by Read, Calia
“Pass?” Father repeated with his booming voice. “Whatever for? Charles Lowndes is said to be headin’ a small group of investors to form a corporation. If you work with him, that would do well for me.”
Ah, so that was why he wanted me to work there.
“If not C.T. Lowndes & Company, then what?” my father demanded.
I looked my father straight in the eye, a feat I could have never done as a young boy without flinching. “I’ve decided to work with Étienne.”
My father made a face of disgust, accompanied by a scoff. “At the shipping company?”
“No, he’s startin’ a new business venture.”
My words were careful. Concise. Even though it pained me to be this way. I wanted to reach across the table and grab my father by his collar and say, “You listen to nothing! I told you and Momma about this opportunity days ago.”
He would not have remembered. My father might have been in the sitting room, but he was deep in his cups. Momma was the only one who heard, and she certainly wouldn’t be the one to remind Father.
“I don’t know the details of Étienne’s business venture,” Father said the last two words patronizingly. “However, it doesn’t sound beneficial for you.”
Nothing I said or did would be beneficial to my father. When I went to college, my father sent me off with these parting words: “Whatever you do, don’t chose a career that sullies the Calhoun name. You come from a long line of successful men.”
And apparently philanderers, too, I wanted to reply.
But being unfaithful and having a slew of mistresses wasn’t important when you were successful and had money.
Clearing my throat, I sat taller in my chair and focused on the conversation at hand. “Be that as it may, I still believe it’s the correct decision.”
I was careful not to place the words ‘thought’ or ‘felt’ into my replies to my father. “To think or feel means you hold doubt in your decision. A smart man should know before anybody else.”
“Be that as it may, what you believe to be correct could highly be wrong,” my father retorted.
My teeth grinded together, and I fought back an equally biting reply. It was his dislike of the Lacroixs that caused him to judge Étienne’s new business venture. Plain and simple. If he listened to what Étienne had in mind, then he would understand that what my best friend envisioned would turn out to be highly lucrative and successful.
“I suppose we have to see whether my decision is wrong or right,” I said, my voice tight.
At that, my father snorted and continued to eat, washing his food down with alcohol. The longer I sat there, the angrier I became. Coming here was a mistake on my part. I knew better.
I did my best to never visit my parents’ home on East Battery. It was where I spent my childhood and the source for every heinous memory of my past.
Nothing in the spacious home had changed. It was still oppressive, making me tug on the collar of my shirt. The dining room was dark despite the chandelier being lit. The walls remained the same moss green, making the stark white crown molding even brighter.
There was very little in the way of design, and only generations of Calhouns adorned the walls. As a child, I once believed I would have a portrait alongside my father’s, but in a rage one night, he yelled at me, “Why do you continue to fail me? Look at them!” He grabbed my head between both of his hands and forced me to look at the pictures on the wall. “Do they appear worthless and deficient to you?”
I shook my head, but that didn’t appease him because he gripped my head harder. “Answer me!”
“No!” I replied, the answer bursting from my mouth.
The pressure from my face eased as my father let go and kneeled beside me. “Stop failin’ me and make me proud.”
A heavy burden for a six-year-old to try and carry. Very swiftly, I came to understand that a stranger had a better chance of finding their portrait hanging by my ancestors than I ever did.
The moment I was finished eating, I dropped my fork onto my empty plate and placed my napkin on the table. “I think it’s best to be goin’.”
My mother reached her hand across the table, as though to stop me, but ultimately, she drew back, her hand landing on her lap. “Oh Asa, can’t you stay for a while longer?”
There was enough hope in her eyes to make me hesitate. But not enough to make me say yes. There would never be enough hope or happiness in the world to get me to stay in this house longer than a meal lasted.
Briefly, I placed my hand over hers. “I cannot. I need to go.”
Her face momentarily fell before she nodded and smiled, albeit sadly, at me. “I understand. You are a busy man.”
My father gave another snort, as though my mother made a wisecrack. All these years later, his lack of faith in me still shot a stinging wave of embarrassment through me.
Before I blurted something I knew I’d regret, I dipped my head and said, “Good-night.” Before the two of them could reply, I walked out the front door.
The fresh air that greeted me outside didn’t alleviate the anger and humiliation simmering inside me. I breathed deeply through my nose before I exhaled and walked in the direction of the Lacroix House.
I’d taken these steps since I was a child. I could have been blindfolded and still made my way there. The Lacroix House and the Pleasonton home were my ports in a never-ending storm. I’d grown and was no longer the scrawny boy afraid of his own shadow, but that changed nothing. What no one told us about being an adult is we grow, we changed, but our hearts would always remain the same. Nothing was temporary to that beautiful beating muscle.
At our core, we were still afraid of getting hurt. All the memories, whether good or bad, shaped our approach to life…
“Asa, let go of your momma’s hand,” my father demanded.
I looked up at Momma and saw the regret in her eyes. She would have gladly let me hold onto her. She didn’t mind, but she wouldn’t disagree with Father. Reluctantly, my hand slipped away from hers. My knees were knocking together so badly, I thought I was going to collapse.
I didn’t want to go in there. I didn’t know a single person. I wanted to go back to the safety of my home and remain with my private tutors. Everything about this campus, from the dorms to the large church, were new and far too vast and I had never done well with vast.
I liked everything to be in place and have order from when I woke up to when I went to bed. I couldn’t have predicted how my time would have been here and that was what terrified me the most.
“Well? What is the matter? Go in,” my father said, nearly pushing me toward the closed door.
Now? I was hopeful this was a tour of the campus. We had just left my new dorm, Stratton Hall, and toured the library, but I had hoped I wouldn’t attend class until tomorrow. I didn’t even have supplies with me!
The headmaster cleared his throat and smiled diplomatically at my parents. “First days can be difficult on some of the boys. We find that it’s less painful for everyone involved if—”
“He needs to learn,” my father cut in. “He’s goin’ to be a man someday.”
The headmaster had nothing to say to that. He looked between my father and me before he nodded. “Then I’ll take him in.”
My father wanted to say more. It was apparent in the way his mouth opened and closed. Appearances mattered to him, though, and he wouldn’t have created a scene. “Very well. If you must.” My father turned to me and nodded. “Instincts are actions born from definin’ moments. This is your first definin’ moment. Take care of yourself, son.” He took Momma’s hand before she and I had the opportunity to say goodbye.
She looked over her shoulder at me, tears welling in her eyes, mouthing the words, I love you. Anxiety welled in my chest. I knew my father was easily frustrated with me, but my momma was kind to me. She wouldn’t have left me here.
Yet she was. They turned the corner and then they were gone.
And I was by myself.
I was at St. Xavier’s Catholic School in Columbia. It was a prestigious all-boys boarding school that well-to-do families all over the South tried their hardest to have their sons accepted to.
I hadn’t known my parents coveted a spot at St. Xavier until two days ago when Father told me they accepted me, and I would leave for Columbia at once.
The headmaster and I looked at one another. “Do you like your dorm?”
Readily, I nodded. “Yes, yes. Room fifteen in Stratson Hall. It’s quite nice.”
He observed me peculiarly. The way most people did when they first met me. “I’m pleased to hear that.” He gestured to the closed door. The one I was pointedly trying to ignore. “Shall we go into the class?”
Skeptically, I looked at the door. When I didn’t reply, the headmaster spoke once again. “Waiting only gives our fear time to grow.”
He was correct. It was better to get this over with, and it could have been worse. If my father had had it his way, I would have been walking in there alone. At least I had this kind man with me.
I nodded and he opened the door. Together we stepped into the classroom. The teacher, a woman close to my own momma’s age, immediately stopped writing on the chalkboard. Everyone looked at us.
The headmaster placed his hands on my shoulders and had me face the class. “Everyone, I would like you to meet our newest student, Asa Calhoun.”
Twelve boys around my age inspected me with curiosity. My legs began to shake once again. The teacher stepped forward and smiled at me. “Wonderful to meet you, Asa. I’m Ms. Fillingham.”
As the headmaster left, Ms. Fillingham pointed to an empty desk in the second row. “You can sit behind Harold.”
A stoic boy in the second row waved his hand at me, and I walked toward my new desk. One row over, a group of boys talked to one another and snickered. I kept my head down, intent on making it to my desk. If I could make it there without tripping on my own clumsy two feet, then I’d be okay.
And I did. I nearly sighed with relief. Beneath the desk, my legs nervously bounced up and down. The students around me had notebooks and pencils on their desks, Ms. Fillingham told me to follow along with the lesson plan as best as I could until I had all my proper supplies.
Once her back was turned, a voice to my right whispered, “Wonderful. Another dolt from Charleston.”
A rather tall boy with dirty blond hair in the row to my right turned in unison with the dark-haired boy in front of him. The glare they sent immediately had the snickering boys becoming silent. The teasing boys sat tall in their chairs and looked forward as though they hadn’t uttered a word.
The blond and dark-haired boys didn’t spare me another glance and continued listening to the lesson. Well, the blond did. The dark-haired one wrote something in his notebook. He held it up for me to see, THEY CAN SMELL FEAR.
Instantly, I looked away and gazed at the surface of my desk. I stared at the wood grain until my eyes began to well up with tears.
I was a baby for crying, and I was trying to stop, but I was afraid to be here. I was afraid to be away from everything I knew. I had a routine at home. My tutors came to the house, and when they left, I had my school work. Once that was finished, there were the many, many books I could read from. I had tried to interact with children my age. It went terribly. I knew these boys wouldn’t like me. Like the other children, I would speak with them and they would turn away or begin to laugh at me.
Beneath the desk, my hands curled into fists, and I squeezed them tightly, trying to fight the tears. Slowly, I took a deep breath and thankfully, the tears subsided.
When I lifted my head and looked around the class, the snickering boys were none the wiser, but the blond boy was solemnly observing me.
Ms. Fillingham dismissed the class for the day, and as the boys collected their belongings, she looked to me. “Do you know where all the buildin’s are?”
Readily, I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
The blond boy to my right gathered his belongings and stood. I watched him with wide eyes because he was so tall. Why was he so tall?
I continued to stare at him when he looked at me. I braced myself for what he might say or do, but he turned away.
I breathed a sigh of relief and began to walk out of the classroom. Four boys from the class congregated out in the hall. They spotted me and stopped speaking. I kept my eyes on the floor and walked out of the building. I needed to make it back to my dorm, or at least far enough from my new classmates because I couldn’t breathe and I felt as though the tears I fought earlier were about to return or a rush of rage would burst from my throat.
My chest heaved as I tried to calm myself.
Take a deep breath! You’ll be in your room soon!
But I didn’t know how far my dorm was. If I knew my parents intended to leave me here today, I would have tried to remember each building we visited. I didn’t know it mattered.
Stupid! You’re so stupid! You should’ve counted the steps. Then you wouldn’t be unnerved right now. You should’ve—
My thoughts were suddenly disrupted when my feet slipped out from under me. With a solid thud, I landed on the ground. In a daze, I stared at the clear blue sky before I heard sniggers and chuckles not far from me. When I raised my head, I saw the boys that called me a dolt in the classroom. One of them stepped forward, and with his hands on his hips, looked down at me with a smile. “You look like you might cry? Do you need your momma?”
One of the boys beside him made crying noises. While the other boys in the group laughed, a voice behind them said, “Leave him alone.”
The boys turned. The leader of the four opened his mouth, ready to go against whoever challenged them, but the moment he spotted the tall boy along with the dark-haired boy, his mouth closed.
The four of them stepped back from me and nodded readily.
And the boy who passed me the note in class made a shooing motion. “Go find someone else to trip.”
At once, they scurried away like little mice. The tall boy watched them before he looked down at me. I stared back at him.
He held his hand out to me. I contemplated whether I should take it for a brief second before I accepted his help.
Once on my feet, I dusted the dirt off my pants as best I could. “Thanks for your help,” I said.
The tall boy gave a brief nod. “Watch yourself around those boys. Connor, Thomas, Rolland and Marcus are rowdy, but they’re particularly cruel to new kids.”
I nodded at his sage advice. Although I wasn’t certain what I could do about that. I couldn’t compete against four boys.
“How old are you?” the tall boy asked.
“I’m eight,” I proudly stated.
The two boys in front of me said nothing. They exchanged a glance before the older one itched the side of his head. “Asa, is it?”
Eyes wide, I nodded.
“I’m Étienne Lacroix.” He pointed behind him, toward the dark-haired boy. “This is my twin brother, Livingston.”
Their first names were unique, but their surname was of more interest to me. “Lacroix? In French, Lacroix means the cross,” I excitedly said. “It also stands for a person who has a cross erected near the side of the road.”
Étienne and Livingston blinked at me several times before Étienne, very slowly, nodded. “We know. Our father’s family is from France.”
When I was unsure of myself or apprehensive, I talked aimlessly, and when I was finished, people that were once speaking with me were utterly silent. Just like the two boys in front of me.
I didn’t say another word because how could I explain that most of my life, my friends had consisted of books shelved in my father’s library? I simply couldn’t. Not if I wanted that baffled expression to fade from their faces, that was.
“You are now our friend.”
“Speak for yourself, Étienne. I don’t know this person,” Livingston chimed in.
“He’s our friend,” Étienne called over
his shoulder.
Livingston grumbled words beneath his breath—did he speak French?—and held his hand out to me. “It’s a pleasure, Asa.”
Readily, I took his hand and looked between the two of them. I didn’t have friends in Charleston. I didn’t know it was this easy. “Actually, it’s Asa Ralston Calhoun. Ralston is my momma’s maiden name. I have no siblin’s and Momma wanted to have many kids. Four to be exact, but she wanted my next siblin’ to have the name Ralston.” Livingston and Étienne looked at one another and I knew I’d said something wrong, yet I continued to talk. “That didn’t happen, so she gave me the middle name Ralston. At least that’s what she told me, but I’ve been thinkin’… if that’s true, why did she give me the name Ralston if she wanted to name her next child Ralston?”
I stopped talking only because I needed take a breath. I could’ve continued, but what stopped me were Étienne and Livingston. Their mouths were hanging open.
You dolt! Why did you say that? Now they would change their minds, and they wouldn’t be your friends and then you would have no one.
“You didn’t need to tell us all of that,” Livingston finally said.
I swallowed and felt my shoulders shrinking. “Oh.”
“But my name is from my momma,” he offered.
Those seven words strung together felt like an outstretched hand, and I took them.
“Is there anyone else from Charleston?” I asked, trying my best to appear like a normal boy.
“Two more boys. Miles Pleasonton,” Étienne said.
“We call him, Pleas,” Livingston supplied.
“And Beaumont Legare.”
“We call him Beau. Obviously,” Livingston provided, once again.
I nodded, wondering what else they could tell me. “How long have the two of you been here?”
“For three months. But we try to go home on the weekends as much as we can.”