“What happened, exactly?’ I pulled out my notebook from my jacket and took a pen from its binding.
“Well…” He took a deep breath and for the first time he seemed a bit nervous. He put his hands through his hair again. His mother went to take one of his hands and he brushed it away.
“Everyone was drinking beer, I guess. Too much beer.” He laughed nervously. “Anyway, I had too much beer and this kid, Steve, I noticed a few weeks before he was paying a lot of attention to Carly…Carly Rodenbaugh. We were dating at the time.”
“Were?” I said.
“Yeah…yes sir. We don’t really anymore, I guess.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged his shoulders and began to crack his knuckles. “I guess we just got tired of each other.”
“It didn’t have anything to do with what happened last summer?”
“Not really.”
“So…you got into a fight with Steve Brown because he was…what? talking with Carly and you didn’t like that?”
“That was part of it, but not all of it. He smokes a lot of weed and I thought he maybe was influencing Carly.”
“Was he?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, she was smoking with him that night.” He looked at me and smiled. “I guess she can’t get in trouble for something she did in the past.”
“I’m not worried about that. I just want you to be honest.” I looked over at Mrs. Beck and she glanced at her son. “I checked with the hospital and I see he had to have plastic surgery on his nose. I guess you broke it pretty badly.”
“He didn’t press charges,” he said. “I mean, I must’ve apologized to him about a million times. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
His voice lowered for the last part. Contrition? “I was drunk.”
I looked at his mother as I asked the next question. “So I guess it would be safe to say you are a pretty jealous guy. Is that fair to say?”
She smiled at me, but chose to be quiet. I wondered if she’d seen evidence of his jealousy before this.
He shrugged his shoulder, again. “I guess you could say that. I really cared for Carly and I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to hang around with someone who was using drugs.”
“So Steve Brown was into stuff other than pot?”
He knitted his brow for a moment and then said, “I don’t know, sir, I guess you’d have to ask him that.”
“Are there rumors that he does?”
“I’ve heard some things, I guess. Nothing I could prove, but I didn’t want Carly hanging out with kids like that.” He looked at me and his eyes intensified. “I’ve learned since then you can’t make people do what you want them to do.”
Again, I watched his mother as I asked the next question.
“Did you know Truman Engroff?”
His mother jerked her head toward Tom and then toward me. She put her hand on her son’s arm. “I don’t want him to answer that question.”
“It’s a simple question, Mrs. Beck. I assume most everyone knows about Truman if they didn’t know him.”
She shook her head, and I could tell she’d been told not to allow this line of questioning to occur. This time Tommy put his hand on his mother’s arm. “It’s okay, Mom.”
He looked at me and nodded. “Yes, I knew Truman. I didn’t know him well. He was a grade behind me. But he grew up here like I did.”
I decided I’d get as many questions in before his mother put a stop to it.
“You knew that he and Carly Rodenbaugh were good friends.”
He laughed with a short bark. “EVERYONE knew they were friends. They were like sister and brother.”
“You say sister and brother because…what? They couldn’t be anything else. I mean, if they were so close, why not girlfriend and boyfriend?”
Tommy’s smile broadened. He hunkered down in his seat the way I’d seen so many kids do, with their shoulders collapsing into a kind of smugness.
“I mean, it would be hard for that to be, seeing what Truman was.” And then instantly he put his hands out, palms forward. “I liked Truman, sir. Everyone liked him…or at least respected him. The dude was super smart, but weird.”
“How weird?”
“Well, I mean, you just have to read the papers. He was gay. I guess everyone knew that, including Carly.”
“Did she talk to you about that? About him being gay?”
“No, she didn’t. I don’t know if anyone really knew until…until he died, at least I didn’t.”
“So if that’s the case, you’d probably have been a little jealous of their friendship.”
“No,” he said quickly. “I’m really not jealous, sir. What happened with Steve and me had to do with him and Carly smoking weed. I didn’t like that. She understood that after a while.” He looked at me to be sure I got the point. “As a matter of fact, we stayed together until this past Christmas, I think.”
“You’re not sure…”
“He doesn’t have to be sure, Nelson!”
We all turned to see Rich Beck standing in the entrance to the room. “You said you wanted to ask him about a fight.”
I stood and so did Tommy.
“I did,” I said.
“He did, Dad.”
Rich Beck put his hand out to silence his son. He glared at his wife and then worked on a smile for me.
“Come on, Nelson. You didn’t say anything about questions about the Engroff kid. I don’t want Tommy saying anything about that…especially considering what happened to my wife yesterday.”
“It just naturally led to that, Mr. Beck. As you can well imagine, I ask everyone about Truman Engroff.”
“I can appreciate that, Nelson, but I don’t want Tommy questioned about this. If you have questions to ask him, it’ll be in the presence of our lawyer.”
“I guess I’ve asked all I need to ask him anyway.” I looked again toward Tommy. “Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions, Tom. Tell you the truth, this all stemmed from Carly Rodenbaugh. Of course I interviewed her about Truman Engroff, and somehow that led to the fight you and Steve Brown had last summer.” I saw Tommy stiffen for a second and I wondered why. He quickly relaxed. “I was curious about that and so I went to see Steve Brown.”
“I’m sure this is all very interesting, Nelson, but we haven’t eaten. I’d invite you for a drink, but it’s getting late.” Beck looked at his watch and then at his wife.
“I just want you to know, Tom, that what happened with Steve Brown is pretty serious business. If he’d pressed charges, you’d be in some bad trouble.”
Tommy nodded seriously. Rich didn’t say anything, and his wife finally stood and walked toward me.
“I have to get things ready for dinner, Mr. Parachuk. I think you need to know that Tommy’s a good boy. What happened last summer has never happened before and I’m sure will never happen again.” She put her hand on her son’s shoulder, patted it and then walked past me and her husband.
I watched her leave and then I again looked at Tommy. “I could press the Browns to press some charges, but I won’t. I’m sure your mother’s right, Tom.”
“Thank you, sir. I didn’t ever want that to happen, and if it hadn’t been for the beer it wouldn’t have.” He looked at his father, who frowned toward him. Irony, I thought, as we stood not twenty feet from a well-stocked bar.
“Tommy has a future, we think, with baseball,” Rich Beck said, a sudden effusiveness eclipsing the anger of a minute before. “He won’t have time for any nonsense from here on out, no tomfoolery.”
He laughed at his own joke—one he’d used quite often judging from his son’s response. Beck took a few steps closer to Tommy and me, looked back at the doorway and then said, “All three of us know this fucking kid is going to the majors if he keeps on the track he’s on right now.”
He eyed me and went on. His son shuffled with embarrassment.
“You were quite a ballplayer in your own right, Nelson. You kno
w what this game does for someone who plays it well. It defines who we are as a people in this country. Older than the Chevrolet or…” He seemed unable to think of another comparison. “Tommy here knows he carries a lot of burden because of his talent. He knows what happened last summer was just a freak thing.”
He looked at his son and put his meaty hand on his shoulder. Tommy nodded in agreement, but I could tell he wanted all of this to end. I did, too. I had a bad taste in my mouth and I reminded myself to see if Sam Beck was also an athlete. I had a feeling this little family felt a lot of pressure from the head of the household.
“I thank both of you for your time,” I said.
Rich Beck turned his attention toward me, putting his hand on my shoulder now.
“We’re all men here, Nelson. The kid had a little too much to drink and he got pissed because some kid, some freak nerd, was coming on to his girl. Tryin’ to get her to smoke some grass and then probably get her pants off. All you have to do is look at the Rodenbaugh girl and you know why Tommy here got pissed.” He lightly nudged me in the ribs. “Know what I mean?”
I ducked under and away from Rich Beck’s hand and looked over at Tommy.
“I’ll keep track of you in the papers, Tom. Every so often I drive out to watch a little of a game. You’re a hell of a player.”
Tommy smiled genuinely, I think, for the first time that night.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve seen you there a few times. I appreciate you comin’ out to support the team. We have a good chance this year with Matting and Gibson in the lineup.”
“I’ll let myself out, guys,” I said. “You take care, and thanks for letting me come over.”
“You bet!” Rich Beck said in a voice too loud for the occasion.
I walked to the entranceway and looked back. Rich Beck was making his way to the bar and Tommy was picking up a Sports Illustrated from the coffee table. I walked past the kitchen and Mrs. Rich was at the stove stirring something in a large pot. I thought to say thank you, but decided against it. She’d probably had enough for the evening and, I thought as I let myself out the door into the cool, spring evening, her night had only begun.
Ethan
Twelve days after Truman’s death
Amy and I began to run when I was in my late twenties and Amy must’ve been twenty-five. She started first, and because I saw such a difference in the new energy she displayed, I started to run with her. Only a mile or so at first, but as we got stronger the distance increased. Again, Amy was the one who decided we should run road races. I was reluctant. I’d seen how adults begin to obsess over hobbies—silly, logoed clothing to bike; intense, pencil-thin runners; rock climbers with long hair and tanned, muscular calves.
But when we went to our first race, with a promise from Amy that she’d buy me an expensive dinner and copious amounts of beer, I liked the environment. Not everyone was intense; many people were just there to have fun, meet people, shed some pounds. Of course, the gazelles were there, returning to the start line before Amy and I had even reached the mile-and-a- half mark.
But we got better. We got stronger. Sometimes we took Truman. Amy and I had designated runners. Before the race we’d designate who’d go with Truman. The other one of us would go at our own pace or stay with Truman for a while and then run on. And he would run along with us, his head wagging back and forth, thinking Truman thoughts until he’d get so involved in whatever he was thinking he’d stop, almost causing collisions. It was a nice thing for us to do together, though, like everything with Tru, it was difficult to tell how much he enjoyed the events. He wasn’t a complainer. Never. We just often wondered what he was thinking. He hardly ever told us.
One weekend the three of us headed down to Red Bank, New Jersey, for the George Sheehan Classic. It was a 10k race, our first of that distance. We drove down on a Friday early in the afternoon. Truman had been raised on Cape Cod beaches, and had never seen dramatic waves, so we knew this would be a new adventure for him. We were curious to see how Tru would respond.
I remember Amy had secured a hotel room early on because, had we relied on me, I’d have procrastinated until all the rooms were taken and we’d have had to drive down and back the day of the race. Once we settled into our room, we decided to get into our bathing suits and drive to the local beach. I don’t recall the name, but I do recall we were lucky to find a parking spot.
As we got out of the car we could hear the waves crashing on the shore. The weather was typical New Jersey summer fare: hot, opaque skies, white moisture as part of the scenery and humid.
We’d brought our towels and sun lotion and little else. Truman was not the kind of kid who wanted shovels or trucks; he would find his own entertainment. Amy and I each took a book and a few for Tru if he got bored. Once we’d settled—quite a distance from the water because it was so crowded—I took Tru to the edge of the ocean. The waves had to have been five or six feet as they rolled and crashed into the shore, and I thought how odd it must have been for my son, after being so used to the waves on the cape.
Seldom did Truman ever care to hold hands, but this time he did. I felt the warmth of his hand in mine despite the heat of the day, and I wanted to stand there for as long as this sudden demonstration of affection lasted. I knew he wasn’t frightened, but I could tell he was captivated by what he was seeing. He looked out at the ocean for the longest time and I wanted to bend down and kiss the top of his blond head, the crown of that dome that had brought such grand pleasure to me from the moment he’d been born. Then he looked up at me with his very black eyes and I could see he was full of awe. I didn’t speak; I’d learned long ago to be silent at such times.
He looked out again and I had to look myself. Perhaps there was something out there I was missing. But there wasn’t. Just some brave souls diving into the waves and then surfacing slicked and sun glistened with tanned shoulders and plastered hair, screaming with pleasure at their own daring. I hoped Truman wasn’t going to ask me to take him into the waves. I was not a very good swimmer and I was nervous about riptides. He tugged on my hand, and I looked down at his beautiful, contemplative face.
“Daddy,” he said. Daddy seemed to be reserved for certain moments—when he felt tender, or full of wonder. He looked out at the waves again as if something was out there he hadn’t considered until just then. But the look was fleeting and he turned to me again. “Who fills this thing, anyway?”
I didn’t know how to answer the question. I could say God, but that would be an easy out, and I wasn’t sure it was true, anyway. Of course, the important part wasn’t the answer, but the question. What mattered was that Truman had asked the question. Who fills this thing, anyway? My Truman. My curious and tender son. He was five.
I was frightened about Amy. It wasn’t just that she’d called the Beck woman or that she was drinking heavily and not leaving the house; it was that she hated me. She avoided me at every turn. We hadn’t shared the same bedroom since the day we’d learned of our son’s death. Now we were no longer eating together, either. Except for the night she’d woken me to tell me Truman was in his room, we’d hardly spoken.
Like Amy, I was full of rage. But not at her. I was angry at the person who had killed our son, driven a stake through the heart of our relatively happy lives. Even if there was an ephemeral moment when I woke and felt the sun on my face, a moment of bright optimism, it was erased almost immediately by the fact of Truman’s death. The feeling would thicken as I forced myself to get out of bed, make coffee, wear the alcohol from the night before, blanketing my mind until I could make it to my office and the solace of the closed door and the whiskey in my drawer. I didn’t exhibit my feelings in front of Amy, and I knew from the first week that she thought I had accustomed myself to Truman’s death, or rather, as she saw it, his temporary disappearance.
And that’s what frightened me the most, because she’d always had complete faith in the fact that we both loved Truman equally. Yes, perhaps she had been more commu
nicative with him, more willing to share her feelings with him. But she always knew, despite my difficulty with talking about emotions, that my love for Truman was as deeply rooted in me as hers. Now, she no longer believed that was true. I could tell I’d become the enemy in her grieving mind, and I wanted to do something to prove she was wrong. But what could I do? I couldn’t encourage her delusion, or her constant vigil. I had to do what was right for me, whether or not it ended our marriage.
Since Truman’s death I’d found myself in the library during the middle hours of every night, often re-reading the first three pages of a biography of John Adams. I kept reading the same words every sleepless night, written by Abigail Adams, in the forward to the first section of the book: Ye cannot be, I know, nor do I wish to see, an inactive spectator…we have too many high-sounding words, and too few actions that correspond with them. Were those words supposed to mean something to me? I wanted to read the words to Amy to see her reaction.
On the twelfth day, at three in the morning and after my second glass of Wild Turkey, as I sat in the library with John Adam’s biography open to his wife’s words, I heard the swish of slippered feet in the hall and I caught a glimpse of Amy pass by on her way to the dayroom. I followed her and stood in the doorway watching her pour a glass of wine and then go to the couch. She hadn’t seen me. She was looking out at the back lawn, the French doors now black with the night. I watched her drink from the wine glass, place it on the coffee table and sweep her hair from her face.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked from the doorway.
She wasn’t startled by my voice. She turned on the couch to look at me.
“What should you do, Ethan?”
“I only wonder because we don’t talk and I keep asking myself why that is. It’s clear you blame me for Truman’s death…or at least you partially blame me. So what am I to do?”
“If I told you, it would only make you laugh. You already think I’m mad. You would like to lock me away somewhere so you can get on with your life.”
Beneath the Weight of Sadness Page 16
