by R.P. Burnham
Jeremy Lawrence concentrated on swinging down and topping the ball. He was fungoing ground balls to his pals Tony Dibella, Ray Martineau and Keith Hadley, and all four of them were feeling the pressure. It was already mid May, and with a late spring and Little League tryouts less than two weeks away, they were already behind their self-imposed schedule to get ready. They had rushed home from school to change their clothes and get their gloves, then rushed back to the playground only to find they weren’t quick enough. Some teenage boys were already having a game on the diamond, and soccer practice was in session so that there was no room for them. Ray, who lived three houses down the street from Jeremy, suggested they use his backyard. It was a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. The disadvantage was that they could mostly only practice fielding ground balls. If a pop-up went over the fence and landed in Mrs. Richards’ yard, it would be dangerous to try to retrieve it. Mrs. Richards was a grouch and particularly disliked little boys. Ray said it was because some boys had broken her picture window years ago and then run away. So only Tony had dared hit some shallow fly balls when it was his turn to fungo. Jeremy lacked the exquisite bat control that Tony had—he was, they all agreed, the best hitter among them—and was just hitting ground balls. They also had to be careful in case a ground ball got past the fielders because Mrs. Martineau had just planted her flower garden against the back fence last weekend, and she certainly did not want it trampled up. One guy was always behind the two fielders to get any errant ball. But all these precautions were worth the trouble because they desperately needed to practice.
Keith must have been feeling the pressure, for he muffed the second ground ball in a row that Jeremy hit to him. His freckled face turned bright red. They had a rule that if anyone booted a grounder he was hit to until he got one. He was going to try out for shortstop, so his pride was hurt.
“Hey,” Jeremy said, changing the subject to ease the pressure on his pal, “we should all make sure to get up real early tomorrow so that we can get to the park before any other kids.” Tomorrow was Saturday—no school.
“Yeah, I obviously need the work. I’m still rusty,” Keith said, trying to hide his embarrassment by conceding the point. But he cleanly fielded the next ground ball, so the tension lessened.
Things went smoothly after that. They all were good ballplayers and for ten minutes everything hit—hard, soft or in between—was fielded perfectly.
Next Jeremy went back to the field and Tony did the fungoing. Now pop-ups were mixed in with ground balls, and after any particularly good play they fired the ball around just like during a game when an out was made. They could all feel their confidence building. Best pals all, they wanted each of them to make the team. Any competition that existed was against all the other kids in town who wanted to be little leaguers—and with so many kids playing soccer nowadays, there was less competition than in their fathers’ day.
Just when it became Jeremy turn to fungo again, Ray’s little brother Pete came out with his glove and a hopeful look in his eyes. He was only six. “Jeremy,” he yelled, “can I play too?”
His brother answered for him. “No, you can’t, Pete. We’re practicing for Little League tryouts. Go back inside and watch TV.”
The little fellow had such a hurt and crestfallen look on his face that Jeremy felt sorry for him. “Oh, we can hit him a couple. He’s got to learn.”
The others reluctantly agreed, and Jeremy tossed him a few balls underhanded to see how ready he was. Not very was the answer. He put his glove pocket-side down and tried to stop the ball by smothering it, not catching it.
“No, no, Pete. Turn your glove around and watch the ball into the glove,” Jeremy said.
He was about to tap a soft ground ball to him when he saw out of the corner of his eye his Aunt Leslie hurriedly coming up to him from the side of the house. She lived on the next block and was often at their house, so he wasn’t surprised until he saw her face was contorted in fear and anxiety. Feeling scared, he dropped his bat. “What’s wrong, Aunt Leslie?”
She was breathless from running, he could tell. “Jeremy,” she panted, “there’s been an accident. You’re to come home with me.”
“What is it?”
She glanced at his pals who were all staring in wonderment. “I’ll tell you when we get to your house,” she said.
His stomach was heavy with dread. When Tony’s Sicilian grandmother from Boston had died last year, he remembered seeing the same shocked expression on Mrs. Dibella’s face when she came to get Tony. He knew something awful had happened.
“You guys, I gotta go,” he said and turned, not waiting for or listening to their replies.
He knew his mother had been at home—she only worked on Mondays and Tuesdays, and he had seen her a little over an hour ago. “Has something happened to Daddy?”
In answer Aunt Leslie put her arm around him and held him tight as they walked the short distance to his house. By the time they reached the door, her hand was digging into his shoulder so tightly it was starting to hurt.
Inside his aunt sat on the couch and patted the place beside her. “Sit down, Jeremy.” She waited for him to comply and then placed her arm around him again. “Your dad was hurt badly in a car accident on the interstate near the Waska exit. He was almost home…” Her voice trailed off and she was silent for a moment, collecting herself. “A trailer truck behind him lost control and smashed into his car. He’s been taken to the hospital. Your Aunt Jenny and grandmother are with your mother at the hospital. Right now that’s all I know.”
Jeremy didn’t speak. He was thinking of what his dad said to him when he left for work this morning. He taught engineering at a vocational school in Portland and left for work early each morning. Jeremy was just getting his bowl of cereal for breakfast when his father paused to give him some advice. He knew of the plan to practice for Little League tryouts. “Remember to look the ball into your glove.” It was the same advice he’d given Pete Martineau just a few minutes ago. His father had leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, then left.
Thinking of that made tears come to his eyes. A trailer truck. He knew how big they were. He started feeling stiff and numb and shifted his weight. “Is he hurt really, really bad?” He could hear his voice as if someone else was speaking. It was low, almost a whisper, and at the word “bad” it broke into a sob. Now he was shaking in terror. He had the feeling that his world was breaking up and that he would never feel safe again.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” Aunt Leslie said, speaking slowly. “I think so,” she added in a hushed tone.
He looked to see tears in her eyes. A sudden stab jolted him. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “We’ll have to wait for your mother.”
They sat in silence for some time until Aunt Leslie asked if he was hungry, but he wasn’t. He felt sick—that’s what the feeling in his stomach told him. It was like wanting to throw up and being unable to. He nestled against Aunt Leslie’s side, needing to feel that he was not all alone.
In this position, arm in arm, a half hour passed. Occasionally one or the other would conjecture that he was hurt bad but could recover. Both knew they were really only trying to convince themselves. Jeremy was beyond hope and so—he could tell—was his aunt. Then the phone rang and made them both start. He looked at his aunt, a chill of horror jangling down his spine, but she leaped up and rushed to answer the phone.
“No, this is Leslie Godwin. Cathy’s at the hospital.”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“No, we don’t know.”
“It was a trailer truck. It lost control.”
“No, we’re waiting to hear from her.”
“Okay. I’ll call as soon as we hear anything.”
She hung up. “That was your uncle Gardie. He just heard.”
Instead of sitting back down she stared at the phone for a while, lost in thought. At first Jeremy couldn’t figure out what was going on in her mind, but he
understood when she said, “I wonder where he heard the news? Could it be on TV and radio already?” Uncle Gardie was his father’s brother. He lived upcountry, and they didn’t see him often, though he worked in Portland and his dad and he had lunch together once a month or so. He couldn’t have heard the news from a neighbor.
He reached for the remote on the coffee table in front of him and turned the TV on. Ten minutes later they saw the television pictures of his dad’s car completely crushed under the turned-over truck and heard the reporter say that the driver of the car had had to be extracted from the vehicle with the jaws of life. The reporter, a well dressed woman in a pants suit and perfect hair, spoke without feeling as she said that David Lawrence had been rushed to the hospital in Bedford with serious injuries and that there was no further information on his condition. But it was the visual evidence that mattered. He heard Aunt Leslie gasp when she saw the crushed car. He felt it too. He had seen his dog hit by a car and knew the damage that steel could do to flesh and bone. But he couldn’t think of it. Seeking to escape, he went far away, to a place where he heard his father’s voice and his soft laugh, where he felt his father’s hands as he picked him up or lovingly patted his cheek before saying good-night, and he remembered the feeling of anticipation waiting for his father to come home and how when he did the waves of happiness and contentment washed over him in a flood of love and how whenever something scared him like the sound of thunder crashing nearby, he would feel safe and comforted when his father came in answer to his cries. Without him he couldn’t even be himself. That’s why his backbone tingled: it was fear, it was being scared to be alone. That was why his stomach was still heavy with the feeling of wanting to throw up: it was terror, the terror of truth undeniable. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, an inner voice wailed. The crushed car, his poor daddy within. He knew his father was dead but he would not say it. To speak the word was to take all hope away; it was to be shrouded in darkness.
Somehow the television was turned off, though he did not remember it happening, and he was in his aunt’s arms again, now too numb for tears, without thoughts, as limp as a rag thrown away. A long time must have passed, for when they heard the car pull into the driveway it was already dusk. Both of them became fully alert instantly and rushed to the door.
His mother came in supported by Aunt Jenny. They looked so much alike that they could almost be twins, even though Jenny was three years younger. Unlike their sister, who had dark hair and eyes, they both had blondish, light-brown hair and round blue eyes and a small chin, and both were tall and slender. Now both had the same red-rimmed eyes and devastated faces. Both seemed hardly able to walk they had sustained such a blow.
His mother disengaged herself from her sister. Her eyes searched his. It seemed as if he stopped breathing for an hour. Neither said anything. He felt hot tears running down his cheeks. His mind voiced the word “Mommy” silently as his eyes spoke it.
His mother understood him—she always did. She clasped him in her arms and hugged him tightly. She murmured over and over again, “Your dad is gone, Jeremy.”
Aunt Jenny, perhaps thinking that he didn’t understand death, said, “He was killed instantly, Jeremy. He didn’t suffer.”
She was wrong, though. He had seen his dog Stringer die before his eyes, and he did understand death. He knew his father was gone forever. He began crying again, and this time the tears were accompanied by deep body-shaking and uncontrollable sobs.
It wasn’t fair.
That’s what everybody felt. His mother cried with him and so did Aunt Jenny and Aunt Leslie and later his uncles and grandparents, for everyone who knew his dad loved him.
But people can’t cry forever. Tears are like tides: they wax and wain, and body and soul both need respite from the weeping flood. Because, too, people have to talk. They have to remember. They cannot just let love go. And people, even sorrowing people nearly crushed by pain and horror, they have to eat. For that necessity of the flesh, good, decent people who stand apart but feel the pain because they share the same human flesh and blood, mind and spirit—they, mainly Mrs. Dibella and Mrs. Hadley, bring food to the grieving family at some point during the evening and tell his mom and him how terribly, terribly sorry they are, and they too say that they loved Dave Lawrence because everyone who knew him loved him.
As they sit at the dining room table and eat, they begin to talk about his dad. Aunt Jenny remembered how he shared with her the fact he was going to propose to her sister and showed her the ring. It wasn’t too big, and he was afraid his mom would be insulted. But Aunt Jenny told him that it was him she loved, not a ring. Aunt Leslie remembered the time he rescued her cat last year from a tree and how typical that act was. He was always helping others. Yes, Uncle Aubrey agreed and said that he must have asked Dave for help on do-it-yourself projects twenty times, and twenty times he got help. All of them remembered how he was concerned about starvation in distant parts of the world and was a kind of foster parent to two different little girls in Africa. His grandmother reminded everyone about another act of kindness he did at their family picnic a few years ago at the beach. Some poor old lady who had lost her memory wandered confused and lost into their part of the beach after they saw her being shooed away by other people, and his dad had spent over two hours walking up and down the beach with her trying to find her family, and then, having no luck, going up to the cottages until he found her home. Jeremy remembered that he was mad at his father for that because his dad didn’t have time to play volleyball with him and his cousins. Now he felt guilty and had a deeper understanding of what goodness was. Then all of them laughed at a story his grandpa told. It seems that when in high school his dad had come to pick up his mom on their first date he was so nervous he had tucked his shirt into his underpants. He had to take the young man aside before his daughter saw him and tell him about it.
“Well, you never told me that, Dad!” his mom said with a smile. She was remembering when she was young and falling in love, Jeremy could tell. She had momentarily forgotten her love was dead.
“It was something that stayed between the menfolk,” his grandfather said with a smile, and for another few seconds everyone was laughing or smiling until they heard his mother’s sobs. She had remembered.
He had already learned that his father had left work early because the usual departmental meeting was canceled for some reason. His mother must have been brooding on that, for suddenly, through her tears, she said, “If only that stupid meeting hadn’t been canceled,” Dave would be home right now.”
The others tried to comfort her and tell her that it was just a terrible accident and not fate, which seemed to be his mother’s belief, but it didn’t work. For a long time after that she obsessed about the unlucky cancellation until everyone lost the warm mood of remembrance and tears were again in everyone’s eyes.
To all of this—to the stories they told and to his mother’s regrets—Jeremy listened but rarely spoke. He sat by his mother and at times in her lap until he could tell he was too heavy for her, and his aunts would give him hugs and his uncles and grandpa pats on the shoulder.
As time went on he started feeling more and more sleepy until finally he could not keep his eyes open. The next thing he knew it was morning and he was in his bed. The memory of last night came instantly to his mind, not as some half-remembered nightmare but as what it was, real and forever. His father was dead. He was going to be buried and put in a box underground. Trying to understand what death was and why his father had died, he searched his mind for something to connect. He knew from his Sunday school lessons that his father was supposed to be in heaven now and watching over him, but try as he would he couldn’t feel his dad’s presence. That’s why he started crying again and feeling sick.
But tears answered no questions, so he tried to be brave. He tried comparing his grief to how he felt when he watched death on television and movies, played video games or read about it in books. The trouble was that in those cases d
eath was not really real to him. It didn’t hurt. It had no consequences. It was just fiction. Then he thought about his dog Stringer’s death. It was certainly very real to him—until last night, in fact, it had been the saddest thing that ever happened to him. But even Stringer’s death was different. When his poor dog died he felt awful and sad, but he didn’t feel his world was shattered. He did feel guilty, though, for it was he who threw the ball errantly into the street causing Stringer to eagerly bound after it followed by the sounds of screeching brakes, a sickening thud and a piercing, agonized yelp. He could still vividly see Stringer lying on his side with blood coming out of his mouth and his legs immobile because his back was broken. His dog looked up at him with his big brown eyes showing his confusion and fear. He kept patting Stringer’s head until he saw the eyes go glassy and felt the body stop breathing. For days after the accident coming home from school filled him with unbearable sadness. Stringer always waited for him on the front porch and grew very excited and began yipping the moment he caught his scent. And here is where Jeremy thought he grasped something about the nature of death. For what would happen a few hours after Stringer waited for him? He would do the exact same thing as his dog, except now it he who was waiting for his dad. He would be impatient but quiet, and then when he’d catch sight of his dad’s car the excitement would be so intense that he would make a little cry that was the equivalent of Stringer’s yip.
But that made him the one who had gone away, and that was not right. He was confused. He was still here. It was his dad who was gone, and he would never wait for him again at 4:45 before supper. It was so unfair. An accident by a bad truck driver could not be the same thing that dropping his cereal plate and smashing it was. That would be too stupid. But what else could it be? He didn’t understand much about the fate his mother spoke of last night. Whatever it was, his dad was still dead.
His thinking was leading him nowhere. It always ended with the realization that he was never going to meet his father again, just as Stringer was never going to meet him again, and he was the one who remained. There was never going to be an answer to the question of why it happened. Now he felt worse instead of better. He felt so wretched that his tears turned into sobs that shook his whole frame and all he wanted to do was to be hugged by his mother.
The hug helped. His mother needed one too. She was in the kitchen looking out the window and lost in thought when he came down. When she turned her tear-stained face to him, he saw her light up. The hug, which they held for a long time, reminded both of them that they still had each other. For the next three days they were inseparable. Most of the time other members of the family, especially his aunts Leslie and Jenny, were with them. While various arrangements were made like meeting with Rev. Covington, the minister, conferring with the family lawyer, or greeting his dad’s mom and other distant relatives, and during the calling hours followed by the funeral and burial, much of the time was all a blur for Jeremy. After his unsuccessful attempts that first morning to think, he simply began reacting and following his feelings. He was often numb, other times nervous, occasionally filled with dread, always confused and always scared and never comfortable.
That first visit on Saturday night before calling hours began was the time of dread. Inside the light was subdued and the walls off-white. The flowers didn’t look like the ones in gardens. They were dull and looked fake, though when he touched one he discovered they were not. The funeral director, Mr. Connolly, was a very old man who reminded him of the flowers in that there was something unnaturally unlifelike about him even though he was alive. He must have seen death too often, for whether he smiled or looked somber, the feelings were store-bought and phony. He was talking to his mom, but Jeremy didn’t listen too attentively because he knew in a few minutes he was going to have to see his father. Soon enough Mr. Connolly led them down a darkened hall past paintings of mountains and of the sea. Even though his mother seemed to be as scared as he was, her arm tightly wound around his shoulder gave him courage. But it wasn’t as scary as he thought it was going to be. Just as he had heard people say on television, his father looked asleep, and there was an aura of quietness and dignity that was hard to understand but easy to feel. The only thing they got wrong was his hair. His dad wore it medium-long and casual, but they had combed it as if he were obsessed with neatness. Every hair was in place, making him look too formal. But it didn’t really matter. He realized that it wasn’t really his father anymore, and he was able to look at him calmly through his tears. Those tears, he knew, came from the memory of his father alive, not from his remains.
Another thing he discovered even before realizing it and only thought about as he gazed at his father was that everything looked and seemed different without his dad in the world. He often passed the funeral parlor on his bike when he and his pals were going to the store and riding across town to play ball. It was a big old-fashioned building painted gray with white trim and with several circular roofs at the corner—just an interesting building, nothing more. One time riding with his pals they had stopped to watch some men load a coffin into a hearse. The coffin was heavy and the men were straining, and he had said, “That guy must be fat.” His friends all laughed. But as he gazed at his dead father and thought about his lovingkindness, he knew he would never laugh again when he saw a funeral. He wasn’t sure he would ever laugh again period. And he knew he would never pass this building without remembering his dad and feeling sad. It wasn’t just a building anymore.
But it wasn’t only buildings that were different. People were too. Everyone was nice, but they acted as if they were walking across a room with eggs scattered everywhere. They all said how sorry they were and meant it, but they were tongue-tied and didn’t treat him in the usual way. Even his pals, who came to the calling hours with their parents and who had tears in their eyes because they knew his dad, they too were like that. They were guarded and afraid to say the wrong thing. It was like they were strangers, not his best friends. Maybe they were scared that their dads could die.
Then it got worse. During the calling hours when his mother and he would stand by the coffin and greet the visitors, he started to become aware of people looking at him and then turning to whisper something to their companions and knew he was on display. It made him feel self-conscious, a feeling that he hadn’t anticipated having. It gave him a strange double vision whereby he was aware of himself as himself and as another person seen through those staring eyes. It made him want to scream, but because he couldn’t he hid himself away, showing no emotion or tears.
Then Mr. McLaughton, the man who was his grandmother’s new husband from Massachusetts, complimented him on his bravery and gave him some advice to the effect that he was now the man of the house. Jeremy could tell he was nervous and just saying that to have something to say, but nevertheless he took away from this brief interview the knowledge that a man did not cry and the belief that it validated his decision to stoically betray no emotion. And he didn’t—not during the funeral or the burial or for the next few weeks among his friends and at school where everyone continued to be nice and yet treat him in a gingerly fashion that made him feel even more isolated and alone. He was not at all happy to be smothering his dark feelings of rage and injustice and presenting himself to the world as a boy in control of his feelings, but he was trapped inside his decision and saw no way out. Only alone at night and in bed did he let loose his feelings and mourn his absent father with tears.
But during this time he was not unobserved. His mother saw how he acted and heard him crying at night. Twice she came into his bedroom and asked him if he was all right. He lied and said he was, but his mother knew better.
Finally after supper one night she had a talk with him. She began by asking him if he would like to go to a psychiatrist and talk about his feelings.
He shook his head at that scary thought.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people have feelings of sadness, anger, despair, and helples
sness after a tragic loss and get counseling. These feelings are perfectly normal. I’ve felt that way too since the accident. One thing I’ve decided to do is to start taking yoga classes. Your Aunt Leslie suggested it. She has a friend who does it in Portland once a week. She says it’s a wonderful way to relax and learn to control your mind. Would you like to do it too? They have children’s classes as well as adult ones.”
Again he shook his head. He could hear the kids laughing at him if he did something like that.
His mom looked disappointed. He stared out the window for a few moments, thinking. Then she turned, bent down and lovingly kissed his forehead. “I do understand your feelings, Jeremy. I’ve often wondered how I am going to be able to go on without your dad. He was a very special man. A good man. I know you know that. I’ve heard you tell your friends you thought he was the best dad in the world. Now I’m going to do my best to raise you alone. That’s why I’m talking to you right now.”
Instead of responding, he looked away just as his mom had awhile ago and began thinking. He loved her dearly, but she couldn’t be his dad. Nothing and no one could fill that emptiness. Women didn’t understand boy things. Like what to do when a bully picked on you or how to play baseball and football. His mom didn’t care about sports and was always only interested to the extent that he was playing them. She certainly wouldn’t be able to give him any tips. She couldn’t show him how to backhand a ground ball or look at a fastball and sit on a change-up.
He turned back to his mother. He felt himself on the verge of tears and struggled to compose himself. To his surprise he found himself saying exactly what was on his mind. “I miss Dad.”
She nodded, biting her lip. He could see her eyes glistening. “Me too. Like I said, sometimes I don’t know how I’m going to live without him.” She reached over and again lovingly stroked his chin. “Go ahead and let the tears come, sweetie. It’s all right.”
Then he really started crying and she took him in her arms to comfort him. When he had cried himself dry and was just letting himself feel warm and protected without any thought, she suddenly asked him a question. “Jeremy,” she said and in a quiet and soothing voice, “Can you tell me why you have only cried in secret the last few weeks?”
Then he told her in a confused and rambling sort of way about the double vision he felt when everyone stared at him during calling hours and how Mr. McLaughton had given him advice about being the man of the family and how he had concluded that men don’t cry.
“You realize he was just saying the sort of thing expected of him in that situation—you know, the usual conventional advice an older man says to a boy—don’t you?”
“Yes. I really did. He seemed nervous and said the first thing that came into his mind. But the advice is also true. I never saw daddy cry.”
“Well, let me ask you this. Until this accident happened have you ever seen me cry?’
That question surprised him. In fact, he hadn’t, and he sensed what she was leading up to.
“You know your dad was not conventional. He thought for himself, didn’t he?”
That was true.
“So he certainly didn’t think that he wouldn’t cry just because he was a man. Because I can tell you that he did cry. He cried for joy when you were born, and he cried in grief when his father died eight years ago. Besides those times, I’ve seen him cry at sad things he’s seen on television and movies. Your dad was a real man and he cried. He didn’t worry about conforming to any stereotypes. He was himself, and he would want you to be yourself. ”
Listening to this while enwrapped in her loving arms, he felt an enormous relief. The physical reality became emotional reality: he wasn’t alone anymore; neither did he have to pretend anymore. His mother’s love could be his refuge, and his father’s example of independence could free him. That was the effect her soothing words had. An emptiness inside still abided where his father used to be, but he didn’t seem so far away now.
He thought about that distance during the rest of that night and the next morning after breakfast when he found himself alone. His mother was at the store doing the weekly grocery shopping. It was the weekend of her first week of full-time work, and she was still adjusting to the divided demands of her time. She had rushed out, leaving the breakfast dishes in the sink. Jeremy could tell that she was feeling tired and overworked as she adjusted to her new schedule. Remembering that his father often helped with household chores, he decided to wash the pots and pans, put the rest of the dishes into the dishwasher and clean off the table and counters.
As he worked at scrubbing the pan that had cooked the bacon and eggs, at first he just felt proud of himself for helping, but then he began thinking about a conversation he had had with his dad. He had told some kids at school that his father sometimes cooked, did the dishes and helped clean up because his mother worked too. Bob Parole, a guy who wasn’t a friend but who had overheard them, scoffed at what he said. “That’s women’s work,” he said. “No real man does it.” When Jeremy tried to defend his dad, Bob also said that his mother didn’t have to work. His dad provided for his family.
The insult stung, and he had no ready answer to defend his dad, but that night as they were playing catch in the backyard, he told his dad what had happened at school.
“Well,” his dad had said with a strange smile, “we have no right to interfere with other people, but that boy’s dad is flat wrong. We must never disrespect other people, including strangers. But that boy—and his father, I assume—used the term ‘real man.’ Well, let me tell you what I think. A real man is decent first and foremost.”
When Jeremy didn’t seem to understand the point, his dad asked, “Do you know what I mean by decent?”
“I think so. It means being nice to others.”
His dad had been holding the ball, but now he sat down at their picnic table and patted the seat next to him. He waited for Jeremy to join him, then said, “Well, yes. It’s the golden rule I’m talking about. Would you want someone to be mean to you?”
“No, I’d hate that.”
“Then you see the point?”
Jeremy, perhaps seven then, maybe eight, thought for a moment. With a sudden insight that brought a proud smile to his face, he said, “I see. I shouldn’t be mean to someone because I wouldn’t like it if they were mean to me.”
“And you see how it applies to people weaker than you? That’s the real test. Bullies, you know, pick on people weaker than them. But there’s no bully in the world who doesn’t have someone somewhere stronger than him. Just because you can get away with being mean is all the more reason not to do it. That’s what being a decent person means. You see my point?”
His put his arm around Jeremy as he asked the question and gave him a loving squeeze when he said, “I do, Daddy.”
Okay, then. Let me ask you something else. Is it right to tell a woman she can’t work when she wants to?”
At first he didn’t see the connection and was confused. “I don’t think so?” he said doubtfully, and turned it into a question as he looked into his dad’s brown eyes.
“Well, we’re talking about the golden rule again and also about decency and respect. Say you want to work and someone tells you you can’t?”
“I see now. Yes, you’re right! It’s decent to let Mom work.”
His dad smiled. “Well, if you’re decent, it’s not really a case of letting her work. I respect her as a human being capable of making her own decisions, see? And of course you use common sense. One of your friends says, ‘Let’s steal some apples.’ Is that right?”
“No, because it’s wrong to steal.”
His dad had smiled, showing how pleased he was. “Okay, tiger. Let’s get this ball moving again.”
After remembering that conversation, he knew it would be the right thing to help his mom around the house as much as possible, and he resolved to continue doing it. But something else happened that he had not expected. That memory began triggering othe
r memories of things he’d learned from his dad. Driving to his grandparents with his mother, he saw a man in the car in front of them at a red light casually toss a cigarette butt out the window and remembered his father saying that the earth was our home. Walking to school one morning, he saw some crows tearing into a plastic garbage bag and recalled that while most people regarded them as pests his dad had a different perspective on those feathered thieves. “They are among the most intelligent of birds, possibly the most intelligent, and could even count,” he said. “Watch them put a lookout on some branch when they’re getting food, and then notice how they take turns being lookout. I like and admire them.” And remembering that, Jeremy smiled at the crows.
Another time at school the kids were picking on Charlie Georgopolis again. He was fat, wore thick glasses, and had buck teeth. When they taunted him he could never defend himself, just get flustered and hurt. When it had happened last year, some girls had finally taken pity on the poor kid and told the boys to cut it out. They had, but one of the boys had defended himself by saying he was just being honest. That had confused Jeremy. They were mean, which was bad, but then they were honest, which was good. That night he had spoken of his confusion to his dad.
“If you respect yourself and others you will always be honest. Honesty doesn’t go to the extent you hurt someone’s feelings, though. You don’t tell an ugly person he’s ugly, even if he is. You accept him for himself. You understand that, don’t you?”
Accept him for himself? That seemed right. “Yes,” he said.
“And if you ever see it happen again you’ll try to help Charlie, won’t you?”
“I’ll try, but it’s hard when people are ganging up on him.”
“Sure, I know. But you can try to defend him if others don’t. But while we’re on the topic of honesty, let’s take it a step further. Say you’re playing baseball with your friends and a ball breaks someone’s window. What do you do?”
He knew the answer to that one too. It was even a joke among his pals—the difference between a home run and a run home. “You take responsibility for it. You offer to pay for the window.”
His dad had smiled proudly. “If that ever happens, I’ll even put the window in. But,” he said with that wonderful smile of his that always made him feel happy, “the best thing is to be careful and not break the window in the first place. That’s especially what being responsible means.”
Remembering his father’s advice, he knew he couldn’t let him down now. Even though he was nervous, he walked up to the schoolyard bullies and said, “Hey, you guys. Quit picking on Charlie. He’s just minding his own business. Why don’t you do the same.” Then some other kids backed him up, and Charlie was left alone.
That made him feel good, and for the rest of the week he felt close to his dad and could almost believe he was watching over him from above.
But Saturday morning found him sitting on his front porch feeling lonely. He hadn’t felt up to trying out for the Little League, and now all his pals were at practice and he had nothing to do except watch his neighbor Ned Gilmette mowing the front lawn across the street. He had waved but otherwise been intent upon his work. He was short and stocky, muscular, and with a bad complexion he was not handsome, but he was the star fullback for the Courtney Academy Cougers and a good guy who always had a friendly twinkle in his eyes and loved to joke. Occasionally he’d toss a ball, usually a football but sometimes a baseball, with his brother Lionel and invite Jeremy to join them. Lionel was much different than Ned. He was slender and his face was girlishly smooth and delicate. If that wasn’t bad enough, he also acted like a girl. Jeremy, thinking of that, remembered that Ray Martineau’s mother heard something and told Ray she didn’t want him to have anything to do with Lionel because he was homosexual. Jeremy didn’t know what that meant, but he could tell it was something awful. He felt bad because he liked Lionel almost as much as Ned and thought both of them were good neighbors. He had asked Ray what a homosexual was.
“It’s a man who loves men.” Ray said, spitting it out. “My mom says it’s unnatural.”
“Oh, you mean he’s good friends with some guys. Nothing wrong with that.”
“No,” Ray said, frowning and shaking his head, “it’s not just that. It’s much worse. My mom wouldn’t explain. That’s how bad it is.”
After that Jeremy agreed to keep away from Lionel, but it still bothered him so that eventually he asked his dad if he was doing the right thing. It was after supper, and his dad was doing the dishes. He seemed to think the topic was very important because he stopped and sat down at the kitchen table.
“As you grow you’re going to find there’s a lot of hate in the world. For some reason some people often hate people who are different than them. That’s one reason some people dislike blacks, Hispanic and oriental people. Because they look different, the haters think they are different. But you know my friend Dee Forster from work. You’ve met him. He’s a nice guy, isn’t he?
“Yes. He’s shy but nice.”
“And he’s black, so right there you can see how stupid hate is. It’s the same with Lionel. You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s always been nice to you, hasn’t he?
“Yes, but that was before I learned—”
But his dad didn’t let him finish the sentence. “Jeremy, I really want you to understand this. People aren’t really different. They all want the same things. They want to have love in their life and friends and family. They want to have a job. They want to feel free. They want to have fun with their friends. They want to left alone if they’re different. They want to be accepted for themselves.”
“So it’s okay to be friends with him?”
“It is. You go on being friends. I myself like Lionel a lot. I think he’s a good and sensitive human being. He makes my world richer.
Thinking of his dad’s advice, he didn’t notice that the lawn mower had suddenly become silent and Ned was yelling at him.
“Whatcha doing, Jeremy?” he repeated when he looked at him.
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought. How’re ya doing?”
He knew what Ned meant. “Okay, I guess.”
He didn’t seem to believe him and walked across the street, taking tiny little steps in his unhurried way. “So where’re your pals? I saw Ray earlier going somewhere on his bike. He had his glove with him.”
“They’re all at Little League practice. Games start in about a week.”
He couldn’t hide his lonely-sadness from Ned, who took a moment to have a think. His eyes looked up into his head while his finger tapped his chin as if he was a mad scientist inventing something. When he saw that he had made Jeremy smile, he said, “Ain’t Terry Levesque the coach?”
He nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“I know him. His brother is on the football team with me. And he owes me a favor. If you want, I could ask him to get you on the team—you know, because of special circumstances.”
He knew Ned well enough to know he didn’t like to talk about feelings—Jeremy had heard him calling it being mushy—but right now when he missed his dad he wished he would. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s just that—”
Ned took a deep breath. “I know. I just lost a friend last summer. “Chad Bronson. He drowned. You hear about it?”
“I think so.”
“Then you know I feel sad too. He wanted me to go with him but I was too lazy. Maybe it was partly my fault, see?”
“I bet not.”
He pursed his lips and looked grim for a moment. “So why don’t you want me to talk to Terry? You know your dad would want you to play.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. He’d want you to be a regular boy. I know he was always proud of you. He told me so.”
Jeremy thought. What he worried about was possibly just dumb, but still it bothered him. Suppose he did something wrong that the coach didn’t
like? He’d want to talk to his dad in that case. Like if he didn’t go to second base on a ground ball with a runner at first, and the coach got mad at him. He would want friendly advice. It was just one of the many ways he still missed his dad.
But then a miracle happened, whether by accident or because somehow Ned understood him he never knew. He said, “Hey, who knows more about baseball than me, I’d like to know? I’m a football player, but that doesn’t mean I don’t play baseball or that I ain’t a strategist about positioning players and stuff. You have any questions, you can always ask me. Don’t I live just across the street?”
Just then his mother drove into the yard with the groceries. After greeting Ned, she looked at Jeremy for an explanation. She could tell they’d been having a powwow about something.
“Mom, is it okay if Ned talks to Coach Levesque about getting me on the team? He says that Dad would want me to be playing.”
A strange look passed over his mom’s face. She was both sad remembering and happy that he wanted to begin again the life of a little boy. “Of course, honey. I agree with Ned. Your dad would want you to be with your friends.”
By the next weekend just as school ended for the year and the long summer lay in front of him, he was on the team and ready to play, knowing that his dad was watching from above and that those that remained behind were there to help him on his way.
He Goes His Own Way