Silas Dillon of Cary County
Page 17
“Jesus?”
She nodded, having a poise in her expression. She watched my reply.
“Oh I know about Jesus.”
“You do! That is so good Siras.”
“Yeah, Molly my other social worker taught me about Jesus. Mommy and Daddy Sparks—they’re my old foster parents—they took me to church and read the Bible with me in their house a lot.” I felt a pride that I had some of this in my short history. I felt good about this.
“It so good to know Jejus, Siras. It so so important, not to just know about Jejus, but to really know Jejus. You see Jejus reary love you Siras. He want you to know He reary love you!”
I felt this strange, riveting warmth. I looked fixedly into her one, straight eye which seemed to momentarily peer right into my heart, while her other broken eye seemed to be looking into another direction.
“Jejus love you,” she said again.
“Yeah,” I said, fascinated, wanting to stay here and talk with Mrs Ong for a long time. I had a strange longing for the Bible again. I felt a homesickness inside for those days at the Sparks’ house, and for those days at their church.
At this time, shy little Tammy, my dark-skinned foster sister, stood beside me. She was only in first grade, and she liked to get on the big bus with me. I was her protector. She stood patiently, holding a piece of paper. She always held those papers she was told to bring home, afraid she’d forget about them in her backpack or something. She was so conscientious about doing things right, even in first grade. She wasn’t like me.
“This is from the nurse, Silas.”
“What is it? What’s it say?”
“Some of the kids got lice and the nurse is telling all the moms. All the moms have to know in case we get lice in our heads too. Mommy has to know so she can watch out for lice in my head, for them in my hair.”
Mrs. Ong reached to see the notice. “Oh, some kids have the rice,” she said.
“No lice!” Tammy said.
“Yes, rice. No one wants the rice!”
“Lice,” Tammy insisted.
“No that’s how she says it, Tammy. She from Korea. That’s how she says lice. She says rice. She knows. She knows its bugs on ya head. That’s how she says it.”
Mrs. Ong laughed, and she rubbed Tammy’s head the way she’d rubbed mine. I laughed, and Tammy smiled.
Mrs. Ong was like an angel to me. I went out of my way several more times (whenever I wasn’t with my friends horsing around and stuff ) that spring to talk to her because she said nice things to me about Jesus, and about myself.
Before that school year ended Molly came one Sunday to Shironda’s to pay me a visit. I was so happy to see her. She knocked on the door of Shironda’s cluttered house, and when I opened, I immediately stepped outside onto the porch, hugging her.
“Hello, Silas kiddo, how are you?” She held me, patting my back, squeezing.
“Good.”
“I miss you!” she said, griping.
“I miss you too.”
Shironda stepped out in her socks onto the porch, blinking in the brightness of the day.
“Hi Shironda. How’s it going?”
“Things are good. Things are good. With you?”
“Oh, what can I say, we’ve been having a tough go of it.”
“Oh?”
“Where’s your baby, Molly?” I said, jumping in.
“Oh, there isn’t going to be a baby, Silas.”
“Why not?”
“At least not yet, honey.” Molly looked at me, then at Shironda.
I stood confused.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Molly,” Shironda said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I had a miscarriage, Silas.”
“Oh.” I said, afraid to ask what that was; but I guessed that the baby had died somehow. I kept looking at Molly’s pretty face which seemed occupied by grief, at her eyes which paused on the threshold of tears, then at her flattened belly, wondering.
“We’re hoping God will send another baby to us though.” Molly wiped a teardrop from just beneath her eye, and I thought about how I’d never seen her with sorrow like that. I’d never seen her cry, and it made me love her afresh. I hugged her again. “Oh Silas,” she said.
“Oh, I am so so sorry, really I am!” Shironda said again. “I went through that myself. Tst tst,” she said, shaking her head. She stepped over and hugged Molly.
“Are ya gonna be my social worker again, Molly?”
“No Silas, no I’m not, honey.” She laughed, touching my face. “I’m staying right where I am, at home, Silas. I really think I need to do that for now.”
I kept looking at her, smiling.
Molly couldn’t stay long that day. In fact, she didn’t even come inside. She at once left from standing on the shady porch there, and I watched her descend the steps, collapse into the seat of her car, wave, and drive off. I could feel that old ache again as I cemented my vision to the back of her car until I could no longer detect it, all the way up the street as it diminished into the shining urban sprawl. I thought I could still smell her since our hug.
It was only about seven or eight months after that that Shironda came to tell me that Molly had another miscarriage, and that she wanted Shironda to tell me. Shironda explained to me what it was, and I imagined it must have been hurtful. It was the first time in a long time that I prayed, for Molly.
Things were pretty quiet for the next couple of years. In fact, I really made some progress with my education. I didn’t get left back. I made it into fourth grade without a problem, mostly because third was a repeat year. I made it into fifth with some extra reading help and a lot of coaching, coaxing, and firmness from Shironda. “Did you do your homework Mr. Silas?” she’d say from the kitchen while I sat before the television.
“Not yet.”
“Well, sit down here at the kitchen table where I can see you and get it done now, mister.”
“Okay,” I’d say compliantly, slowly shuffling my way there, watching the television screen over my shoulder to the last flash, moving to my books.
“What did you get on that short story you wrote over the weekend Silas?” she might ask, if she saw me in school.
“I got a B+ Shironda!”
“Great, Silas! Thas jus fine!”
Sometimes the conversation went this way: “Mister Silas, have you finished your math homework?”
“Yeah!” I’d moan back.”
“Well let me see it, son!”
I’d rise from whatever it was I was doing in the house, retrieve my crumpled, much erased, smudged work from my weighty math text, and bring it to her. She’d pore over. “Let me see the book!”
I’d get the book, and return to her with the page opened. She’d be at the washing machine, for example, and stop her drudgery amid the hot fumes of bleach water and the cadent rumbling of a twirling dryer; she’d look at the book, then at my work, then at the book, then at my work…. After a minute or two of this, as I waited, “Okay mister, go redo number eight and number twelve. Look carefully. Check yo work. Go, come back agin when yo done again, mister. I’ll check it again. You got be more mindful with some of these ones mister!” She had a stern expression that in some way grinned at the same time.
Silently frustrated, I’d plod up the basement stairs to search for a pencil that had some eraser left on it, to wear away my paper some more, to first stare into space awhile, and then to try again.
Shironda really cared for me, and she probably loved me, not in an affectionate, cuddly sort of way; but more in an accountable, strict manner—the kind that wouldn’t let me slide, slither, or coast; the tough kind that impelled me to become responsible for my own inaction or actions. I’m grateful for Shironda’s discipline in my life, for giving me chores, for all of that.
Early in the fifth grade I received another letter from Mommy Lucinda in Ohio. It was addressed to the agency in Brooklyn since my address changed so often. It said this:
&nbs
p; Dear Silas,
We hear from Molly that you’re in a new home with a very nice foster mother, and we’re so happy about that. The past two years have been very difficult for us, as you can imagine. Justin has come through many medical procedures, but God has been very gracious to us. His leukemia is in remission, and the doctors tell us that things look very good, and there is a strong likelihood that he will survive this and live a long life. We look to the Lord and trust Him, and He really has been our help! Our prayer is that you too are remembering the goodness of God.
As soon as things get good and stable here, we want to come to New York for a visit with family, and to come and see you, of course. We will let you know.
It would be good if you would think of Molly in your prayers, as she has been battling with some things.
We love you very much,
Mommy Lucinda
I hadn’t received a visit from Molly for about six months when I received this letter, and I had been wondering why, supposing she was busy with her new life, being married, and maybe having some children of her own by now; so I asked Shironda if she could find out Molly’s phone number from New Blossom, especially since Mommy Lucinda said she was having troubles. The next day Shironda got her home phone number, and as soon as I got home from school that day I gave her a call. I had to dial a different area code since Molly had moved off Cary Island and now lived in Manhattan, close to the firm where Bob practiced law.
After dialing and uneasily listening to four rings, Molly’s answering machine answered. I heard Molly’s sweet voice say, “We’re sorry but we can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and we’ll return the call as soon as we can. Thank you and have a great day!”
“Um, this is Silas. I want to know how you are Molly cause Mommy Lucinda said in a note that you were bad and not that good.” I paused in nervous silence since I felt graceless talking to these machines. “Okay, goodbye, I’ll see you Molly. Bye.”
A few minutes later the phone rang. I answered, “Hello?”
“Is this you, Silas?”
“Hi Molly.”
“You been well, kiddo? I’ve been thinking about you!” She sounded tired.
“Yeah. I’m good. Are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you tired?”
“I guess I’m a little tired, kiddo. Why, I sound it?”
“Yeah. What happened to you?”
“Oh, Silas honey, I had a miscarriage again.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, honey. It’s sad for us, you know.” Molly was crying a little. I could tell by her shaking voice.
“I’ll pray for you tonight Molly.”
“Oh, thank you, kiddo. That’s so nice.” She sniffled. “You’re a sweetheart. Is that why you called?” She marveled over my calling. I could tell that this touched her. I wanted to be her gallant knight. I really wanted her to be well, and I wanted to be a part of comforting her. I hated the thought of Molly being sad or sick.
“Can you come and see me sometime?”
“Yes Silas. Yes, I want to. I miss you. I didn’t forget about you, kiddo! We live in Manhattan now. Did you know that?”
“Yeah. Shironda said. Do you like it?”
“Well, I like Cary Island better, kiddo. It’s sort of dark here, and noisy, you know. These buildings cut off all the sunlight. I don’t know. Bob works nearby. And it’s easier. I don’t know.”
Some silence stood like an imposing party between us for some moments. I imagined her face, her gentle fingers wiping tears off her cheek. This hurt me.
“Maybe you will have another chance to have another baby Molly.” My awkward, direct way of aiming to comfort Molly made her get choked up with tears again.
“Maybe,” she said, pausing, sniffling. “Maybe, kiddo. We’re praying. It’s hard.”
“I’ll pray to Jesus to bring you a baby, Molly,” I said.
“Thank you, honey.”
Silence and awkwardness artlessly suspended again. After a few moments, I said, “Okay bye Molly. I hope I see you soon.”
“Yes, you will, Silas. I’ll stop by soon, kiddo.”
“Okay bye.”
“Bye, kiddo.”
I hung up the receiver.
A couple of weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, Molly came and took me out for ice cream. She looked so nice, and I thought about how much I missed having her in my life. She seemed sad and a bit busy in her mind though. She asked me simple questions about school. When she took me home, she stayed in the car, leaving the engine running. That was unlike her. When she had worked with the agency, it seemed she had more time for me, even though she had other children in the system to watch over. Now she seemed distant, different, distressed. It bothered me. I really felt sad for Molly about her losing her babies.
The seasons passed, and then I went robustly into sixth grade with an unusual, intrinsic love of learning, of reading, of determined cerebral stimulation and intellectual enchantment. I was motivated because I’d actually begun to love school. I wasn’t as absorbed in getting good grades; but when the good grades appeared, I was pleased. One of my two sixth-grade teachers, Mr. McClarty, held very high expectations of his students, and that helped me.
Shironda was always a little wary about me, having witnessed firsthand my moodiness, my tantrums, having learned of my past adventures like the drum-rafting, the dog slaying, the journeys into New Jersey, and of course the shed torching. She was surprised that I’d never received any formal psychological counseling, which could have been prescribed by my social worker. Now that my social worker was Sandra Jackson again (the worker I had when I was a baby, before Molly) the two of them found occasion to sneer at the fact that I hadn’t received any of this professional attention. Having worked for the school district for a few years, and having worthy concern for me, she made arrangements for me to regularly meet with Dr. Rosenpanz the intermediate school psychologist.
Meeting with young Stan (Dr. Rosenpanz felt this first name basis was good for our relationship too.) only proved to be a tiresome burden three times a week for me. He asked a lot of tedious, irrelevant questions in a fake friendly manner, as far as I was concerned. I never felt good leaving his office; I only felt fatigued. I guess he was “diagnosing.” Stan Rosenpanz was a very effeminate, sissified man who asked me personal, impertinent questions that made me feel very uncomfortable, and even angry at the time. Although his discussion was never threatening, he certainly had a way of basely directing his fascination on irrelevant, elusively erogenous nonsense that had no support to help me. As I look in retrospect, I’m not convinced Stan Rosenpanz was serious about the study of human behavior in terms of his supposed purpose to assist kids like me.
Anyway, this newfound satisfaction with learning came from a combination of Shironda and my teachers’ assistance and steering; and was also generated from my own subconscious will to escape, which suppressed my latent angry depression, which had remained shrouded and deep within; which like a sleeping cat needed only a clang, a reverberating tremor, even just a stirring, to awaken. It was only a matter of one quake.
Besides this love for learning, I was in love with Marissa Mellina, a dark-haired girl with big, brown eyes, snow-white skin, a fragile little nose, full lips, and a reserved, quiet nature that just added to the mystery of her delicate prettiness. Every idle moment I looked at her, at her profile as she sat just one seat forward in the next row over. I sometimes scrambled to get on the lunch line behind her. I just loved being near Marissa Mellina. Her thick, dark curls always smelled so pleasantly clean. I took notice every day of what she wore. I dreamed of her, thought about her on weekends, imagined she was always near and watching me, felt yearning and warmth whenever I thought about her. I dreamed that someday we’d be married, but almost never spoke a word to her. I was so bashful. The thought of talking to Marissa made me panic. I’d never felt this way about a girl before, except of course for Molly when I was younger.
With the arrival of my thirteenth birthday on January 31, while I was in the sixth grade at Shore Avenue Intermediate School, which adjoined the elementary school that had served me so well, the first percussive signals of my adolescence started tapping. Physical changes and emotional tremors sounded themselves, slowly, like a faint, far drumbeat. I began to spin into that major change of life.
On the ides of March of that year there was a major snowstorm which smothered Cary County. That winter had already been long, cold, snowy; and now this last blast which locked us in for recess for yet another spell made us all fidgety and restless with the bleakness. Kids at school had grown cranky and fatigued with cabin fever. The cafeteria aids were having a hard time keeping us under control. They shouted, blew their whistles brutally, broke up fights, wrote out detention slips, and sometimes called the principal Mr. Young down to awe us. We who’d advanced into that intermediate school were full with fury, intensity, hormones, and noise. The twenty minutes of recess following the actual dining in the cafeteria were very long minutes, especially for the cafeteria aids.
On the first of those snow-in days the school cafeteria served us grapes for dessert after a pizza lunch. What a classic mistake that was! Intermittent flying grapes moved in the air at random, occasional angles. I figured out a way to conceal my launches, by placing a mushy one, or one I made mushy, on my plastic spoon, holding the handle still, refracting, flexing back the spoon, aiming, releasing, then catapulting the grape. On this afternoon Mr. Young was there, standing sergeant-like with his fists on his hips, helping with controlling things in the cafeteria, distrustful, intimidating, with his sleeves rolled up, sort of pivoting around a bit, watching and just generally looking mean, speaking occasionally with one of the aids there. He was about fifty feet away from us, across the cafeteria.