This time it was my turn to be wrong.
Things were better for about a week.
But then came the next couple of months…Jason losing so much weight and quitting his summer-league basketball team; Momma complaining that money was missing from her purse and a necklace was gone from her top dresser drawer; Jason quitting his job at the video store…
Call me stupid, but I never thought it was the drugs. People got hooked on dope all the time—especially in my neighborhood—but not my brother. He was too smart for that, for goodness sake. I just thought Jason had changed. That happens a lot of times, you know. Plenty of my friends were close to their sisters or brothers when they were younger and then as soon as they reached a certain age, they drifted apart. I just thought that’s what was happening with Jason and me.
It all came to a head a few days after Jason’s seventeenth birthday. I came home from school and found him sprawled on the kitchen floor. His face was a bloody, swollen mess, and his arm was bleeding. The kitchen table was overturned, and a chair was broken. Samantha was going crazy in the corner behind the trash can, meowing and whimpering louder than I had ever heard her.
Jason refused to go to the hospital, so I wet a washcloth and started cleaning his face. I kept asking him over and over again what had happened, but all he would say was: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
I was just finishing with his arm when suddenly a sick feeling came over me, and I asked him: “Where’s Simon?”
He shook his head and started crying.
I felt the panic in my stomach. “Jason, what happened to Simon?”
“I’m sorry…”
Louder this time. “Jason, where’s Simon?”
And that’s when he broke down and told me everything: about the drugs and the money he owed. About how they warned him this would happen. How they were waiting for him inside the apartment…and finally, about what they’d done to poor Simon, as his final warning to come up with the money or else.
My hands were shaking. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Happening to us. Inside our own apartment. I picked up Samantha and walked into the living room. Sat on the sofa and cried for a long, long time. Poor Simon. God, I was going to miss him.
Before Momma came home, we cleaned up the mess and made up another story. I never asked exactly what happened to Simon; I was afraid to.
And, of course, Jason promised to stop again. He owed the men two hundred dollars. I loaned him all the money I had—just over sixty—and he swore he would borrow the rest of the money from his friends and get his job back at the video store and repay me. He promised me, and I believed him. He was my best friend in the whole world.
Two weeks later, money wasn’t a problem any more. But he wasn’t working at the video store. Instead, he came home one evening, and I noticed the changes right away: a fancy gold watch on his right wrist, a thick bracelet on his left. A beeper clipped to his belt. A new leather jacket and kicks. And a swagger to his walk that hadn’t been there before. He walked up to me, pulled a wad of bills from his front pants pocket, and peeled off three twenty dollar bills and handed them to me. Walked into his bedroom without saying a word and closed the door.
I knew the truth then. He was never going to stop. Never. He was dealing now. Using was bad enough, but dealing…
For the next few days, I tried to think of how to tell Momma without breaking her heart. She was working so hard and was so proud of us, I couldn’t bear the thought of telling her, or disappointing her. But she had to know.
That weekend, Jason brought home another cat for me. He had a gold-studded collar and a fancy gold tag that read SIMON 2. I kept the cat, but threw away the collar and tag. I named him Jordan, and by Monday he and Samantha were old friends.
Jason had no problem flaunting his newfound wealth in front of me, but Momma was another story. If he knew she was going to be home, there was no jewelry, no flashy new clothes or pager on his belt. To Momma, he was still the old Jason, a little more distant maybe, a little more grown-up, but still her baby boy. He still came home every night, but he’d started sneaking out after Momma fell asleep.
One night, when I knew he was gone, I heard a story on the news about a drive-by shooting over on Madison, two blocks north from where we live. The man on the news said it was drug-related and three young men were killed. I cried myself to sleep that night with worry, and when I saw Jason the next morning in the parking lot in front of our apartment building, getting out of the passenger side of a shiny new Jeep Cherokee, I was relieved and furious at the same time.
I ran up to him and hugged him as the truck drove away.
“Oh my God, Jason,” I cried. “I thought you were one of those men on the television, the ones that got killed”
“Hey, hey, Little One. It’s okay,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “It’s okay. I ain’t never gonna be the one, so you just stop your worrying.”
I looked at him, at his glazed eyes, his crooked smile. He was high as a kite.
I hugged him as tight as I could, and he hugged me back. I kissed him on the cheek and said, “I love you, big brother,” and I walked to school.
A couple days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, it finally happened. Three policemen knocked on our door. They had their hands on their guns and a search warrant. There had been a middle-of-the-night robbery at Hardesty’s Pharmacy, where Momma worked, and evidence at the scene pointed to Jason: a spare key, which was evidently used for entry, was found there, and the serial number was registered to Momma. And a wallet with Jason’s identification was also found on the floor of the pharmacy.
Although it was almost noon, Jason was still asleep when a stunned Momma let the officers into his bedroom. He was in handcuffs before he was fully awake. The policemen discovered five stolen watches and several baggies of cocaine underneath the mattress of his bed.
Jason never said a word when the officers walked him out of the apartment. Not to Momma, not to me, and not to the policemen.
3
Even Jason’s voice sounded strange to me. The courtroom was so big and empty that it echoed off the walls. Or maybe it was the microphone, but he sounded like an old man, not my seventeen-year-old brother.
I listened to him talk:
“I didn’t steal no watches.”
“I wasn’t in no fool store.”
“No, sir, I don’t know where they came from.”
“No, Your Honor, I don’t take drugs. Never have, never will.”
I could tell he was trying to sound strong and smooth and in control—like the old Jason—but his voice reminded me of that afternoon when I found him beat-up and laying on the kitchen floor. Right before he’d started to cry and tell me how sorry he was.
I reached over and took Momma’s hand. I gave it a little squeeze, and she did the same.
Twenty minutes later, with Jason sitting next to his lawyer, the judge pronounced Jason guilty and shook his head sadly as he handed down his sentence. “You leave me with no choice, young man. The evidence was found at the crime scene. You were caught with stolen property and crack cocaine in your bedroom. Yet you refuse to take any responsibility for the crime. I’ve listened to all the testimony and taken into account the fact that you are a first-time offender, but…”
And then the judge sentenced Jason to a juvenile boot camp upstate until his twenty-first birthday.
I heard Momma start to cry. I squeezed her hand again. I knew how hard this was for her.
“Removing you from this environment may be the best thing for you,” the judge continued, and for the first time Jason met his eyes. “It’s still not too late to turn your life around. There are people in this courtroom,” he said, pointing to Momma and me, “who are counting on you. You’ve let them down. And now you will have three and a half years to straighten yourself out and become the man you think you are.”
And just like that, the judge banged his gavel and walked out of the room.
Momma stood on her tiptoes and waved and cried, “I love you, baby! I love you!”
And then he was gone.
We hugged right there in the courtroom. We hugged tight and for a long time, searching for hope in each other’s arms. And then we headed home on the subway.
Three and a half years wasn’t forever. And then we would be a family again. In the meantime, it was just Momma and me, and Samantha and Jordan. Just the four of us, waiting for Jason to come home again. Waiting for things to be the way they used to be.
All the way home, I thought about Jason. I thought about only the good times. Back when we were kids, playing those silly games and watching television for hours. Running around the apartment chasing Simon and Samantha.
I thought about that smile of his and how he used to wink at me. How much he used to love me and Momma.
And I knew I had done the right thing. Stealing Momma’s key from her purse and sneaking into the store that night. Taking those watches and hiding them under Jason’s mattress. Leaving his wallet behind.
That night I fell asleep on the sofa with my head in Momma’s lap, and I dreamed about my big brother coming home again.
(written with Barry Hoffman)
MISTER PARKER
Benjamin Parker—Mr. Parker or Bulldog Parker, behind his back, to his eighth grade English students—lived a simple life.
By choice, he had no wife, no children, and no pets. He lived in a practical two-story house in the suburb of Forest Hill. The house was practical because it was located three miles from the middle school at which he taught—close enough to save on fuel costs, but far enough so that he didn’t have to live amidst his pupils—and because it was a perfect fit for his daily needs and extensive library.
Parker mostly kept to himself, although he attended a weekly book club every Thursday night and a monthly Friday night poker game with five other teachers from nearby schools. He spent most afternoons reading student papers and grading tests; most evenings in the library or in the back yard with his telescope.
Parker had two great loves in his life: books and astronomy. Naturally, his library featured many volumes that focused on his lifelong obsession with the night sky, but it was hardly limited to that subject.
Classic literature. Poetry. History. Biographies. Folklore. True crime. Photography. Cooking. Pop culture. Even modern fiction.
It was all there. Each volume categorized by genre; each author alphabetized; each book protected within carefully applied Mylar sleeves.
When Parker was a younger man, he often spent his weekends driving to various rare or used bookshops, searching for hard-to-find titles to fill out his collection. Of course, he could have done much of this buying via the telephone or mail order catalog, but he enjoyed his treasure hunts, as he referred to them. He never felt lonely on these road trips; quite the contrary. He enjoyed driving the winding back roads and listening to music while the wind whipped through his hair and cooled his cheeks.
But, as the years passed and the internet forced many booksellers out of business, these trips dwindled from weekly to monthly to every other month until finally, Parker barely managed two or three road trips a year.
Now most of his book purchases were completed through numerous online websites and occasional slumming on ebay—which is precisely what Parker was doing when Kelly Rutherford walked into his classroom after the final bell on Friday and interrupted him.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Parker.”
Parker started and looked up from his computer screen in surprise; he hadn’t heard anyone come in. He closed the laptop and put on his best English teacher smile.
“No bother at all, Miss Rutherford. How can I help you?”
“I was wondering…” The girl started shuffling papers out of a bright pink notebook. “…if you wouldn’t mind reading my paper this weekend if you’re not too busy.” She dropped one of the pages onto the desk, quickly grabbed it and almost knocked over Parker’s coffee mug. “I know it’s not due until next Friday, but I finished early and I’m a little worried if I’m on the right track or not.”
Kelly Rutherford was a straight “A” student, class president, and always worried if she was on the right track or not.
Parker stood up and walked around his desk. Took the outstretched pages.
The girl shrugged apologetically. “I understand if you’re too busy, I just thought—”
“It’s fine, Miss Rutherford. I’d be happy to give it an early read.” He opened the briefcase on his desk, placed the paper inside, and clicked it shut again.
The girl beamed in relief and squeezed her hands together in a gesture Parker found both odd and charming. “Thank you so much, Mr. Parker. I really appreciate it.”
Parker, for reasons he couldn’t have explained if he tried, steepled his own hands together and gave a polite, little bow.
The girl looked momentarily confused, then broke out in a giggle. “Well, thanks again, Mr. Parker.”
She practically skipped out of the classroom before pausing by the door and looking back over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, and Happy Halloween.” She flipped him a wave and was gone.
The smile faded from Parker’s face, his eyes troubled. He picked up the mug from his desk and took a long swallow of lukewarm coffee. “Happy Halloween, indeed.”
Benjamin Parker lived a simple life. He was a strict and respected teacher. A quiet and courteous, if not overly friendly, neighbor. And a kind and trustworthy friend within his small circle; even if they all tended to tease him about his eccentricities and overly private nature.
Parker was a man of moderate taste, temperament, and behavior. He was, as the self-help gurus liked to say, very comfortable in his own skin. In fact, he often thought to himself: I have my stars and my books and my peace of mind; that is more than enough for any man.
Most people would have been shocked to learn that there were indeed two matters Parker despised with enough passion to upset his calm exterior: drunks and Halloween.
His father had been a drunk—a violent one—and Parker had suffered at his hands. A broken arm one night after the old man had lost yet another job. Three broken fingers when Parker had made the mistake of sticking up for his mother after she burned a pot roast dinner. Permanent scars on his back and buttocks after Parker had accidentally knocked his father’s beer off a tv tray or left his bicycle in the front yard overnight. More black eyes and bruises than he could count or remember. Parker eventually learned to antagonize his father when he had been drinking, to invite his aggressions, in an effort to spare his mother. All this by the time Parker was eleven years old.
The nightmare lasted until his father’s death in a hit-and-run accident shortly after Parker’s fifteenth birthday. The old man had been drunk, of course, staggering home from a bar in the middle of the night—and the middle of the road. Someone simply came tearing around the bend on old Route 22, drove him down like a stray cat, and kept right on going.
Two days later, they buried him on a rainy Sunday morning. Only three people stood at the gravesite: Parker, his mother, and the preacher. His mother had a black eye. There were no tears that day.
Parker took a left on Hanson Road and drove slowly down his street. It was too early for trick-or-treaters, but he was by nature a careful man. The speed limit was 25 miles per hour, so he drove 25 miles per hour.
He focused on the road ahead of him, doing his best to avoid looking at the garish Halloween decorations adorning his neighbors’ houses. He was particularly grateful that it was still light out and none of the fat orange pumpkins sitting on front porches were smiling their jagged, glowi
ng grins.
Parker signaled a right hand turn, slowed, and pulled into his driveway. He turned off the ignition and sat behind the wheel for a moment. He didn’t feel quite right. At first, he had thought it was the usual trepidation he felt toward the final night of October, but now he was starting to believe he was coming down with something. His heart was beating too hard and his head felt swimmy and unfocused.
He grabbed his briefcase from the seat next to him and got out of the car. As he was walking up the front walk, a voice called out to him from across the street.
“Happy Halloween, Benjamin!”
He turned and saw his neighbor, Carol Perkins, raking leaves into narrow, makeshift burial mounds, each one centered in front of a fake, Styrofoam tombstone.
Parker gave her a half-hearted wave and continued onto his front porch and into the house. His briefcase felt heavier than usual. He needed to rest.
If Parker were ever forced to acknowledge and then explain his loathing of Halloween, he probably would have opted for the simplest explanation: it was a frivolous tradition that bordered on the sacrilegious; a greedy retailer-manipulated holiday based on cheesy decorations and cavity-inducing sweets.
But Parker knew that day would never come. Only two people in the world knew about his true feelings toward Halloween. He was the first (and he wasn’t talking), and his mother was the second (and she wasn’t either; Parker had buried her two decades earlier in a cemetery far away from where his father’s corpse lay rotting).
The truth of the matter was Parker hated Halloween because of his father. No surprise there.
Parker’s father wasn’t big on holidays. Most Christmases he was solidly in the bag by the time presents had been opened and the smell of ham was just beginning to waft out of the kitchen. Thanksgiving was a blurred nightmare of football blaring on the television and loud, drunken complaints about food preparation. The fourth of July was more than likely a fistfight at the neighborhood picnic and an early exit, thus guaranteeing that Parker would once again miss the fireworks display after dark.
A Long December Page 16