she doesn’t like me. That’s cool.”

“She doesn’t talk much. Who’s Shay?”

“One of those farm kids. Ben and him are always going at it. They both tried out for quarterback. But Ben got it. Neither of them can let it go. It’s funny.” Tim pounded on the horn.

Larry nudged me with his elbow. “We saw Shay at the fair last summer. He tossed hay bales like they were softballs.”

I remembered. Everyone trying to throw bales onto a flatbed. Shay won easily. Those things sailed.

Whenever the fair came to town, Larry and I talked about running off to the circus. We never did, though. It looked like an awful lot of work.

Tim said, “Shay used to go to St. Mary’s. I think he’s Irish.”

Larry and I nodded to each other. We knew what that meant. Shay was rough.

More cars idled by. Tim joked with some guys. He flirted with some girls. In a little while, we made it to the end of the street. A police car idled at the curb.

Like everyone else, when traffic allowed, Tim pulled a U-turn and headed back up Main.

“So, is this it? Down one way and back again?”

“Yeah, Sam. It’s not the drive but the party, you know? It’s Friday night. What would you rather be doing?”

“Nothin’…”

“There you are, then.”

We noticed a commotion up ahead. Horns were honking. People were leaving their cars and running. A crowd gathered in the street.

Tim cut his engine. We bailed out, left the car in the street and ran to see what was up.

Ben had pulled his car across the lane, blocking Shay’s truck. Traffic couldn’t move at all. Ben and Shay faced off under the street light.

“Get your pile of rust out of my way, Bennie.”

“Make me.”

Shay laughed and looked at his friends. “I can do that.” They all laughed. Shay took a step toward Ben.

Ben stood his ground. “What are you doing with Martha?”

Shay scratched his head. He looked at one of the girls in the crowd who started to laugh. “Martha who? You mean Novak?”

Ben nodded.

Shay laughed, “You think I’d be seen with that Polack?” Several people laughed with him.

Ben shouted, “You can’t call her that!”

Shay kept laughing as Ben rushed him. He stepped aside like a matador and sent Ben rolling on the pavement. Everyone started yelling, urging a fight.

Ben lunged and threw a punch that Shay blocked easily. He countered with one punch and that ended it. Ben went down, hurt.

A cop came up and began dispersing the crowd. Cars started up and engines revved. The cop directed traffic around Ben’s hot rod and Shay’s truck.

Tim pointed off and said, “Is that your Dad?”

He was brown-bagging it and looked a bit frayed. I told Tim thanks and said we’d walk the few blocks home. Larry and Tim waved us off and headed back to their car.

I never understood where Dad got his booze since Bentfork was in a dry county since Prohibition.

“Dad!” He saw me and waited for me to approach. “Whatcha doing?”

“Looking for your sister. Heard she came here. I told her not to ride in cars with boys.”

I put my arm over his shoulder. We walked toward home. “I haven’t seen her, Dad.” We took our time.

“Were those boys fighting about her? I heard her name.”

“They’re idiots. Don’t worry about them.”

“That‘s why I don’t want her riding around. Understand?”

“I get it. But she isn’t here.”

“Better not be.” He tipped his bottle up.

“I forget, Dad. Is it, ‘don’t follow the grape with the grain?’ Or ‘don’t follow the grain with the grape’?”

“Don’t follow anything with anything. Don’t mix. You’ll be fine.”

“Got it.”

We got home and I unlocked the door. Martha came into the kitchen when she heard us. I smiled seeing her home and safe. I never thought about it before Tim said it, but Martha is beautiful.

Dad gave her a hard look. “Where were you?”

Martha tried not to make a face, but ‘not this again’ came through anyway. “Dad, I’ve been here.”

“Really?”

“I told you I’m doing my college applications.”

“You don’t need that. You should stay here.”

“What? To take care of you? Why do you think I’m leaving?”

Dad’s voice got louder. “Who do you think you are? I brought you into this world…”

“Dad, I’m not the reason Mom left. Stop treating me like I was.”

Dad’s face drained of color. He moved toward her, but then thought better of it. He stared at her. Time slowed. He looked huge. And then he just shrank to nothing. Dad turned, stomped into his room and slammed the door.

Martha looked at me. Her look softened.

I reached out. “You okay?” She accepted my hug.

She broke contact and held me at arm’s length. “You understand, don’t you? Why I need to leave?” I nodded. She threw a disgusted look at Dad’s door. “Don’t you let him pull this crap after I go.”

“I won’t… He won’t.”

Martha gave my shoulder a gentle punch and went back to her room.

The only sound was the fridge rattling. I got a coke and watched TV for a while.

Things stayed pretty quiet after that. Everything got said that night. Sometimes Martha would ask me to walk to the grocery with her. We’d talk more than ever before, prepping me for when she left.

Dad lightened-up on us. And he stopped being so ornery all the time. But no one had much to say.

Then Martha left for St. Olaf’s College. She usually came home at Christmas, but I didn’t see her much after that. You know how it goes.

No Wounds like Old Wounds

I watched him lying on his bed. This once super-human force, my father, now lay, an empty shell, small and vulnerable. Almost unrecognizable. Formerly bigger than life itself, how could this be the man who dominated my puny life? The bed appeared to swallow him.

I spent my life waiting to see him exposed and weak. I felt empty.

I could touch his hand. But an impossible, impassable distance separated us. How does one bridge a chasm created through the span of life?

We hadn’t spoken in years. Answering the phone, he’d pass me to my mother. Could he hear me now? Would it matter? His eyes were open. Did he sense my presence?

He succeeded at everything. He never made me feel loved. Did he ever try?

The best fathers seek to make their children strong, tough, and resistant to life’s slings and arrows. Some fathers nurture. Though that is not a word often associated with men.

Others believe their purpose is doling out an unhealthy dose of life’s brutality to their mewling sons as early as possible. Get tough or die.

My father was the second type. ‘Nurture’ and ‘neuter’ were distinctions with no difference for him.

He was a proverbial armored giant. Unbeatable. Combat tested, a former Marine. Life is a battle, damn it. And he would be the last man standing. What’s not to admire?

Always anticipating, he designed every encounter to ensure my defeat. I lost before I knew there was a contest. Every time.

I never knew what hit me. I know — a shallow learning curve. Distrust was my main defense. I learned that well. And he turned that against me too. Not trusting, I depended on his unwavering duplicity.

Seeing through that, he showered me with gifts, favors and treats. But I did without, rather than fall yet again into the trap of trust. I learned never to sell myself for cheap affection. Gifts come at a price too dear to be paid. That untasted carrot could never be worth the familiar stick.

Who mistakes distrust for strength? Resistance for resilience?

After all, what chance does a ten-year-old have against a seasoned foe? Ten year old’s strategies should focus on the strife of toy soldiers. Not life and death struggles against their fathers.

I received and accepted food, clothing and a dry bed, but never counted on that bountiful existence. Things can change, you know, without warning.

Was he proud of me for my well-learned lessons? Is a warrior proud of the defeated?

It wasn’t always that way. To break trust, one must have it in hand.

I had a dog, Samantha. She was a beautiful, tan and white collie mix. Her eyes were a deep, tender brown, I’d never seen before. She was my first love. I cared for her. She adored me. We were inseparable.

One summer day she entered our yard and walked straight to me, with a bright doggie smile on her face. She arrived bearing love at first sight. I reciprocated.

Dad said I could keep her if no one was looking for her. I kept her.

We lived in farm country. Leashes were unheard of. We walked the fields and explored brooks unrestrained by anything but whims. She stayed beside me.

One day she was gone. Nothing said. No warning given. Too much trouble, my father decided to himself.

I came home from school and missed Sam’s enthusiastic greeting.

“Mom, where is Sam?”

“Oh, Dad gave her to a farmer.”

That was literally the whole conversation. My father said nothing. My brothers and sister said nothing.

For hours, I lay on my bed and entered a black hole I never escaped. The tears ran dry but the pain remained.

Mom called me to dinner. I came out and took my seat. We ate in silence. That was it. No explanation. No further reference. Carry on.

This wasn’t a punishment. I had done nothing wrong. This was ‘Dad being Dad’. Only then, no one said such things. Back then, no one said anything.

You may think, ‘It was just a dog. Get over it.’ But Sam was not just a dog. And the wound cut deeper than ‘just a dog’.

In a heartbeat, I knew my feelings carried no value. I held no value. If what I held dear was disposable, then I was disposable.

I was not to act out, nor speak out. But to behave, comply and obey. What did my feelings have to do with anything? Emotions are for babies.

But I could not articulate that at ten. Well into adulthood I rediscovered that wound, suppressed for decades and long thought healed. Pursuing my career, I pushed all that kid stuff away. But my broken life spoke of my loss.

What would you expect of someone whose nickname was ‘Mr. Neverwin’? Does excellence come to mind? I earned that name bucking my father’s relentless system. And I never won.

Can a young life, already have a turning point? Can one event deemed meaningless by all be the pivot point? I sailed happily into the squall which sent me forever off course and rudderless.

My folks paid for college. Many colleges. I dropped out on discovering they offered no degree in pharmaceutical abuse.

They gave me a car. I wrecked it.

Relationships came and went effortlessly. I had numerous fiancés, and rumor has it, a few kids scattered about. How many abortions did I finance? Don’t ask.

I held many jobs. Companies couldn’t keep me. I was in such demand — to leave. Should an honest resume include, ‘not a good fit’?

I know. I made poor choices. It’s lame to lay my sorry life at my father’s feet. Can’t it all be blamed on that first toppled domino?

So, here we were. Our last encounter. He couldn’t win this one, regardless. If he couldn’t speak, at last, I would make him listen.

He looked so small in his too-big pajamas. Except for his shallow breath beneath the blanket, he might not be there at all.

What could I say, so he knew, after everything, what really mattered to me? Can words unheard, be eloquent? For once I would win the encounter. He could not stop me. He would not top me. I needed this. My moment, at last.

I touched his limp hand. He turned his emotionless, bloodshot eyes to me. I couldn’t stop my tears.

I blubbered, “I love you Dad. I forgive you.”

He looked away and closed his eyes. He gave me nothing. But he heard me. I had my say.

© John K. Adams 2019. All rights reserved.

The Split

David knew big kids eat lunch with big kids. David was a little kid. That’s why his sisters didn’t lunch with him.

When he became a big kid, little kids would eat with little kids.

And anyway, girls don’t eat with boys, no matter what size they are. It’s the way things work. Those are the rules.

David’s mother, Debra, didn’t get it. She worried about David being stuck in a wheelchair. He rarely thought about that.

When making their lunches for the day, Debra always said, “Hey kids, I know you trade and share. But be sure to get something good in exchange. Don’t just eat candy.”

“I don’t trade, Mommy.”

“Then kiddo, you are the first holdout, since sack lunches were invented.”

She wanted David to make friends. As if it were so easy.

David didn’t want to share his lunch. He liked what his mother made for him. But he also knew the path to loneliness included trading with the ‘wheelchair kid’. No one did that. Some kid told him he had ‘cooties.’

Almost every day, when his sisters, Melissa and Emily, entered the lunchroom, Emily stopped to say hello.

“C’mon!” Melissa pulled Emily’s hand.

Emily looked over her shoulder. “Bye, David. We’re gonna eat over here.” Melissa led Emily to the big kid’s table. They were his older sisters. And sisters don’t eat with brothers.

David watched them while he unwrapped his sandwich. Emily made a little wave hello. David waved back.

Melissa always asserted her big sister authority over Emily. Except for this last birthday when Emily got the doll Melissa had her eye on.

A year older than Emily, Melissa’s birthday came a week after Emily’s. David didn’t quite get how that worked.

David remembered Melissa’s look when Emily pulled that doll from the wrapping. Emily loved that doll. She had no idea what Melissa had planned.

David didn’t get the point of dolls. He especially didn’t like it when his Aunt Jane called him a doll. She picked him up and rocked him exactly the way Emily rocked her doll. Only Aunt Jane laughed loud and hard. What a great big joke. David wished he could kick dear Aunt Jane.

One day at school, some kids approached David pretending to be his friends. The biggest one pushed David’s chair, running as fast as he could. Everyone raced down the hall shouting and laughing. David feared falling from his chair more than anything.

The other kids ran alongside. “Faster! Faster!”

David yelled, “Stop!”

When they got to one end of the corridor, the tall boy spun David’s chair around on one wheel and headed back the other way. David gripped the handholds, terrified of careening into the lockers.

Then Melissa stepped into their path and stopped them. “Leave him alone. That’s my brother David. Don’t bully him ever again.”

Some kids protested, saying they were just having fun. But Melissa squelched them. She took David aside. “How are you?”

David couldn’t stop trembling, but he didn’t cry. He only said, “Thanks Mel.”

Melissa didn’t know what to make of David. Though much younger, he didn’t respond to her mature influence. They didn’t talk much, but that incident brought them closer.

After that, David kept a small hammer at his side to defend against people pushing him where he didn’t want to go.

David loved sitting alone, playing with his Legos. He excelled at bringing order out of chaos, piece by piece. Long hours by himself taught him independence.

Sometimes David’s Dad played chess with him. He always complimented David’s superior playing. But David sometimes felt his Dad let him win. He made stupid mistakes and David couldn’t resist taking advantage. He didn’t want charity.

With dinner and homework complete, Debra wheeled David before the TV set. She told his sisters to play quietly so she could ‘regroup.’ But David didn’t watch much TV. He had his Legos.

Melissa and Emily made little dramas with their dolls and stuffed animals. Except lately, their playing seemed more like squabbling. Melissa wanted Emily’s doll.

It started when Melissa called Emily a bad mother.

“I am not. What are you talking about?”

“Look at her. She’s dirty. You never comb her hair.”

Emily grabbed a damp cloth from the kitchen. She methodically wiped down her doll. Emily challenged Melissa with a hard look.

Melissa looked back harder. “Her hair still looks like it got stuck in a vacuum cleaner.”

“That’s her styling. That’s the fashion.”

Melissa mimicked her, “That’s the fashion… Fashion is supposed to make you look prettier…”

“She is pretty.”

“Pretty ugly…”

“Stop it, Mel.”

“If I called Social Services, they’d put her in foster care.”

“Would not.”

“Let me show you.” Melissa reached for the doll and Emily pulled it away. She wrapped it in a little blanket and held it close.

“No one is going to take my baby.”

“I just wanted to see it, Em. Let me show you.”

“No. I won’t let you give it to Socialist Services.”

Melissa laughed. “Don’t be silly. It’s ‘Social’, not ‘Socialist’. That’s not even a word.”

“Well, I’m keeping her.”

“Em, let me see the doll.”

“No!”

“I’m in charge. Mom said so. I can fix it.” Melissa reached for the doll and Emily pulled further away.

Melissa changed her tone. She looked at David.

“Em, let’s have David decide. Let him be the judge.” Emily looked at David concentrating on building a Lego spacecraft.

“But it’s my doll. I love her. Why let him decide?”

“That’s what judges do. They look to see what’s fair when it’s none of their business.”

Emily kissed her doll’s face and then offered it to her brother. “David?”

“Just a minute. I’m finishing up this part.” Emily turned to Melissa.

Melissa tried. “Hey, Dave! We need your help.”

David rolled his eyes. “Okay. What?”

“Give him the doll, Em.” Emily handed David her doll. “We need you to decide whose doll it is.”

Emily stamped her feet and tried to get the doll back. “That’s not what we’re deciding!”

“It is now. David, you are the judge. Whose doll is it?”

David looked at the doll and then at his sisters. How did he get drawn into this silliness?

“Why don’t you cut it in half? Then you each can have it.”

Emily let out a wail and collapsed into tears. Melissa cheered. Emily reached for the doll but David held it close.

Melissa stood triumphant. “Should we cut it up and down? Or side to side? Where does Dad keep the saw?”

Emily shouted, “Stop!” They looked at her. Through tears, she said, “Give it to Melissa. Just don’t kill it.”

“Yes!” Melissa danced around the room. She reached for the doll. “Mine, mine, mine…”

David looked at his sisters and then at the doll. He handed it to Emily. “Here, Em. It’s obviously yours. You were willing to give it up, to save it, rather than see it destroyed.” Emily took her doll, smiling through tears.

Melissa shouted, “That’s not fair! You already decided.”

“You asked me to judge. I did decide. Case closed.” David punctuated his decision by hitting the wheelchair tray with his hammer. Lego pieces flew everywhere. David burst into laughter. Emily joined in.

Furious, Melissa left the room.

Emily helped find the missing Legos.

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© John K. Adams 2019. All rights reserved.