South of Main Street

by Robert Gately

  * * *

  Dixie was walking in the street and didn’t have a clue how she got there. Oh, yes. She remembered waking up in the alleyway moments ago. Didn’t remember how she got there, though. Passed out, she guessed. Must’ve passed out because she woke to the smell of urine. Hers, she wondered? Think hard! She remembered the window-shopping and the hordes of people. She remembered bumping into Sharon. Oh, yes. Now the memory is quite clear. The booth and the bar. And the wine.

  Dixie felt sick and ducked into an alleyway to vomit.

  * * *

  Tommy lived with his mother on a three-acre lot in a modest house with an average size barn three miles from town.

  Tommy played in the barn by himself and his imaginary friends. Pretending to be Batman, he waved a stick in his hand like it was a sword. “Come on, Robin,” he yelled to his imaginary partner. “We must fight for truth and justice.” Tommy whacked a wooden beam and his imaginary enemy fell to the ground. He climbed up the ladder to the loft; battled evildoers to the loft’s door; flung it open and extricated all the imaginary bad guys out of the barn and they were all whisked away into the wind. Tommy raised his hands in victory, his cape extending from both arms making him look like he had wings.

  * * *

  Mrs. Maltin saw Tommy from the kitchen window and gasped at the sight of her son at the edge of the loft door looking out as if he were going to jump.

  “I can fly,” she heard Tommy bellow.

  Mrs. Maltin opened the window. “Tommy. It’s time to eat. You come down here immediately.” She intended to give Tommy a piece of her mind when he came into the house. He knew he was not supposed to open the loft door. That was a non-negotiable rule he had broken.

  She couldn’t quite understand what had gotten into him lately. When they first moved to Coalsville a few months ago, Tommy was so shy. He feared his shadow almost. But this past week or two, Mrs. Maltin had seen quite a change in her son. He was more talkative. He played with more energy and more enthusiasm, and with greater imagination.

  Mrs. Maltin couldn’t see Tommy from the kitchen window anymore; he had disappeared into the darkness of the open loft. He left the loft door open and this worried Mrs. Maltin. She left the kitchen and walked outside. “What’s the matter with that boy,” she whispered to herself.

  Then, all of a sudden, Tommy burst out of the loft door and fell twelve feet to the ground. Mrs. Maltin didn’t believe her eyes, and for a few seconds she stood in the front of the house wondering if what she saw really happened.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God,” she yelled, exploding across the yard to the barn to her son who lay motionless on the ground, unconscious. His breathing was shallow. One arm lay lifeless, like a snapped twig facing in two directions.

  Chapter 15

  Henry walked down the hall of the third floor trauma unit of St. Luke’s hospital anxiously heading for the nurses’ station. Henry hated hospitals, hated the smell of illness and death. The fact that Mary recently had spent her last days in a place like this just reinforced his attitude that a hospital was a place to go when it was time to die.

  He approached the front station and politely waited for the nurse to look at him. When she finally did, he asked, “Is Tommy Maltin on this ward?”

  “Room 101,” the nurse said, and then continued with her business.

  Henry walked to the door marked 101. He peeked in and saw little Tommy lying unconscious with his anxious relatives by his bedside.

  Inside the room, Mrs. Maltin spotted Henry. “That’s him,” she yelled. “That’s Henry Wolff, the man who was trying to teach Tommy to fly.”

  Henry closed the door and put his back up against the wall in the hallway, wanting to hide but nowhere to go. A bolt of adrenalin shot through his body, and he became frightened.

  The door swung open with a fury, and a man grabbed Henry by his jacket underneath his chin. “Are you the guy who told my nephew he could fly?”

  “I … please … I didn’t mean to …”

  “You didn’t mean what? You didn’t mean to tell him he could fly?” Tommy’s uncle cocked his arm. Henry closed his eyes and offered no resistance. As far as he was concerned, this punishment was well deserved and should be inflicted quickly and mercifully so he could leave and not be bothersome to anyone anymore.

  But Mrs. Maltin came out and touched her brother on the shoulder. “Don’t,” she simply said.

  He put his fist to his side but kept it clenched and half-cocked. “What the hell are you doing playing with kids anyway? What are you, a pervert?”

  As the words floated over Henry’s head, he felt their sting, and a blanket of guilt enveloped him. He walked away, like someone else was doing the walking, while he watched from overhead. “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. “Please forgive me.”

  “Go on, get out of here,” he heard Mrs. Maltin yell. “And you stay away from my son. Do you hear me? You stay away from my son or I’ll have you arrested.”

  * * *

  Robin waited in the kitchen while Henry got dressed. It was Monday morning. She picked up the local paper which had a picture of Tommy and a headline that boldly said, “MAN TEACHES BOY TO FLY: LIES IN HOSPITAL IN A COMA.”

  “Jesus, help us,” Robin said to herself.

  The telephone rang and Robin answered. It was a local reporter who wanted to talk to Henry. “Leave my father alone, please.” Robin was very disturbed, because most of the reporters who called this morning hadn’t checked with the hospital first. Had they bothered, they would’ve found out that Tommy was conscious and was doing well. A full recovery was expected, but this reporter, like the rest of them, insisted on getting Henry’s version of events since a big Philadelphia reporter from Channel 3 TV was coming into town to cover the incident.

  “There’s no incident,” she yelled into the phone, then hung up on him.

  Robin pounded the table with her fists and walked into the dining room. The coin collection on the coffee table caught her attention because the folder was closed. Usually, it was open for display. She opened the folder and discovered that all the twenty-five cent pieces were missing.

  Henry pranced down the stairs in a suit and tie. Robin tried to compose herself. She was upset and she didn’t know whether to spit, yell, or cry.

  “Well, how do I look?” Henry said innocently.

  Robin gave him a cursory inspection. “Fine,” she delivered through clenched teeth. “The media’s going crazy. Some news idiot reported Tommy’s in a coma because you taught him he could fly. But I called the hospital and he’s got a broken arm and he wasn’t in a coma. He has a concussion.”

  “The important thing is he’s alive,” Henry said.

  “Yes. Of course.” Robin pointed to the coin collection. “Dixie stole these, didn’t she?”

  Henry hesitated, then said, “No, she would never …”

  “I don’t need this crap this morning. She stole it. I know she did. You’re covering up for her. And you want her to come to my house?” Robin sighed and rubbed her temples. Something was whopping her skull from the inside, like ocean waves pounding against a cliff during a storm. “Come on. Let’s go. I can’t deal with this right now.”

  Henry walked through the dining room and grabbed a small, wrapped Christmas gift from the table and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I saw the tag. It’s for Dixie, isn’t it?” Robin’s tone was spitting angry.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m hoping I’ll see her today. If I do, I’m going to give it to her.” Henry walked past Robin to the front door. “You don’t need to use that tone with me, Robin, do you?” He opened the door and left her standing inside.

  Robin, at that moment, wondered if there was any sense to life. She took a few seconds to meditate. Think positive, she told herself. Things could be worse. She could, for example, be in jail for killing someone in a moment of passion.

  After she took several deep breaths, her headache eased. Still, she worried what kind of day she was
going to have. It didn’t look good. “I’m sorry,” she said to her father as she locked the door. She took Henry by the arm and walked him to the car. “I have to stay focused,” she said more to herself than to Henry. “I must stay focused if I’m going to be worth anything to you today.”

  While Robin drove Henry to the courthouse, she approached the bridge where Wheezy and Joe lived. There seemed to be a commotion up ahead. Sirens sounded, strobe lights flashed.

  A policeman was directing traffic and, as they got closer, Robin saw an ambulance parked on the side of the road along with a fire truck. A large tree had fallen and several men were hoisting up a gurney. Off to the side, she spotted Wheezy who was crying and waving her arms around like a lunatic. Robin got a good look at the gurney. There was a white bloodied sheet covering a body with feet sticking out of the gurney.

  “That must be the homeless man who lived under the bridge,” Robin said.

  A shoe barely fit on one foot. The laces hung loosely at the sides of the shoe. The other shoeless foot was covered with a dirty sock with the insignia HW on it.

  “Joe,” Henry whispered.

  “What?” Robin asked.

  Henry just looked out the window as they past. “Looks like the tree fell on him,” Henry said somberly. “His name was Joe.”

  * * *

  Robin and Henry remained pensive most of the trip to court. Then, when they got close to their destination, Robin finally spoke. “You shouldn’t have gone to the hospital without me, Dad. I don’t know why you have to do these things. The Maltin boy is okay. You know that, right? He regained consciousness, but has a broken arm and a slight concussion. Oh! Why me, Lord?” Robin continued to talk, and then realized that Henry showed no signs he was listening.

  “Damn,” she said “Don’t you go into ‘la-la land’ on me. I knew this was going to happen. You have to snap out of it, Dad. You can’t be this way. Not today.”

  Robin turned the corner and spotted a TV van and a couple of newspaper reporters. She recognized a friend who was a reporter for the Mountainview Globe. Their eyes met. She shook her head in a pleading way for him to keep her arrival quiet. He nodded and turned his back as if he didn’t see her - a friendly snapper amongst a dozen piranhas.

  “Double-damn,” Robin said. “This is exactly what I didn’t want. Now we have to bully our way through local newspaper and TV reporters who want to know why Tommy Maltin jumped from his barn thinking he could fly. Why? … why? … because fifty-five-year-old Henry Wolff told him he could fly, that’s why. End of story. Goodbye.”

  In all these years their lives have been private and relatively quiet, Robin thought to herself while parking the car. God-forbid they uncover the truth. They’ll crucify us. She sighed. Her life was over. She quickly thought about setting up a practice in Philadelphia or New York. Or Nova Scotia, maybe. No! The South Pole would be better.

  “Dad,” Robin said with a commanding voice. “You must remain quiet and just follow me. Don’t say a word to anyone. Don’t smile. Don’t wave. Don’t …”

  “I understand,” Henry said.

  They got out of the car and Robin snuck Henry in the back of the building. A reporter saw them, but Robin managed to duck through a side door narrowly escaping the paparazzi pandemonium.

  On the way to the courtroom, as they turned the corner and approached its entrance, a handful of reporters saw Henry and immediately fired questions at him. Henry just held on to Robin’s arm as they pushed their way through and into the courtroom. A sanctuary, Robin thought, since the media was not allowed in with their cameras. Nevertheless, a crowd of reporters followed them inside the courtroom hammering Henry with questions about Tommy. One question surfaced above the rest. “Do you really think you can fly?”

  Robin wanted to retort, ‘Do you really think I can shove this fist down your throat and pull your stomach inside out,’ but she refrained from saying anything.

  * * *

  Sharon sat behind the bar at a table in the courtroom. She was shocked at what was going on - the commotion, the incessant questions, like she was in a movie. She never intended for things to get out of hand this way. Everything was supposed to be quiet and orderly.

  Sharon noticed a scathing look from Robin as she escorted Henry to the other table a few feet away.

  “I didn’t do this,” Sharon said to her sister. “If anything, this just proves my point.” She wished she didn’t say that, but it was the truth. The chaos in the courtroom was caused by her father’s behavior, not hers.

  Judge Brady stormed out of his chambers, appearing angry at the media for the noise they were making in the back of the room.

  “Clear the courtroom,” he shouted. “Immediately, except for the Wolff family.”

  “Go back to your offices,” the Judge yelled at the reporters. “Haven’t you heard? The Maltin boy is okay. So be thankful for that, for God’s sake. Now go … GO! Leave. All of you.”

  * * *

  Judge Brady was concerned over the dramatic headlines in today’s newspapers as much as anyone. They had all been written before Tommy had regained consciousness and the prose depicted Henry as a crazy lunatic who hung out with children and should be locked up. The Judge didn’t like the overzealous interest the media was showing. It was not good for the town and certainly it was not good for Henry.

  “Judge, can we stay …”

  “Leave this courtroom,” the Judge barked. “Now. And if I see you hanging around here I am going to be very angry. And tell your cronies outside the same thing. Vanish. Go away.”

  The reporters left without a further fuss. The Judge figured it wasn’t as if this were a national story where hordes of big-shot reporters from out of town had come offering first amendment rebuttals. The local reporters knew better than to bump heads with him. He could make it very difficult for future stories that would require his cooperation.

  Robin, Henry and Sharon all sat attentively at the table facing the judge. He looked at Robin and said, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Robin, but the DA asked me to look into the current situation a little deeper than I normally would. He knows there is no criminal intent here, but he just wants to make sure that Henry is not a public … problem.”

  “I understand, Your Honor,” Robin said. “But if there’re going to be any judgments against my father today, then I need more time to …”

  “Oh, no, no, no. No. This is informal. Please. I think everything is going to be okay. The Maltins talked to the DA about filing a civil suit. That was last night. Emotions were running high then. The DA asked them not to file in haste and told them that he would ask me to find out what I could today. And Tommy is okay this morning, which should temper the Maltin’s anger a bit. So, let’s just proceed normally and find out … what we need to find out.”

  Robin nodded, and as she sat back down she said to Sharon, “See what you started.”

  “Hey. Dad had always told us we have to be responsible for our own behavior. That should apply to him as well. He shouldn’t have told Tommy he could fly. Why was he playing with him in the first place? And besides … from what the Judge just said, it’s too late to back down, even if I wanted to.”

  “I didn’t ask you to back down, you twerp.”

  The Judge banged his gavel several times. “Okay, ladies that will be enough.”

  The Judge focused his attention on Henry who was looking straight ahead, seemingly not paying attention to what was going on. Judge Brady followed Henry’s stare, which was directed at the east wall - a somewhat neglected plaster wall that was streaked with a handful of cracks and several areas where the paint was chipping.

  “Do you understand what’s going on, Henry?” the Judge asked.

  Henry didn’t respond and Robin nudged him.

  “Do you understand what’s at stake here?” Judge Brady asked again. Henry nodded. Still, the Judge wondered just how much Henry really understood. “Okay, Sharon, let’s see what you have.”


  Sharon got up and waved a printout in front of Robin and then took it to the Judge. “This is a bank printout which shows the withdrawals Henry made and the progressive nature of Henry’s spending.”

  “I object,” Robin said.

  The Judge held up his hand. “Now, listen to me, both of you. You’re not trying a case here. There will be no objections from either one of you. I will be the only one who objects to anything. Understood?” The Judge looked first at Robin then at Sharon. They both nodded.

  The Judge motioned for Sharon to go back to her seat and looked at the printout for a few seconds. He then looked to Robin. “Okay. You can speak now. What’s this all about?”

  “It’s just a printout showing a handful of withdrawals,” Robin said. “It’s nothing, Your Honor.”

  “Why don’t you ask her why our father took out the money,” Sharon yelled.

  The Judge slapped his hand down on his desk and threw an icy glare at Sharon. “I will not tolerate anyone speaking out of turn. If you want to speak, Ms. Wolff, you will raise your hand.” Sharon nodded. This is a side the Judge had never shown the Wolff family. Very stern. Very judicial.

  “Henry,” the Judge said, and then patiently waited until Henry gave him his attention. “Can you tell me more about why you withdrew money …” The Judge looked at the printout. “It says here that you took out a hundred dollars on November 28th, the next day another two hundred. Then a week goes by, another three hundred, three days later, another two hundred ….” Judge Brady put the printout down. “Henry, what’s all this about? Talk to me.”

  The Judge waited patiently for his response. Since he understood Henry Wolff better than most people in town, he wouldn’t hassle him because he knew Henry might mentally drift off somewhere and not come back for a while. “No pressure,” the Judge said. “Take your time.”