Fathers House: A Preview

by C. Edward Baldwin

  Chapter 8

  On Saturday morning, Ben awoke with a jolt, breathing heavily. He had the weirdest dream, a nightmare really. He’d dreamed about the twins. One of them had somehow taken the umbilical cord and wrapped it several times around its brother’s neck, strangling him, all while inside April’s womb, and all very much visible on the ultrasound. Yet, no one—the doctors, nurses, April, or himself was able to stop it. All of them simultaneously yelled at the screen, “Stop that! Let your brother go! Stop that now!”

  He lay on his back for a few moments, looking hazily up at the gaudy ceiling fan. A bit of morning sun eased through the blinds’ partially opened slats and reflected nicely off the golden crystal, making it appear as if three golden mystic images dangled from the ceiling. Eventually, his breathing slowed and his eyes fully adjusted to his awakening. Still, he could feel his heart drumming along at a fairly good clip. He looked to his left where April would have been had she been at home and not at Lincoln Memorial. The dream seemed so real. But thank God, it wasn’t.

  He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was six o’clock. Today promised to be a very eventful and tiring day. He was scheduled to pick up April from the hospital by eleven, and he hadn’t made a single dent in his housecleaning. She would be totally astonished if not clearly disgusted at the amount of mess a single man could generate in five days. He had infiltrated every room in the house with an unconscious blitz of untidiness, and now he didn’t quite know which room he should clean first.

  Droplets of dried urine outlined the base of the master bath’s toilet, compliments of a couple of mornings’ worth of missed aims. Scanning the shower, he noticed how the white porcelain finish was now a dusty-gray. If he truly wanted today to be the last time April set foot in their home, then let her happen upon this monstrosity. Even he was disgusted by it. It suddenly became a no brainer; he would clean the bathroom first. He reached under the sink and grabbed the Comet, Soft Scrub, some sponges and an old rag.

  The bathroom took about forty minutes. When he finished, his thoughts turned quickly to the kitchen. He frowned, remembering that it was a total wipeout. Fast food wrappers and two pizza boxes littered the kitchen table. The sink was filled to the brim with dirty dishes, which was amazing because he’d been too tired to cook anything substantial. He’d basically spent the week, living off instant grits, scrambled eggs, and takeout. But he couldn’t muster the effort to clean pans, plates, bowls, and eating utensils, so he just kept reaching into the cupboards and drawers for clean ones.

  As he stepped inside the kitchen, a strange odor—sharp and semi-putrid greeted him. He immediately spotted the possible culprit—a half-eaten container of shrimp fried rice, left on the counter since Tuesday. It wasn’t that strong of a smell, yet. But April’s feminine powers could detect the faintest of such odors and the source of their issuance from a half of block away. Pulling a trash bag from the pantry, he methodically went about the business of getting the place in order. The kitchen took nearly an hour and a half because he was slowed by his disdain for doing dishes. He was able to put the bulk of them in the dishwasher, but he still had a sink load to do by hand, including pots and pans. Finally, the kitchen was presentable.

  By nine o’clock, he’d made great headway and the house was almost once again ready for female occupancy. He stood in the master bedroom, having made the bed and putting away the last of the clothes he’d flung on the floor over the past few days. Not too coincidently, the old Seven Dwarfs’ tune, Whistle While You Work wafted through his mind. He loved the Snow White story as a child, and he supposed that through the years, the tune had probably helped many souls get through many unpleasant tasks. But he hadn’t whistled at all during the past three hours and the time still flew by. For as he cleaned, scrubbed, and put away, Cain Simmons had consumed his thoughts.

  He’d kept asking himself one main question. Had Cain been truthful? Rogue cops. Fathers Disciples. FBI. The boy had told one fantastic tale. One, Ben wasn’t afraid to admit, had left him skeptical at best. A major crime syndicate in Duraleigh, policemen acting as enforcers— killing one of the city’s youth, these were very serious accusations. For which, the boy hadn’t provided one shred of proof.

  But he’d been scared. There was no denying that. Ben had seen it in Cain’s eyes. He’d seen it in the way the youngster had trembled ever so slightly as he was talking, constantly shifting his eyes about the room as if he was being watched by unseen, but treacherous forces.

  It could have been an act. But Ben didn’t think so. Cain had appeared genuinely frightened. Besides, the indisputable fact remained—Calvin Leeson was dead. And Ben did not believe for one minute that Sarah Leeson’s only child had died at the hands of Cain alone, if at all. But at whose hands had he died? Fathers Disciples? Duraleigh’s finest? It was still too fantastic a story to believe. But fantastic did not mean untrue.

  But if it was true, then a couple of other things had to be true as well. Namely, Calvin Leeson had to have been involved in some illicit behavior. Otherwise how would the FBI have known about him, and why would they have deemed him of some importance? Important enough that this supposedly dangerous outfit—Fathers Disciples, had found it necessary to have the kid eliminated. He considered that scenario as he plugged in the vacuum cleaner, clicked it on, and heard it noisily come to life.

  Duraleigh had a sordid past. That was common knowledge. What was also common knowledge was that the city had been cleaned up. All thugs, goons, gangsters, aka the Fathers Disciples of the world had been shown the door. Gone were the drive-by shootings, violent shootouts, and the out-in-the-open prostitution and illicit drug sale transactions that used to plague the city’s streets. It was the stuff of legend how the city’s leaders had finally had enough and had literally taken the fight directly to the hoodlums. Getting rid of them, totally rid of them had been long, arduous, and ugly work. People had been lost on both sides, good and bad, but eventually it had been done. Now, nationally, Duraleigh was the model for what a city could do if it set its mind to it. It was highly unlikely that a “Fathers Disciples” was operating within Duraleigh’s city limits.

  But what had disturbed Ben more about Cain’s fantastic tale was the part about Fathers House. “Any kid that gets into any type of serious trouble while staying at the House will get sent to the basement. And if you ever got sent to the basement, then you would know about Fathers Disciples.” Ben had lived at Fathers House for five years, from the age of thirteen, after the murder of his mom, until he graduated high school. He’d participated in its afterschool program for a couple of years before that. He had fond memories of Fathers House. It had been there when he’d needed it. Sure, there’d been some bad kids there. Mayo Fathers specialized in helping all kids, especially the bad ones. Ben refused to believe that the basement talk was true. But why would a kid make something like the basement up, especially knowing Ben could simply ask Mayo Fathers about its existence? And if it was true, then why wasn’t Ben introduced to it? Growing up, he hadn’t been a hoodlum, but he hadn’t been a saint either.

  As he methodically pushed the vacuum cleaner back and forth across the living room carpet, he debated about whether or not to ask Mayo Fathers about it. He didn’t for one minute believe Mayo Fathers could be involved in anything that would harm the very boys he’d taken in. It would contradict his life’s work. For a man who’d inherited a big house and successful family business, and who’d, for reasons known only to himself, had used both to help underprivileged kids, it didn’t make logical sense to then turn around and harm those very kids. But Ben’s training as a lawyer and his own natural instincts forced him to look at an issue from all angles.

  Cain’s story could be true. And if so, what kind of danger would Ben subject the teen to if he went asking Mayo Fathers tough questions about the basement. And without a shred of proof to warrant law enforcement involvement, life could become very difficult for Cain and there’d be no way to protect him in tha
t scenario. If Cain was ousted as a snitch, he wouldn’t see the light of another day.

  He unplugged the vacuum cleaner and pulled up the cord. He would do a quick sweep of the upstairs master suite and hallway. As he dragged the vacuum cleaner upstairs, he thought about Mayo’s conference next week and suddenly realized that there was one person he could ask about Fathers House and an outfit called Fathers Disciples.

  After hitting the second floor landing, he heard the doorbell. He uttered a profanity under his breath. He left the vacuum cleaner in the hallway and went back downstairs. He was not expecting anyone and didn’t care much for the interruption. He almost had all his chores completed, but almost did not equal complete. He wanted everything perfect for April’s return home. The last thing he needed or wanted was interruptions—unplanned, schedule-altering interruptions. Looking through the peephole, he thought, oh God, not now. Standing on his front porch, carrying insistent and worried expressions, were his in-laws: Stephen and Patricia Ellison.

  Perhaps it was an overstatement to say Ben didn’t get along with his in-laws. After all, he didn’t really know them. He’d only seen them twice in the two years since he’d met and married April. The first time had been after April’s hastily planned meet-the-folks drive to her childhood home in Charleston. It was right after the two of them had decided to get married. She had thought it’d be a good idea if her folks met him at least one time before he actually showed up on their doorsteps as her husband.

  “They’re old fashioned,” she’d said. “They believe a courtship should see months of moons before even the hand holding stage. They will think we’re getting married only because I’m pregnant.”

  Ben said, “People don’t do that sort of thing much anymore. For some women it’s a conscious decision to start bearing children before matrimony.”

  “I know that and you know that, but why force my parents to worry needlessly. Besides, I want them to meet you without prejudice. I know they’ll love you as much as I do.”

  “I love you too,” Ben said. After pausing a heartbeat, he asked, “What do you imagine they’ll say when the baby’s here in seven months?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered and then appeared to not give it another thought. They continued the drive to Charleston in contented silence. Occasionally, Ben would steal a glance at his bride-to-be who’d fallen asleep a couple of hours into the drive.

  Stephen Ellison seemed more interested in Ben’s family history, or rather his relative lack of knowledge about it. Mr. Ellison—who could trace his family’s history all the way back to a slave-holding black man, could not fathom how Ben’s family tree essentially started and ended with Ben. For Mr. Ellison, despite African-Americans’ numerous historical examples of it, the idea of someone not having even one minute piece of knowledge about their paternal ancestry was unconscionable.

  “So, your mother died without bothering to tell you about your father,” Stephen Ellison had said after Ben’s response to his insistent probing into his future son-in-law’s family history. It seemed not a question, but an accusation.

  “That’s correct,” Ben had answered stoically, which would be his last meaningful response that evening and the remainder of the meet-the-folks weekend.

  The doorbell rang again.

  With a sense of dread that he sincerely wished was not there—for he truly wanted to get along with his in-laws, Ben opened the door and quickly stepped back. Without speaking, Stephen Ellison walked anxiously into the house. Almost instantly, Patricia Ellison—with a whiff of a gardenias fragrance floating alongside her, rushed in behind him and darted in the direction of the downstairs bathroom. “Hello Ben,” she called out. “I’ve been holding it for two hours.” She disappeared around the corner.

  “Phobias about public johns,” Stephen Ellison said apologetically, his eyes trailing behind her. “You could line that thing with Jesus’ shroud and she still would not sit on it.” He cleared his throat, abruptly signaling the end of his commentary on his wife’s restroom preferences. “So, how are they? April? My grandsons?”

  “They’re all fine,” Ben said. He didn’t bother asking how they’d known.

  Stephen Ellison walked toward the living room. He was a short man and extremely light-complected. He had a thick meaty head, the sides and back of which carried the remains of what used to be a gorgeous jet-black curly mane. He was wearing a white, long-sleeved turtleneck and brown corduroys. He moved with the assured air of a man who was very much used to the benefits of having lots of money. Ben closed the front door and joined his father-in-law in the living room. “I’m due to pick up April in about an hour,” he said. “Hopefully the boys will be home in another week or so.”

  Stephen Ellison sat down on the white suede-leather couch. “Good. Good. Mrs. Ellison and I would have gotten here sooner had we known.” He tilted his head at Ben. “Thank God, April felt well enough to call us on yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Ben lied. Truth was that with everything that was going on, the emergency caesarean, the premature births, the last thing he wanted for himself and the situation had been additional irritation. And for all the love that the Ellisons no doubt had for their daughter and would have for their grandchildren, they still caused Ben significant irritation.

  Stephen Ellison went on. “It’s not right for Ellisons to be brought into this world alone.”

  Ben bit his lip, clamping down the irritation. Though his sons were indeed part Ellison, he understood exactly what Stephen Ellison’s veiled statement implied. But now was not the time to correct Papa Ellison on his grandsons’ paternal bloodlines. When his wife and sons were safely home, and their newly shaped family structure was firmly in place, that would be the time to remind the Ellisons and anyone else needing reminding, that his boys were indeed Lovisons. And that even though there were probably only three blood-connected Lovisons left in the free world, it did not matter. He blew out a quick breath and said, “Listen Mr. Ellison. I have to finish up some things here before I go to pick up April. Please make yourselves at home. There are all sorts of drinks in the refrigerator. You can—“

  “—don’t worry about us,” Stephen Ellison interrupted him. “You do what you have to do and when you’re ready, we’ll ride with you to the hospital. It’ll give us a chance to see our grandsons.”

  “Sure,” Ben gritted his teeth. He left, hard-footing it upstairs. When he reached the second floor landing, he angrily snatched up the vacuum cleaner. Seconds later, it roared back to life.