“Of course, Silas honey,” she said with all her friendly warmth directly into my ear, immediately making me feel better. “I’ll be there in about an hour or so. You just be dressed nice and be ready. Comb your hair, okay, kiddo?”
“Okay Molly.” I hung up the receiver.
Besides Molly and her minister and her attorney-husband Robert McNeil, who turned out to be a slender, fair-haired, fair-skinned man with a broad face, who seemed to either like or pity me since he kept rubbing the top of my head and sort of hugging me by pulling me against his side by my shoulder; no one else came to give respects. No one from Mommy’s (my) family, wherever they were and whoever they were, and none of her drug addict friends were there. Just me, Molly, Robert, Molly’s pastor, Mommy’s long casket with a few flowers, and Mommy’s little stone.
I can remember that hour of that twenty-fifth day of January distinctly. A warm front had moved in overnight. It was one of those January thaws, with wind and clouds and dampness, but no rain. City sounds—horns, trains, trade—seemed muffled, far. The ashen hardwoods and the emerald evergreens kept shivering, waving, moving, and snapping limbs as the soft roaring of warm wind bent against them: it was very much like the way gentle pleasant words in whispers lean against cold icy silences, shaking them, breaking them. The typically tight tall houses of Cary Island seemed taciturn through and beyond the perimeter trees of that dilating cemetery. They seemed like watchers—an array of motley cubes and triangular roofs and colorful other obtuse angles of dormers and porches, watching—and it seemed to me the four of us were like performers among those rows of stones, alone in the center of that silent graveyard, standing and pensive, with audience. I was a numb statue there among the rows, as an unfeeling scarecrow among rows of corn. An infrequent vehicle passed on the nearby street, made a turn, watching us—I tried to imagine—as well. It was all in my mind. No one cared. Death had come, preceded with numerous emails and letter-grams, warning; but like the rest of humanity, my mom just deleted and discarded them like they were junk mail. Death had come to my crazy mother, but the world just went about its business, unfeeling.
Looking up, I could see the swift motion of colorless clouds and shadows of clouds crossing before those of higher clouds. I could see in the blended gray, the motion. The sky was all a flurry of fog, a crowd of clouds rushing to who knows where, as we stood still. I couldn’t help but keep gazing upward at the massive vapors moving, shrouding, sweeping swiftly overhead in the invisible wind. I didn’t know where the sun shone from beyond those vapors, but I knew it was there, somewhere.
“And they found the stone rolled back from the tomb, but when they went inside they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus.” I remember this was read aloud. Bits and pieces of a sermon about hope beyond the grave, hope for even the hopeless, founded in the emptiness of that old tomb, are what I recall about his sermon that hour. But for the most part, while he read and preached I let my mind remain in this life, in this vapor clouded world where Cary Island’s humanity hid in those tight narrow dwellings shaped like these tombstones. I thought about Mommy and her dead life, about the degenerate cycles of this life. “If only Mommy were adopted!” I thought loudly. If only Mommy were raised in a nice home. If only Mommy could really have known about love at a ripe young age, then maybe I’d get it and be able to live easier. If only injustice wasn’t so pervasive in this life, maybe I could have had a better chance, a better start, for sure. I thought these thoughts by my mother’s graveside.
When we walked back to the car, I took one last look back. Mommy’s casket and flowers among those stones lounged recumbently. I made it my focal point for about ten seconds, then forced myself to look away, until we drove away.
My birthday came on the thirty-first, and the kids and workers at the orphanage were nice enough to celebrate my tenth year of life in this world by singing “Happy Birthday,” and by eating portions of the cake that advertised my name in colorful script. Mrs. James also had a party for me with the class. Since it was customary for a parent to provide the cake for the school party, Mrs. James—as busy as she was—provided mine. I was the oldest, the only ten-year-old in that third-grade class, though I looked a little younger. Those ten candles looked very impressive to the other eight- and nine-year-old boys in the class. Ten is an aspired age for young boys. Anyhow, I really did feel special on my tenth birthday, even though I was now a true orphan, no longer an orphan of the living.
The other trip to school I remember came on a gray February morning, a few weeks later. I finished my oatmeal and juice in the usual way, and waited for Molly in the lobby. She entered, saying, “Good morning Silas,” in her usual way, but I knew her expressions too well. Again, I could tell something was going on. She had this removed, ruffled, facial cast where she bit her bottom lip and lowered one brow. When we got into the warm car and buckled,
“What’s the matter?”
She laughed, looking at me. “You can tell again?”
“Yep.”
“Well I do have news,” she said with a flimsy smile.
“What?”
“I’m having a baby,” she said, patting her tummy through her coat.
“When?”
“Oh six or seven months.”
“Cool.”
“But the doctor says I have to stop working. I have to rest. I’m having some problems with this—physically.” She looked at me to see what I was thinking.
I couldn’t imagine what she was experiencing. “Does that mean you’re not going to be my worker any more?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes Silas, it does.”
Stunned—“Are you still going to see me?”
“Yes Silas, and some of the other too, but not as much. You see, I have to rest, almost all the time, if I want this baby—to live. And I do, of course.”
“How about after the baby?”
“Well after the baby’s born, he’ll need to be cared for—you know, diapers, feedings, all that stuff, kiddo.”
“Can’t a babysitter?”
“Well, yes, but Bob and I prefer I stay home, you see-”
“Well maybe it’s a girl.”
“Maybe.”
“How much can you see me?”
“As much as I can, kiddo. I love you. You know that. And I love Terry, Bobby, Ashley, and Joey—my other kids too.”
The same gentle sounds of her car with its comforts eased the momentary silence between us. I thought of her words, “As much as I can,” of their weakness, their ambiguity.
“You know I love you, right Silas?”
“Yes,” I nodded. Then, as I wondered, and somehow had this notion, this far fetched hope, I said, “So maybe I can be adopted by you and Bob?” I looked at her, at the same time routinely tucking my hat down just over my eyes, hiding them, at the same time trying to see hers as she responded.
Molly became immediately taken by a stressed, startled look. I could see that she searched to respond. “Well honestly Silas, that’s not something—to be perfectly honest with you, honey—that Bob and I have ever discussed. Um, I don’t know if that would be best, for any involved.” She paused, searching for words, careful with my heart, so carefully searching. “Um, I don’t know what to say Silas.” She looked at me with this panicked expression, with this desperate hope that she was not letting me down even deeper, with a cover for Bob and his grand expectations of marriage with Molly.
I imagined that maybe she would begin to think about it, and I imagined that she’d try to talk Bob into it. I just imagined. It was all merely my imagination. I hoped I sparked something, and that she’d return to Bob and talk to him about it. I imagined there was something in her expression that challenged her, maybe moving her toward me this way. I imagined that there was something in her expression that spoke of her already considering it, and that there were other kids to consider as well. I knew that adopting a troubled child that’s older is something the professionals have confirmed to be not in the best inte
rest of younger children already in the home. But I couldn’t let go of this faint hope. I was growing older, and my chances were slimming down.
Molly’s reluctance was cemented in statistics and in her devotion to preserving the finest environment to raise her children in. Let’s face it; I had problems. Molly knew it; and I know it now. But I refused to surrender this faint hope of getting into a family who would love me.
The image of those apple boughs in bloom we’d sat under after she’d rescued me from that apartment on Bay Street when I was two returned to me. She’d wished she could have adopted me then, saying, “Oh Silas if I were married and didn’t have to work I’d take you home with me and make you my boy.” I guessed that now might have been a different story, that she’d been idealistic then. And now I was older, prone to getting into trouble, prone to bringing shame and disgrace to my guardians; and perhaps she wanted to start fresh with a family of her own. On the other hand, at times I’d also been quite guilelessly naive, actually assuming the adoption idea might be something she still wished for, even planned for for someday; but I remained mindful that I probably just dreamed, and now simply awoke to the dread of reality.
“Oh,” was all I could say right now. I didn’t know how to respond to this sudden news. I sank in my seat, in my heart. I felt crushed, like I wanted to die. Molly was abandoning me, and I couldn’t take this. She was the only enduring stability in my life. I tried hard to be brave. I now felt like my mother just died. This was killing me. I could feel that old frustration, that rage of defeat growing like a flexing muscle inside of me. I felt like I was pinned down. I burst with a groan, and then just began to sob.
“Oh, Silas honey. Don’t cry.”
I could tell that my being upset was beginning to upset her, and I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to be brave, but my nature caused me to regress, to lapse into fear, this infancy, this terror. I could only cry. I covered my face, leaning forward, restraining. I felt so lost.
Molly pulled to the side of the road. People were near, walking, moving outside the car. I felt her hand on my back, which helped a little. “God help this boy! Help Silas Dillon Jesus,” she said. Then she said, “Silas you know you don’t have to go to school today.”
This suggestion seemed too familiarly recent, only this time I yielded, muttering through my sniffling, “I don’t want to go today. Please, I want to go back to the orphanage.”
“Of course Silas. Of course.”
Molly turned her car around. There was this separation I felt from her for the first time ever. I had this sense that she’d experienced situations like this with other kids numerous times before, and that she was now forcefully preventing herself from over-involvement, maybe even regretting some of the attachment. It was hard to render precisely.
When we got back she settled me in a comfortable chair in the activity room, finding me a book.
“When’s your last day?” I asked.
“Today Silas. I’ll be in and out a bit for the next week or so, you know, to tie up knots before I go and stuff, but today’s really my last full day.” She smiled.
“Oh,” I smiled back at her. I wondered in my mind, saying, “What do you have to tie knots for?” imagining her tying knots with ropes or strings.
She laughed out loud. “You’re so silly kiddo.” She pushed my hat down over my face. “Not real knots silly boy! I have to finish business, cases, stuff like that silly!” She kept laughing, and I smiled.
She went to the big kitchen and returned with hot chocolate for me. “I have some other news Silas.”
“What?”
“I found a home for you.”
“Where?”
“Right near your school.”
“Who?”
“With a nice lady named Shironda Todd. She has another foster child.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
“Oh.” I said, disappointed.
“Tammy.”
“A dad?”
Molly shook her head. “Shironda doesn’t have a husband. She’s separated from her husband.”
“Oh.”
There was not a lot of certainty in Molly’s tone about this, but I was somewhat satisfied to be able to get into a home, to stay in my school, and to get out of this orphanage.
“We can only try, right kiddo?”
“I guess,” was all I said as I looked at the title of the book she handed me: Adventure in the Tundra, and the cover illustration of a young boy before an Alaskan tundra and an alpine backdrop framed in a silhouette of a howling wolf. I then glanced out the window at the dreary street, speculating about the tundra beyond those panes, wondering about my own next adventure.
FIFTEEN
TWELVE SEASONS
Shironda Todd was a decent black lady who worked very hard. She worked at the Shore Avenue Elementary School, which I attended, doing clerical tasks in the main office, especially in the copy machine room, copying things for the teachers most of each day. As soon as I saw her I could remember I’d seen her from time to time at school. At night she worked part time for an oil company, answering phones and making out bills. She wanted me to call her Shironda, rather than Mom. What did I care!
A few times in that big three story school I saw Anthony. Once when I was in line with my class I could see him down the hall with his. I waved to him, but he didn’t wave back. I guessed he didn’t see me. A second time I saw him from the window, down on the asphalt playground with his friends, at recess, playing basketball. For the most part he just stood around with his fleshy hands in his pockets. I felt sorry for him, knowing he was just a foster kid like I was, even if he had been mean toward me because of his jealousy. A third time I saw him after school by the buses. I passed right by him and said, “Hi Anthony!” He looked right at me, and then just looked away. That made me feel so angry that I wanted to hit him.
I liked to be out by the buses after school. I was often one of the last kids to get on my bus because I liked to horse around with some of the kids. Mrs. Ong the bus monitor was always out there smiling, helping to keep order. Whenever the sun shone, she held an umbrella over her head. Some of the kids called her the umbrella lady.
One sunny spring day when we all first stepped out of the school, she saw me and said, “Hiro Siras! How was your day today?” Somehow she knew my name, and that flattered me. She had some kind of Asian accent, and I always liked to hear her talk.
“Pretty good,” I said.
“Jus pretty good?” she continued with a big smile.
“Yeah, it was good.” I smiled back at her, stopping before her, saying, “How you know my name anyhow?”
“Oh I just know you Siras.” She paused, smiling.
“Oh you know Shironda right? You know Shironda, my foster mother, right?”
“Yes I know Shironda, but you just a special little ferrow.”
Somehow her saying that really did make me feel special, and I liked her more. “How come ya got an umbrella?” I said, looking at her aging face. I always subliminally wondered about this umbrella in the sun. I looked up, squinting. She had an enlarged, bulging, lazy eyeball, with an odd absence of blinking in that eye, which sort of half diverted her Asian looks. Her face was very loose, worn. She really appeared homely, unsightly. It made me think she’d been through war or difficulties or something. I was tempted to ask her, but resisted, understanding that that might be disrespectful. Even with this facial disfigurement there was something lovely about her overall mien; there was something honest and kind about Mrs. Ong.
“How come I got the umbrerra?”
“Yeah, how come? The sun’s out today.”
“I have neurodermatitis, Siras.” she enunciated slowly in her tainted English, smiling, patient with me.
“Hey that rhymes.”
“Rhymes?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
She laughed, looking a bit bewildered.
“What’s neuraderitis?”
“Oh it’s
a skin condition. I had ever since I was a litter girr.”
“Where’d ya come from?”
“Where I from?”
“Yeah?”
“Where I from, I from South Korea, and I come a long time ago. I had this skin since a long time ago.”
“Ya did?”
“Yes, my face, my neck, and sometimes my arms, my elbows…” She pointed to her body parts as she told me. “They get red and scary. Terribry itchy! The sun irritates my skin, see.”
“They get scary?”
“No, scary, scary—like fish, scary!”
“Oh scaly.”
“Yes scary.” We both laughed.
“I got eczema,” I said, feeling like part of a skin affliction club or something.
“You do? I didn’t know that Siras,” she said so kindly. I really think she did know. Since she knew my name, seeing me often, she had to perceive that something was wrong with my skin, because sometimes it was just awful, blotchy, ugly, and red.
Kids kept walking, running, passing us, bumping against me and getting on their buses and making a lot of noise, screaming and laughing, dragging and holding their coats.
“How come ya the bus lady then? Why don’t ya get another job? How come they don’t give ya a different job like a teacher or principal or somethin? Somethin where ya could work inside more.”
She laughed, touching my head, squeezing my cheeks. “You are a charming litta one aren’t you Siras! How old you are anyway?”
“Ten.” My smile and continuing stare told her that I really was curious, wanting to know.
She looked away, then back at me, “Sometime life not make much reason Siras. See? Life not make sense a lot of time. Sometime things jus not the good way.” She glanced around for a moment, to make sure everything was okay with the kids, and then she lowered her voice some, getting closer to me. She said, “Sometime Jejus allow us to be where it no make sense, where it seem like it hurt us, see? Where it jus not make sense. But He know. He know it do good, somehow. Life is like that in the earth, see, Siras.”
Silas Dillon of Cary County Page 16
