A long minute passed. Pity would not come to me. I was still filled with the consuming fire of rage. Violent tears dribbled down my face like candle wax as I just watched him.
“I told ya I would! Ya wouldn’t listen! I told ya I would! And ya wouldn’t listen!” At that moment I recalled that late afternoon, years earlier, when I’d beaten that dog to death. I felt that same appalling lack of control. I wanted to slam him, and slam him repeatedly.
“Call 911!” he groaned within his cries. “Silas, please call 911. Please! I can’t see.”
In my madness I shouted, “Okay!” turning, swinging, clubbing the wall with all of my strength, burying my bat into crumbling sheetrock, shaking the room, sending pictures to the floor.
I grabbed a pair of jeans, hurriedly stuffing my legs in, buttoning, zipping. I ran down the stairs and called the ambulance.
Simon made his way down the stairs, holding his bleeding face with his good hand, laying his broken hand across his opposite forearm. “Did ya get ’em?” He looked at me, trembling, shuddering.
“Yes, I called.” I looked at him, horrified. He was soaked in blood.
He stepped outside and sat on the bottom step of the porch in his trauma, waiting, standing, sitting, standing, then sitting again. In minutes I could hear the ambulance’s sirens. I glanced out the window. This blood-smeared human, this Simon, moved close to the street to flag down the driver. They arrived, pulled to the curb. An EMT stepped out and escorted Simon in. I watched them drive away.
I paced back and forth in the living room, feeling the vexatious burden of fear, wondering what would come of me next. Would Simon tell that I hit him with the bat? Would I be moved again? Away from this area? I wondered, feared. Abby crossed my mind. I wanted her near, longingly. I pictured her smiling face.
EIGHTEEN
SUNBEAMS ABOVE THE BURROW
Early the next morning I, my trunk, trinkets, and bike were placed back into the Little Blossom van and driven back to the orphanage, which still remained administratively adjoined to the Brooklyn agency. It was that same center I’d twice spent stretches of time residing in, waiting in delay, lingering in interim.
Expectant of this, all that night I’d sputtered through broken sleep, through dreams in shallow spans of sleep, through dreams of plodding motion, of digging, of crawling, of tedious transit through a tight passageway, an illusory burrow. It was as though I were a human mole burrowing my way, aiming to find sunbeams and blue light and breathing air which I knew hovered somewhere just farther than a little more soil and stone. I clawed, pushed, pulled, dug, reached for breath. My asthma had me laboring to respire, and my eczema had me burning with prickling: I wheezed and scratched. And I didn’t know if my heart hurt, were numb, or I were dead. That’s how I felt. Simon never mentioned a word about my violent “attack” to anyone. Certainly he was terrified that I’d tell all on him.
After carefully and casually inquiring, apprehensive of my own future, pretending that I’d been long expecting this, I said, “How come they picked today for me to go?”
Sandra responded, “I don’t know why, but the Hellers, they say they can’t keep no kids in care for a while. I don’t really know any fine points yet. Mrs. Heller or her son—none of ’em—won’t speak with me. I got a call this morning early from my supervisor.” Looking at me, taking a deep breath, wearing that social worker look of compassionate concern, puckering her large lips, she added, “Foster parents—they do have a right to drop this on the county all of a sudden like this. It be unfortunate. My supervisor try to reason with Mrs. Heller. There ain’t nothin we can do. On account a this we be reluctant to call on them in the future, only we desperate for foster homes.” She shook her head.
I recalled the murmuring voices of Mrs. Heller and Simon last night when he’d returned from the hospital, no doubt stitched and in a cast. I didn’t see him, didn’t want to either. I don’t know what he told them at the hospital, and who knows what he told his mother. I knew they were on and off the telephone through the evening. I thought about how much I hated Simon. I wished he were dead. I was so afraid, filled with a fear whose mortar had its footing in shame, so ashamed of anyone here—anywhere—finding out about his drunken sexual assaults on me. At the same time, I sort of knew that I had to tell somebody. I was half happy that I was out of there, but half in dread of where I was headed. I had this horribly fatalistic feeling that it was over for me.
It was a Sunday, a bright and sunny morning. I could hear resounding from somewhere in the outskirts, amplified church bells as they chimed charming old hymns over the graceful May forenoon, into the breeze which seemed to blow smoothly my way; hymns summoning a congregation to worship; ones I recalled once singing, or certainly hearing sung, when I’d attended with the Sparks’. It brought such a sudden flood of memory. I could envision those days; I could smell those smells; I could feel that brief feeling of security that had been so real, yet so fleeting; I could sense this all in one ephemeral moment. It was intoxicating. That moment somehow brought me an unknowable, almost mysterious sense of promise; but that moment followed with a predictable sense of longing, of painful craving for Mommy Lucinda’s touch, for Daddy’s shadow. I wondered who would want to take me in now, with my record of violent outbursts? I then thought about Abby. The hurtful fear of separation felt like an impromptu thrust of a knife. Panic pulled an impetuous inquiry out of my spirit: “What about school?” My voice had quick, demanding volume.
Sandra thought for a long moment. We stood inside the foyer. “Silas, there’s less than a month before the school year’s over. I am sure we can arrange at gettin’ you to Richmond Ave school each morning till school’s out, honey. Don’t be worryin’ ’bout that, honey.”
I felt relief. I went into the huge kitchen and got some cereal for breakfast. Afterward, with my hands in my pockets, Yankee cap below my brows, head down, I moped around the grounds of the orphanage in this well-familiar despondency for about an hour. Sitting on the steps in the front, watching the yellow and white daffodils bobbing on the perimeter of the long circular driveway before the dandelion sprinkled lawn, smelling the familiar lilac fragrance, I noticed Molly coming up the driveway in her big white luxury car. An unanticipated flashback of yesterday, her face under the locust trees, the short drive, the view of her beautiful home, that same warm feeling of having someone care about me, which I’d had only late yesterday, returned to me in a twinkling. I stood, smiled, readjusted my cap so my eyes weren’t so shadowed.
Braking, opening her door, rising, smiling, looping her handbag strap over her shoulder, walking toward me in bleached denim jeans and jacket and sunglasses, Molly said, “Sandra called me first thing, Silas. I wanted to come as soon as I could!” She looked so lovely before the vista of green behind her. “You okay, kiddo?”
“I guess so.” I felt angry, strangely angry even with her.
She promptly hugged me. At fourteen now, I stood slightly taller. Her scent had always been the same, I thought, recalling these hugs at my smaller, earlier stages: beneath her chin with my ear against her heart; earlier at her waist with her hand on my back; earlier yet at her thigh with her comforting hand on my head and neck; and even earlier, recalling faded glimpses way back surrounding the time under those apple blossoms, at the height of her knee. How often I’d been comforted, how often her clothing had absorbed my tears. I hugged her, only this time I did not cry. I felt dead inside. I was on the verge of despondency.
“We need to talk don’t we, kiddo?”
I didn’t respond.
“Hey kiddo!” She moved her face closer to mine, trying to find my eyes. “Can we talk?”
I nodded, searching her sight where her shades veiled her eyes. She removed them, squinting, allowing me to see her eyes. “Can we go for a ride?” I said.
“Sure. Let me tell them inside. Hop in, kiddo.” She ascended, stepped inside. She still had this commanding influence here, even though she’d stopped working years earlier. I s
at, slammed, buckled my seatbelt, waited.
About five or ten minutes later she finally came out. I guessed she talked to Sandra and others about the Hellers and my case and all. We drove away. “Silas, what happened over at the Hellers?”
“Nothin’.” My caustic tone stabbed.
“Silas!”
“Nothin’. Why?” I wondered if Simon told.
“You can tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Silas, I know you. I can just tell, kiddo. Something’s wrong. Something happened and I want you to tell me.”
I felt the knot of anger in my chest. I was angry at Molly. I didn’t want to be. I just felt it. I ignored her, remaining silent for minutes.
“Silas, I want you to talk to me. You have to talk to me. You know you can trust me.”
This was what I needed. I needed to talk, and that’s just what I did. I spilled my guts. I told her everything about what happened after she’d left yesterday. I told her about how I slammed creepy Simon twice with the bat, from both ends, and as I recounted, narrating, I became further ignited with anger.
“It’s because he kept bothering me and I couldn’t take it anymore! He kept bothering me! And that’s why he didn’t tell Sandra and the agency about how I broke his arm and smashed his face—cause he’s afraid I’ll tell all about how he kept bothering me!”
“What do you mean bothering you?”
I hesitated.
“What was he doing? What did he do, Silas?”
“Bothering me! Tryin’ to do stuff to me! Always trying to do stuff!” I was too ashamed to tell Molly everything, about how far he’d actually gone in bothering me, about how often. Molly kept her vision forward on the road. As it was Sunday morning, the roads were somewhat empty. “Oh Silas, I’m so sorry, honey. See this is what gets me so angry,” she said, slamming her palm on her steering wheel.
“What?”
“Everything. The whole messed-up system!” She kept driving. She grew quiet, thinking. I knew she knew things about this foster care system that I didn’t know, and that the big flaws, ones in the big panorama, really distressed her. I think she also somehow knew, could somehow tell because she knew me so well, that Simon did go beyond an attempt, and did transgress, and that she knew, at least could imagine, of the shame that I was feeling. Once she placed her hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry about this, Silas.”
“Not your fault.”
“Those people will never care for another child!”
“Molly, I don’t want to make a big thing!”
“I know. I understand. And I don’t want to drag you into anything. Don’t you worry. We’ll leave it now. But for now I’m going to make sure the name Heller will be erased, for good!”
We drove to one of the ocean shore parks and got out of the car and just sat on the front of her hood looking at the crashing waves, smelling the briny air. It was so nice. The sun felt pleasant and mild and the breeze easeful, and the sand glistened in wan-white before the dark blue and sparkling white breakers of the Atlantic. We sat quiet. Beach grass shivered, shining, combed and woven in the slack fingers of the wind. Molly sat right beside me. She reached and held my hand, the same way a mother would, I imagined. I loved that. I didn’t care that I was fourteen and that it might have been socially childish. It just felt so good for her to hold my hand in this maternal way. I let her hold my hand close, strong, steady. I didn’t want her to let go. I once heard her take a deep breath, exasperated, and I looked at her face, noticing the rill of a teardrop beneath her sunglasses on her cheek.
This speechless reticence lasted some time, and then I said, “I’m sure hopin’ I don’t have to move to another school district next year. God, I hate that! I really like Abby too!”
Molly didn’t say anything, but I knew she heard me. It seemed she didn’t want to let go of my hand as much as I didn’t want her to.
“Do ya think you or Sandra could make it so I could get in a place near Richmond Avenue School?”
Molly didn’t say a word. The ocean kept whispering.
After a while longer we left, and Molly took me back to the orphanage.
At the end of the long driveway she shifted her car into park, “Silas, I’m going to come back later today to see you,” she said with her car running before the concrete steps. “Why don’t ya read awhile, kiddo.”
“Doesn’t do no good.”
“I think it’ll cheer ya up!”
I shrugged.
“Go ahead. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Good medicine! Ya know!”
“Okay, Molly. I’ll be here. See ya. Thanks for takin’ me to the beach. You don’t have to come though.”
“I wanna just straighten something out, Silas, and then I want to see you again later. I’m workin’ on something. Okay, kiddo?”
I knew by the way she said this that something was up, and that she certainly would be back later that Sunday. It made me look toward the potential monotony of the day as something more sufferable, making the gloom of my situation less gloomy. I had something, as trivial as that something was, to look forward to for that day.
I did what Molly suggested. I got my New Testament and sat on one of the Adirondack chairs in the shade of the premises of that orphanage, and I read the whole Gospel of Matthew. What was strange was how I remained glued to that narrative and glued to that chair until I was finished, pausing only occasionally to discover with my eyes, my surroundings, and the sky. From clustering clouds sunbeams like a waterfall spilled like strands of filament, sputtering into drips and spray halfway down the long decline of sky. I could hear the steady elegies of wild birds from above in the limbs of the linden trees, lasting as though in a mysterious duration of withheld time. From that shady covertness where I dug through pages searching for light like a mole in his burrowing, I allowed the print to steer my thinking. I don’t know how long it was, maybe two hours. The fragrance of lilac and the tang of thawed, moist earth spread evenly in the air. The natural perfume was raw, pristine, clean.
Only moments after I finished, Molly returned, with Bob driving. As he parked, they spotted me waving to them from my linden shaded corner. I felt more electrified and in awe that Bob came with Molly. To me, he’d always simply been the busy, husband-lawyer whom Molly always alluded to lovingly. They walked briskly toward me. I stood, smiling, peaceful, strangely feeling like I suddenly lived on some newborn planet. Angelic beings encircled me, I imagined.
My focus fixed on Bob, who in his casual Sunday clothes, smiled at me, saying with a crescendo, “Silas, good to see you buddy!” His long arm sent his warm hand to grasp mine. He embraced me, compressing my frame, hugging, patting my back with honest warmth. He then held each of my shoulders, looking down into my eyes. His were a trenchant blue before his ashen sweatshirt, blue like the blue windows between the gathering pleats of clouds in the May firmament above us. Molly simply smiled with a constant, silent laugh.
“Sit down, Silas,” he said.
We all fell into the depth of those hardwood Adirondack chairs.
“It’s nice here,” Molly said.
“Yeah,” I responded a moment later.
“Quiet spot,” Bob said, nodding.
We rested by this fire of each other’s quiet company for a moment, and we spoke a few words into its warmth, simple words that seemed to sing songs that could dispel a dozen devils. I glanced to my side, across a short expanse of dandelion smattered green into the yard beside the county’s real estate, and could see an old man sitting alone, beside his yellow-brown dog. The man’s head nodded from side to side. His voice could be heard, but words hung inaudibly. The dog sniffed what I guessed were the flower-smells, the softened earth, finally rising and plodding away with a waving tail. The sound of a faraway electric horn of a ship could be heard above a farther siren and the many other well-known sounds of this city.
After a spell of absorbing that setting, those momentary glimpses of each other, fla
shbacks from the design of the past decade and a half, I noticed Molly, smiling, nodding to Bob. Bob then leaned forward from the sinking angle of his chair, weaving his fingers loosely together. His eyes beamed into mine with a paternal smile of tenderness. “Silas, we want to step out in boldness and take you into our home.”
I felt my brows lift, my eyes widen with inquiry, conceiving in my mind a still life, a picture, a likeness of the wonderfully sullied, slippery, sculpting hands of the God in the New Testament tale I’d just read; of the face of Jesus, of his hands forming, holding this moment, the three of us, this situation, my life with its past and its future, grasping it all firmly and carefully as he does with all of creation. It was a mental portraiture. I saw in my mind his hands, his snow-whiteness. I could hear my own involuntary voice utter, “Really? You’re not kidding?” I couldn’t believe this.
“Really,” he said, looking over at Molly.
Molly stared at me with a grin, a smile that, thrust from the stretching influence of her own years of suffering, had broadened, deepened. She looked away from me toward her Bob, sustaining that same steady smile. She remained steady with this beam which held the music always resounding from her heart.
“I want to be your dad.” He paused. “And Molly wants to be your mom. I’m not talking about foster care. We want to adopt you, Silas! How does this all sound to you?”
I looked aside for a moment, then up into the music of the linden trees’ limbs. I could feel the pleasurable pain of emotion in my chest, which seeped, which craved to spring pools into my eyes. I thought I heard a choir singing from some distant church. “Do you hear that?” I said.
“What?” said Bob.
“That singing.”
Silas Dillon of Cary County Page 23
