Silas Dillon of Cary County

by Clifford Schrage

  I looked around. Freshly painted walls enlivened with white. Posters of Yankee players hung underneath Yankee pennants. “Yankees!” I said, grinning.

  “Yep. Heard you like ’em.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I like ’em too.”

  “Ya do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s your favorite?”

  Simon searched his mind. There was alarm in his eyes, silence in the air. He looked at the wall, pointed at a photo of Tino Martinez straining power in mid-swing.

  “I like Jeter.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. He’s the best, I guess. Jeter’s awesome!”

  “You’re right. Hey, my room’s right there.” He nodded into the hallway where his door hung open.

  I put my stuff down and sat on the bed. Simon darted into his room, and returned quickly, leaning against the door jam, smiling, holding up two Yankee tickets.

  “Yankee tickets?”

  “You bet.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night!”

  “Toronto?”

  “You got it!”

  “Awesome!”

  “Ever been to the stadium?”

  “No. I always wanted to!”

  “Well, you’re gonna get ya chance, buddy!” Simon nodded, smiling, staring at me. I began to think that maybe this wasn’t going to be too bad. This grown foster brother went out of his way for me, it seemed. He seemed to like the Yankees. He made the room comfortable for me. He wanted me to feel at home.

  “And the day after we’re going to Great Adventure! Ever been there?”

  “No. I heard about it.”

  “Well, we’re gonna have a blast!” He had this big smile, like he was a kid.

  “Awesome.”

  “You can put your stuff away if you like.”

  I dumped my things from my bags onto the bed. Simon stood there watching me. I felt uneasy. “You got a job or anything?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Ya had one?”

  “Of course!”

  “Where?”

  “Auto parts store. A parts warehouse too. Before that I was a mechanic—a tire place—changing tires and stuff.”

  “How come no more?”

  “Laid off.”

  “All of ’em?”

  “Yep. I’m workin’ on getting’ another one soon. You’re a smart kid. Know it?”

  “Guess.”

  “Hey, we’ll get the subway tomorrow night. Get off at Yankee Stadium. We’ll go early—get some signatures maybe.”

  “Autographs?”

  “Yeah, autographs.”

  “You collect cards?”

  “Baseball cards?”

  “Well yeah, what else?”

  Simon paused. “Used to.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, wanna see my room?”

  “Sure.”

  We stepped across the hallway, entering. Simon’s room was clean, ordered, fastidiously neat—much like his dress habits. Besides the disgustingly wet cigar smoking, his appearance was exact, tight, pinched. Similarly, besides his weightlifting apparatus strewn on the carpeted floor, his room was neat, minimally decorated, stingy, pictureless, off-white. There was a bed made in the corner, a computer in another, a bureau in another, and a closet in the fourth.

  The cause of his muscle-bulk now opened to me. “You lift weights a lot?”

  “Yeah, enough. You know, I like to keep myself fit.”

  “How much can you lift over ya head?” I said, wondering.

  “Not much really. I’m working upper body mostly. A lot of curling and bench pressing for the most part actually. I bench three hundred!”

  “Wow,” I said, not remarkably abreast with the weightlifter’s world, but saying it because I sensed that that’s what he wanted. I didn’t even know what “bench” meant.

  He smiled, satisfied at impressing me.

  At this moment Sandra intruded: “Okay, Silas, I’m leaving now. It looks like you’re already at home here, and that’s good. That’s very good.”

  “Oh yeah. He’s gonna do just fine here, for sure!” Simon cut in.

  “Well, we hope so, Simon. Silas really is a fine boy. I’ve come to know that. He just needs the right nurturing environment and he’ll do just fine. We know that. Right, Silas?”

  “Yep, I guess so.” I bent to lift the weight stacked bar, unable to budge it, barely attentive to Sandra.

  “Oh, we’ll take some of that weight off for ya, Silas. Get you started, if you want,” Simon said proudly. “We’ll make you the strongest in the junior high this year!”

  I really liked that idea. In fact, I did work on making myself strong there at the Hellers’. It proved to be a great outlet for my anger and frustration, providing me something to aim for.

  “I’ll stop in or call in a couple of days, Silas.” Sandra was already descending the narrow staircase.

  “See ya.”

  “Here. Just pull this pin out here, like this.” Simon was kneeling beside me, rubbing his frame against mine. “Then slide off or on however much weight you want. Then take off the same amount on the other side. See? Let’s start with fifty for you, then we’ll move up from there. See what you can do. Go easy like, you know? Lay down on the floor!”

  I lay with my hands by my neck, waiting for him to place the bar across my chest.

  “Hands at your shoulders. Hands at your shoulders!” he said, and the weight training began.

  Simon really overworked himself to bond with me. And it didn’t take long for me to realize he was a bit of a social misfit—having no adult friends, in and out of menial jobs, forever avoiding, shunning, or bickering with his assertive mother, defending himself with shouts to cloud out her brutal accusations and demeaning deflations: “You’re worthless! You’re just like your father! You’ll never amount to anything! Go to hell! Drop dead! Can’t you do anything right!” These were some of her assaults.

  “Shut up! I’m not listening!” he’d shout over her, curse, slam a door, retreat.

  Mrs. Heller once told me about how Mr. Heller, a drunken, abusive, frenzied man, finally left and never returned. It all happened when Simon was about ten years old. Mrs. Heller had acquired a court order of protection, and that was the end of Mr. Heller. Simon supposed his father was either dead, or drunk and derelict, probably somewhere in New York. She’d had to face him once in family court, and Simon thought that he’d seen him once, just standing across the street one winter evening, hands in coat pockets, staring at the house. Other than that, he was no longer a ravager in their home, and was somewhat forgotten. There’s an involved, dragging plot around this family, but that’s another story.

  Anyway, the day finally came when I could visit Yankee Stadium, something I’d always longed for, but for some reason—probably my own diffidence—never felt the liberty to ask anyone for. It’s funny—all these years living in New York City, and never getting over to the Bronx to see my team until now! It was a clear bright night in July. Simon and I crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, zipped through on 4th Street, into downtown, and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. We connected with FDR Drive and East River Drive, crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge, then fastened onto Major Deegan Expressway, hugging and paralleling the Harlem River, exiting onto the Grand Concourse, driving until we could see it—that historic pearl, that beautiful jewel of the Bronx, the radiant pill-shaped temple of the gods, of the modern idols blazing well lighted and waving its high flags. The rows of seats, like those hoed in a spring field, bare, with sprouts of fans here and there, could be seen, polished and lustered and deep blue from the high hill of the Grand Concourse.

  I imagined to myself that in times to come, eons into the future, after this great American civilization inevitably crumbles, that people will visit from all over the world (if Jesus Christ’s second coming should tarry) the ruins of this great stadium, the same way people do today in Greece, Rome, and the Middle East. P
lanet-exalted Yankee Stadium—where nearly a billion visits had been paid by human souls on pilgrimages to applaud, acclaim, worship, and adore—and all in one century—was now in my sight for the first time. The stadium of stadiums! The great mosque of the sports world. Yankee Stadium!

  We arrived an hour early. We parked, strolled, bought soft pretzels, Pepsis, tee-shirts, and programs from memorabilia loaded merchandisers who barked on the sidewalks, clutching money, giving change—grasping, noisy, greedy, desperate.

  We entered the stadium, ascending ramps that take us to our place in the mezzanine, following the circular corridor until finding our gate. We then entered the rectangular entry, stepping out into the Elysian fields of evening daylight, of lengthening shadows as the sun had begun its setting, of traces of breezes, bands of flocking fans, pulse of music, noises of voices, passing glimpses of conversations. There were smells—smells of popcorn, beer, burning tobacco, peanuts, hotdogs, mustard. And most appealing of all there was this sudden vista of magnificent green—grains and tinges of emerald-green in geometric rows patterned by the mower, with this suddenness of pink raked earth in the infield, with quadratic pillow-like white bases. Yankee Stadium. Grand. Majestic. And the Yankees warming up—throwing, catching, stretching in dazzling pin stripes. Another game.

  We found our seats, shouted for two hours, listened to the cracks of bats, witnessed three home runs, a Joe Torre fray with an umpire, a proximal scramble for a foul ball, and finally a 8-6 Yankee victory. It was one of the best days of my life. I was on cloud nine!

  Anyway, that summer was neatly packed with varied amusements, like more visits to Yankee Stadium, amusement parks, and the beach; it was full of looking on fights between Mrs. and Simon Heller, watching Simon gnaw and drool on his fat cigars, and weight lifting. Usually while I watched the Yankees or other stuff on the sports channels, Simon spent time in his room sitting at his computer. I don’t know what he was doing, but he wasn’t really interested in sports. He just pretended for me.

  We went for a lot of drives in Simon’s ten-year-old Ford, and I got to revisit places from my past, like the Sparks’ old neighborhood, the docks, the channel, the Roccos’, and Staten Park. Once we passed the cemetery where Mom was buried, but I didn’t say anything to Simon about that. Simon and I never had any deep conversations. He never had any counsel for me, or advice, or wisdom. It was like we were just friends, and he was just a kid, and everything was just peculiarly superficial between us. He was always patronizing me.

  Finally, in July he found a new auto parts job, and that gave me some rest from his persistent quest to show me a good time and get me to like him. His constant “Do you want some ice cream? Here’s some candy! Are you comfortable? Are you sure you’re not bored? Are you sure? Are you sure? It’s not too much trouble. I can do it for you” sort of doting drove me crazy sometimes. I felt like a pauper-prince or something. While he was at the store working, I would take walks to the library. I just loved the appearance of the colorful patterns of slender books on shelves, and walking the aisles, absorbed with the smells and magnetic draw of infinite books, winnowing out a pile and finding a soft and deep window chair where I could just read, and read, and read, and get lost in other worlds of fiction, and real worlds of information. I got myself quite an education all those hours that summer. This reading was a superb outlet for escape from my sorrow and disappointment. It was good for my mind too.

  I also continued to work out with Simon’s weights with some regular serious-mindedness. As my body physically matured that summer, I determined to increase the weight I curled, benched, and lifted in Simon’s room and forced myself to drink half a gallon of milk a day. (What did the Hellers care! The county paid for all my needs, plus more.) Anyway, by the time summer ended, I was bench pressing a hundred and fifty pounds. Not bad for a hundred-and-twenty-pound thirteen-year-old! This weightlifting was a superb outlet for venting my rage at disappointment. And like the books for my mind, it was good for my anatomy.

  On one particular morning, after Simon had left for work, I entered his room to work out. He didn’t have a bench, so all the “bench” pressing was actually done on the floor. I did ten presses with a hundred pounds and then lay there, catching my breath, resting, glancing with my head to the side, looking unintentionally under Simon’s bed. I saw a magazine, so I reached for it. Little Pets. The cover featured a shadowy photograph of a ten- or eleven-year-old girl, smiling, naked from the waist up. I leafed through, aghast. Pornography! Child pornography! Assorted photographs of children—mostly male—of all ages wove through page after page like a slithering snake. I felt appalled, dumbfounded, dropping the thing, yet at the same time strangely intrigued with the photographs of the girls, the older girls. I picked it up again, leafed through, staring mesmerized at the teenage girls, feeling from the cryptic underground of my physiology that sure, awakening ache. Suddenly the thought of bizarre Simon Heller leafing through these pages horrified me. I dropped it as though it were grime, quickly sliding it back underneath his neat bed. I felt a chill slither down my spine. I stood, exited.

  That same night, when Simon came home it was evident that he’d been drinking. He was especially jovial, loud, odd, uninhibited with his stinking cigar. I stayed far away from him, closing my door. I lay on my bed. Once he entered, barging in. “Hey kid, wanna take a ride?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t feel too good.”

  “What hurts?”

  “My head.” I was lying.

  “I’ll give you some aspirin.”

  “I already did. I just want to sleep awhile.”

  “All right. Relax. See ya later.” He went downstairs.

  I felt relieved.

  An hour later I opened my door to go downstairs to watch the Yankee game. Simon was in his room with his door opened, seated at his computer, leafing through the Internet, assuming I was sleeping. He was startled by me, shifting over to try to casually block his screen. “Hey, what’s up?” he said, nervously.

  “Nothin’.” I focused my vision. I could clearly see half the screen, the body of a naked boy. I pretended I didn’t notice. “What ya doin’?” I said, looking ignorant.

  He quickly reached for his button and simply, ashamedly turned off the computer. “Oh, nothing. Just looking for some transmission stuff for my job and stuff.” His tone was full of jittery concealment. He stood, blushing, trying unsuccessfully to steer from his embarrassment. “What did ya see?”

  “Nothin’,” I said, becoming nervous myself. “I’m gonna watch the game. See ya later.” I moved downstairs and supposed the strain of Simon’s shame and uncertainty of what I may have seen kept him in his room that night. In my youthful naiveté I became fearful, politely withdrawing from that time onward.

  That summer was also neatly packed with thoughtful anticipation of seventh grade and a new middle school. My educational authorities, looking into my records, thought it would be right for me to give another try at mainstreaming again, rather than learning in some alternative school, or with tutors. The county’s hope was that my outburst of wrath on Alex’s neck would be an isolated freak. I know that I was determined to control myself, if I could. I was a bit unusual for a foster child in that, unlike most other foster kids, I had some alternating years, and brief lapses of success at school. School and academic work had their momentums as a homelike refuge for me.

  Finally September came and school began, and I didn’t have any problem fitting in and being accepted with the other kids, or with the teachers. A lot of the kids at this school were unmotivated. Many of them came from fatherless households. Many of them were black or Hispanic. Yeah, to some degree it was that kind of a district; but there was another percentage of kids who came from an affluent section as well. It was pretty much an even mix socially and economically. My teachers were a bit impressed with my eagerness to learn and participate, compared with the apathy of many of the others.

  “
Excellent! Very excellent, Silas!” Mrs. Sifer, my math teacher, liked to say.

  “You know you’re quite an able writer, Mr. Dillon!” Mr. Booker, my English teacher, told me once.

  “Good job!” Mrs. McAnnals, my social studies teacher, said, handing back my tests.

  “Now that’s art!” Mrs. Curry laughed, holding up my work. “Where’d you learn to draw and paint like that, Silas?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, smiling, thinking of Mommy Lucinda.

  “Soberbio!” said Mr. Colmer, my Spanish teacher.

  And then in early September, after the first two sessions of football in gym class, in the locker room Mr. Palladine, my gym teacher, said, “We gotta get you in a slot on the football squad, Dillon! You can’t let this ability go to waste! You wanna play football?”

  “Sure.”

  “Guys already started practice, but that shouldn’t be a problem. How old are ya?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “When you fourteen?”

  “January thirty-first.”

  “You’re old enough. Start school late or get left back?”

  “Yeah, I got left back.”

  Mr. Palladine kept looking me over, chewing his gum, removing his cap, scratching his middle-aged, blotchy bald head. I was bulkier than most of the other seventh-grade boys because most of them hadn’t yet reached puberty. “You might be a little smaller than a lot of the ninth graders, but you’re certainly tough enough! Make a good defensive back! Wanna play defensive back? Linebacker?”

  “Sure. I don’t care where.”

  “That’s the spirit! Gotta be a little mean and angry to play back there! Think you’re mean enough?” He laughed.

  “Sure,” I said, amicably. “I get mad a lot!” I could hear my deepening voice cracking, pulling back for intermittent syllables into the high pitches, back for fleeting revisits to pre-pubescence.

  Tall Mr. Palladine rubbed my fleecy head, laughing. I watched his whistle swinging, strung from his brawny neck at my eye level, bouncing against his chest. I think he could tell that I was the angry type.

  I grinned.

  “Maybe we’ll try you at tight end, or split end. You got good hands!” He blew a bubble with his pink gum, snapping it quickly back into his mouth. “Show up for practice after school today?”