Stealing Flowers

by Edward St Amant

  Stan shrugged. “That might not be possible, but if we’re going to do it, we’ll have to move quickly. September is only weeks away.”

  When I was in my room later, I cried. I looked at my tear-streaked face and suddenly realized I’d gained some weight. I was like a stranger to myself again. The day had been one of the most painful I could remember. I could see from my present unique vantage in life that far too much suffering took place in the world. Human happiness was in short supply and evil was everywhere. And hatred as well. I lived with four people who represented the best of mankind and I assumed that by being adopted by them that I’d won in life’s lottery, however, I felt guilty too. Was Mr. Vondt bad or was he so desperately lonely that he’d lost his self-control? He’d tried to assault me, but he also wanted to love me. This may sound too worldly for an eight-year-old orphaned boy from the streets of Jersey, after all, I should have been tough and unfeeling about my judgment toward him, but I can only say, that’s the way I felt.

  Chapter Three

  The next day, we started our first lesson with Una. We sat down at noon hour in the Rose room. She’d cold Coca-Cola and snacks for us. She’d put out a new potato chip, a ripple. I tried one. It was delicious and became one of my favorite foods for years. The curtains were drawn and doors were open. It was a bright sunny day and screens let the breeze into the room.

  “I’ve been reading The Hobbit,” I said, showing her the book. “I learned math and spelling too.” I showed her my notebooks.

  She read a few pages of The Hobbit. “Sounds a bit confusing.”

  “It’s too hard,” I agreed.

  She nodded. She’d brought a bag with her and opened it up. “We’ll be reading Beverly Clearly books for a little while.” She passed me a book, Ribsy with a picture of a dog in the bathtub, and passed to Sally, Ellen Tebbits, with a picture of a boy and girl our age dancing together. “We’re are going to have a reading contest today,” Una said, “a spelling bee, a word search, a math-quiz, a maze-find, a cursive writing competition, and a zoo game, so we have to move right along. Sally, you start. Read until you make a mistake.”

  “Really?” she said. She opened the book. I could tell she was confident that she would read the whole thing without a mistake. “Ellen Tebbits was in a hurry,” she read. “As she ran down Tillamook Street with her ballit slippers–”

  “Ballet slippers,” Una corrected. “Not even a paragraph. Phew. Now you, Christian.”

  “Ribsy and the Hungry flea,” I read aloud. “Henry Huggins’ dog Ribsy was a plain–” I couldn’t get the next word.

  Una leaned over and looked. “Try it at least,” she urged.

  “Orderilary.”

  “Ordinary,” Una said. “Tonight, you can read ahead with one another and tomorrow, we’ll see if you get any further. Okay, let’s start our spelling bee.”

  So it went, and the afternoon flew by. At five o’clock when Una stopped, both Sally and I moaned for more. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, were just as good. On Saturday morning, Stan took me in the Lincoln to Carling Street to meet with Lloyd. I wasn’t happy about being back. It made me emotional, but fortunately, I didn’t see any of the other kids. Mr. Drury and Mrs. Abbibas were there, as were two other men. Mr. Drury smiled and shook my hand. He was Lloyd’s assigned truant officer, as he’d been mine. He still was a sad-looking man and his eyes remained hard, but now his gaze fell on me in a completely different manner, like I was a normal kid, with affection I mean to say.

  “I understand everything is working out for you?” he said. I nodded. “I knew it would,” he continued softly. “It’s wonderful of you to try and help your friend.”

  He shook hands with Dad as did Mrs. Abbibas and introduced him to the other men. Mr. Ted Mure was a man near thirty years old and had hard brown eyes. I could tell even from where he sat he’d a detached manner. His black hair was cut so short that his ears looked floppy. He smelled of tobacco-smoke and gave Stan and myself the once over with his hard eyes as he rose and shook our hands.

  You can tell a lot of a person by how they greet you, their voice, touch, and eyes. He seemed like a good person, and had a quick short smile, but I could tell that he didn’t trust anyone too easily either. Mr. George Heath, the other man, was maybe older by ten years and heavier by fifty pounds. He’d a big nose with tiny red veins sticking out and kept his eyes hidden behind folds of skin. He was friendlier, but I instantly disliked him. He was a man who struck me as a sham, his beady eyes seemed buried behind a mask of indifference.

  An event occurs when you first meet someone, an instinctual feeling that something is or isn’t genuine. People are often wrong about these types of judgments, because they make them casually, however, as a former orphan, mine was never a casual judgment, but had become a survival mechanism, and therefore, was usually right. When I’d first met my new father, I instantly liked him, the same with Una, Mary, and especially Sally. None of the Tappets or Una were broken people, and when people get broken, you can’t fix them no matter how hard you try. I knew that Mr. Heath was broken. All the men, including my father, were in suits. Mrs. Abbibas was in a grey loose-flowing Eastern style dress which completely covered her trim body. She also wore a silk scarf and a head covering. From the first moment I’d met her, years before, I knew that she was a fine person. I’ve noticed in Jersey that fewer women than men get broken.

  “I need to talk to Christian alone for a minute,” Mr. Drury said. We crossed the hall to the room which acted as an office for the Carling Street social-workers. “Sit,” he said and then sat across from me, passing over the wide bald spot in the center of his head with a quick nervous sweep of both hands. “I need to know,” he said, “before we put your father to any trouble. Are you just helping a friend? You aren’t up to anything which would hurt your new parents?”

  I was shocked that he would even think it, but I understood why he would. “Lloyd is afraid that some of the boys working for Digby have killed someone and he wants to get out.”

  His eyes became downcast. “My God, who have they killed?” I shrugged. “Was Lloyd involved?” he asked.

  “Lloyd said he heard about it from Dalmer and Darren.”

  “Lloyd hasn’t threatened you in anyway?” I shook my head. “You genuinely want to help him?”

  “He protected me against the bullies when I lived here. I think he wants to change his life. He needs to get away from Digby.”

  “Let’s go back and see what we can do.”

  When we returned, I sat beside Stan, who rubbed my shoulders. Mr. Drury stood in the center of the room and spoke. “Mr. Mure is in charge of the orphan system in New Jersey,” he said, “and Mr. Heath is with the city’s social services. They’ve come here today to expedite Lloyd’s request for our assistance. I’ve talked in detail to Lloyd and I believe him to be sincere in his desire to make a change. Mr. Tappet has offered him a part-time job with his company, that is provided he stays in school and finishes his education. Lloyd has agreed to do this.

  “Mr. Tappet has also offered to help with both training for the job and his education. One of Mr. Tappet’s associates, Mr. Ken Roxton, has offered to take a personal hand in this. Mr. Roxton is in Japan today and can’t be here, but I’ve talked to him in person and trust that he’s a man we can count on. The question of where Lloyd can live, is problematic for us. All the homes and centers present themselves with certain difficulties for young men. We’re not blind to their faults.

  “We’ve a center near Harrison, Willowware Place, East Newark, at least some miles away from Carling Street. Lloyd has agreed to go there. A probation period must follow, one year to be exact. If Lloyd does well in both areas, Mr. Roxton will consider making his home a place for Lloyd to live. Lloyd has consented to this probation. He has also agreed that if welcomed into Mr. Roxton’s home in the future, to strictly abide by the rules. I think that’s it. Mr. Mure?”

  “I’m mostly concerned that Lloyd understands that this is a great op
portunity for him, “ Mr. Mure said, his face somber and his voice as hard as his eyes, “and we won’t alter our set routine again on his behalf. This is a one-time deal. Some streetwise young man can’t comprehend a break when it comes their way, but you seem to have created this one, Lloyd. Do you grasp the seriousness of it all?” Lloyd nodded. “By gosh, then say so, young man.”

  Lloyd had tears in his eyes and I was swept away with the sound of his cracking voice. It was sincere and emotional. “I want this chance,” he said, “and I’ll abide by all the rules.” He choked up for a moment and I wiped my own tears away. “I want to thank Christian’s new dad,” he said, “and I’ve met Mr. Roxton and he seems cool. Thanks.”

  “Mr. Heath, anything to add?” Mr. Mure said.

  Mr. Heath looked at us through his half-hidden billowy eyes. “My inclination in these matters is pessimistic,” he said in a drone voice. “I’m dealing day to day with young boys ruining their lives by making bad choices. Lloyd is making an informed decision. I hope he’ll succeed, but make no mistake, Lloyd, we won’t be sympathetic to you if you don’t follow through. Good luck. I hope you’ll take this time to find Jesus. He will guide your life and give you strength to get through the hard times ahead.”

  We shook hands and Lloyd hugged me. This time I let him. Again, I took this as a great boon, and if I had ever known what the future was to bring, I would have gone running for my life from that venture. We said our good-byes, and that day, Lloyd was moved to Willowware Place, East Newark. He was to report to work at Tappets, the next day. I couldn’t have been happier, but also, I truly hoped I never saw him again.

  Before my adoption, whenever I’d visited my mother’s gravesite to talk to her, I’d bitterly complained of what was to become of me. Who would look after me? Where would I find some love? I had no one. I was alone in the world. Mr. Drury had once said orphans were the pawns of the state when he thought he was out of hearing of any young ears. At the time, I didn’t know what that meant, but I remembered it. The state isn’t something that can love you. When you’re young you need someone to tell you that you have a right to be free, to be happy, that you’re wonderful, good, super, an angel, to love you for your sake, not theirs, to make you part of a family. Now I’d that with Sally, Una, Mary, Stan and Jesus.

  After being adopted and becoming a secure member of the family, my original distress of being all alone in the world transformed into two completely different distractions, yet connected to being a Tappet. One was keeping what I’d gained. I believed strongly that to struggle for love within the family was within my control. If I followed their rules, worked hard at school, at flying, swimming, and the other tasks that were important to the Tappets, I’d succeed.

  The other distraction, was dealing with what I took to be The First Law of Life for someone like an orphan and other people unlucky by birth, the one which says that when everything is going well, things are certain to go wrong. As to the first law, I thought I could combat it by concentrating on trying not to be too happy, on ignoring my own happiness, besides, I’d suffered during my time in half-way homes, so I thought I’d sort of saved up pain in arrears and earned a discount well into the future. I figured, with the logic of a child, that my happy time would last longer than say, someone who hadn’t experienced in their childhood, the hardships that I had, that my past suffering counted for something.

  Some people say if you are born unlucky, you can’t defeat the first law, no matter what you do, but for sometime, I seemed to have done just that. Later I discovered that it does indeed work like a bank or a discount, except it allows you overdraft without notice of any debt and collects an exorbitant amount of a penalty at its capricious whim. That’s just the way life is and when you’re eight-years-old, nine coming up on September 23, you can’t imagine the rules are so vague and careless. It reflects poorly on the Creator.

  That afternoon, Stan took me up in his Cessna. I piloted the plane and talked to the air-traffic-controller on the radio, giving our latitude, speed, altitude, and so forth. On the Friday before the first day of school, I found myself in East Orange’s Wedgewood Private School with Una and Sally. The land around the school was slight but covered in trees and flowers. I met my first private-school teachers. They were young and all knew Sally. Two women and a man examined me with verbal, written, and reading tests. They wore grey, white, and pale-blue clothes–the school uniform. The male teacher, Mr. Roy Barth, a singularly tall thin fellow with peach fuzz on his chin seemed to me to be satisfied with my performance.

  “Did I pass?” I asked when it was over. It had taken about an hour, although it felt like the whole morning.

  Mr. Barth nodded, but before he could say anything, one of the female teachers said, “Thank you for coming, Christian. We’ll let your parents and Una know tomorrow by phone.”

  I looked at Mr. Barth and he shrugged. “Well, my full-grown child, how did you do?” Una asked on the way to the car.

  “They wouldn’t tell me,” I answered, “but one of them let it slip that I’d passed.”

  Una rubbed my head. “We’d no doubt.”

  The following Sunday, early in the morning, Stan knocked on my bedroom door.

  “Would you like to go to Washington?”

  I brushed my teeth and was downstairs in a minute. “Is Sally coming?” I asked.

  He shook his head. He’d prepared us a breakfast of bacon, eggs, orange juice, and toast. Like every morning, I was starved and ate quickly with lots of ketchup. I didn’t see Mary, Una, Sally, Larry, the driver, or Isaac, Dad’s assistant, that morning. On the way to Teterboro, Stan played the news and it announced the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia, the Hippy and Yippie invasion of Chicago, and the Japanese invasion of America. Invasions were occurring everywhere in the world and I wondered if Dad and I’d been drafted to fly spy planes. “I didn’t know we were at war,” I said. “Is it bad?”

  Stan turned up onto the ramp to the turnpike.

  “It’s bad and it’s called the Vietnam War.”

  I’d heard of Vietnam, but didn’t know anything about it.

  “I know about Hippies” I said, “some of the bullies sell drugs to them.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” he returned with a soft laugh.

  “Why did they invade Chicago? Isn’t that in United States?”

  “Saying that they invaded Chicago is a manner of speaking. They held a demonstration there. Remember, I told you about the presidential election.” I nodded. “There’s a two-party democratic system in the US, Republicans and Democrats. The Republicans held their Convention some time ago and chose Richard Nixon, the candidate who will run against the Democratic Nominee. The Democrats had theirs in Chicago this week and chose Hubert Humphrey. The Yippies and Hippies demonstrated to try and change things, especially the war. It’s very unpopular.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re losing.”

  “Why is Japan invading America. Is that a manner of speaking too?”

  He nodded. “Japan this year beat Germany in overall industrial output, making it the third strongest economy in the world behind us and the Soviets. The only invasion on the news in fact was the Soviets invading the Czechs. That’s a very complicated situation. Actually no fighting took place there either, but we won’t strain your brain any further.”

  I was happy to hear it but didn’t say so. When we arrived at the airport and parked the car, it was beginning to warm up. “Do you want to take it up?” Stan asked.

  My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “Would they let me?”

  “You don’t have your license yet, but no rule exists to prevent you from flying if I piloted alongside of you.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll try and take it up, if you’ll help.”

  “Let’s look over the plane.”

  I walked around the back, checking the flaps, rudder, and other moveable parts. It was new, but I looked at the undercarriage, the wings, and the propeller as Sta
n had showed me. I scrambled into the cockpit with my heart racing and breathing short hard breaths. I locked in the seatbelt and shoulder harness.

  “Here, have a chew,” Stan said and passed me a Chiclet.

  After I received clearance for runway 3-A, I turned on the master and ignition switches. I made one last inspection of the instruments, let the plane roll and checked the brakes. Then I took the throttle to 1700 RPMS for a few minutes and checked all the flaps.

  “Everything looks fine,” I said.

  “I agree. Let’s go.”

  I spoke to the tower and taxied out to the start-pointers and received final clearance, moving the throttle to full-open and releasing the brakes. When I reached 55 KIAS, I slowly retracted the wing flaps. The pavement was speeding by and my heart felt like it would explode.

  “Take it to 75,” Stan said. At 78 KIAS the plane lifted off the ground and the rate of climb was moderate but with a near maximum of RPM. Within a minute we were at 3000 feet and I charted our air flight plan. “Fantastic,” Stan said and rubbed my head.

  If I wasn’t so nervous, I’d have been proud. The mixture was lean, and as I leveled off, the RPMs dropped to 2000. I trimmed the elevation further. The conditions were perfect for a smooth flight, something Stan probably had counted on, and for the next half-hour, I did nothing but follow the flight plan.

  “What was that you said about touching the sky?” I asked.

  “I’m glad to see you remember it. It’s an old war expression, ‘The closest you’ll get to heaven is in the seat of a cockpit.’ One of my closest buddies in the Air Corps, John Admen, used to say that. We co-piloted a big bird, the P-51, for a month or so at Westover, until he left for another assignment. He’s one of the people who helped us start up Tappets. He runs Factory Bright.”

  “The refrigerators like in our kitchen”

  Stan nodded. “I was trained on the P-38 Lightning made by Lockheed then, but never flew that long either. When I saw the F-86 Sabre, I knew I’d found my bird, and I guess it was obvious to the powers that be as well. I wasn’t in it a month and was called up for tour in the Korean War. Over fifteen hundred airmen died there. I was in a Sabre when I was shot down by a Soviet MiG behind enemy lines.”