Wheels (Tabor Heights Year Two)

by Michelle Levigne

  Natalie laughed and didn't think anything more about it until Hal, the assignments editor called her -- and he never called, especially on the weekend, unless there was something world-breaking that had to be handled on a quick turnaround with a fast-approaching deadline. He wanted more information on the Mission and Firesong's involvement, and verification whether the Allen Michaels organization would be sponsoring the campaign or this was something based solely in Firesong's home church. Natalie promised to get answers as soon as she could, and warned him that it might be a few days since Firesong was on the road.

  Monday, June 15

  Dani's response was a link to the Mission's website. Her cover letter explained that the campaign was an effort of the Mission, Tabor Christian Church, and the Arc Foundation, a philanthropic foundation that had made most of the renovations at the Mission possible.

  You're going to want to talk to Tommy, especially. He's the whole force behind this thing. Picture is below. He's the most incredible guy. The kids all love him. Something about a guy on four wheels that tears down the walls. Kids talk to him who won't open up to anybody else. And he has the wickedest, most warped sense of humor. Part of that is because he's a professional comedian and he's always coming up with new jokes. Part of it has got to be his coping mechanism for just getting through every day tied to his wheelchair. If I wasn't so busy with Firesong, I think I could have fallen for him. The wheelchair isn't a barrier. At least, I don't think so.

  Kurt just looked over my shoulder and threatened to break my fingers if I'm not honest with you. Yes, I've got some other issues that made me hold back on a relationship. Kurt was ready to strangle me or hang me by my heels or something until I faced my problems and let him into my life. And before you ask, yes, we're making progress. It's kind of fun. He's taking it slow. I don't know if it's to torment me for giving him a hard time at the beginning, but… *sigh* So no, Tommy's wheelchair wouldn't have been a barrier, if I hadn't had other issues. After you get to know him, you don't see the wheelchair. You just see the wacky, incredible guy who makes the Energizer Bunny look like a sloth by comparison. It helps that he's kind of gorgeous.

  Stacy, the Web guru at the Mission, promises that she should have the Handicap Awareness Roll page launched by the time this email gets to you, so look for the link on the Mission's page and read all about Tommy, his testimony and everything. And if you need to bribe someone to let you come cover the campaign, call me and we'll take up a collection.

  Natalie scrolled down to the bottom of the email and waited until the photo downloaded. Yes, Dani was right, Tommy was kind of gorgeous. If he wasn't sitting in a wheelchair, she wouldn't have guessed he was handicapped. Those muscles and defined abs, clearly visible under the Superman tee-shirt, indicated he worked out regularly. That square jaw and thick black curls and sparkling eyes would have caught her attention, guaranteed. He wore jeans, so she couldn't tell if his legs were damaged, atrophied like some people who spent all their time in wheelchairs.

  She clicked on the link to the Mission's page and spent the next half hour clicking on all the links, reading about the Mission's history, the timeline of renovations and services to the community as they became available, and the partnership with the Arc Foundation. She clicked on the link for the staff pages and smiled to see the picture taken from the roof of a building -- the Mission, she assumed -- showing a large group of people standing on a playground, smiling and waving up at the photographer. There was Tommy near the front. A woman with red-gold hair, who looked familiar, stood behind him, both her hands on his shoulders. A man with pale hair stood next to her, an arm around her waist. He didn't look familiar. Come to think of it, Tommy did look familiar, too. Testing, Natalie tapped the woman's face and found it was a link to her biography. She nodded, impressed with this Stacy who took care of the Mission's website.

  Claire Donnelly-Hunter, assistant administrator.

  Natalie didn't read the bio. She studied the woman's face as her heartbeat picked up speed and she felt that subliminal "click" of pieces coming together. Yes, she could believe that was Claire, Tommy's older sister. Silently calling herself a coward, she hit the 'back' button to the group photo and tapped on the face of the man with his arm around Claire's waist.

  Paul Hunter, head custodian.

  Logic said he was Claire's husband. Natalie smiled, glad Claire had found someone who certainly looked nice. She hoped Paul took better care of her than Jonas had taken care of Claire's mother.

  "Coward," she muttered, and finally went back to the main photo and tapped, gently, on Tommy's smiling face.

  Yes, he was her Tommy Donnelly. The bio under his name was brief, simply saying he had been in a wheelchair since he was twelve, that he had a childhood education degree and worked with the children at the Mission, that he was working on a degree in counseling and pursuing a comedy career on the side.

  Natalie passed on Dani's email to Hal and added a short paragraph, saying she was fully in support of covering the campaign, and suggesting a feature piece on the Mission and all the work it was doing for the community of Tabor Heights, Ohio. She didn't tell Hal that Tommy was the boy whose heartbreaking accident in her childhood had sparked her interest in handicap awareness and accessibility. Natalie wasn't sure if telling him would get her disqualified from handling the story, or if Hal would insist she definitely had to cover the campaign. He was big on finishing stories and getting closure and pursuing the emotional health of his reporters.

  She wasn't sure if she wanted to cover the story or not.

  "It's in Your hands, God," she whispered as she pressed the 'send' button and immediately turned off her tablet.

  Chapter Five

  Friday, June 26

  The editorial committee gave a green light to the story covering the Mission, its outreach ministries in general, and then focusing on Tommy as the face and voice of the handicap awareness campaign.

  Then Natalie called her parents. She waited until after she told them about her big assignment before revealing that Tommy and Claire were involved in the story. Silence rang through the phone lines.

  "Mom? Dad?" she finally ventured, reassured the connection hadn't died when she heard the radio in the background on their end.

  "Wow." Her father's voice sounded ready to break. "When you get an answer to prayer… Honey, don't tell them right away, okay?"

  "Tell them what, exactly? That's part of why I called."

  "Caution is good. Find out what kind of people they are."

  "Dani said they're great. And they're involved with this enormous ministry in their town."

  "Yeah, well, we both know that just because someone is involved in the church and ministries doesn't mean they're spiritually mature. Get to know them, find out what kind of reaction they'll have to learning Jonas is looking for them."

  "That could take longer than my assignment, Dad." Natalie quickly went over her schedule in her mind. She planned on getting to Tabor early in the week, walk around town, get a feel for the Mission's place there, and spend time getting to know the staff, especially Tommy. Maybe she could see him perform some comedy, and then shadow him during the handicap awareness campaign. Were four or five days enough time to get to know him? How much of a barrier would their mutual past create for her to climb over before she could cover the story?

  Maybe he won’t recognize me?

  Natalie nearly laughed aloud at the idiocy of the dropping, aching sensation that shot through her at the thought of Tommy Donnelly not remembering her. What kind of fool expected him to remember and recognize her after nearly seventeen years? He had been twelve years old. Twelve-year-old boys barely tolerated ten-year-old girls, forget about treasuring their memories for seventeen years. If he hadn't realized how much Natalie adored him back then, what chance did she have that he would remember her at all?

  "That's the thing," her father said after another long silence. "Jonas is… well, he's sick. Not dying, but worn out. If he could see his kid
s and make things right with them… He needs it, Nat."

  Tuesday, September 15

  Tuesday night at Chuckles Comedy Club meant a crowded, dimly lit room, with pale blobs of faces that seemed to half-glow above rows of small tables facing the stage. Smoke from the tiny smoking room drifted over into the seating area, despite the fans to keep it contained, but the people jammed in so close together didn't seem to notice the smell. Laughter filled the room and spilled out in rumbles through the lobby. Waitresses and waiters exchanged grins and eye rolls as they navigated the narrow gaps between the tables, depositing trays of soft drinks and popcorn, nachos and beers.

  Tommy had the stage, clad tonight in a new pseudo-tuxedo tee-shirt. He caught himself constantly shifting his shoulders, trying to stretch out the material that was more scratchy-snug than tight. It was becoming a pattern, and while he waited for the crowd's laughter at his last verbal whipcrack to die, he played with the idea of adding it to his routine. No, he decided a moment later. He wouldn't, because the tee-shirt was a birthday present from Sammy. He couldn't let the little girl know it wasn't comfortable.

  Sammy made his life just about perfect. Tommy pivoted his wheelchair to visually sweep the curved rows of tables. He prepared his next zinger line while studying the audience, and said a quick prayer of thanks as he tallied his blessings -- and asked for help at the same time. Not for him, though. For Claire. Which tied into his hyperactive mind and overflowing energy. On the verge of triumph -- the handicap awareness walk this weekend -- a new concern had emerged. On the plus side: Claire had married Paul after a very short engagement that hadn't been short enough because Tommy played the ultimate guilt card -- Sammy wanted Claire to be her new mommy now, not in a year when Paul got enough resources together to feel like he wasn't mooching off his bride, but contributing equally to their household.

  Paul and Claire lived upstairs, enjoying newlywed bliss. Tommy and Sammy lived downstairs, which gave him easy access to his new niece and his ongoing plan to warp her innocent little mind and turn her into his clone. All except for the wheels, of course. As he told Claire and Paul, and the interfering, blue-haired biddies and gray-haired geezers at church, he loved having a live-in slave to fetch and carry for him at any hour of the day or night. Was it his fault that Sammy was a light sleeper and wanted to spend every waking hour with her Uncle Tommy, even if it was at three in the morning?

  Yes, life was perfect. Except that Claire was so busy preparing for the handicap awareness campaign, she couldn't seem to slow down long enough to just admit she wasn't feeling well, and go see a doctor. What was it with women who felt responsible for the whole world -- or at least the administration of the Mission? They wouldn't admit they were sick, even if they were pale until two in the afternoon and unable to eat every other morning, and the smells of their favorite fast food made them race for the bathroom.

  Tommy realized the audience had fallen below that safety threshold of quiet. If he didn't say something in the next two seconds, he would lose them. What was wrong with him, letting his thoughts wander? Usually he was able to send his mind in multiple directions at once without the slightest difficulty or flub. Maybe he was more worried about Claire than he thought? Or nervous about the handicap awareness campaign? Or his upcoming interview with a major magazine? Or maybe all three combined?

  The tall, slim Amazon sitting at the front table on the far right end of the curve of tables caught his gaze again. Tommy had been watching her, trying to figure out what she was up to. If she was trying to steal his routine for another comedian, she wouldn't have that notepad on the table in front of her in full view -- she would have a microphone aimed at him, to record every nuance, and it wouldn't be visible. Other than the fact she was a good head taller than most of the people around her, she didn't really stand out. Dressed casually: jeans, lacy blouse and blazer. Every time Tommy met her gaze, she smiled at him, and sometimes even winked. He was used to girls flirting with him, but that usually stopped when they got close enough to see over or around the table or half-wall that hid him, and they saw his wheelchair. Sitting up on stage where everybody could see his natural four-wheel drive, there was no way she couldn't notice. So what was she up to?

  "Hey, babe." He winked and leaned in her direction, waggling his eyebrows. The best way to deal with fear was to attack it head-on. The little follow spot that the manager rarely used when Tommy was on stage, just because he didn't harass the audience like most comedians, slid over to light up the girl in profile. She flushed red. His equilibrium slid back into place. "Whaddaya say we go drag-racing after I get finished with this set?"

  Everyone roared, including the girl. She made a shooing motion with the hand holding the pen. Tommy considered making a quip about her taking notes, but tossed it before the thought was solid in his mind.

  "Where were we before I fell in love? Hey, don't laugh." The audience obligingly did. "It's harder on us gimps when we fall in love. Yeah, the distance to the floor is shorter, but it's murder when we take our chairs down with us!"

  He tipped back and pivoted to face the other direction, waggling his foot pedals so they caught the light, while the nicely loud wave of snickers and chuckles faded out.

  "Oh, yeah. Marriage. Freaky concept. I mean, come on, you can barely get a basketball player to commit to a two-year contract without promising him the moon -- and you expect bozos to commit to a lifetime sentence?" Tommy decided he wouldn't use that bridge anymore. It worked, and he was pleased since he had made it up on the fly, but it didn't get the response he wanted. "No, really, I don't understand marriage. It starts with the marriage ceremony. That poor girl ought to be warned right from the beginning -- the honeymoon is over before they even get out of the church. Because no matter how hard she worked to find the perfect guy -- no matter how sure she is that he's the one -- there's always some other guy there called the Best Man."

  The laughter got a little louder, but not enough to warrant continuing with eight more lines on the absurdity of marriage.

  "Like I said before, there are a lot of things in life I don't understand. Life just isn't fair." Tommy felt the audience quieting. He waited a few beats to snag their attention a little more, then schooled his face into his most somber, Walter Cronkite expression. "With my luck, Led Zeppelin was right, and there really is a stairway to heaven."

  Total silence. He felt the pressure of all those gazes switch from his face to his wheelchair. Sometimes he lost the audience when he made blatant remarks about his wheelchair and physical handicaps. Some people had even grown angry in the past and told him he had no right to make light of his "condition." Tommy always felt that he had more right than anyone.

  Two seconds shy of the "I'm dead" moment, as the pressure of the silence and held breaths grew strong enough to create a tingling on his skin, laughter roared through the room. Tommy pretended amazement, when his first reaction was to sag back in his chair in relief. He tipped his chair back and bent forward, his version of a deep bow, then pivoted while he was still in the shuttle position, and zipped off the stage. He liked working at Chuckles just because they had an actual curtain he could disappear behind when his gig ended.

  *****

  Natalie waited until the emcee finished his announcements, reminding the audience of the menu specials, the stage lights dimmed and the house lights came up. Then she slid her notebook back into her purse and got up from her table. She left two dollars for a tip, even though the waitress had only brought her one ginger ale. Natalie had worked plenty of tables in college, and she wasn't going to make another waitress suffer, taking up a whole table that could have earned her some decent tips. Maybe now that she was leaving, someone else would move into that spot. After all, it was barely nine p.m., and the comedy club evening was just starting. She glanced back as she headed for the dim red-lit sign for the stage door, and saw people coming from both doorways, aiming for her table. She muffled a smirk at the thought of the battle about to ensue over the prime spot, and
pushed on the old-fashioned door latch.

  It stuck. That old panic of "I'm going to get caught and I don't belong" rose up in her throat. Then the door gave with a creak-groan in hinges that moved like they had been greased with old bubble gum.

  She glanced down the hallway, mildly pleased to find it well lit and smelling of nothing worse than too much cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and nervous sweat. A flicker of movement in the direction of the stage entrance got her moving, following it. Yes, that was definitely light glancing off chrome. She turned the corner in time to see Tommy's back as he slid into the bathroom. Well, she certainly couldn't follow him in there, could she?

  The club manager had told her that Tommy usually left for home soon after he finished his early set. He didn't hang around, drink up his paycheck, and try to pick up girls. Natalie had been amused to note the mixture of respect and slight confusion in the big man with the receding hairline and a ponytail halfway down his back.

  The best bet to catch up with Tommy without being caught backstage without a pass was to find and wait by his car. Sure, she could park herself in the hallway across from the bathroom door, but Natalie equated that tactic with following a literary agent into the bathroom to pitch to her. Not smart. She glanced both directions down the hall and saw the lit exit sign over a door that hung open, letting a warm evening breeze flow through the backstage area. She followed it, moving slowly and listening for the sound of the door behind her opening.

  Tommy Donnelly. Who would have thought that her life's wobbly, disjointed path would lead her to meet up with him, after all these years? Not that Natalie expected him to remember her. She had adored him since the Sunday school picnic when she was six and he had stopped the third grade bullies from bombing her with water balloons.