Silas Dillon of Cary County

by Clifford Schrage

  “Whatsa vista?”

  “A vista’s a big broad view.”

  “Oh good.” This didn’t matter to me much; although the idea of breezes sounded nice after a long summer down in hot Horse Hollow.

  “Next week the agency’s going to have their second adoption party Silas.”

  “Where parents come pick out a kid?”

  “Yeah, that’s how it works, in a way. It worked out pretty good last summer, so we’re doing it again—advertising a lot and all. Maybe it will be an annual thing—you know—every year.”

  “Where?”

  “At the orphanage.”

  “Where all the flies are?”

  “You remember that?”

  “Yeah, I remember that.”

  “That’s a long time ago, kiddo. You have a great memory, know that? You’re a sharp cookie!” She reached and pulled my hat further down, over my eyes.

  I smiled.

  “You don’t have to go Silas. You know that. No one is forcing you, but if you want to you can. The only thing is that not all the kids get picked. It’s got to be just right, for each family, and we’re never sure who’s coming, and we’re never in a hurry. You see what I mean, kiddo.”

  “I guess I’ll go.”

  “Good. I’m glad. I’ll come and get ya. It’s next Saturday.”

  “Guess I can try it.”

  “That’s all. It can’t hurt seeing, right?” She looked at me. “And if nothing happens, then that just means God has a different plan, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  I looked out the window. Morning traffic made driving a drowsy, stop and go cadence. The suburban streets of Cary County were congested, busy, with just too many cars. I became a little pensive about things. I really didn’t want to hear about Mommy Maureen, but in an adult sort of way I felt I was supposed to inquire, so I asked: “How’s my mom?”

  Molly hesitated. It seemed like she was surprised I asked. “No one has heard from her, honey. No one knows where she is, or how she’s doing.”

  My guess was that she wasn’t well. “I’m not gonna have to go back to her again ever, am I?” This was one of my big fears.

  Molly shook her head as she looked forward into the traffic. “No, Silas. That’s over. That’s not going to happen.”

  There were a couple of minutes of silence.

  “The courts have terminated her rights to you, and that’s really the best thing. It took a long, long time, but finally it’s done, and it’s the best.” She paused, glanced at me. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking out my side window, beyond a black iron fence, at rows and rows of tightly aligned headstones in one of the big county cemeteries. I felt nothing at hearing this—no sadness, no joy, maybe a dull grain of relief, but mostly nothing.

  Molly eventually made a left turn, and I could see ahead that there was a gradually ascending hill. This was a district of Cary Island I wasn’t sure I’d visited before, and I liked new territory.

  “I have some news to tell you, Silas.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry—good news.”

  “What?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. “How can ya?”

  “What do you mean ‘How can’ I?” She giggled.

  “Who ya marryin’?”

  “A very nice man by the name of Robert McNeil.”

  “McNeil. Sounds like O’Neil.” I looked out the window to my side again.

  “I want you to meet him soon—you and just a few of the other kids—because you’re special to me.”

  “Where’d you get him?”

  “Where’d I get him?” She laughed. “That’s funny.”

  I didn’t laugh.

  “I met him in court. He’s a nice man. He’s an attorney.”

  “An Ernie? I thought he was Robert.”

  Molly made a baffled face, and then she laughed harder, again. “No silly, he’s an attorney!” she annunciated, pronouncing slowly. “He’s a lawyer—in court, in family court—and we’ve been together for almost a year now. I call him Bob, and you can call him Bob too. You can meet him soon.” She kept giggling at me.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re silly. And don’t you call him Ernie! Hear me?”

  I laughed, then after a few seconds I said, “Oh, I thought you were too young to marry.”

  Molly laughed again. “Well, I’m not, really, Silas. In fact, I’m getting older, and I don’t want to get too old when nobody will want me. See?”

  “How old are ya?”

  “I’m twenty-nine. Can you believe it?”

  “Yeah.” I guess I knew it, could figure it mathematically, having her as my social worker since I was two; but she’d just always seemed like she was around twenty-one to me. “You seem twenty-one.”

  She just laughed again. She really thought I was funny, or cute, or something.

  “I thought you would marry a judge.”

  “A judge? What? Why?” She was really laughing hard now. “You are the funniest kid. You know that Silas Dillon. You make me laugh!”

  I don’t know why I said I thought she’d marry a judge. It was just right there, connected with a lawyer and court and her world; and it just came out—probably because I really just didn’t want her getting married.

  “Judges are old Silas!”

  “Yeah, I guess so. They have white hair.”

  “So you think I’m twenty and I should marry an old judge ha?” She continued to laugh at my comments.

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s thirty, a little older than me. Is that okay with you Silas?” She laughed again.

  I wondered why she asked me if it was okay with me; but now, recalling, I know why. To be quite honest, as I sat in that van looking out my side window, inquiring, I had some serious sadness. I’ll have to admit that I thought Molly was all mine. Sure, I knew she had some other foster kids whom she over-sought in her social work; but as far as I’d always experienced Molly, it was almost always alone—just her with me—alone together. When together, I got her undivided attention, and secretly loved it. She could tell that this bothered me some. I really was jealous. As I look back now, I can see that I had one of those little-boy crushes on Molly. She was pretty, sweet, and she liked me. I was jealous but didn’t understand it, and therefore wouldn’t admit it. I felt an anger. I felt that maybe I now began losing Molly, who I thought belonged to me, even though it was an periodic sort of belonging. I was jealous of this Bob. I understand now that some little boys have crushes on their moms, some on their elementary school teachers; with me, it was my social worker. I loved Molly. She was mine and I was about to lose her.

  “Are ya still gonna be my worker?” I looked at her, tilting my head back. Her eyes made contact with mine in the shadow of my cap. I noticed tears in hers. She really loved me. “What’s the matter?” I said, confused.

  She couldn’t talk as she choked back her tears. “You, Silas. You’re the matter.”

  “What a ya mean?”

  She hesitated, wiping her eyes. “In a good way, honey.”

  “Oh.”

  After a minute or so she said, “Yes I’m going to be your social worker. Don’t you worry. I’ll be around awhile, kiddo.”

  “How long?”

  “As long as I can, honey. I love my work.”

  “Are ya gonna have a baby after ya get married?”

  “I hope so—sometime soon. We want children, a family.”

  A long minute lapsed again. We were cresting this hill, which was really like an upland table or plateau or something like it. The homes up there were bigger, more exquisite than the rest of the island. They weren’t quite like the mansions down by the ocean, but they were obviously nicer than most of the others on the island.

  “What day ya gettin’ married?”

  She thought. “Two months. Pretty soon. Oc
tober 29, a Saturday. And guess what.”

  “What.”

  “You are invited.”

  “Oh yeah! Oh, I wanna come.”

  “And we want you to be the ring bearer.”

  “The ringbear?”

  “The ring bearer. At weddings they usually have a boy bring up the rings on like a little pillow. It’s part of the ceremony—in the church.”

  “Oh.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah I guess so. That’s not hard, right?”

  “It’s an honor, Silas. It means I think highly of you.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I smiled. “Is it hard?”

  “Not at all. We’ll practice. Don’t you worry.”

  Recalling now, I realize that she had more suitable, younger family members who could have done this. She chose me. She wanted me in her wedding. Back then I wasn’t as touched by the honor as she hoped I’d be, but she understood it was because I didn’t know much about it. She wanted me nevertheless, knowing that someday I’d understand her love and care by inviting me.

  We were at the top of this hill now, near the big house where the Roccos lived, where I was to reside. We could see a spectacular view of Cary Island, the ocean; and on the other side we could see Manhattan, the two shining towers of the world trade center towering over the other structures, upright like fingers above a fist of knuckles; and we could see Brooklyn. It was awesome. Because it was rocky and high, trees that tend to block the panoramic view were sparse and small. It looked so nice up there, and I was beginning to get excited as I looked. It was hard to believe that this was part of Cary Island, New York City. The properties were larger up there too; not as large as plots on Long Island or Westchester; but much more spacious than the limited, little, swimming pool sized plots on most of Cary Island.

  “Here we are,” Molly said as she pulled the van into the driveway—a long, S-shaped, asphalt alley. The house stood tall—two-storied, with a steep roof above. It seemed to climb into the clouds, light gray, vinyl sided, white trimmed, and red shuttered, with a long porch and landscaped foundation. It stood so aristocratically. I noticed a little shrine, a statue of the virgin Mary within a little shell on the lawn, with nice landscaping all around it, concluding that these people were Roman Catholic.

  She stopped the car and turned off the engine. “Ready, kiddo?”

  “Yeah,” I said, yet could feel that old, secluded ache of despair stippled with nervousness and hope as I opened that van door, ready to enter another world, another chapter of my multi-chaptered life. I just followed Molly’s lead—to the back of the van, to the big porch, to the front door of the Roccos, with my head down and my eyes on the ground and my shoes.

  TWELVE

  THE HILLCREST

  Mr. Rocco wanted me to call him Papa, and Mrs. Rocco wanted me to call her Mama. They both had faint Italian accents, having come by separate boats from Italy to Ellis Island forty years earlier as children. They owned a fine Italian restaurant by the beach resorts called Palermo House. It had an excellent reputation, and it was managed mostly by their only son, thirty-three-year-old Peter Rocco, who lived in as fine a house next door with his wife and two boys, little Peter (my age) and younger Joey.

  Mama had a very big heart. Her having lost her ability to bear children after Peter’s birth is what moved her to open her home to foster kids, once Peter married and left their home. They’ve been foster parents for almost ten years. Papa has been content in this outreach toward us disenfranchised ones mostly because it seemed to make Mama happy to remain at home. For some reason they never adopted.

  I had a whole room to myself, and it was a big one, so comfortably spacious, furnished, carpeted, wallpapered. The view from my window was vast. I could see the ocean, the hospital, steeples, rooftops. I could sit and daydream for hours. Erin, a very quiet thirteen-year-old, was also in care here. She had the room next door; but she was looking eagerly forward to going back home with her mother, once her parents’ messy divorce was settled. Besides Erin, there was Anthony, that eleven-year-old Molly had mentioned to me, who’d been here at the Roccos’ since he was eight. He had his own room on the other side of mine.

  Mama was quite a cook, and it seemed like every night was one of feasting. There was pasta, sauce, wine, garlic—all sorts of dishes with Italian names we all know. Even though Papa could have regularly brought a lot of food home from the restaurant, Mama insisted on cooking for her family. She loved doing it, and it gave her a sense of worth, I guess.

  Both of them were big: Mama was plump and cute; and Papa was tremendous, not so cute. He was three hundred and fifty pounds, and only about five feet ten inches tall. His shape had a lot of disparity: his legs were sort of thin, and it was hard to imagine—looking at him—how he kept his balance. He had no waist, but always made sure his pants were belted high, just under his chest. What was funny about Papa was how he always insisted on artificial sweeteners, diet soft drinks, and the like; while he never restrained himself from consuming large portions. I remember watching him one Sunday after Mass as he ingested fourteen slices of French toast, swamping them all with diet syrup.

  Sundays were big days at the Roccos’: Peter, his wife Angela, and little Peter and Joey came over after Mass—traditionally—to eat and spend the day. My first Sunday was not different; in fact, it was a bigger day than most, because they had a welcoming party for me, with cake, balloons, and everything. We barbecued steaks out back on the enormous concrete patio in the hot, early September sun. The thick humidity was nothing their sparkling in-ground pool, shady awning, iced tea, hillcrest breezes, or centrally air-conditioned house couldn’t assuage. This place, slightly closer to heaven on this hillcrest, was like paradise to me—so far out of the league I’d been accustomed to. The marvel of all its stunning sensation really had a way of causing me to temporarily misremember my disturbing past, and of anesthetizing my wounds; and I think it helped heal me in some ways.

  Well this first Sunday was quite absorbing and fascinating to me, while it seemed everything was ordinary to everyone else there. The most stirring, imposing spectacle was Papa in a swimsuit. He sauntered out from behind the sliding glass doors that afternoon with white trunks pulled high over his navel, with a pink towel dangling like a scarf around his neck, and orange flipflops at the heels of those spare (by comparison with the rest of him) legs I’d told you about. He somewhat resembled a flamingo or some other long-legged fowl like it. What a sight! Papa was the hairiest man I’d ever seen also. I can still envision his black, woolly back as he moved his wobbling, bouncing, gelatinous mass eagerly toward the pool. He was in a happy mood, smiling. He dropped his towel on a chair, and lifted himself up onto the diving board. I had a profile view of this this first time, and I immediately covered my mouth with my hand as my eyes widened. I didn’t know if I would laugh or shout “Stop!” I did neither. I just shouted, “Be careful,” and immediately wondered if I should have.

  “Okay, Silas,” he responded, laughing.

  What really had me concerned was the diving board. Papa kept smiling, springing up and down from the end of it without letting his feet lift off the board into the air. It was at this point I realized that this was pretty much a summer routine at the Roccos’. Recalling, I suppose he had simple confidence in the strength of the fiberglass board; but I really thought the thing would snap in two that day as I watched the tip nearly immersed in the water’s surface. Its bending curve made a half-circumference, like a fishing pole pulling in a large one. After six or seven smiling springs, which made me wonder with amazement at his balance, he launched his massive substance into the pool. What a splash! Waves, bubbles, silence—until he surfaced, yelling, “Whooooo! Whoooo!” laughing as he swam around, bobbing like a buoy. His mass in that pool was like an ice cube dropped into a full glass, lifting the water level. Papa’s baldness was now made very apparent: the tuft of hair on one side of his head—which had been raked over his capacious scalp to veil the baldness—lowered to his shou
lder, while the tuft on the other side scantly scraped his ear. What blatant, comic incongruity! I’ll never forget that first exhibition!

  After this he climbed the ladder of the slide, with little Joey behind him. He lay down at the slide’s summit, his flesh enveloping and bulging around and over the slide itself. He was smiling, saying, “Come on Joey. Get ona my back. Be a careful Joey. That’s it. Here a we go! Whhoooo!” as little Joey courageously shouted with him, smiling, lying on his Papa’s hairy back and clutching his neck all the way down until they plopped like a walrus with her young into the water.

  I really enjoyed that pool, especially that first Sunday. I slid right in immediately after them, down the slide, delighted; and I did it repeatedly. I must have stayed in the pool swimming and playing with little Peter and Anthony for two hours, all the way until it was time to eat. But beforehand, while I was in there with the boys after Papa had climbed his way out, I beheld yet another very memorable spectacle. It was the show of a lifetime. Papa sat down on one of those older poolside chairs, the kind with the light aluminum frames and bands of flexible vinyl. Well, his flesh barely neatly fit between the chair’s arms, and after a minute or two something happened to the chair. The vinyl bands just sort of surrendered, abandoning themselves to the pressure of Papa’s wet, dripping heft. His bottom collapsed through, sinking; and as his thicker, looser waist caved in and down, his bulk became wedged, stuck. Impulsively he tried to stand, but could not straighten his back or legs since he was so snugly trapped into the frame of this flimsy chair. There was this look of jolly panic on his face.

  “Rosa!” he shouted to his wife, remaining on his feet and leaning forward with this chair binding him, sticking in the air behind him.

  “What happened, Papa?” Anthony shouted from where we were in the pool.

  “I’m-a stuck, Anthony. Where’s a-Mama? Where’s a-Rosa?”

  Peter and I looked at each other and could not help but begin to laugh, and hide our laughter. This was just too much.

  Mama came over. “Jesus a Mary, and a Joseph! What are you-a doin’ in the chair, Nunzio?” Mama said.