OBLIGATION

by Donald Stilwell

  My grandfather’s plate resembled my own except for a side of vegetables. I wasn’t sure what I was drinking, but it was the best thing I had ever tasted. I believe Gino called it a Roy Rodgers.

  I had only finished half of the steak. It was delicious, just too much. Gino had the remaining portion wrapped for me to take home. We both sat there, stuffed. My grandfather asked if I wanted some ice cream. I would have puked for sure. When the conversation subsided, I asked him why? What had I done to deserve this special place and this special meal?

  “You’re my grandson, Kevin, that’s reason enough.”

  I felt silly again, sitting there with that dumb smile on my face; it was a great night, a great experience - one I wouldn’t soon forget.

  The following day in class, the teacher who had assigned the writing exercise announced we would be reading our reports, our autobiographies, aloud.

  This was to be our first oral report. She had left that out when assigning the paper because she wanted honest writing. I shrunk in my chair, felt sick to my stomach. No way, no way could I read my paper out loud, in front of twenty five strangers, well twenty four; I knew Peter Stone.

  The teacher went on to explain the second part of the exercise. We were to hand our paper up to the front, after crossing out our names. She was going to assign each of us a number, that way she could grade the paper later. She would hand the papers back out to the class; no one would read their own work. Her idea, as she waxed on, was for each of us to guess who the person was by the description given in the report.

  I felt hot all over. My words had been personal and not for other kids to read or hear.

  I was feeling sicker by the minute. My steak from the night before suddenly rose to the surface.

  My grandfather’s words came to mind and I tried to relax.

  Most of the papers read were of vacations, favorite pets, television shows, and hobbies. I couldn’t tell one from the next. When it had been my turn to read, the kid who wrote it used his name every other sentence. It wasn’t hard to figure out who the author was.

  Next, I heard the first sentence of my essay read aloud.

  My face lost feeling; my hands grew cold. The teacher had been looking down and reading something on her desk. She stopped, looked up, and scanned the room.

  I didn’t look at the girl reading my story. I didn’t look at anybody. Some kid I didn’t know started making crying noises. He emphasized the gesture by rubbing at his eyes, twisting his fists into them as they did in the silent movies. The teacher called out his name, Jimmy it was, and told him to stop at once.

  Kids can be cruel.

  When the girl finished reading my paper, the teacher said that would be enough for today. The bell rang a minute later. I was asked to stay behind.

  The teacher apologized. She apologized for Jimmy, apologized for having my paper read aloud, and then said something about never believing a boy my age would have had that much hardship. I accepted her words and walked out.

  On the way to my locker I was met by Peter. As luck would have it, his locker was right next to mine. I know he felt like saying something. It was obvious he was that kind of kid, a peacemaker. Before he began, I told him it was okay and that he didn’t need to say anything.

  I was opening my locker when the sounds came.

  Jimmy the crier was at it again. He walked past me making exaggerated eye rubbing gestures and singing a chorus of what was supposed to be a baby crying.

  Peter wrestled with Jimmy and knew he was a tough kid. He hoped he could shut him up before things got worse.

  “Jimmy, lay off man, you’re being an asshole.”

  “Screw you, Stone. You sticking up for this little faggot?”

  I noticed a few things about Jimmy then. He had red hair and a face full of freckles. On some it would be considered cute, gingerish. On Jimmy, it just looked mean. I didn’t know what kind of a life this Jimmy had, and I didn’t care. He was a bully and his day was about to end really, really, bad.

  I took in my surroundings. The ring around the three of us was growing tighter and tighter - a slew of kids forming up to witness a new kid get his ass kicked.

  Jimmy looked angry, real angry. I couldn’t figure out why. I had been at this school two days. I hadn’t done anything to this guy, hadn’t even spoken to him. What was true in this place, this time, remains true throughout history and all over the world.

  Sometimes people just don’t like you.

  “Hear what I called you, faggot?”

  My grandfather was going to be pissed.

  I didn’t say anything; I didn’t even flinch. Jimmy was agitated. He was the mad one out of his own stupidity. He would move or he wouldn’t.

  I made a final attempt to adhere to my grandfather’s wishes. I closed my locker and started to walk away.

  Jimmy wouldn’t allow it to happen. He had heard my words, knew the pain I felt; he figured me weak. I ignored him and continued walking.

  Jimmy moved in the same manner he spoke, graceless. His hands came toward me as I figured they would. He wanted to push me hard. That was his downfall. I had spent the past two months training like a boxer.

  I had jumped rope, hit the heavy bag, shadow boxed, and sparred with a man twice my size.

  Jimmy was not my grandfather; Jimmy wasn’t anything. Pain is like anything else. You live with it or you don’t. It kills you, or it doesn’t. I felt covered in pain, engulfed by it. I wanted to give it to somebody else.

  Jimmy made a mistake.

  It was the most common amongst bullies. He believed he would never encounter someone stronger, faster, or meaner than himself.

  I hit Jimmy harder than I’d ever hit anything in my life.

  I doubt he saw it coming. His arms were still outstretched, still trying to find that piece of me to push down, to dominate. My right hand, hardened from the bag, my arm, shoulders, and back, strengthened from splitting wood, all came together in perfect harmony.

  I found that magic spot my grandfather had told me about. Jimmy was out in less than a heartbeat. His legs folded under him. His body made a wet smacking sound as it hit the cold concrete. The hate formerly present on his ugly face was no longer there. The other kids just looked at me. There was lots of sound, most of it unintelligible to me, as I walked through them.

  Peter walked beside me.

  “Jesus dude, where’d you learn to do that?”

  I didn’t feel like talking, and I didn’t feel good about what had just happened. I thought I would. I thought briefly there would be some relief, some letting go of the bad stuff I was always feeling. There wasn’t.

  I walked to the office. Peter was still beside me.

  “What are you doing, Kevin?”

  “I’m going to tell them what happened.”

  Peter looked at me as if I were nuts.

  “Going to do what? Look, before you admit to kicking Jimmy’s ass, maybe you should wait and see if he just lets it go.”

  “It’s not about him doing anything. My grandfather and I kind of have a deal.”

  “At least let me tell them. I saw the whole thing. Jimmy hit you first.”

  I thanked Peter, but I told him that I’d be alright. He was a good guy. A half hour later my grandfather was at the school. I had already admitted my part in the fight to the vice-principal. My suspension slip was in my hand as my grandfather entered the V.P.’s office. He looked big in the small space. He was big.

  He shook the V.P.’s hand, looked to me, and then sat down. The vice-principal told my grandfather of the day’s earlier events. He was direct and to the point, explaining school policy, and how fighting would not be tolerated. I was asked to step out of the office so they could discuss my punishment in private.

  I walked out of that office knowing I was done. This would be my last screw up in a long line of them. I wondered where I would live now.

  “Your grandson has quite a punch on him.” The V.P. was smiling as he said the words. “The boy
he fought, Jimmy Rittle, has a history of bullying. This is his sixth school in four years. He’s as mean a kid as I’ve seen in my fifteen years of administrating.”

  “What happened? My grandson will tell me. I just want to know if you know.”

  “We spoke to several kids who witnessed the fight. Well, it wasn’t really a fight. Jimmy pushed Kevin. Kevin punched him once. End of story. Kids said Jimmy went down like a sack of dirt. Best thing for him really, maybe he’ll leave the other kids alone now.”

  “And what about Kevin, what happens to him?”

  “Kevin walked right into my office after it was over. Said he hit a kid and that I should call you. Said you’d be very disappointed in him. He wanted you to know right away. I don’t know how you teach an eleven year old honor, sir.”

  “I don’t know either. He came to me that way.”

  The V.P. nodded. “I have to send him home with you today. Tomorrow he’s free to return. Nothing will be placed in his file.”

  My grandfather walked out of the office a minute or two later. He didn’t look any different. Perhaps he was saving the anger for when we got in the truck.

  We walked to the parking lot in silence. Somewhere along the way, my grandfather put his hand on my shoulder. I tensed at first; his hand was strong. I thought maybe he was going to pinch me, maybe throw me down. He did neither. He looked down at me and smiled. I don’t know why, but I felt like crying. I didn’t.

  On the drive home he asked simply, “You okay?”

  I said that I was. He never said another word about it. That was my grandpa. If it didn’t need saying, he didn’t say it. More and more I was starting to feel like a man. Next week I would turn twelve. I didn’t know if my grandfather knew. It didn’t matter. For me, it was better if he didn’t know.

  I went to school the next day, and Jimmy wasn’t there. It was a day filled with glances and “way to goes” from the kids who had either seen or heard of what happened. It was obvious Jimmy was disliked across the board.

  Peter

  Peter and I started to hang out. He was a funny guy, an easy kid to get along with. Talking to him made me feel like I did back when my life was normal.

  He asked if I had any plans after school. I told him about my grandfather, the boxing lessons he gave me, the ranch he owned.

  Peter lived two blocks from school. His was a home like most other homes. He told me of the kids that lived on his block. I didn’t know any of them.

  On the ride home that night, I spoke of Peter to my grandfather. He seemed pleased that I’d made a friend. He asked me what kind of a kid Peter was? I wasn’t sure, I said. “A normal one I guess.”

  My grandfather laughed at this.

  The next day I invited Peter up to my grandfather’s.

  An hour after school, Peter came riding up the drive on his bike. I was surprised he found the place. Peter told me he rode his bike everywhere. Peter said he never knew his father, and his mother worked until seven or eight at night. It was stay at home and be tormented by his older brother or ride around the city. Peter knew the city pretty well.

  We walked around the property. Peter was amazed by all the land, the barn, the shed. He said he never knew anyone who had lived on a ranch.

  I told him about Matty. I explained the circumstances that brought me to my grandfather’s place. Peter listened. When I was through I didn’t leave room for him to respond. I got up and ran to the barn, told him he should follow.

  Once inside I guided Peter through the stations of fire. That’s what grandpa called them. I thought that sounded pretty cool. Peter watched as I demonstrated my lethal abilities. After kicking the shit squarely out of the heavy bag, Peter remarked, “No wonder you knocked Jimmy out.”

  I felt that trickle of pride again - the way I did whenever my grandfather approved of something I’d done.

  I was showing Peter how to face the bag when my grandfather walked in. We stopped, looked to him, and then I introduced Peter. My grandfather shook his hand as men did. Peter was handling it all very well. Grandpa was very tall, and looked very mean, at least to the outside world. Peter just stood there with that goofy smile and grinned. My grandfather smiled back.

  “Can you teach Peter to fight, Grandpa?”

  My grandfather looked at the two of us standing there, two children reaching out to manhood. He rubbed his face, took another look at Peter. I was about to say something else.

  “If Peter’s folks say it’s alright, then sure, he can come train with you.”

  Peter quickly spoke for his mother and said she wouldn’t mind at all. My grandfather came up with another plan.

  “I’ll drive you home tonight. I’ll speak with your mother. She says it’s alright, then it’s alright. Okay?”

  That’s how it began. Peter’s mother agreed easily enough. In fact, she barely seemed to care at all. The next day after school Peter showed up again, this time in sweat pants and a t-shirt. My grandfather asked Peter what he knew about fighting. Peter said he had wrestled for two years, but other than that, not much.

  My grandfather showed him the basics, just as he had for me. It was weird for me at first. I was blindsided by two distinct feelings. One, I felt a little jealous that my grandfather was teaching another kid the same things he had taught me. Two, I felt some satisfaction as to how far I had come since those first lessons. I would get over both issues. Peter was a good guy, so was my grandfather. As the night progressed, I was convinced my life would get no better than this.

  Peter didn’t miss a night all that week. My grandfather made himself available to us. His knowledge was something of infinite proportion. When he spoke, you felt as if you were being given the secrets of the universe. I know Peter felt the same way.

  Friday came as I knew it would. It was my birthday. I had made it, twelve years old. I walked out to the truck, my grandfather already waiting with the engine on. During the ride to school I wondered if he would say something. He didn’t.

  I went through the day a little bummed. I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter. I tried not to think of the celebration and spectacle my mother would make of the day. She always made two cakes. One she would have waiting on the kitchen table in the morning before she left for work. The note she left always said the same thing.

  Even though it was my day, I would always be her special gift. She had a rule also. The first cake was for me and me alone. With no one watching I should eat it however I saw fit. I smiled at the memory of my first cake eating habits. I would destroy that cake. I would shove it into my mouth with both hands, like a crazed groom. Then night would come. She would return home from work, exhausted. She wouldn’t let it show. She always brought a beautifully wrapped present, and the second cake.

  This one we sat down for. Well, I thought, that was then, this is now.

  The day ended, and I walked to the curb. My grandfather was there, the truck parked in its familiar spot. So what if he didn’t know, or forgot about my birthday. He never forgot about me.

  I hopped up into the truck and waited for him to pull away. When he didn’t, I asked if everything was alright.

  “Just waiting for our second passenger.”

  Peter ran up to the truck then. He had a blue duffle bag with him. Peter didn’t wait for me to open the door. He popped in beside me, bumping me into the middle of the bench seat.

  My grandfather started the truck and pulled away.

  Peter was grinning as he usually did. “Dude, you don’t know how hard that was for me today.”

  I was still confused. “How hard what was for you?”

  “Your birthday man, your grandpa asked my mom last night if I could come with you guys to your cabin.”

  I looked at my grandfather. He drove while trying to conceal a smile.

  “You have a cabin, too?”

  My grandfather looked somewhat confused now.

  “You don’t remember? I guess you were a little guy then. Anyway, yes, Kevin, we have a cabin
.”

  My grandfather added, “Happy Birthday Kevin.”

  We drove the two hours or so, Peter making up games as we went and I barely able to stop smiling.

  When we arrived, I noted the lack of other places next to ours. It was way, way in the woods. The drive to it after we turned off the main road seemed another ten miles. My grandfather led the way to the front door; it was solid. The entire place was made of logs and not much else. It was obvious this was his creation.

  “Alright, boys, there’s two rooms here, besides the living area. You’ll be bunking upstairs in the loft.”

  Grandfather showed us exactly where to put Peter’s bag. While dropping it off, I noticed he’d already brought clothes for me.

  “When did you do all this Grandpa?”

  “Yesterday, maybe the day before that, you were in school.”

  It was growing dark outside. My grandfather started a fire in the large rock fireplace. I scanned the room and noticed a long wrapped present sitting atop the kitchen table. Night fell. Dinner was a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and homemade biscuits. My grandfather was an excellent cook. We sat there, the three of us, Grandpa looking at us as we exchanged stories from school. When the conversation grew lean, my grandfather brought forth a big chocolate cake. It was held in a pink box, obviously from a bakery. He removed it cautiously, his big hands posing a bit of trouble. Eventually, he tore the box into three parts.

  He placed one candle in the top of the cake and told me I should wish for anything, no matter how big. I thought of my mom, said the words inside my own head to wish her recovery and a place back in my life.

  I cut the cake. Grandpa said it was my day and I should have as big a piece as I wanted. I remember the pieces I cut were extreme to say the least. Neither Peter, nor myself, were able to finish the whole thing.

  Peter and I cleared the table as my grandfather made coffee. A cup in hand, he pointed to the gift. He explained before opening, this was a true work of art, something to be cherished, not a child’s gift, but a man’s.

  I thought about what it might be. As I unwrapped it, the smooth wood-grain came into view first, then the shiny black steel, and finally the scope. It was a rifle, just like the one my dad had always been so found of and had cleaned almost every day. I was shocked.