“Sorry, Justin.”
He said nothing.
I stood. I kicked the wall. I wanted to die.
Then, immediately, he came to me. He must have heard something in my voice. He put his hand on my shoulder, pulling me against him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, reinforcing, wanting it to sink into me. Many of the guys were watching this now. He didn’t care though. They knew I wasn’t “really” his brother, but they did know that I was treated better than one-maybe—if I had been.
“You didn’t do nothin’,” I said.
“You did real good, Silas. That was hard. You can’t hit those pitches. You’re just six. He throws fast. That was hard. I’m sorry it came to you being up with two outs like that. That’s not fair. You did good. It’s just a stupid game. Come on. Let’s go get a soda.” We both just stood there a minute, and he kept patting my back. My head remained against his chest. The other guys were walking away, but they kept looking back.
“You’re startin’ to wheeze aint ya? You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
We picked up our things and walked the familiar block back home.
Mommy Lucinda was an artist. She had a studio, a whole room in the attic of the big parsonage where she painted, where she taught Justin and me—and sometimes a few of the other kids in the church—in water colors, acrylics, sometimes even oil paints. Wet winter days were best for this. I’d get my enormous smock on (an old shirt of Justin’s), cover my shoes in plastic, stand before a vastness of a white-painted used canvas roosted on a bulky easel. Mommy pinched out little blobs—a multihued work of art itself—of color onto a pallet. I can still recall the tranquil thrill I’d felt back then, breathing in the smells of the paints, solvents, and musty roof rafters there, eager to create, following her careful instructions.
At five this was so pleasant—being near her, being trusted with her paints and brushes, hearing her praises, absorbing her approval and kind tone as she spoke. I toiled to be sure I held the brush and pallet the way she taught, and focused to mix the paints properly with the knife. Even after concentration I got myself slopped in paint—sometimes even in my hair. I wanted to do right and hear her say, “Very good Silas,” the way she sometimes did.
I attempted to copy Mommy Lucinda’s scrupulously refined landscapes and seascapes up there. Those one hour excursions took me into another imaginary setting. From her fabricated world, I aimed to create mine; and it became a setting I delighted inventing as my imagination escorted me into that blended world of hers and mine: onto a high crag gazing out over a lake and a range of mountains, beside a sunlit shore of a green and white-capped sea, into a shadowy forest where a thin brook strolled its own way. I still go back up there—in my mind—into her attic from time to time. I recall the feel of her hugs and touches, her words which I’d so desperately needed then. I still smell her, returning there—in my mind—onto this island in New York Bay, into that varnished church, that parsonage beside it, that warm accepting kitchen, that second story room Justin shared with me, where he shared his toys and baseball cards, where I’d stare out the worn window toward the docks at that old urban street where we’d play stickball, at the gulls which seemed always to soar overhead in wind, crying, hovering, seemingly protecting like encamping delivering angels. I was so happy there, and that was the happiness I’d ignorantly longed for when I’d stared out over the streets from Mommy Maureen’s repellent apartment years earlier.
Once after one of those visits with Mommy Maureen I had a terrorizing dream, waking me into tears. I was back at that place—that horrible apartment Molly liberated me from—in that dismal, dingy hallway. I had this paralyzed feeling—like I couldn’t move, couldn’t even shout or speak as that Maureen clawed, snatching my colorful pallet and brush out of my hands, tugging off my smock, seizing one of Mommy Lucinda’s paintings—green grass, blue sky—pulling at me, at my clothes until I was naked, furious, helpless. She was dirty in the dream, and in a nebulous way all of her dope paraphernalia were all about her, and needle scars were all over her skin as she raged, trying to plunder my joy. In my terror, frustration, and powerlessness I scratched and gouged at my own face—self afflicting—in my dream, in my sleep.
Mommy Lucinda came to me that night, turned on my light, hugged me, swabbed the lacerations on my face, held my head against her shoulder and rocked. “It’s okay Silas. It’s just a bad dream. Everything’s okay, see, see—here’s your room. Mommy’s here. Justin’s here. It’s just a bad dream.” Then she prayed like she did often: “Sweet Jesus, give this child of yours peace. Hold him in Your arms Jesus. Let him rest in your sweet presence. Calm this child. Touch this child. Let him know You love him. Let him know You’re true.” She hummed softly, high-pitched—some hymn we sang at church. She hummed angelically, rocking until I descended back to sleep.
SEVEN
CICADAS
It was when I was eight that I first had this incipient awareness of my distinction from other kids. At eight I acquired that budding consciousness of shame about my situation, the mystery of my biological father, and my birth mother Maureen’s incompetence. I was a foster child. People all about me—at school, at the agency—often referred to me that way. Sometimes I was called the foster kid in the neighborhood. In plain English I was a bastard—begotten and born out of wedlock, illegitimate, and worse. I guess eight is too early for a kid like me to think heavily about such things, but I did. I thought too much; and I knew a lot too. Older kids in that neighborhood taught me things, and I understood, very well.
It was then, at eight, that I began to battle embarrassment. I wished I could say with truthfulness, “My mother’s dead,” or even, “My mother doesn’t want me,” or “My mother’s sick and dying,” rather than that she was a drug addict and incompetent. I always wished I could say with truthfulness that my dad was buried, or that he was sick and dying, or even that he was half nuts, a drug addict, incompetent, or a drunk, rather than say, “I don’t want to talk about my dad,” or say truthfully, “I have no idea who my father is.” There is an undeniably shameful stigma in having this kind of a messed-up background in this part of the world. I understood rationally that it wasn’t my fault, but it still attached itself to me. I was the one in it. I was ashamed of it. I felt oddly at fault, almost culpable. It was a passive inexplicable sort of guilt.
It was then, when I was eight—just before school (third grade) began in September—about a year after I’d had that appalling dream of my messed-up mother yanking my art stuff out of my hands, that Molly was assigned to come one Saturday morning to take me reluctantly back to Mommy Maureen. Daddy and Mommy Sparks had been contesting this for a year—in court, at the agency, in prayer. They invested their own money on a lawyer to represent them with their insufficient rights -and to a legal degree—to represent my best interest. I can remember Daddy even used this ongoing, painful ordeal as subjects and metaphors in some of his sermons. They loved me a great deal.
My court-appointed law guardian, Leonard Levy, was scarcely involved. I think he was slack and lazy, certainly inconsiderate. He had tens of other cases. Maybe if he’d become acquainted with the actual pulse of my being—stepping beyond the clerically sterile biography of my life documented on the agency’s reports and recommendations around my case, leaping over the thick paper of Silas Aaron Dillon: 056-53-0263, beholding more than glances of words on formal forms of my history, caring and moving aggressively closer to me—touching, seeing, meeting me and all those in my life—maybe he would have made a convincing case before a busy judge’s bench, despite all of the support Mommy Maureen got. Maybe I could have settled adopted at the Sparks’ home. Maybe this disruption could have been avoided. An ugly prowling monster of red tape in the system bound so many people’s lives. If anyone in the system had weight before a judge’s bench to make a case for an orphan of the living, the law guardian certainly had the muscle. He could turn the judge. He could make the case. Too many of these “overseers” chose
to be willfully atrophied.
On the other hand, an awful lot of vim, impetus, and focus seemed always to guard and insulate Mommy Maureen. She was pregnant now—again—carrying her third fatherless child. Again, her prostitution made my unborn half-brother’s father a mystery also. She was infected with HIV now too, which meant this third offspring might be infected as well. The latest social momentum to keep siblings inseparable in the system now made it possible—even encouraged—for her to have another chance at caring for me. That new social concern for the continued union of sibling groups was really for those poor kids whose cords with their brothers and sisters needed to remain bound for their stability and comfort, while their temporary disunion from their parents was more than enough of an emotional upheaval on them. Nevertheless, I and my not yet born brother fell into this judicial classification, even though no bond existed. Mommy’s court-appointed attorney shoved, jammed, and squeezed this whole situation through this family court loophole.
Added to this, Mommy had a couple of special interest groups behind her. Her contracting HIV put her in a special phylum too, providing her with some distinct rights and attention from these groups. So the focus somehow got circuitously directed onto her pitiful quandary. That social concern for the messed-up single parent who’d never had apt assistance in ordering her life often had a tendency to put the vulnerable offspring into the shadowed backround. Because I was still very young and “resilient,” it was presupposed I’d rebound once Mommy Maureen’s life became composed.
The absurdity in the attention toward my yet unborn half-brother was that had someone with influence in the system known about Mommy’s pregnancy early enough, a quick abortion would have been encouraged. But now that my half-brother would have his rightful right to life, an awful lot of upheaval and change was wrongfully quaking for his and our “benefit.”
Justin, Mommy and Daddy Sparks, and I had been preparing for this for two weeks now. The judicial ruling had been adjudicated on August 20, setting this date—September 4—allowing us this span for embracing farewells and bracing ourselves. I was experiencing the roughest disruption. This was the saddest hour of my brief life. From my eight-year perspective, I survived horizontally, propelled by forces I could barely understand much less control. I was a casualty. As far as I could see things vertically, there was just sky.
No one heard Molly’s car pull in the driveway as we all sat silently in the purring of air-conditioning in the living room that Saturday morning. We all wore shorts—sitting, waiting, anticipative. It was hot and humid. No one spoke at length—just words, phrases. My old trunk was jammed, heavy, and boxes were packed. All my stuff—the tangible contents of my life—was a neat assemblage in the middle of the spacious floor, resembling a small Midwestern city in the plains—huddled, vulnerable, braced against the forecasted touch-down of a tornado.
Three knocks on the door thumped like fatal blows, bringing sudden fear. Mommy Lucinda’s eyes pooled with teardrops again. Everyone but me arose. Daddy went for the door, looking back before opening.
Light and Molly entered. Daddy closed the door behind her.
“Hello Silas. How are you? How are you Mr. Sparks, Mrs. Sparks, Justin?” Molly said. Her sweet, familiar voice always brought me respite.
“Not so good. Not so good, Molly. We’re trying,” said Daddy. He looked at Molly, and at me. He forced himself to sound positive about all of this, for my sake. “We’re going to miss Silas being here every day, for sure.” He paused. “Well, you know all this.”
“I know. Oh, of course.” Molly was bothered this change thrust upon me and on the Sparks’, but she too aimed to be optimistic.
“But everything’s going to be well for Silas. He’s going to be just fine. The good Lord’s going to be with him, and he’ll be fine. He’s a brave boy, and he’ll be just fine. And we’ll get to have visits—lots of visits, right Silas?” Daddy’s deep, healthy voice was replete with paternal promise.
I just stared at the floor. I wouldn’t look at Molly, Daddy, anybody. Daddy reached his big hand around my shoulder and pulled me against his large frame, hugging me. With my face buried in the hidden security of his shirt I felt the ingenuous freedom to just let go and cry. I let it explode, but with silence. My little heart was broken. Angry grief simply ruptured. I felt forlorn, with a grave sensation of defeat, the kind I’d felt at bat that day playing stick-ball. I felt that desperation, that hopelessness I couldn’t do anything about. I felt that weird sense of responsibility, like it was all partially because of something I did or didn’t do. I didn’t want to go with my crazy mother. I was happy here, and I felt secure here. “I don’t want to go!” I moaned, muffled by his side. It was a plea, a “Somebody do something!” entreaty. I began to wheeze. Crying hard never helped my asthma.
“I know. I know son. We don’t want that either.” Daddy almost cried too. I’d never seen that big strong man cry before as he’d always had some knack at restraining it. Even in the pulpit he had a proficient way at holding back his tears. I vividly recall a Good Friday sermon—during communion—when with resplendent words Daddy Sparks took his congregation back to the crucifixion. The manner in which his uncomplicated English disclosed human beings’ sin recounted Jesus’ innocence—His surging bleeding, and the violence He’d endured—made even children cry that night. Somehow he’d been able to hold back his own tears. He’d wanted to cry, but he’d wanted more so to communicate. But now he cried, and he wasn’t ashamed.
Mommy Lucinda cried, and then Justin, but he ran into the other room to hide his cries. He felt desperate too. He loved me. Molly moved over to Mommy Lucinda and hugged her. “Everything’s for some purpose, Mrs. Sparks.”
“I know. I know.”
“I don’t know what it is, but there’s a plan. We’ve nothing else to hold on to.”
“I know. We gotta trust. I know, Molly.”
“This is so wrong. This is so wrong,” Daddy added.
Molly put all her sympathies into thinking hard. She didn’t know what to say.
“This whole system’s messed up,” Daddy said.
“I know it is, Mr. Sparks. I agree. That’s why folks like you and me are in this, trying to make a difference, trying to join our little bits of force to turn this thing upside-down, trying to chip in, doing our best to bring sense into situations, like Silas’s.” Molly hesitated. I think she could have cried, but she’d been working in the system long enough now—certainly not insensitive—but tough, accustomed to cases like mine, ventilating her anger and disagreement by working hard rather than burning out and growing too emotional.
She took a deep breath and spoke again: “We were all prepared for this—really. We were all warned about things like this happening. I was warned when I was getting oriented to my job five years ago. You were told about this sort of thing very possibly happening. We’d all been briefed about the system and the courts. It’s not all ‘happy ever after.’ We try, but too often—it’s not ‘happy ever after.’ It’s unfortunate, but little ones like Silas never get that preparation. He’s the real sufferer. Yeah, we hurt!” Molly was nodding. “But Silas, and many like him, are in the middle. Laws are messed up. The whole system is.”
This motionless air of sad agreement amid this little group stood there. Daddy stood so tall, brawny, solid. “Well, we can keep praying,” he said, wiping his eyes.
“And we will,” Molly said.
“Max, maybe we can pray now,” Mommy Lucinda said.
Daddy reached out his big hands. We all joined hands. Justin returned. Daddy began with his deep tone: “God you know the end from the beginning. We’ve asked you for this child. We ask Lord that you shelter this boy. Continue to work in his life. Keep him, Lord. Give him a heart for You, God. Lord, our hearts are broken—” Daddy choked up with tears. I felt his hand placed on my head the way he had placed it there often. “Lord, heal our hearts. Work this out for good, Jesus. Have your way. Amen.”
We embraced, crying,
and we all lifted items of my belongings from the floor, stepping outside. I didn’t know then that this would be the last moment I’d spend in this house. A thick intensity of heat collided with me as I stepped out of the air-conditioning. The sauna-like burst of heat that early September afternoon accosted us; and the suburban honks, hums, mowers, brakes, kids, machinery, and common disorder met me like the world did when I was first born here on this island, into this county system, over seven years ago. Leaving this home—its safeness and sanctuary—was like leaving the womb.
Above these discordant sounds of suburban mankind, from the trees in the humid heat a steady buzzing, screaming, sibilant and consonant sound permeated. The cicadas relentlessly made their diabolically monotonous droning in the canopies of trees in the hot humidity. They seemed to—as a matter of their course—keep still in the trees, refraining from leaf hopping. Their locust-like stout heads, whisker-like antennae, colossal eyes, sucking mouths, and two pairs of large, branch-veined, pellucid wings were all hidden, invisible to us. We could hear them though. Their presence was real, though invisible. Their hellish sound penetrated, even forcing us to raise our voices so we could be understood in speaking as we made our way to Molly’s car, carrying my cargo. They seemed to cheer in a fiery triumph, in some sort of fixed, apathetic conquest. Their drum-like tissues beside their abdomens shrilled fiendishly louder than I’d ever heard—soaring, falling, holding, piercing. Those cicadas were ugly, demonic looking creatures; and they were veiled in the trees, except for one, for sometimes in their infrequent flight one might smash against a wall and fall.
Silas Dillon of Cary County Page 7
