“You know, Jamie, family’s the most important thing in life.” His thoughts turned back to the dream and his voice quivered. “There’s never enough time to appreciate what you’ve got. When I was your age, I learned it the hard way.”
“I know, Dad. You’ve told me about Grandpa.”
Alex nodded. “Just make sure you remember that.”
“I will.” He pinned Alex with dark, serious eyes that matched his own. The faint lamplight hovering over the desk illuminated their faces in stale yellow.
Jamie cleared his throat before beginning. “Dad, I need to know about the most important thing that ever happened to you. Was there ever something that changed your life that much?”
Alex smiled and leaned back in the ancient leather chair. It creaked like an old man’s rocker, but supported his slim frame. Everyone else had gone for the day.
“Have you got time, son?” asked Alex in mock seriousness. “This may take a while.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Dad, but don’t take all year. I’ve gotta get this paper done before the week’s out.”
“I’ll try not to let you starve.” Opening a desk drawer, the uniformed man pulled out a large container of beef jerky and sat it between them. “Every man has a turning point in their life. I would have to say that mine is by far the most interesting story I’ve heard. I don’t know what set the events in motion. It defies all logic, but to this day I attribute it to sixteen days and a research project a lot like yours.”
Jamie let out an exasperated sigh at the reference to school, a sore subject they often argued about. Alex chuckled with familiarity. “When I was your age, I looked at life a lot like you do. I was a high achiever until I reached high school. But, there was one fateful day that changed my life forever.”
“The day grandpa died?”
Alex nodded. “I was never the same after that. It started before I even made it to Madessa High School. Life at home fell apart after your grandfather passed. Your grandmother sold the house and moved us into a small trailer park. We stayed there, in Tranquil Heights. She found what work she could, but things were never the same. Before a year had passed, she even remarried. For the following three years, I walked to school, passing through town like a stranger. Before your grandfather died, I did everything by the book. I got good grades, did what Dad asked, and look how it ended up. With your grandfather gone, I became different, isolated. That went on for years. By the time I realized something was changing, I had started my last year in high school.
“School had become a chore. Each day was the same, hours in classes where I did as little work as possible and still managed to pass. I had a pathetic excuse for a substitute father and didn’t look forward to going home, if you could even call it home. So, I always tried to make that walk from school last forever. It was never long enough.
“Each day I stopped by my father’s grave at the old cemetery. At the foot of his grave stood an ancient pine. I often sat under its drooping branches and stared at his gray, unadorned tombstone. Other headstones mentioned time served in the military, like my father’s. At the time, I didn’t understand how something like that deserved to be remembered. It had been his decision, but I hated how much of his time it had stolen from me.”
* * * * *
Chapter 31: 2 – Wednesday
September 28th, 1995
“Hey, Dad,” I muttered with a frown. “I know you can’t be here, but it doesn’t change how much I miss you.”
As I spoke, I massaged his dog tags with my thumb. I wore them each day, as much as I hated what they reminded me of. But because they were something he’d worn close to his heart, they were never far from mine. We talked about how cruel life was, but the conversations were always one-sided. While not ideal, it was as close as I could get to him. To this day, the bark on the eastern side of the tree is worn smooth by my constant company.
I would speak with him until the sun set, then force myself up and trudge the rest of the way through town. I’d pass our old house, cross the railroad tracks, and then wade through the vacant lots of waist-high grass, running my hands over them like a sea of yellow and green waves. They’d escaped people’s notice; one of the only places in all of Virginia that might have. No one mowed the lots and they were free to be themselves. I envied those blades of grass.
After passing row upon row of identical trailers, I found myself at the rotting steps of our three-bedroom, mobile resort. Vivian’s car wasn’t there. She hadn’t returned from work yet, but her husband’s truck sat in its spot. I looked from the artificial putt-putt turf covering the porch up to the wooden sign hanging from one remaining hook. The name “McCullins” could only be read if you craned your neck to the side. I chuckled at Vivian’s poor attempt to create some semblance of home.
That isn’t my name and it never will be.
I grudgingly trudged up the steps to my prison, praying to make it through one last year. As the door opened, a cloud of putrid smoke engulfed me. I slipped through the living room and avoided looking at him or my older stepbrother, Frank. But through my peripheral vision, I noted that their gazes never wavered. I almost made it to the hallway when the drunk parted his lips from his cherished beer can and said, “Hey”.
I heard the clunk as he haphazardly threw the can toward the trash. It wound up in a heap on the floor with the others. Disgusted, I mumbled, “Hey,” and headed for the room I shared with Frank. The third bedroom belonged to my stepsisters. They’d lucked out with the larger room. Ours was only eleven-by-seven feet, smaller than prisons are allowed for single-occupancy cells. A bunk bed took up most of our room.
As I slid the wooden door closed, the drunk began another tirade. “Hey what?” A minute later, he repeated himself and began ranting in slurred imitation of English. “Stupid, disrespectful kid. Can’ts even call me, Dad.”
I threw my bag down and climbed to the top bunk, then pressed play on my portable CD player. I popped my headphones in, and heavy-metal guitar solos swarmed my consciousness. I tried the bottom bed once when I first moved in, but Frank about killed me when he got home early that morning. He threw me out of it and beat me black and blue as a reminder of what would happen next time. The keepsake bruises took weeks to heal. He was only a year older than me, but he could have been a clone of his father. Since I was never what you would call ‘built’ and didn’t care to tangle with either of them again, I kept to the top bunk.
Thursday
September 28th, 1995
The next morning began as usual, with Vivian shrieking at my bedroom door. My music still drummed in my ears, so I turned over and pulled the covers up. A few minutes later, a deluge of ice water flooded my safe haven, drenching the bed and startling me from my quaint oblivion. I leaped down and searched the small room for the assailant, but Vivian had already left. The reused, forty-four ounce cup sat dripping onto the dresser in the corner of the room. The mirror above it advertised the damage. I stood bare to my boxers, dripping wet and shivering in the morning cold that permeated the trailer. My hair hung limp with soaked, black clumps plastered to my forehead. I grabbed a towel and made my way to the shower, pushing the oldest of my stepsisters out before she’d finished combing her preadolescent hair. I slammed the door and jumped into the shower. The warm water was cleansing, but soon turned cold as well.
On the way back to my room, I passed Abigail waiting outside the door. She glared at me with cold hatred. I ignored her, as usual, and rescued a heavy-metal t-shirt and jeans from the floor. Then, I pulled out an old button-up from the dresser. It had belonged to my father, and I let it hang loose over the wrinkled t-shirt. It was comforting that after three years, I could still smell Dad’s aftershave on the collar. I grabbed my backpack and tip-toed past Vivian’s room. The drunk was still snoring. The cacophony was somehow in sync with Frank’s labored breathing as it echoed from my room. The resemblance was disturbing.
My two stepsisters, Abigail and Gloria, were in the kitchen when I emerged from the
dark hallway. Vivian had already left for work, but she’d toasted a few generic pastries and left them on the kitchen table. The girls each had one in hand and were collecting their lunchboxes. I grabbed the last off the plate and escaped the temporary hell for the day. The rickety porch groaned as I fled the trailer, threatening to crumble at any moment. The girls were hot on my heels but I soon outpaced them, striving to get as far away as possible.
“Alex,” cried Gloria from behind, her high-pitched, six-year-old voice almost impossible to ignore. “You’s suppose to walk me to school.”
I ignored her childish cries and hurried my pace, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk ahead.
“I’s gonna tell Daddy on you,” she wailed. Her voice quaked as though physically pained.
This had become another daily ritual; one I had hardened myself to long ago. Abigail shushed her at the mention of the drunk. Even at such a distance, I remember hearing her whisper, “Quiet, you know Daddy’s just as likely to bust our behinds as Alex’s for this. You aint gonna tell nobody.”
While only twelve, Abigail was a survivor. She was a veteran at living through her father’s rages and knew when to stay out of the way. Gloria was too young to have learned those lessons.
Once they were finally out of sight, I was able to slow down and meander along the sidewalk. My thoughts drifted amongst the clouds, thinking of nothing in particular, but contemplating everything at the same time. The point of living such a horrid life was foremost on my mind. I walked the same streets I normally did, crossing the railroad tracks and drifting into town. As I watched the world pass by, I noticed that the trees had begun to change, their foliage becoming a colorful cluster of branches. Each leaf anxiously waited for the right crosswind to catch its broadly spread arms and carry it away. It was comforting to know I wasn’t alone. I, too, longed to leave Tranquil Heights.
I approached the more historic homes in town and white picket fences appeared along the sidewalk. I ran my fingers across them, each light thump echoing in my ears. I sped up and the sound thrummed like something caught in the spokes of a bike tire. Eventually the fence changed, as did the noise. An old family home appeared with its own cast-iron fence. Rounded steeples perched atop each post. The enclosure guarded the majestic house that had always belonged to the Brogand family. They were well respected in town, and their ancestors were some of the original settlers of this part of Virginia.
It was a lot different from what I had grown used to over the last three years. Then, a familiar voice picked up from behind me. Homeless Bob was drawing nearer while mumbling incoherent snatches of words. As though by an unconscious habit, he pushed his rusting lawnmower down the asphalt. The plastic wheels echoed on the roadway. Bob was a common road obstacle in Tranquil Heights, one everyone had come to know and look out for. Of course, Homeless Bob wasn’t his real name, but no one seemed to know him, or his past.
I resumed listening to the new, deeper thrumming as my fingers slid across the black, cast-iron posts. The metallic sound was soothing and rhythmic. The sidewalk’s gate to the manor loomed near, and I ran my hand over its rail. The foliage changed, and an odd odor drifted nearby. It reminded me of a musty attic or antique furniture. Then, day shifted to night like the flick of a switch.
Unintelligible words filtered through the air, echoing in the void as though through a long metal tube. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, faint lights came into focus. The house windows were lit by candles.
Were the candles there before? I wondered before my attention shifted.
The muttering voice came nearer. Then, I realized the words were coming from me, but sounded somehow different.
What am I saying?
I tried to look around, but movement was out of my control. The jumbled words became clear. However, it wasn’t my voice. It was feminine and too proper. There was something else in the tone, too...Fear. The same emotion filtered into my thoughts and through my body.
“Please, Theodore, I didn’t do anything.”
Suddenly, I was thrust backward, away from the large house and slammed into something cold and hard … the iron fence. Pain pierced my thoughts like a lightening bolt. Then, hands tightened around my throat. My eyes settled on a man less than a foot away. He pulled me back toward him. Something about his chiseled jaw and cheeks looked familiar. Large, rough fingers tightened around my neck, and the middle-aged man slammed me back against the gate. Again, pain lanced through my mind.
“The hell you didn’t,” he rasped at arms length. His anger engulfed his eyes, lighting them with a fire that could illuminate the night sky. It was an anger I had come to know well over the last three years with the drunk. “I saw you at the Independence party. You were pandering to any man that set eyes on you. You even blew kisses at the Quigley boy, off the veranda.”
“No, I was not,” I whispered, too prim and proper. But my voice quaked with fear. His words brought memories of the night to mind, a party of elite celebrating a country’s newly acquired independence. The styles were archaic, but vivid. It was as though I’d been there that very night. Mr. Quigley was a young man in his early twenties, and he was quite taken with me … her. It was difficult to distinguish between the two of us, like when you take some other form in a dream. You almost lose yourself and live within the vision.
That has to be what this is, a dream.
The memories stitched their way through my thoughts, overwhelming my conclusion and giving her lie away.
She’d done everything Theodore claimed; flirted, stolen kisses, and more.
“Please don’t do this,” she beseeched him.
The objection infuriated the man further. His black coat strained against his muscle-bound form, and his arm quivered, tense and strong. I tried to fight back, clutching at his forearm, but it didn’t phase the brute. He was solid as a rock. His rage took hold, and he threw me into the gate, over, and over. My skull rattled at each impact with the unyielding metal spires, shattering my thoughts until the world collapsed into the blackest of nights.
I stumbled away from the iron-wrought gate. The Brogand manor stood like a silent witness under the sun’s morning rays. The light flew through sparse clouds to illuminate the large home, but something dark lurked in its shadowed corners. The trees still held their multi colored leaves, each of them preparing to leave on the winds of change. Homeless Bob hadn’t even caught up to me, yet.
What the heck was that … a dream? If it was, it was a doozey.
I wavered between school and returning to the trailer park. After a few indecisive moments, I picked the least dreadful of the two and proceeded to school. The rest of the way, I stared at the sidewalk, contemplating the vision as I meandered down odd streets that barely registered in my conscious thoughts.
Was it a dream, or am I going insane?
* * * * *
Chapter 32: 3 – School
To my surprise, I looked up and found myself in front of the school entrance. The grounds were vacant with only a few cars drifting out of the parking lot. Birds chirped, disrupting the still silence. The large clock in the center of the courtyard announced that classes had already begun. When I reached the gym, a voice stopped me outside. The other students passed by in a herd as they ran laps.
“It’s nice of you to join us,” shouted Coach Moyer from the track. It encompassed the football field, not far from the building Mr. Moyer was a bull of a man, weighing at least four-hundred pounds, most of which hung over his waist. His double chin bulged around the collar of his school polo.
“Sorry I’m late, got caught up.”
“Well, get with it. Change clothes and join the rest of the class out on the track. You’re running ten laps today.”
I nodded and disappeared into the locker room. Ten laps didn’t bother me; although, I’d never been the sporting type. By the time I reached the track, half the period was over, and most people had finished the majority of their laps. The track stars were sitting on the well-trodden grass, horse-pla
ying and telling jokes. The rest of the athletes loped down the black avenues. I set a comfortable pace. If I didn’t finish, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The vivid dream from that morning still haunted me. The crisp morning air cycled through my lungs as I thought. It was refreshing. Just then someone tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me back to the lonely reality I was accustomed to.
“Hey, Alex, what happened to you this morning?” asked Jesse, another senior. His brown hair was matted in sweat, but he matched my pace.
“Nothin’ really, just took my time getting here.” Jessie was one of the few people that might be called a friend.
“Dude, you don’t look so hot. You sure you’re feelin’ well?”
Before I could answer, Coach Moyer screamed, “Get a move on.” Jessie waited for my response, ignoring the coach’s orders.
“Nah, I’m good, no worries.”
“Arturo, did you hear me?” bellowed the coach from the start line. “Get your butt moving and join up with the rest of the football team. They’re about to lap you.” Sure enough, Grant Brogand, the star quarterback was coming up behind us, setting the pace for the rest of the team.
“Maybe you better go,” I said. Coach Moyer’s face was growing beet red.
“Why,” asked Jessie, “It aint like he can catch us. I hear he makes the Driver’s Ed students stop for burgers every time they go out.”
We both chuckled at the rumor we knew to be true, but Jessie accelerated around the track before the coach lost whatever patience he had left. Jessie rounded the track and caught up to the others. He was the only one that ever stepped outside the popular group or even spoke civilly to me. The fact that they were all overshadowed by Grant’s celebrity status might have been partly to blame. Although Jessie was good, with Grant around, no one else was ever mentioned to college scouts.
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