Twelve Months

by Steven Manchester

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Morning arrived in a wink.

  Anxious for the roar of racing motors and the smell of burning rubber, I donned my helmet and fired up the late-model Chevy Monte Carlo. In a line of other drivers, I sat in the belly of the fiberglass beast and adjusted my safety harness. On cue, I rolled out of the pit, allowing every horse under the hood to gallop into the concrete arena. A last minute check of the gauges made me smile. The hour of unbridled competition was at hand. Then, for whatever reason, Seth Cabral’s face popped into my head; my old Vietnam comrade who did nothing but talk about fast cars. For a moment, I wished he’d been able to experience this day for himself.

  The first lap was driven at 5000 rpm, allowing me and the car to get acquainted with the track. It was also an opportunity for the slick racing tires to heat up to their proper operating temperature. Our second lap was quicker at 6000 rpm. Our third lap was even faster at 7000 rpm, firing down the long front straightaway at 155 mph. Slowing to negotiate Turns 1 and 2, I juiced the throttle down the back straight. Turn 3 required an earlier lift off the throttle and a little patience, and then we were roaring down the front straight again. The car handled flawlessly.

  After two separate sessions of ten laps each, we were instructed into the pit to receive our critiques and an early lunch. “Just get on the throttle earlier coming out of the turns,” Jeff told me. “Trust the car and let it run for you. I promise, she won’t let you down.”

  The afternoon format changed to two cars lining up side-by-side. The instructions were as follows: “If you’re going too slow for the person in front of you, you’ll be shown a blue flag with an orange stripe. This means you should move to the bottom of the track to allow the driver behind you to pass.” He scanned our faces one last time. “Now let’s go racing.”

  While imagining the roar of the crowd and the other engines waiting to jump, I stayed focused. From behind tinted glass, the last minute felt like an eternity. I calmly waited. At last, the green flag dropped. With lightning reflexes, my callused hands shifted through the gears. A lifetime full of anticipation was disappearing at every turn.

  Within two laps, I passed the student in front of me. The speedometer wasn’t working, but I could tell how fast I was going by the tachometer. A few laps later, Billy Hutchins, Evan Jacobs, Maia Julius and I were drafting past another group of four cars. I didn’t know whether to soil my pants or scream out in joy. Thanks to the constipation, I let out a howl.

  Toward our final track sessions, even though it felt like we were slowing down, our lap times started to decrease. Since we’d already conquered top speed on the straight-aways, we must have begun picking up time in the turns. The training was already paying off. I could hear Jeff say, “The faster you get through the turns, the less you have to accelerate coming out of the turns.”

  By the end of the day, the car and I came to a mutual trust. I got her up to 8500 rpm. Due to the restrictor plate, we weren’t going to go any faster than that. We’d topped out at 170 mph. Jeff was right. She never let me down.

  No matter how hard I tried, though, I couldn’t catch the others in my pack and accepted my place in the rear. There’s no substitute for youth…or practice, I thought. Even still, I imagined taking the checkered flag and slowing for the victory lap. I could picture the cheering crowd, smell the oil and burned rubber drifting north. It was an unspoiled moment of glory and I savored it; the thrill of a lifetime. Yes…yes…yes… I repeated over and over in my head.

  Before I knew it, we were being ordered back into the pit. Exhausted and covered in sweat, I met Billy, Evan and Maia for a round of high fives. “Well done, Teacher,” Billy said and then searched my face for a moment. “If I’m out of place, please tell me, but I have to know,” he began, pulling me aside. “What in hell are you really doing here?”

  I understood his curiosity. “I’m dying of cancer,” I told him and explained my honey do list.

  His forehead folded in wonder. “Then you’re crazy…’cause this is the last place I’d be, if I only had a year left to live.”

  “Oh, really. Then where would you be?”

  “I’d be out asking for forgiveness from some people and offering it to others.” He shrugged. “It’s all about karma, if you ask me. And you don’t want to carry any extra baggage into the next world, if you don’t have to. My daddy used to say, ‘Always give someone the benefit of the doubt and never allow a suffering from the past destroy what could be.’ I don’t think he was only talking about this world.”

  “Your father was a wise man,” I said.

  He laughed. “Yeah, when he was sober enough to remember his own name.”

  I was astounded by the wisdom Billy showed for such a young age. I shook his hand for the last time. “Good luck on the upcoming racing season,” I told him.

  With a sincere smile, he nodded. “Thanks, Teacher, but I make my own luck.” As he gathered his things to leave, he said, “You make sure you take care of yourself, okay?”

  I promised I would and headed for the rental car. I couldn’t wait to get home, kiss my wife and cross the first item off my list. Then I planned to sleep for a week. It’s gonna take at least that long to recover, I figured.

  Chapter 8

  To Pudge’s hanging jaw and Madison’s loving eyes, I shared my tales of North Carolina and the pride of a dream finally realized. They listened in awe.

  The words of Billy Hutchins, however, were already haunting me, and it wasn’t long before the shoe box from the hallway closet called out to me again. I grabbed the letter I’d received from Dewey years earlier and brought it out to the deck.

  Dewey and I had grown up together and were best friends since childhood. When I got his letter, it had been seven years since we’d talked. I remember thinking it was odd that he’d send a letter and not just call.

  Dear Don,

  I’m sure this letter may come as a bit of a shock to you. I realize it’s been so long that even the craftiest excuse won’t do. So I’ll save it, grateful that there’s never been a need for excuses or apologies between us. Consider yourself my New Year’s resolution and trust that I forgive you for not writing…

  Kidding aside, I hope that you, Bella and Riley had your typical Christmas. Trust me, it’s not the same outside of New England. The shallow pond I now call home wouldn’t know the difference between mistletoe and marijuana. It has its good points, I suppose. Even though Los Angeles is the land of the fake and superficial, all in all, it was a fine holiday; everything we ever dreamed for as kids – top-shelf liquor, good food, stimulating conversation and enough beautiful women to make even Santa forget his hectic schedule.

  In any event, if I ever learned anything from you, Don, it’s that truth has many perspectives. So, I’m looking for a different perspective from one of the few people in the world who truly knows me. The crystal on my moral compass is fogged from anger and bitterness, and I have some very important decisions to make that will affect many lives. But I don’t have the slightest idea what to do. There are two options, and no matter how frantically I search for a third, I don’t see it.

  Two years ago, I met an attractive woman through some mutual friends. Her name was Maria and she was gorgeous. She was also enslaved by her career, but spent most of her off-hours avoiding a violent ex-husband. All this baggage aside, we hit it off right away and began dating exclusively.

  Three weeks in, Maria called me and told me she was “late.” I gave the only response I could. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll push the dinner reservations up to eight o’clock. Not a problem.” She began crying and within seconds, I felt sick. We weren’t going to dinner at all. We were going to have a baby. God, I thought, I’m going to have a baby with a woman I hardly know. I was terrified!

  Maria and I talked for weeks, but there was really nothing to talk about. Accident or no accident, the baby was on its way. I broke up my home and moved in with her.

  To make a very long story short,
it didn’t take long for me to realize that Maria was psychotic and we could barely stand to be around each other. I slept on the couch and spent all of the time I could away from the house.

  Then I fell in love! Cameron Alexander was born at an even eight pounds, with light hair and blue eyes. For three days, it was a happy time. But Maria decided to breastfeed, so the doctors wouldn’t prescribe meds for her mental turmoil.

  Still, I chose to stay and take responsibility for my actions. I needed to insure there would be no regrets later on. Don, I tried harder with this woman than anyone else I’ve ever been with. It was a futile attempt. She’s a bona fide fruitcake!

  After lots of accusations, several domestic disputes and one conversation with the police, I moved out. I set up temporary camp at a friend’s home, sent weekly support checks and even visited with Cameron for three consecutive weeks. The first road sign to hell popped up when I dropped Cameron off and Maria questioned, “Where did the bruises on his legs come from?” I felt sick. The real cruelty had begun.

  Since last seeing Cameron, my attorney has advised me to lay low and let Maria’s rage enter into a calmer state. Though it pains me not to see my boy, there doesn’t seem to be a choice. I understand this is a long-term issue, so maybe it’s the best strategy. I’m not so sure. When did the world actually decide that fathers are of less value than mothers?

  So my dilemma is this: I haven’t seen Cameron in eight months. So do I step into a ring, knowing I can never win, for the sake of saying that I tried? Understanding that there’s no chance for an amicable resolution, do I pull on a baby until he snaps in half? Knowing I’m at the mercy of a woman who will go to any means to keep me from him, can I live with the fact that I may never be allowed Cameron’s friendship – never mind maintaining the hope of being his father?

  Well, buddy, although I thank God for flight delays, my plane was just called to board so I’ve got to cut you off here. I’m sure you’ll be relieved. It was good spending time with you in Atlanta. It really has been too long. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Take care,

  Dewey

  P.S. One last question: I’ll love Cameron every day of my life, but does it really count if he never knows it?

  There was no phone number, so I sent an honest reply to the return address. Basically, I told him:

  I can’t believe it’s been seven years since we last spoke and only you could manage to find this path to travel down. There is only ONE option. How ‘bout you dig your head out of your backside, do the right thing and think about your kid before yourself? You’re probably just suffering from the proverbial mid-life crisis, Johnny Appleseed. Do whatever you must to stay in your son’s life. He only has one dad.

  As I recall, I closed with, “Let’s not wait so long before we hear from each other again.” But I never heard from the jackass again. I saw his dad a year or so later and learned that Dewey “did not appreciate the advice.” I remember thinking, Too damn bad. From then on, our friendship had become estranged.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I sat on the deck for a long while with the letter in my lap, thinking about Dewey. I also thought about how I didn’t make peace with my father before he passed and how it had haunted me ever since. It was Dewey’s fault we parted ways, I told myself. But when you got right down to it, it didn’t matter who owned the blame. No matter how difficult it was going to be to face him, I decided not to give Dewey the same guilty gift my father had given me. It was time to make peace. Forgiveness has to be more important than pride, I thought, and told Bella so.

  “That’s a great idea,” she said, “I bet it’ll be like you two never parted ways.”

  “I doubt that,” I said.

  “Wanna bet?”

  “A dozen clam cakes at Flo’s,” I said and we shook on it.

  After keeping my uneventful appointment with Dr. Rice, one phone call to Dewey’s cousin confirmed that he now lived just outside of Chicago. I jumped back on the Internet to earn us a few more frequent flyer miles.

  I took one look at the puzzle on the dining room table and snickered. Looks like you’re going to have to wait. I grabbed Bella’s hand, and we were off and running again.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  When we got to Dewey’s front door, I was surprised to find the lack of grandeur I’d imagined. My childhood friend hadn’t made the money I’d expected him to. I was also surprised to feel as nervous as I was. I suppose I could have blamed the queasiness on the cancer that grew inside me, but I knew better. Wobbly knees weren’t a symptom of my illness. I rang the doorbell, looked at my wife and took a deep breath. We waited.

  The door slowly opened and the old friend I’d expected to be standing there was nowhere in sight. Instead, an old decrepit fellow appeared in the threshold, hunched over and in obvious pain. I searched his face and gasped. It’s Dewey. He was still heavy, but this time it wasn’t from food. He was swollen; sick and swollen – especially his bottom lip. Oh, God, I thought and felt a sudden pang of guilt for missing out on his obvious struggles.

  “Yes?” he asked. “What can I…” He paused and studied my face. “Don?” he asked, and his eyes immediately showed signs of disgust.

  I was taken aback and skipped a breath or two. As I stood there, frozen, Bella stepped forward and extended her hand. “Hi, Dewey. It’s Bella.” She glanced over at me. “Don and I traveled a long way to come see you.”

  He nodded at her, but turned his gaze back to me. His face remained stoic, though I knew he was anything but happy with our unannounced visit. After an awkward moment standing in his threshold, he took a step back and turned sideways. “Alright, come in,” he said.

  I’d be lying to say it was easy to step into that house. This was a big mistake, I thought, and brushed past him as he closed the door behind us. This wasn’t going to be easy and I could feel it. Any wrongs that occurred between us were not yet forgiven – or forgotten.

  Taking the lead, Dewey escorted us into his humble living room. There, seated on the sofa, was a young man who Dewey reluctantly introduced. “This is Cameron, my son,” he said.

  I nodded, thinking, Dewey did the right thing, after all. “Nice to meet you,” Bella and I said in unison. We shook hands with the young man, as we joined him on the couch.

  There was an awkward pause, when Dewey told his son, “This is Don DiMarco and his wife, Bella.” He shrugged, adding, “We were friends…once.”

  A sharp pain shot through my upper abdomen, but I never let on. Again, I wasn’t convinced it was from the cancer. Bella grabbed my hand and squeezed it. We both knew that she’d just lost a dozen clam cakes.

  Cameron politely excused himself. He obviously did not want to witness any of this. As he walked away, I envied him. Don took a seat in his worn recliner and I wondered whether the ridiculous distance between us was too great to overcome.

  After an obligatory offer of food and drink – which Bella and I both declined – Dewey cut right to the chase. “Why are you here, Don?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what to expect by coming here, but it wasn’t this. I swallowed hard. Although Bella didn’t say anything, she gave my hand another squeeze – clearly trying to transfer some of her strength over to me. “To make peace,” I said. “Dewey, listen. I’ve come to say I’m sorry for…”

  “Peace?” he interrupted, with a snicker. “Why now?”

  “Because it’s been too long,” I told him, my tone growing in volume. It was your damned fault we went our separate ways, I yelled in my mind. As he shook his head, I still chose logic and added, “Because you and I have been friends since we were kids and life’s too short to hold grudges.” My body tensed with equal amounts of anxiety and a growing anger.

  He shook his head again. “There was a time when I needed you, Don, but you…”

  “But I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear,” I interrupted. “Right?” I shook my head. “You were looking for an easy out and I wouldn’t give it
to you, right?”

  He stared at me hard, with hate in his eyes. If it had been decades earlier, we would have been throwing punches right there and then – and we both knew it.

  I turned to Bella and half-shrugged. “I tried,” I said and started to get up. “Let’s go home.”

  Bella nodded and began to push herself up from the couch.

  The look in Dewey’s eyes instantly changed. “Wait a minute!” he said, his voice rising an octave. “You’re right.” He stared at me again, collecting his thoughts. “If you leave now, we’ll never see each other again,” he said. As Bella and I sunk back into the couch, he slowly extended his hand. “I’m sorry, too.”

  I took his hand in mine and shook it hard. Every bad feeling that I’d just experienced was instantly replaced by a sense of gratitude for having finally made the trip. “Okay then,” I said.

  “Okay then,” he repeated, offering his first smile.

  While Bella squeezed my hand again – trying to reclaim her clam cakes – I used my other hand to point to his lip. “What the hell happened?” I asked.

  He half-chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I got on the morphine and wanted to see how powerful it was, so I started chewing on my lip and couldn’t feel a thing.” He shrugged. “I guess I should have stopped long before I did.”

  His slurring dialect was tough to understand, but I was all ears. “Yeah, you probably should’ve,” I kidded him. “But why the morphine?”