Finally, the crowd began to thin and weak excuses were made-the kids are home alone, the dog needs walking. Only a few kind souls remained to clean up, leaving the church basement nearly silent but for the echo of the click of their heels.
When all the cookies and pies and cold cuts had been wrapped in aluminum foil, our neighbor, Mrs. Miller, urged my mother to go home. "We'll take care of the cleanup," she said. "Go get some rest."
After Mom was tucked in bed and sleeping, I went for a run on the beach. It was late in the day. As the sun weakened, the fog rolled in. Waves crested from nowhere and seawater washed across the sand by my feet. As I ran, I contemplated the constancy of the surf, the alternating roar and hush I found comforting. In my grief the ocean was consoling me.
My father had taught me about the sea when we first moved to the Cape. The sea, he said, was always in charge. We were only invited guests. Those who did not respect it did not survive. I recalled his stories, ghostly tales of ships that had foundered and crashed on the rocks a hundred years before. He claimed their mournful crews and groaning rigging could still be heard in the fog.
I tried to remember him at a happier time. Basketball. We were always happy on the court.
He started me playing as soon as my hands were big enough to hold a ball. We didn't have a lot in common, especially as I got older. We never said much over dinner. But we could always talk basketball.
He taught me how to shoot. Push off with my legs, then let the ball spin off the tips of my fingers. After a shoot-around in the driveway, he'd check my hands.
"Only the top joints of your fingers should get dirty," he'd say. And if there was dirt in the wrong place, he'd show me again, spinning the ball off his fingertips, tossing it a foot in the air before catching it.
"If you do it well, the ball has backspin, so when it comes near the rim, it will roll in and not clunk off. And if you do it really well, there's no rim at all. Just strings."
He demonstrated-swish.
"And when you do it perfectly, it's like magic."
He set himself, bent at the knees, and shot the ball in a glorious arc. It spun through the air and floated through the rim soundlessly, not even a swish. Only a whisper as a few threads from the frayed strings followed the ball to the ground like snow.
My memories were interrupted by a knock at the door. Dr. B., followed by Ralph and Dinah and Becky.
"Looks like a court martial," I said.
"Today, we get you back on your feet," Dr. B. said.
I remembered Dinah telling me something about the brace the night before, but I was too groggy to listen. I gaped as Dr. B. pulled out an Allen wrench from his bag.
Becky laughed. "It's not for you, Freddie. It's for the brace hinge."
Dr. B. poked around and inserted one end into a hole by my knee. "I'm going to adjust the bend from straight to twenty degrees, enough to let you walk. Becky tells me you're ready."
I noticed Becky holding a pair of crutches. She nodded.
"Your arms and good leg are strong enough," she said. "Give it a try. Today's goal will be the solarium at the end of the corridor."
Dr. B. raced off to his next patient, while Becky and Ralph helped me stand. I wobbled on my good leg. My balance was awful, and I clung to Ralph for support. Becky eased a crutch under each arm and then let go.
Panic. For the first time in a month, my right leg was free, and I was terrified it would buckle.
"Don't worry," Becky said, "the brace will support you."
I focused on the floor and gripped the handles of the crutches.
"One step at a time," she said. "Bad leg first."
I swung the crutches forward to a spot six inches past my big toe, then dragged my damaged leg along the floor. When I was stable, I brought my good leg even and stopped.
"Wonderful," Becky said. "Now keep going. I won't let you fall."
I took a few more steps, not quite to the door to my room. A light sheen of sweat began to form on my forehead.
"Is that enough?" I said.
"Remember the goal? The solarium."
"Fuck that. I want to go back to bed."
She rubbed my arm. "I'll cut you a deal, Freddie, special for today. Make it one way. Ralph will follow with the wheelchair."
I looked at Ralph, hoping he'd relent.
He shook his head. "Take the deal, Freddie. She's not always this generous."
It was maybe fifty yards down the hall to the solarium, and every inch was agony. Dr. B. had been right. A normal life was a long way off. When I reached the corridor, I could sense everyone staring, but saw nothing but the polished floor. I would have turned back but for Becky. She did everything but walk for me, encouraging, cajoling, rubbing my back when I stalled and supporting me when I stumbled.
Then, after what felt like an instant and forever, she touched my shoulder and gave me a peck on the cheek, careful not to knock me over.
"You did it," she said.
I was out of breath and my hands throbbed, but I managed to look up. Ahead, sunlight streamed through the entrance to the solarium.
"Wheelchair," I said. The only word I could get out.
Once I was settled in the chair, Ralph begged off, but Becky stayed.
"You did great, Freddie, for the first time. You might as well enjoy your reward. I have fifteen minutes before my next appointment. Let's take in the view."
She wheeled me in. We were alone in the room. She slid a chair in front of me, so close her knees were touching my good leg.
"Now admit it," she said. "Didn't that feel good?"
"Wonderful. Confirms I'm an invalid."
"Come on, Freddie. It's a first goal, and you made it. You'll have others."
"Fuck goals."
"What do you have against goals? My father used to say everyone needs a goal. Otherwise, how do you know where you're going?"
"Yeah, my dad had a goal too, to coach a championship team. He would have made it, but my mom's goal got in the way. She got the ocean, and he ended up at a small school with a crap team. He was hoping to hang on long enough for me to be his point guard, but after they fired him for being politically incorrect, that goal was out of reach. And when he died, my mom's goal didn't seem to matter anymore."
Becky stood and wandered over to the window, her back to me. I released the brake of the wheelchair and rolled toward her, wanting to see her face once more. When she turned, I saw the color had risen in her cheeks.
"If you don't want to walk again, Freddie, there's nothing I can do for you." She leaned down toward me, close enough so I could feel her breath. "Promise me you'll try."
I wanted to get mad, to tell her she had no idea what I'd been through, but her eyes held me. I finally mumbled, "Okay."
"Good. Then at least you have one goal. Everyone needs something to hope for. You must have had others."
"In college? Sure. To be an architect and build funky homes like the gingerbread house. But then I went to war, where blowing things up was more important than building them. In Iraq, I had three goals: to make level eighty in World of Warcraft; to work my butt off so I'd be able to someday dunk; and most of all, to bring my men and me home in one piece. Now playing a video game seems stupid. I'll never get to dunk. And I didn't do such a hot job bringing us all home."
"Okay, so you need new goals."
"Why? So I can be disappointed again?"
Her features tightened. For a second, I thought she'd walk out and leave me alone in the solarium. I wouldn't blame her. I had an urge to do anything to make her stay.
"How about you?" I said to divert attention from me. "What were your goals?"
She laughed a bit, more a nervous puff of air.
"I just wanted to get a good education, earn a decent living and help people."
"Well, you've done those. What's next?"
She gazed out the window, toward somewhere far off, past the houses and the highway and the cemeteries.
"I don't know. A hom
e maybe, a family, someone to love."
I watched her as she stared out the window. Home, family, love. My mind whirred like Jimmie's broken vending machine. Nothing found. Home was gone, family too. And love seemed as out of reach as the rim of a basket.
Chapter Thirteen
A Flower in the Rain
Though demons still haunted my sleep, not all of my dreams were dark. Sometimes, the Goddess would grant a reprieve and show happier scenes from my childhood. I'd see my father taking a break from his royal duties to visit my training. He'd borrow a wooden sword from Sir Gilly and demonstrate a parry and thrust, then pretend to die most dramatically if I managed so much as a touch. Or I'd see my mother in the bloom of her youth, taking me to watch the pastry cook make cakes and letting me lick the batter from the bowl. But on this night, the Goddess sent me the gardener.
The next morning, I awoke to the fragrance of flowers. Following my session in the watchtower, I headed directly to the gardens, carrying a sack with a new apron and my mother's shawl. I searched through the flowers, but the gardener was nowhere to be found. I assessed the angle of the sun, shining dimly through a brown haze. Not yet noon. I decided to head to the castle entrance to wait.
At the main gate, I paced while the guards did their best to ignore me. But I could feel their pity. Even they could cross the drawbridge when off duty, but I was bound by the river. Its waters ran high after the prior night's storm, its current angry and loud. I could hear voices as it rushed over the rocks, a race of lost men, my ancestors, kings and princes of old, the damned or merely those who had passed on. Everything is made to perish, the voices seemed to say.
A cheerful "good morn, Milord" silenced the voices in the water. I turned to watch Rebecca as she approached the gate.
I'd been harsh with her the day before, wary of a demon. Now, as I watched her come toward me, I wondered how I could have been so wrong. If she were a demon, let Stormwind be damned.
She bowed slightly, but never lost the bounce in her step.
Aware the guards were watching, I returned the greeting formally and turned to go, with her following several paces behind.
As soon as we were alone in the gardens, I opened the sack. With a threatening sky overhead, I wanted to hand over my gifts as soon as possible.
"A new apron, as promised."
It was a simple garment I had obtained from a scullery maid, but Rebecca was pleased. She quickly replaced the torn one and twirled in a circle to show it off.
I waited until I had her attention again before taking out the shawl.
"And a gift to make amends for my bad behavior."
I unfurled the shawl for her. It had bright-colored flowers on a green background and was made of silk so fine I could see her eyes through the fabric, even in the dim light. They had become round as moons.
"Well, what do you say?"
"Milord, I cannot."
"But why?"
"I'm not allowed to take gifts from royals. It's not my place."
"You'd refuse a gift from your future king?"
"Yes, Milord . . . I mean, no."
"At least try it on. What harm in that?"
She reached for the shawl with arms extended, trying to keep as much distance between us as possible, then draped it over her shoulders and looked up beaming. I drew in a breath. She outshone the flowers.
As I admired her, a black cloud passed overhead, casting a shadow that darkened the garden. A clap of thunder intruded on the moment, and great drops of rain began to fall. Ignoring protocol, I grabbed Rebecca by the hand and pulled her under the eaves of the watchtower.
While we waited out the squall, I became intrigued by the runoff from a gargoyle overhead. Rainwater, which had been leaking for some time from a hole in its neck, had stained the copper grill beneath it a bile green, and old corrosion ran down the wall below like rusted tears. But what most caught my eye was the resulting flow onto the garden. The water trickled down on a single plant, a tall spire covered with hooded purple flowers. The topmost of these would fill until the weight of the rainwater made it bow over and spill its contents onto the next, causing a cascade down the blossoms. And then the process would repeat.
"What are you staring at?" Rebecca said.
"At those purple flowers, each filling with rain until it can bear no more, then emptying onto the next and refilling."
"Oh. You mean the monkshood."
"Is that what it's called?"
"Yes. Every child in my village knows monkshood."
"I don't."
"You mean the royal tutors don't teach a prince something as simple as that?"
"I'm afraid I've missed out on simple pleasures."
I turned away from the monkshood to catch her staring. Her eyes had become like the flowers, filling with wonder and pouring over me. She blushed and looked away. Realizing I was still grasping her hand, I let go and reached for the flower instead.
She grabbed my wrist.
"No Milord. It's best not to touch. Monkshood is also known as devil's hood or wolfsbane. You may have heard of those. Archers use its sap to poison the tips of their arrows. Monkshood is lovely to look at, but best handled by gardeners and not princes on whom our lives depend."
"Then you saved me. Now I'm in your debt, and you can accept my gift without guilt."
I touched her cheek and made her face me. This time she held my gaze. She had strong, unclouded eyes that seemed to know exactly what they longed for. And they were looking at me. We stayed like that, huddled beneath the eaves, watching each other until the squall passed.
At last, she stuck a hand out to test for rain. "I think it's safe now, Milord."
She gathered up the knife that had slipped to the ground as we raced to shelter and dried its handle on her new apron. Then she spoke without looking up.
"I don't mean to question you, Milord, but in these days of dread, don't you have more pressing things to do than visit me in the garden?"
I heaved a sigh and glanced up at the tower, as if to check if someone was watching. Suddenly, I knew why I'd come.
"I bear a burden beyond imagining, more than I can explain. My time with you in the garden helps ease that burden."
She made her little curtsy.
"Then in that case, I'm pleased to lighten your load. And may the Goddess grant you strength till tomorrow."
It was time for me to go, but I couldn't help but wonder. Was she merely a gardener or something more?
"Are you sure you're not a spirit with magic for me?"
"No magic, Milord, though I wish I could offer you more. I'm just a simple gardener who lives her life among the monkshood and hydrangeas, hoping for the flowers to bloom."
"A pity," I said, mumbling to myself. "I'd hoped you could help with the riddle."
"What riddle is that, Milord?"
"'Seek the white rose,' though no roses are to be found."
To my surprise, she laughed. "Oh, I have roses. Not in this garden but in a bush in front of my cottage."
The words rushed from my lips. "White ones?"
"Aye, Milord, whites and reds."
"Will you bring me one tomorrow?"
The corners of her eyes drooped. "I'm sorry, Milord. It's not the season. But I'll surely bring you one when the roses bloom again."
I thanked her and trundled off, but her words rattled around in my brain. Just a simple gardener with an improbable faith in the dauphin. But this dauphin had no such faith he'd overcome the trials. And if I failed to solve the riddle, the roses, red or white, would never bloom again.
Chapter Fourteen
Faces
After Dad died, Mom started going to the garret more frequently. Oh, she still cared for the family, buying groceries, doing the laundry and cooking meals. And cleaning cottages for the wealthier folk who owned second homes on the water. But whenever she could spare the time, she was up in the garret.
One foggy day, with visibility so limited I couldn't see the house next d
oor, I asked why she went there so much.
"He moved for me," she said. "I wanted a view of the ocean, and he gave up what he loved so I could have it. Now he's gone. The least I can do is take advantage of his gift."
As she spoke, she stayed focused on the oculus, as if trying to pierce the fog.
"But that fog's so thick," I said. "There's nothing to see."
"I owe it to him." Her voice became harsh. "I have to keep watching."
"Watching for what? That fog might not clear for hours."
"I'm not watching for the ocean, Freddie. I'm watching for a sign from him."
She watched for months, but no sign came.
Joey grew worse. He'd always been out of control, but after Dad died, the wildness that had possessed him turned into something more malevolent. He rebuffed any attempt at comfort, and his sarcasm took on a sharper edge. More booze and pills followed.
Richie was the same as always, a child in a man's body, seeking love like a puppy. Each morning he'd wake up in the bedroom the three of us shared, turn to me, and ask, "Is Dad coming home today?"
"Not today, Richie, maybe tomorrow."
But Joey wouldn't let it be. He'd roll over in a daze from whatever binge he'd been on and shout loud enough that Mom could hear through the paper-thin wall that separated our bedrooms.
"He's dead, Richie. Fucking dead. Not coming back. Now let me sleep."
Between the two of them, it took a toll on Mom.
Finally, I decided to give her the sign she was looking for. I'd taken to tracking satellites as a hobby. A friend from school had put me onto a web site that tells you when satellites are visible. If I typed in the latitude, longitude, and altitude, it would tell me what time the flash would occur and where to look in the night sky.
I tried it. I got so I could precisely predict a burst of light and then watch it happen.
One night I sat with mom in the garret and told her I had a dream about a sign from Dad. I pointed to the sky and counted down. Ten, nine, eight. At zero, the metallic surface of the International Space Station caught the sun and flared like a star right where I was pointing. It hung in the sky for just an instant, seemingly motionless-a brilliant message from my father.
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