Forever Autumn

by Christopher Scott Wagoner

  Cover

  Title Page

  Forever Autumn

  ...

  Christopher Scott Wagoner

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  Forever Autumn, Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Scott Wagoner

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  ...

  First Omnific eBook edition, January 2015

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, January 2015

  ...

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ...

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  ...

  Wagoner, Christopher Scott.

  Forever Autumn / Christopher Scott Wagoner – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623421-58-8

  1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Relationships—Fiction. 3. Lupus—Fiction. 4. Professional Wrestling—Fiction. I. Title

  ...

  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book

  to the Tuesday Night Titans—Smurf, Oger, Tater,

  Boo Boo and Aaron—even though we mostly play

  on Monday nights these days.

  Also, this one is dedicated to RP of Millstadt,

  my first, truest love.

  Chapter 1

  THEIR SCREAMS ECHOED down the hall, creating a cacophony that was overwhelming. The man walking down it, a burly specimen of manhood, winced at the sound. He increased his speed a bit, going from a shuffling saunter to a near-jog. Medium-length brown hair cascaded down to his broad shoulders, framing his blunt-featured face. He was not unattractive, with bright blue eyes and a strong jaw, but his looks were unconventional, possibly intimidating. Stubble on his face indicated that he had skipped shaving that morning, and he jabbed his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, poking at a whisker that was troubling him.

  He continued down the faded green tiles, the sounds made by his size-sixteen sneakers muffled by the dissonance spilling from the room at the end of the hall. He passed by a bulletin board decorated with pictures of turkeys. The artwork was clearly done by young children who had dipped their hands into brown paint and then slapped them onto a piece of construction paper. Poorly scrawled names were written in tall letters across the bottom of the pictures.

  Upon reaching his destination, he gripped the doorknob with a large hand and pulled it open. The sound seemed to envelop him, increasing in volume as he removed the barrier. Through the door, a multitude of young children were playing, running, and screaming with great enthusiasm. A young boy with blond hair and large blue eyes ran up toward him, throwing his arms about the man’s leg and giving him a fierce hug.

  “Mr. Steve!” he said. “You’re late, Mr. Steve!”

  “I know, Darrien,” said Steve, patting the boy on his back. He looked up from the young child’s face to regard the decidedly angry woman sitting behind the teacher’s desk.

  “When you called,” she said in a dry voice, “you said you would only be ten minutes late.”

  She was an older woman, her wizened face pockmarked with old acne scars. Her hair was thick, curly and dark brown, with bits of gray showing at her roots. She wore a cozy-looking sweater with a depiction of a Native American child on it. The crude stereotype it portrayed raised his ire a bit, but he was careful to keep his displeasure off of his face.

  “I’m sorry. Most of my street is still torn up. I had to go three blocks out of my way just to catch a train.”

  “Your street has been under construction for two months now. I would think that by now you would have learned to wake up a little earlier.”

  “Yeah.” Steve scratched behind his head. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Try not to be late. I have important things to do in the office. I can’t waste my time here watching children because their teacher is incapable of maintaining a schedule.”

  She rose to her feet, snagging a cordless phone and jamming it into her corduroy pants. She walked stiffly out of the room, her face crossed by clouds blacker than Steve’s chalkboard.

  He sighed, picking up a clipboard from his cluttered desk. He noted that attendance had already been taken, made a quick head count to ensure it was accurate, and looked out over his classroom. Dodging past the chaotic, zigzagging bodies in his path, he walked over to a battered CD player covered in a great deal of duct tape. He pressed the play button and a jaunty tune emanated from it.

  “It’s clean up time!” said Steve at the top of his lungs. The children, many of whom did not notice his late entrance to the room, grew even louder in their enthusiasm to greet him.

  “Mr. Steve! Hey, Mr. Steve is here!”

  “All right! Mr. Steve!”

  “I love you, Mr. Steve!”

  “I’m glad Miss Stone left, she’s mean!”

  “Do we have to take a nap today?”

  He was swarmed by their tiny bodies, a half dozen of them squeezing his legs in bear hugs. He patted as many of them on the back as he could in rapid succession, a wide smile on his face.

  “Okay, okay,” he said after a few minutes of being grappled. “We’re running late today, so let’s get cleaned up for circle time!”

  With some more coaxing from the tall man, they were soon duteously picking up toys, hanging up play clothes, and wiping up finger paint. Steve pitched in at several areas that were rife with spilled toys, his blue eyes narrowing.

  “How many times do I have to tell you guys not to just dump the baskets out? Why can’t you just take the toys you want?”

  He did not expect an answer, and did not receive one. He rose to his feet, dusting off his knees a bit, and noticed a serious-looking young girl with pale blond hair and wide green eyes approaching him. She gazed up at his face, her tone plaintive.

  “Mr. Steve,” she said. “Jaws is dead.”

  “What?” asked Steve, glancing at the small aquarium in the corner. There was, indeed, an orange-scaled fish floating belly-up. “Oh, crap.”

  “Jaws is dead?”

  “Nooooo!”

  “Give him mouth to mouth!”

  “Mr. Steve knows CCR!”

  “It’s CPR, not CCR!”

  “You’re not the boss of me!”

  “Calm down!” said Steve at a high volume, catching most of their collective attention. When all of their large, wide-open eyes were focused on him, he continued in a more normal tone of voice.

  “Sarah, you’re flag helper today,” he said, taking down a rolled-up American flag from the top of a tall metal cabinet. He handed it off to a pudgy blond girl in a pink taffeta dress. “Everybody on the circle time rug! Find your spot and park your butt on it!”

  Most of the children complied immediately, going to the front of the room and arranging themselves on a wide blue rug decorated with the alphabet and numbers up to twenty. A few children lingered in play areas, and he increased his volume while keeping his tone positive.

  “Look at Robert,” he said. “Robert’s a good listener—he’s sitting on the carpet.”

  Several of the stragglers hurried
over to the rug, finding their places on the brightly colored surface.

  “Here comes Samantha and Demarco,” he said as two swarthy students eagerly found their spots. “They’re being good listeners now.”

  “What about me?” said Darrien, sitting up on his knees to see over the low bookshelf bordering the circle time area.

  “You’re a good listener, too, Darrien,” said Steve as he scooped out Mr. Jaws with a small green net. He opened the door to his classroom and spotted the staff bathroom across the hall. With a flick of his wrist he sent the piscine missile arcing across the vomit green tiles, trailing droplets of water behind it. Mr. Jaws dived into a new pool of water, this one attached to the commode. Regretting that he could not flush the toilet without leaving his children unattended, he closed the door and returned his attention to his charges.

  “All right!” he said when he noticed that all twenty of the kindergarten students were lined up in a circle on the rug. “Let’s get started with the Pledge of Allegiance.”

  “Mr. Steve!” said Darrien, bouncing up and down on his bottom. “Mr. Steve, can I go back on green?”

  “What?” Steve asked, squinting his eyes as he peered across the room at a row of brightly painted lockers. There was a name tag shaped like a turkey affixed to the front of each with the child’s name written across it in their own hand. Just above the name tag (and the reach of small hands) there was a cardboard cutout of a traffic signal light. On most of them, a small clothespin was hanging from the topmost, green light. From Darrien’s light, the clip was firmly affixed to the red one.

  “What’d you do to get on red already?” Steve asked, directing his gaze back to Darrien.

  “I was being loud,” said Darrien.

  “You didn’t hit anyone?” said Steve.

  Darrien shook his head vehemently. Steve scanned the faces of the other students, to see if they would dispute Darrien’s claim, but none of them did.

  “All right. Be a good listener for circle time, and maybe I’ll put it back on green.”

  “Okay, Mr. Steve!” The boy sat down instantly, focused upon being good with concentration so intense it crossed the boy’s eyes.

  Thanks, kid, thought Steve, you just made life seem a little less like hell!

  “All right,” said Steve, “Let’s start with the pledge! Put your right hand over your heart…”

  “What about Mr. Jaws?” asked a young girl with a trembling lip.

  “Well,” said Steve, sighing and scratching the back of his head. He suddenly laughed at them with a sly grin on his face. “The thing about goldfish is they’re what we call…disposable pets.”

  “What does disposable mean?” Sarah asked, still gripping the unfurled flag in her small hand.

  “It means that they swim around for a while, and you enjoy looking at them, but then they die, and you go out and get a new goldfish.”

  The children were silent for a moment, then there was a dissonant rush of their enthusiastic voices.

  “I wanna name it!”

  “I wanna pick it out!”

  “I don’t want a fish, I want a snake!”

  “I just want Mr. Jaws back…”

  “Let’s name it Jaws II!”

  “That’s a stupid name!”

  “You’re stupid!”

  “Settle down!” said Steve in a firm, loud voice. The voices stopped almost immediately. “Now, we all miss Mr. Jaws, but he wouldn’t want us to not have class time! Put your right hands over your hearts, and let’s say the pledge—your other right, Cole. Now, I pledge allegiance to the flag…”

  Steve led the class through his circle time lesson, which centered on turkeys. He used a poster board chart the children had colored to point out the parts of the bird, and asked them to gobble and move like turkeys. They complied with great enthusiasm, traipsing about the carpet and classroom while flapping their arms like wings. The few children too tired or bashful to pantomime America’s largest game bird were encouraged by Steve’s willingness to walk with knees bent, arms held at his sides like wings. After several minutes he recalled them to the carpet, and after giving them a few moments to recover their wind and the natural pallor of their cheeks (as well as his own), they sang a song about Thanksgiving.

  After circle time, he engaged in the frustrating task of teaching them their letters. They were on the letter T, a symbol Steve had found easy to impart in the past. For some reason, many of his children seemed to struggle with their printing, and he strove to keep his tone light and uplifting as he corrected them.

  They broke for lunch, giving him about twenty minutes to prepare notes for their lockers concerning an upcoming field trip. After an aide led them back into the classroom, he directed them to the rug so he could set out their rugs for nap time.

  After nap, he had no lessons to teach, so he engaged several children in a game of Chutes and Ladders, celebrating his own spins and not allowing them to cheat.

  “Yes!” he said. “I’m gonna win, I’m gonna win!” He held up his hands clasped over his head and shook them as if he had just scored the winning touchdown on Super-Bowl Sunday.

  “You’re mean, Mr. Steve,” said Darrien.

  “Yeah,” said another girl, her hair in cornrows. “You should let us win!”

  “How is that gonna teach you anything?” Steve was grinning from ear to ear. “In the real world, nobody just lets you win. You have to earn it.”

  “My dad lets me win,” said the girl.

  “That’s his business, and my classroom is mine.”

  “I wanna win all the time,” said Darrien, pouting.

  “Oh, really?” said Steve with exaggerated slowness. “You want? Well, you know what happens when you talk about what you want…”

  Darrien clapped his palms over his ears, shaking his head.

  “No!” said the little girl plaintively, though a fierce smile was on her face.

  “You can’t always get what ya waaant,” sang Steve.

  Steve shouldered the thin door to his apartment open, his hands burdened by plastic shopping bags. He struggled for a moment to flip on the light switch, cursing as he dropped one of the bags noisily to the floor. The room was suddenly bathed in light from an overhead fixture. The apartment was small, with a living room area right inside the door. An old suede sofa patched with several strips of duct tape sat in front of a thirty-two-inch LCD TV. He grabbed a white remote, pressed one of the brightly colored buttons, and the screen came to life a moment later. A newscaster appeared in front of a map of the New York/New Jersey area. He only glanced at the image for a moment before walking the short distance to his tiny kitchenette. Using the meager counter space not taken up by his coffee maker and microwave, he set the bags down and put away his groceries. He kept out a twenty-four-ounce can of beer, popping it open as he approached the sofa. The view out the single dingy window in the living room was of a train track a short distance away, largely blocking his view of the street below.

  He plopped down on the couch, cursing as some suds foamed up off the can and slopped onto his collared shirt. He hastily sipped the beverage to prevent another mishap, flipping through his channel guide as he went.

  “Ain’t shit on Fridays,” he said with a sneer.

  He eventually settled on a college football game, more for background noise than anything else. He drained the can of beer and stretched out on the couch, his eyes slowly drooping until he was snoring softly.

  He awakened less than thirty minutes later when his unseen cell phone rang. He groaned as he rose, knocking over the beer can with a large socked foot. Stumbling in his thick-headed, groggy state, he zigzagged around the small apartment until he located the phone, which was still in his jacket pocket.

  The phone had gone to voice mail at that point, and as he stared darkly at the screen with bloodshot eyes it rang again.

  “Yeah?” he said, his tone clearly irritated even though he strove not to sound that way.

  “Hey, hey, hey,�
�� came a young woman’s voice from the other end. “It lives!”

  “What’s up, Susie?” said Steve, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth to mop up drool.

  “Dad’s in town,” said Susan, her voice cheerful.

  “Yippee,” said Steve. “I had a long week and I’m really tired. I’m hanging up now—”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be an asshole. He misses you. We’re meeting at Stuckey’s for dinner in an hour. Come out and join us.”

  “I’d like to, but I’m tired.”

  “Tired doing what?” said Susan. “You’re a glorified babysitter. That’s not work!”

  “It’s harder than it looks,” said Steve with irritation, his blue eyes narrowing.

  “Whatever. Are you coming out?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, face contorting with guilt.

  “I knew I was going to have to do this,” she said with a sigh.

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “You remember my Death and Dying professor, Darla Rhodes?”

  “Yeah,” said Steve, a small smile on his face. “Yeah, she’s kind of hard to forget.”

  “Well, she happens to be a huge wrestling fan, so when I said my dad was the Deathslayer, she just couldn’t wait to come out tonight,” she said.

  “Really?” he said, straightening up. “At Stuckey’s, you say? I’ll be there in a bit.”

  “Dad’s buying us dinner, so I hope you like mozzarella sticks and hot wings!”

  “Are you kidding?” he said with a chuckle. “You and I ate so much bar food growing up that we sweat fryer oil!”

  “We’ll see you there. Bye.”

  “Bye,” he said, turning off the phone. Dancing a little jig, he raced into the bathroom adjacent to his sleeping area, peering into the mirror with skepticism. He stripped off his shirt, revealing a muscular if hairy chest, and squirted a curl of shaving cream into the palm of one hand.

  He hummed to himself as he completed his grooming, brushing out his hair and using a spritz of hairspray. He slapped on cologne from a dark green bottle, hissing as his skin burned, and picked at a bit of corn stuck between two teeth.