Silas Dillon of Cary County

by Clifford Schrage

  A NOVEL

  CLIFFORD SCHRAGE

  NEW YORK

  NASHVILLE • MELBOURNE • VANCOUVER

  SILAS DILLON OF CARY COUNTY

  © 2017 Clifford Schrage

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other‚—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in New York, New York, by Morgan James Publishing. Morgan James is a trademark of Morgan James, LLC. www.MorganJamesPublishing.com

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  ISBN 978-1-68350-283-8 paperback

  ISBN 978-1-68350-284-5 eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016916584

  Cover & Interior Design by:

  Megan Whitney

  Creative Ninja Designs

  megan@creativeninjadesigns.com

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  CONTENT

  PROLOGUE

  THE VIEW FROM HERE

  ONE

  CUTTING THE CORD

  TWO

  SYCAMORES

  THREE

  SNOW CLOUDS

  FOUR

  APPLE BOUGHS

  FIVE

  FLIES

  SIX

  GULLS

  SEVEN

  CICADAS

  EIGHT

  WILD CHERRIES AND YELLOW-JACKETS

  NINE

  THE CHANNEL

  TEN

  THE HOLLOW

  ELEVEN

  THE ASCENT

  TWELVE

  THE HILLCREST

  THIRTEEN

  THE DESCENT

  FOURTEEN

  TIDINGS

  FIFTEEN

  TWELVE SEASONS

  SIXTEEN

  TWELVE NIGHTS

  SEVENTEEN

  TWELVE MOONS

  EIGHTEEN

  SUNBEAMS ABOVE THE BURROW

  EPILOGUE

  THE LOOKOUT TOWER

  PROLOGUE

  THE VIEW FROM HERE

  Now that I’m forty, up higher on life’s hill, in the ministry, and a dad, I’m able to recall the account of my childhood without plummeting into a hole of bitterness. As I sit in my den at my desk I realize that recalling hasn’t been as painful as it once was.

  I carry the weighty luggage of my childhood, understanding that what may have crushed me has strengthened me. My childhood is now a limpid film in the panorama of my memory, and I simply accept it. Those early storms somehow worked like purposeful winds wafting me into the ministry, holding me here for fifteen years.

  Hearing the racket my four children and six foster children make at play in the other room as they’re stranded indoors this rainy July day, with an open book before me I discover something so visibly close that I’ve missed it. It’s this: people who aren’t loved die—no matter—whether love never reaches them or they refuse it, they die without it. People need love.

  I was taught that human beings have the mental space to recall all, even details into earliest childhood, and I believe it. There are morsels from even my early infancy that I can recall with precise illumination, but there are, of course, dark lapses as well. A blend of varied ingredients—older informers, clear memory, God, and a lot of my own imaginings—have all furnished me with details, imploring me to tell my story.

  I am Silas Dillon. I’m an orphan, or like an orphan. Unlike David Copperfield, I know I won’t turn out to be the hero of my life. Like Huck Finn, I’d drifted further downstream into misfortune: my pap’s lost and drunk too. Like Uncle Tom, I’d been placed into many places.

  I’m a child of humanity. I was a pitiful orphan type while my mom lived, or at least had a heartbeat. I spent time with her—from time to time—while her life scarcely smoldered. She slowly rotted before she reduced to ashes, could never quite ignite herself, could surely never kindle me. You could call me an orphan of the living. So because of her wretched incompetence, I was placed “into” other homes, other arms.

  As I recall, I did spend some time with mom. The court’s paradoxical catering to her condition, while I was supposed to be the patient, allowed her to attempt to care for me.

  You want to know my mother. Her looks? She was really very beautiful. She was of Jewish and Irish extraction, born and “raised” on Cary Island. Her parents were not as unbalanced as she. You need to know that she was chemically dependent, and so emotionally unstable that some of the professionals called her schizophrenic, but they weren’t given time enough with her to make sure diagnosis.

  Early on, she adamantly remained unwilling to release me for adoption, leaving me on Cary Island, in Cary County’s laggard, yet rigid foster care system. There on that island she breathed the briny air too, wearing a valid label mentally ill especially when it gave her some special rights. There I, Silas Dillon, tried to grow fruitfully, while planted in the soil of alienation, anger, and ruin, attempting to grow on Cary Island and the promontory of a binding foster care system.

  Outwardly denoting the best interests of children, the system impeded me. I was frail, bi-racial, repeatedly transplanted like one of those ornamental trees in one of those landscaped yards, from plot to plot, seemingly unfitting and unbecoming anywhere, moved interval after interval, interrupted from one dwelling to another, with roots stuck in the same ball of earth, attempting to thrive, scarcely watered, dying. From birth to late adolescence, the painful episodes of my life are chronicled in these pages.

  Now at age forty I am really not bitter, but I do want prosecution, want sentence passed on the bureaucratic delay and poor judgment done to the well-being of kids lost in a system. I don’t want pity. I want the county court—the whole system itself—indicted!

  Cary County is an island. It is cramped in New York Bay, across New York Harbor, with a population of three hundred thousand, with the imperial skyline of fortunate New York and its vain lady of liberty in sight on one side; Brooklyn, Queens, and affluent Long Island on another; industrial New Jersey on another; and the blue Atlantic on the other. Here on this island the disruption and neglect of what Jesus Christ called “the least of these” carries on. Cary County is like other real places. And Silas is like other real people who happen to be orphaned.

  This story intends to blow a trumpet by bowing a violin. Listen closely. There are things here on Cary Island, like all those real places, that prevent souls like Silas Dillon from connecting cords, from spreading roots, from receiving love. There are bad things and the neglect of needful things that induce humans to be turned into maladjusted adults, stunted trees. There are all these wobbly parts within this confused child welfare system which make too many castaways like Silas, and fewer stable homes with doors open for him. There are things that could prevent these like me from being turned into stunted ones.

  More about Cary Island: Like the rest of suburban America, innumerable houses of worship stand with steeples and spires, crosses and committees, pews and altars, ministers and ministries, boards and bake sales, deacons and elders, bulletins and announcements, crusades and choirs, tithes and tongues, sacraments and rites, and a lot of other religious commotion. They stand in mortar, rise with
stained glass, in red brick or pretty white, on the bedrock of Cary Island, supposedly on the foundation of the book that declares “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” This verse, fitly set as the hub of the pragmatic wheel of real Christianity, is what all the other spokes of canon, order, ordinances, and churchianity are meant to be connected to. But the spokes are broken; the axle’s slipping; the rim’s deforming, and the mechanism needs to yield to the mechanic.

  This indictment is not against that formidable, invisible army-roster, that fire-resistant file in the book of life, that assemblage which Christ builds and knows, which all of hell falters before. This trumpet is blown to awaken those sleeping ones. This match is struck to light a fire.

  I, Silas Dillon, sit with my fist to my chin, elbow to desk, gazing onto the wet streets, through a wet pane of glass, postponing pastoral phone calls, recalling without pain some of that former pain, some of that former joy.

  ONE

  CUTTING THE CORD

  Cary County Hospital was warm on my birth night, while Cary Island, lashed by a below-zero wind chill down from Canada, froze outside. Its grassy bedrock was wrapped with a hard coat of snow. My birth mother Maureen heard the wind’s shrill moan while she herself moaned in pain. My arrival came on a moonless starry night, late, January 31, minutes shy of February.

  Her cervix was open, her back aching. My father wasn’t there to help her, to rub her back and comfort her, to talk with her, or pray with her. She didn’t know which of the twenty or so men she’d embraced that month nine months earlier was my father.

  passed and Mommy was wheeled into the delivery room where all those vital provisions were.

  “Not much longer,” Dr. Cohen said.

  Jill the kind nurse on duty helped prop her up in that big chair so her muscles could push me out easier.

  “Your first baby, Ms. Dillon?” she said. Her youthful energy moved about the room, working as she spoke.

  “Second.”

  “So you’re a veteran. That’s great!”

  “I guess.” Maureen winced.

  “How old is your other child?”

  “Two.

  “How nice.”

  Maureen didn’t reply.

  “So he’ll have a brother to play with.”

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  “Gone?” Jill briefly made eye contact while she kept stepping about the room, tucking, sliding, pulling, working.

  Maureen groaned in agony, shouting with a contraction. Sweat beads erupted on her forehead, descending, collapsing down her cheeks. “Had to give him up.” Tears erupted from her eyes, descending, sinking with suddenness, dripping, mixing with her sweat. “For adoption.” She looked across the room avoiding both of their eyes.

  Dr. Cohen listened, scrubbing his hands.

  “Must have been very hard to do, Ms. Dillon.” This young nurse didn’t pause from working. “Sometimes it’s the most loving though.” She wiped Maureen’s face with a damp cloth, tenderly, now avoiding talking, not wanting to bring other pain.

  “I try not to think about it. I hope he’s good. I try not to think about him much.” She breathed heavily. “It bothers me.” She breathed with concentration, rhythm.

  Silence—only the sterile clinks and thin echoes of the delivery room, a cough from Dr. Cohen. Maureen braced against another contraction, breathing, straining, hollering. Water broke, gushing like tide. Her loud hollering embraced the room, seizing everything. It would be soon.

  “He’s in Connecticut I think. In the country—a quiet town somewhere.” Maureen stared at the blackness of the window as though looking toward Connecticut, out at the black color of glass, at the darkened reflection of the room on glass.

  She felt that compelling pressure, suddenly an urge to push, and she hated this arduous work. She screamed; she cursed. My head moved down in the typical, little by little way with each contraction, down the narrow passage, from the warm world of the safe womb, to the astonishing opening where this shocking, offensive world is.

  “Push, Maureen! Breathe! Okay. Easy now,” Jill held Maureen’s hand, because she’d no husband there to hold it.

  “What kind of night is it?” Maureen squeezed this out amid her pushing.

  Jill looked baffled.

  Maureen breathed. “The weather?”

  Jill didn’t want Mommy’s thoughts to digress too much now. She wanted her to focus. “Well, it’s cold. Temperature dropped. It’s windy. Hear it?” Maureen nodded. She could hear the wind.

  Outside, on the other side of the large, dark, reflecting window, the cold gripping wind swirled across the starry, winter-sweetened coast. The falling tide roared, squeezing and thrashing and white-capped, bloated between Cary Island and the mainland, surging swollen, rushing reluctantly and pushed under the two-mile bridge, through the deep, ice-banked, narrow strait out from New York Harbor into the cold, hostile Atlantic. This strong watery gush, governed by the clockwork of the veiled moon, shouldered its way with the force that once pushed aside the land, reshaping even its firm bedrock foundation.

  “Here’s the head,” Dr. Cohen said, clasping my head and frame with firm and gentle palms, with sensitive, reactive fingers.

  A minute later I slid out, big and blue and shining. I began to cry, screaming out loud in the normal way. I was held and shown to my mother. “A boy,” Jill said.

  Mommy did not smile. The doctor cut the umbilical cord—that huge detaching stride away from my mother. There was no pain.

  I altered into the lovely, soft pink, and I was wrapped in a warm, white towel. Maureen didn’t reach her arms for me. She was tired. There was no dad to walk me around in his arms, to kiss me and talk to me. But this tender nurse Jill held me and talked to me for a few minutes, and she kissed my small head. Then I calmed and rested.

  I slept for a long time in one of those little glass beds where all the other newborns slept the same way, and I was fed from one of those little bottles like the others. There in that county hospital I was treated like any other brand-new human being. I was special because I was a human being, different from other creatures.

  No one lied to me yet.

  The next day Maureen held me for an hour, and she fed me. I loved that. I loved her. Her voice sounded similar, yet dissimilar from the way it sounded when I lived inside of her. It was clearer, closer. “Silas. Silas,” she kept saying. She named me Silas, which means “to borrow.” She tried hard to make contact with my eyes. She named me after her grandfather, Silas Rosenberg—a tough, hardy, hardened Jew who’d come to New York from Europe, whom she could only faintly recall from her own hard, untidy childhood.

  “Silas. Silas,” she kept saying. I wanted to linger here, to remain close to her, but something troubled her. She was restless.

  She kept shaking, rising, pacing, standing by and staring out the window. She was sweating, clutching her fingers, folding her arms. Sometimes she held her hair in her fists. She cursed. She cried, biting her nails, her knuckles. That gnawing, narcotic craving in her mortality had plainly become a colossal, gripping incubus which refused to release her.

  On the second day, she got herself dressed, signed papers with the foster care agency, and left me. She hastily paced out of the warm hospital into the sunny, long-shadowed winter suburbia of Cary County, deserting me, cutting the cord of our bond more deeply, scarcely glancing back. She thought to herself that it would be temporary. I lay, without knowing what I waited for.

  TWO

  SYCAMORES

  Like most of the houses on this island, this one was tall and slender, packed tightly like canned sardines, separated from the neighbors by narrow driveways—confined, crowded—the same way Cary Island itself was hemmed in in New York Bay. Like the others it was a hundred years old. It was owned by a vinyl siding installer, ironically cedar shingled, painted forsythia-yellow, with forest-green trim
and front door, and with a steep, eight-stepped stoop. Mature, motley barked sycamore trunks lined the street, their elbowed limbs shading even the roofs; their firm roots lifting the concrete walks. This was where I was placed for an undefined march of time. It was in this house, under these trees.

  Of course at that time I didn’t understand all the things that were happening to me. I never wondered what the people in charge with my life were doing to me. I never wondered where the good people were, why the people who were supposed to help me along weren’t. I just sort of congenitally went for the ride, sucked my bottle, wet my diaper, ate, cried, slept, and trusted. I had no questions. I didn’t wonder what was to be done with me. I had no understanding of my situation, had no others’ to compare with, to provoke me to coveting, wanting, or gloating over what I had or didn’t have. But I needed love, and I innately felt that need. I didn’t cognize that I needed it; but there was a yearning, a deep aching, a concrete feeling need; and I was at the mercy of my temporary caretaker for it.

  This lower middle class vinyl siding installer, Earl Madden, was my first foster father, a fifty-year-old father of two grown married daughters who were then living out of state. Earl was small in stature, with red, wrinkled, weathered complexion; he’d a wiry build, balding, graying, with thick black eyebrows, with hard hands and thick fingers—hands that had held a hundred hammers, always with a cigar in his mouth. Chronically angry, especially pent-up when business was slow, “Go to sleep!” he’d shout from the first floor up the stairs, into the corridor, through a closed door, into my crib, into my tiny ears, penetrating beyond my blaring baby-wailing. He had a furious scraping voice. “Shut up!” he’d roar, as though I understood. He’d curse, click open cans of beer, and raise the television’s volume—a ballgame, the news, an old movie, smothering my cries.

  My placement into Earl’s custody, into one of his bedrooms, was a slight—yet secure—expansion to Earl’s irregular income. Earl unenlightenedly felt he was retrieving his tax money from the county. When work was steady for him, baby life was nicer for me.