by Tim Green
Ryder finally nodded and stood up. They took the subway to 125th Street, then walked to a brick building that was only about ten blocks from where Ryder lived. Two huge red doorways revealed the big trucks, resting like attack dogs with their chrome shiny enough for Ryder to see his bulging face in every spot. Men in dark blue pants and light blue shirts worked at various duties around the garage. They all cast wary looks at Doyle, as if they knew what had happened. There really was a shiny brass pole that disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.
“C’mon, kid. You can do that later. First, the chief.” Doyle nudged his shoulder and Ryder followed the fireman into the station, where he got a whiff of chili before they climbed up two flights of stairs.
The office looked like any office Ryder had ever seen, crowded with papers and desks. Since it was Sunday, the desks in the gloomy space were empty, but in the far corner, light spilled from a single office.
“This is Battalion,” Doyle explained. “Not every station is this big. We got lucky. We get to have the bosses right over our heads breathing down our necks every doggone minute.”
They wound their way through the desks and walked right into the office with the lights.
“Hey, Chief.” Doyle sat right down and crossed his legs, directing Ryder to the chair beside him with a nod of his head.
The chief looked up from some papers and glared at Doyle. “What are you doing? On a Sunday, no less.”
“Me? Helping out this kid, Chief.”
“This kid?” The chief was a tall, wiry man with a big head of gray hair that appeared to have been blown back by a storm. His skin was pale and spotted with big freckles and the whites of his tired eyes looked smoke stained. “The kid who’s a witness to an FDNY truck accident that’s going to undergo a full investigation? Where’s your head, Doyle?”
“Chief, everyone saw it wasn’t us. It was some crazy delivery truck trying to beat the light.” Doyle sat up straighter. “Plus, he’s got no one else to turn to.”
“And this Twitter thing? Using FDNY to raise money? Where’s your head? You can’t just announce you’re raising money for someone.”
Ryder’s stomach sank.
Doyle looked like he’d been hit with a board. “I can’t?”
“There are channels, Doyle. Protocols.” The chief narrowed his eyes. “You need a 501(c)(3) and you need approval.”
“Yeah, but hey, what about our motto? ‘Do the right thing’?” Doyle’s fingers began to fidget and he lowered his voice, leaning toward the chief. “This kid’s mom needs a heart valve replacement, maybe two, Chief.”
The chief grabbed a bulging file from the mess on his desk, opened it, and began yanking out papers stapled together in small stacks. “And we got a captain from Rescue 1 whose daughter needs a kidney, a probie from Engine 18 who needs a bone marrow transplant, and a retired chief with pancreatic cancer they want to send to Sweden for experimental treatment. And the list goes on and on, Doyle. FDNY is like the Nike swoosh, for God’s sake. It’s a brand. Everyone recognizes it. It’s famous and it’s valuable. And it doesn’t belong to you.”
Doyle winced and winked and motioned his head toward Ryder.
“I know the kid is sitting right here, Doyle.” The chief scowled at the fireman as if Ryder didn’t exist. “You brought him here. And is this really where he should be? No. He should be with his family.”
“That’s what this is all about, Chief.” Doyle rubbed his mustache, talking faster by the second. “We’re working on that. He’s got a dad, but they never met. We may know his name. We’re gonna look, but that’s really it. Well, we got this crotchety neighbor who’ll do for a day or so—but otherwise, they’re gonna feed him to those ogres at social services.”
The chief pressed his lips tight and his face started to color. Each word escaped his mouth like a convict. “My wife works at social services, Doyle.”
Ryder could hear the big circular clock ticking on the wall.
Doyle really tugged at his mustache now. “Well, I know that, sir, and she’s a fine woman, but she’s the exception. You gotta admit. I know, Chief. They got hold of me when I was a kid. The old man died and my mom went a little batty and . . .”
“Things have changed immeasurably, Doyle.” The chief spoke through his teeth. “Now stop doing other people’s job and start doing yours.”
“But, Chief. We can save this woman’s life.” Doyle’s eyes began to swim. “I told Ryder here I’d do everything I could.”
The chief’s face softened a bit as he glanced at Ryder, and some of the edge disappeared from his voice. “We can put in the paperwork tomorrow, Doyle, but it’ll take some time. There’s a lot of people that need saving. You know that.”
“She’s only got . . .” Doyle looked over at Ryder and swallowed. “The doctors said the next four weeks are pretty important, Chief, less even. Something about insurance, and the whole thing is a mess. Have you seen her?”
Doyle fumbled with his phone, then held up the picture he’d taken of Ryder’s mom so the chief could see for himself that this was no ordinary woman.
Ryder eagerly studied the chief’s expression.
“Well, it’s a long shot, but we’ll do the right thing.” The chief’s eyes broke free from the photo and he looked Ryder’s way again, this time for more than a glance. “Of course we will. Got that, son? We’ll do our best.”
The chief scowled back at Doyle McDonald. “Now, Doyle, you need to get this young man to his neighbor and then you need to get back to work. You’ve got an inspection first thing in the morning and you know the BITS guys are gonna have to talk with you.”
“BITS?” Ryder wrinkled his brow.
“Bureau of Investigation and Trials.” Doyle stood up. “Don’t worry, buddy. Any time there’s an accident, this is what they do.”
“It’ll all work out.” The chief stood up and shook both their hands. “Now, I’m heading back home.”
“Sure, Chief.”
“Good luck, young man.” The chief patted Ryder on the shoulder. “You and your mom.”
Doyle and Ryder left without bothering to slide down the pole.
They returned to Ryder’s apartment building.
“Hey, don’t give me that look.” Doyle shook his head and stopped on the fourth-floor landing where the wallboard had been ripped away, leaving the bare ribs of wood and wires for all the world to see. “I don’t want to see that. You gotta think positive, remember? No one wants to see that face.”
Ryder shrugged. The scent of mold and wet wood filled his nose. The stairs seemed to creak a little louder than usual and he marveled at the paint chips—big as his hands—peeling away like bark on the sycamore trees in Central Park. Suddenly the stairs seemed tiring and he took a deep breath to fuel his final climb up to the fifth floor.
“It’s a lot of money,” Doyle said, then quickly held up a finger. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t get it. When I get back I’ll get my inspection stuff finished then start work filling out whatever it is I have to so I can get approvals first thing in the morning.”
Doyle went to knock on Mr. Starr’s door but stopped, his hand in the air, to look at Ryder. “People talk about miracles happening, but I don’t believe that. Miracles are just things that happen right because people didn’t stop trying. You gotta try everything, and you gotta believe. Okay?”
Ryder nodded and Doyle let his knuckles fall against the door.
“Who is it!” Mr. Starr’s shriek cut through the wood door.
“Doyle McDonald!” Doyle shouted right back. “I’ve got Ryder.”
After a steady electric hum that grew by the second, the lock rattled and the door swung open and there he sat, frozen and twisted, like a smashed car after a very bad accident. “Well? Tell me she’s up and about.”
Doyle gave Ryder a glance. “No, not really. She’s looking good, though. We talked to her, right, Ryder? She’s a little out of it, but she’s been through a lot.”
�
��What about the father? Did you ask about the father?” Mr. Starr’s eyes shifted back and forth between them.
Ryder nodded.
Doyle’s mustache sagged. “Well, we’re not totally sure because of all the medicine she is on, but she looked at Ryder and was talking about someone named Jimmy and then she said ‘Jimmy Trent.’ Does that ring a bell?”
Mr. Starr’s eyes widened.
“Not with me.” Mr. Starr’s look of surprise became a glare. “Either you weren’t listening, or you already forgot. She told me nothing. She left Auburn, New York, when she was pregnant with Ryder here, and never looked back. No names. No mother. No father. No boyfriend, or anyone named Jimmy.”
“And Ryder’s last name is Strong, so maybe that’s it,” Doyle said.
“No, that’s not it.” Mr. Starr seemed to enjoy telling Doyle he was wrong. “She named him Ryder because it means ‘warrior on horseback.’ The ‘Strong’ part is just what it sounds like. Strong. She told me that. ‘Shoesmith’ is the name of some English teacher she had a crush on. Changed her name so they couldn’t find her, not that it sounded like they would have ever tried.”
Doyle looked at Ryder. “You think ‘Trent’ is the signature on that baseball?”
“What baseball?” Mr. Starr growled.
Ryder explained that his mom had a signed baseball she kept hidden. “And he called her his gem.”
“Well, let’s see it, then.” Mr. Starr frowned. “Although I can’t see how that will help.”
“It might help us connect everything.” Doyle stroked his mustache. “If it’s Trent, then that’s gotta be his dad. Okay, I gotta go, but maybe you two could google ‘Jimmy Trent’ and ‘baseball’ or something. You want to do that?”
“I have a nurse come into my home every day in the morning and the evening.” Mr. Starr spoke calmly and quietly. “I’m fed and clothed and bathed like a broken doll. Do you really think I won’t do everything within my mental power to shed the yoke of an abandoned child as quickly as I can?”
Doyle glared. “He’s not abandoned. His mother wants him. I’d be glad to have him if I didn’t spend half my nights in the firehouse.”
Mr. Starr flicked his eyes at Ryder, who was simply too tired to care, and his eyes softened. “No, I suppose that’s not what I meant. Obviously, I spend too much time alone.”
Doyle accepted the shadow of Mr. Starr’s apology with a nod, then brightened and snapped his fingers. “Hey, maybe Jimmy Trent still lives in Auburn. Maybe there are a family of Trents. Maybe call them and ask for a Jimmy. I don’t know. I’m a fireman, not a detective. I gotta go, kid. You’ll be okay with Mr. Personality. His bark is worse than his bite, remember?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Ryder mumbled.
Doyle got serious. “I’ll check back in tomorrow, after my shift, and I’ll take you to see your mom. Maybe you should go to school? I’m just saying. . . .”
Ryder shook his head. He couldn’t even think about school.
“Okay,” Doyle said, “well, be positive.”
Then Doyle scooted out the door and down the stairs, leaving behind the fading clunk of his boots and a lot of discomfort.
“Well?” Mr. Starr sounded like he was over being sorry for saying Ryder was unwanted, if he’d been sorry at all.
“Well, what?” Ryder covered up a yawn.
“Get that baseball, and let’s get going.”
Ryder did as he was told. It felt strange being in the apartment alone without his mom. The horrible weight of emptiness made it hard to breathe. He hurried into his mom’s closet and fumbled with the shoe box, reaching inside without looking, and removed the baseball. He held it up in the thick beam of late-afternoon light streaming through the window. The skin was smooth and yellowing with age; the seams had faded from red to almost pink. The writing was bold and dark, written in black Sharpie, but the signature was a meaningless squiggle.
Ryder turned the ball in his hand. He’d never thought about his father really, never allowed himself to. It seemed traitorous to try and fill in the blanks and give life to a man who’d abandoned his mother . . . and him. But now, now they needed to find him—to save her—so Ryder allowed himself to imagine. If he were a baseball player, he’d be athletic, strong, with muscles like tight cables wrapped around long bones. Maybe handsome. Maybe rich?
Ryder sighed, remembering his mother’s words, night after night, in the bedroom where he stood. He’d lie in his bed with her snuggled in tight beside him, reading stories about faraway places and fascinating people before she retired to her own bed on the other side of the room. Sometimes he’d wake up with her sleeping there, sitting up with the book open on her lap, and he’d hug her tight and she’d hug him back and stroke his hair. The world belonged to them in those moments and she always said that they were rich. Ryder thought she said that to make him feel better. They’d never even been on a vacation. His father, though, he very well could be rich.
Ryder looked around the empty room and reconsidered. If he had her back . . . well, he guessed he’d give any amount of money for that, so maybe . . .
He shook his head to break the daze. As he felt around in the box again, his hand swiped at something else at the bottom, something he hadn’t told Doyle about, or Mr. Starr. Something he wasn’t going to tell anyone about, even though it might hold some clues to finding his father.
Ryder picked the box up out of the closet and brought it over to his mother’s bed. He sat down and the wood frame creaked beneath him. He looked at the dusty box for a minute, trying to decide. The letter made him terribly uncomfortable. No one wanted to see, hear, or read about his parents getting mushy, and this letter was mushy for sure. The first time he’d read it, it gave him the strangest feeling. He hadn’t even been sure it was from the man who was his father. He hoped so. Certainly the squiggle of a signature was similar to the one on the baseball.
Ryder took the letter out from the bottom of the box and unfolded it. His fingers rasped against its brittle surface and the paper complained. He took a quick safety glance at the door, even though his mother was in the hospital. He never wanted her to know he’d read a letter like this.
It talked about her legs and her hair, her eyes and her lips and kissing. Mushy beyond belief. Sappy like maple syrup, sticky and sweet and messy. Ryder felt his cheeks grow warm, but there was a part of the letter he needed to see again. It had been years since he’d read it and he had to be sure the ending of it wasn’t just wishful thinking in his mind. He focused on the last two sentences, written in a script he could only just decipher.
You are my beginning and my end, dearest Ruby. Nothing could make me stop loving you, and so I always will, now and forever. . . .
Yours worshipfully,
And then the signature that might or might not be “Jimmy Trent.” It could just as likely be “Bartholomew Cubbins,” so vague were the squiggly lines. The words proved something to Ryder, though. They told him that whoever wrote it was worth finding, because if what he said was even partly true, this man loved his mother dearly, and likely still loved her, even if he’d lost touch with her over the years. And, Ryder knew instinctively, if the man loved her even a fraction of that, he’d have to help save her.
Ryder returned the letter and hurried back to Mr. Starr’s with the ball clutched tight in his hand.
“What took you so long?” Mr. Starr asked.
“It was under some things.” Ryder raised the ball up in front of the wheelchair.
“Hold it closer.” Mr. Starr’s lips moved as he read, and the inscription made him snort. “Well, it could say Jimmy Trent, not that that means anything. It could say Kris Kringle.”
Mr. Starr looked away from the ball, out the window at the flare of orange where the sun was setting behind the building across the street.
“What do we do now?” Ryder asked after a pause.
“I didn’t mean to bore you.” Mr. Starr made a sniffing noise, which was strange to hear since his face didn�
�t move when he did it. “Let me get to work. You can stay right here and watch. You look wiped out.”
“I am.” Ryder stifled a yawn.
“Rest. You’ll have to fix your own dinner later.”
“I can,” Ryder said.
“Tonight, you can stay on my couch if you like, or you really could just stay in your own place if you locked yourself in. I’d be right here. Obviously. It’s up to you.”
Ryder sat down on the couch, a velvety purple thing pushed against the low wall between the living room and the kitchen. The floors were bare and cold and Ryder suspected that made it easier for a wheelchair. “Is this couch from before?”
The wheelchair buzzed across the floor and stopped right in front of Ryder. “I kissed a lot of girls on that couch.”
Ryder wrinkled his nose and couldn’t help thinking of the letter in the shoe box. He didn’t like talk of such things.
Mr. Starr’s mouth curled into a twisted smile. “Oh, I was no looker. A girl like your mother never would have given me a second thought, even in my heyday. But there’s a cover for every pot and I sampled my share of covers.”
“I’m not really into girls all that much.” Ryder scooted to the edge of the couch.
“Good. You will be smitten sooner than is good for you.”
“How soon?” Ryder eyed him suspiciously, searching for signs of a joke.
“Soon enough.” Mr. Starr buzzed the chair backward and came to rest in front of the naked window. There was a pair of binoculars on the ledge, but he didn’t pick them up.
“Smitten?”