“Thanks, sir. I’ll read it right away,” I say smiling.
“We’re friends now. Please, call me Bill. Now let’s get you back to school before they start worrying about you.”
Lunchtime is almost over and I sneak my way back into the school just as the bell to end lunch rings. Making my way down the hall, I blend in with the in-between class wash of kids. Mrs. Biel’s class—what fun.
School’s over and I see Kim and Steve waiting for the bus. They immediately ask where in the hell have I been.
“That was the world’s longest piss,” Steve says.
“Well, you know. The food here isn’t that great—stomach pains,” I deflect.
We board the bus, and, just as it is about to pull off, the bus stops and the doors swing open. “You kids were one second from being left,” Snap Mouth says in his drunken slur of words.
“Good thing for you that you stopped,” says a boy boarding the bus. And it’s the Swelchz brothers. Kim’s eyes widen as he buries himself deeper into the bus bench.
“Dammit, I thought they were gone for the whole week,” Steve mumbles.
The bus ride to the Rose that I used to enjoy so much is now more uncomfortable than a pair of rubber pants. None of us said anything to each other the whole ride back.
“All right, see you slobs tomorrow morning,” laughs the snaggletoothed, inebriated Snap Mouth as he opens the door. Everyone gets off of the bus, but we take our time until we are the last ones to leave the bus and the coast is clear.
“See, what are you guys afraid of?” Steve says. We walk up to the Rose and open the doors, making bets with Steve on what’s going to be for dinner.
“So,” says a boy behind us, “what in the hell is a Jap, a Jew, and a mongrel doing being friends?”
We turn around and it’s Harold Jr. Swelchz along with his older brother Tom and his two cousins standing outside the Rose. One of the cousins closes the door so that we can’t enter.
Harold Jr. steps from between his much bigger cousins, folds his arms and lowers his eyebrows, pointing his pupils at each of us as he speaks. “Now, I don’t like Jews. And I damn sure don’t like mongrels. But you, you chink-eyed kung-fu doll, your people killed my damn grandpappy’s brothers. Now, what are we gonna do about that, fellas?” he says, unfolding his arms and rubbing his hands together.
“Well, we may just have to return the favor there, Harold,” says Tom, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“We sure do, brother,” says a grinning Harold. “Plus, this mongrel over here has to pay his taxes,” Harold says, pointing to me.
Oh shit, George must have told them about my debt with him. It seems like every time I make a move to help us, I end up doubling down on the backlash of pain.
“It’s time to pay up, one way, or another,” says Harold, slamming his fist into his open palm.
“Hey, we didn’t do nothing to you guys,” Steve brashly says, stepping in front of Kim and me. Which I don’t think was a good move.
“Yes you did. You were born. Get ’em, boys!” says Harold.
Then everything goes dark when what feels like a wall hits me in the face. The wall wallops me in the stomach, and then I feel the cold ground come up and smack me right on the side of my body. When the light returns, my instinctive reflex kicks in and puts me in a fetal position to protect what’s left of my face from the insurmountable amount of pain I received. I can hear the kicks and punches connect against our helpless sacks of meat as Kim and Steve are getting pummeled from the Swelchzes, yet I’m powerless to do anything. Then, through the turmoil, I hear the jingling of keys.
“All right now, fun’s over!” says a familiar adult voice from a distance.
“C’mon guys, let’s go,” Tom says.
“This ain’t over, you rats,” says Harold as he gets one last kick in my stomach before he and his family run.
“C’mon now, get up,” says Joppy, standing over us with a smirk. “You kids are making my job hard trying to keep the peace. Now stay outta trouble, or I’ll see to it you’re punished, starting all of this riffraff.”
As Joppy walks off, whistling and twirling his nightstick, we pick ourselves up, each of us holding a body part. Kim has a bloody nose, while Steve and I have scrapes on our faces, and we all have lumps on our heads. We limp into the Rose and drag ourselves to the second floor lavatory. We look in the mirror at what they did to our faces and nurse what’s bleeding and hurts worst with paper towels and cold water.
“Man, screw those guys,” blusters Steve. “We didn’t do nothing to them.”
“We just gotta stick together, that’s all,” I say.
Kim is quiet and it scares me. He’s always quiet, but after something like this happening, I don’t know what’s going through his head.
That night, after what happened with the Dead End, I had something to look forward to. The book that the old man, Bill, gave me is screaming at me from inside of my backpack. I wait for Kim to fall asleep after I give him a reassuring conversation about tomorrow. Poor guy, all he has seen in life is violence. I pull the book out, and its leather-bound cover tells a story in itself. The book has to be at least half a century old.
Opening it, the pages are slightly yellowed, but are as crisp as fresh-pressed loose-leaf. The text was written masterly in some sort of old language that I could not understand. Each page was decorated with artsy pinstripes around the edges, with symbols and paintings. I stare at the pages well into the night, and they seem to speak to me. It was a parable about an ancient civilization that eventually destroyed itself because of its thirst for control.
I wake up with my face lying in the book on the page I had last read before I dozed off. It happened again, that dream of that same figure chasing me, laughing that awful laugh. Yet this time, right before the figure got me, another figure was directly in front of me. It was a young boy with a head of fiery white hair that appeared in front of me before I awakened.
I mark the page and stow the book away in my lockbox. It’s an hour before everyone usually gets up when Joppy makes his wake-up calls, banging on everyone’s door with his nightstick. I head to the bathroom to freshen up and shake off the jitters. I’ve had a splitting headache that’s intensified since I woke up. Maybe it’s the ass-kicking that I took from the Dead End yesterday that’s making my head throb. I guess a few kicks in the head could do that to you.
A month passes. The run-ins with the Dead End are few but not far between. We don’t get our asses kicked every time, but the harassment is just as bad. I’ve visited Bill, the old man, every now and then as promised. He talks about old times of his. I play chess with him, which I haven’t won yet, and get new books to read. I damned near got caught returning to school coming from the old man’s house by Mrs. Biel. She still chewed me out for general purposes, though.
With things looking pretty grim, I took Bill’s advice and sought out his military friend that he told me about. I decided to skip the whole day of school to seek out this guy. What the hell, I needed a break anyway. I gave my alibi to Steve, Ron, and Kim to tell someone if they asked where I was. I gave each of them different alibis, though.
I walk a few miles to a bus stop headed west out of the city and into the suburbs. “Welcome to Mountain Oaks” is what the sign reads as the bus makes its last stop.
I make my way up a hill, a few miles past neighborhoods and shopping centers. There’s a clearing and a building off in the distance in a small valley.
As I approach the building, I notice sculptures in the distance and colored glass windows. A church? 4251 Birchwood matches the address that Bill gave me. Mountain Oaks Catholic Church is what the sign in front says. I enter and there are a few people kneeling before the mural of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, reciting hymns and some nuns sweeping and cleaning the isles and pews.
“Sister, do you know of a man named Mire here?” I ask.
“Oh yes. Father Mire, he’s in the back. Now, what’s your name, d
ear?” the wrinkly faced, soft-spoken nun asks, squinting at me.
“I’m Dwight. He doesn’t know me, but I know a good friend of his named Bill.”
“Okay, I’ll tell him right away,” she says, walking off through the corridor.
Father? He sent me to a priest?
“Father will see you now,” says the nun as she returns.
I walk into the back and open the door and see a stout, elderly, dark-haired man standing in his robe and collar with a smile on his face like he’s delighted to see a person that he has never seen before.
“So, what can I do for you, my son?” Father Mire asks.
“Father, I’ve got a problem.”
Chapter 13: Father to Father
A confession. It’s something that I’ve never done. And as I plead my case to this man standing in front of me, I still think it’s bullshit that there’s a middleman between God and me.
His eyes pierce through me, and I start to feel that he can sense my unwillingness in delivering my transgressions or lack thereof to him as he lightly nods his head at my agitated words.
He is a stout man, a few inches shorter than me, with a head of black hair swept to one side. His eyes were like onyx marbles set into the white flesh of his plump face that was covered from cheek to cheek with a medium growth beard, well groomed and shiny.
When he spoke to me he always smiled. His attitude was much different than the other priests at the Rose and Shady Oaks, who were hell’s spawn. His face glowed with forgiveness, so I let my defenses down and listened to him.
“Well, what seems to be your problem, my son?” the father asks in his calm tone, as he sits back in his leather chair and starts to polish small biblical statues.
“I don’t know how to deal with my enemies, Father. I’ve prayed, and there seems to be no answer to what I’m going through. Can you help me?”
“Well, God does love you, my son, and he hears your prayers.” He preaches in a slow, soft voice. “There are rules to engage your enemies without causing them harm. I ask you to pray for them to change their ways and to also pray for yourself to have the strength to get through your storm. Let—”
“Yeah, okay, whatever, Father,” I interrupt. “These problems that I have need direct confrontation. I live in a Catholic boy’s home. I think God is aware of my situation. What I need is an approach that’s a little less of me not being, well, a pussy.”
The father pauses for a moment, puts down his figurine, and then slowly stands up with an oomph. “Dear Lord,” he says, walking to a table and putting a kettle of water on a hot plate. He then takes a seat and loosens his collar. “Seems that I can relax a bit now, knowing you need to not be a . . .” He waves his hand in a beckoning motion.
“A pussy, Father?” I say.
“Yes, one of those,” he says clearing his throat in discomfort.
“Well, I served in the navy in the war back in the forties. When I was in the first week of boot, we were about to do water drills, and I refused to dive in because I couldn’t swim. My drill instructor asked me why I joined the navy if I could not swim. Then, before I could get a word out of my mouth, he pushed me into the deep end. I almost drowned as he stood there looking down at me splashing about. Then my bunkmate pulled me out of the water, half dead and traumatized. But I got over my fear of water, and as soon as I shook my fear, I could learn how to swim.”
I stood there, just looking at him, puzzled by the story he had just told me.
“When you’re faced with a fear, there are two reactions. You run, or you fight. When your life depends on it, you will be surprised what you can do. Take my fear of water with your fear of your enemies. Do not fear them, respect them. Learn about them, and then you will conquer your fear. But remember, sometimes running is part of fighting. Keep your enemies chasing you until you have the advantage, and then strike.”
“Well, that makes sense,” I say. “So, Father, you served with Bill?”
“Yes, yes.” He chuckles. “Good old Dutch, or Bill, as you know him. We nicknamed him Dutch since that’s where his ancestral lineage is from. I wasn’t in the same company as he was, but we met in Pennsylvania when we were working on a battleship in the dry dock. He was a welder, and I was the electrician. Tea?”
“No, thanks, Father.”
“Yeah, those were good times. Dutch and I were the best of buddies. Still are. I haven’t talked to him in a little while. How’s he doing, by the way?”
“He’s doing fine. I spoke with him just a few days ago. I busted up his porch by accident one day. Went over to apologize, and he wasn’t upset about it. We talked and we played a game of chess. He’s really good. Haven’t beaten him yet.”
“Yes,” says Father Mire. “Dutch was always a thinker. He and his old friend always used to play before he passed.”
“His old friend?”
“Yes. Ever since his old friend passed, he never really spoke of him too much after. It was about ten years ago, to this day, I think. He was like a father to Dutch. He was also in the shipyard with Dutch and me. He was the commander of the entire project. They were like peas in a pod. Barnes and Dutch.”
Barnes? My head begins to hurt and my stomach starts to turn. I think it’s from the smell of that tea.
“That tea smells weird.”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “It definitely wakes you up in the morning. Keeps me young, though,” he says, patting his chest. Then, taking a sip of tea, he lets out a sigh. “Barnes was Dutch’s mentor. He brought him up through the rough times before and after the war.”
“So he knew him when he was younger?”
“Yes. Barnes and Dutch had known each other years before the second war. Barnes was a seasoned and decorated soldier. Had a stint in World War One and then in World War Two as a lieutenant. Dutch looked up to him in his younger days. Barnes was the reason why Dutch is the man he has become today. Barnes took him under his wing because he saw something in Dutch that Dutch couldn’t see in himself. Barnes’s foresight benefited us all in that dock back then.”
Father Mire and I talked for hours about him and his relationship with Bill, or, as he likes to call him, Dutch. I give him my farewells as I tell him I have to get back before the bus leaves me.
I leave Mountain Oaks feeling more puzzled than before I got there. The name Barnes kept ringing in my head like I knew the guy after we talked about him for so long. I then wondered why after all of this time Bill never mentioned him. He must be really important to him.
I make it back to the school just as the final bell sounds. I see my friends over near the hedges talking. “Hey guys, what’s up?”
“Where were you? Somewhere playing with your wanker again?” Ron says.
“No, I had to go and see the physician,” I tell them. “Stomach pains.” The bus pulls up and Ron leaves with his crew as we board.
We arrive at the Rose and at dinnertime we talk about what in the hell we are going to do with the Dead End. There are only the two brothers here, but they team up with the cousins and the Queer at school and sometimes the cousins show up here as well. As big as they are, trying to fight them will only get us beat to hell.
I can remember my dad always telling me during our many chess games on how you need to avoid direct confrontation by using what you have to block the strongest pieces. He was good at using his pawns to put up a wall that I always went at full force at to tear down, only to have my most valuable pieces taken from me because of my brute tactics of stupidity.
After dinner, Kim and I play a friendly game of chess that is interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Doc’s here!” Joppy yells from behind the door. All of the energy I used thinking about the Dead End made me forget that today is Wednesday. It’s the day of my weekly checkup, and Doc is punctual as usual.
I head down to the nurses office, and there he is. Black spectacles, his chart and pen in hand, clean shaven, with short brown hair and looking very young, maybe early thirties
. His eyes were lifeless, and he never showed any personality. Never asked me how I was or how I’ve been, just strictly procedure. “Disrobe, stand, cough, inhale.” He always carried that leather bag with him that has Theoretics stamped on it. I can remember my dad working for that company as a deliveryman before they laid him off. The company sometimes does philanthropic work in third world countries or in the inner cities of the US. I guess I’m a charity case.
As my body is being poked and probed with needles and instruments, the only thing that goes through my head is how it used to be when I first developed whatever I had.
Occasionally the phone would ring at a certain time of the evening, and my father would just look at the phone and was reluctant to pick it up. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing as he stared at it, like he already knew who was on the other end. I could sense aggravation and fear build in my father. “Okay, Son, time for bed,” he’d say after he turned the jazz down on his stereo. He wouldn’t even say hello; he would just pick up the receiver and listen. Through my bedroom door I’d always hear a heated conversation. He’d scream into the phone, trying to fight back to whoever was on the other end. I’d never heard my father that mad before. But, each and every time he sent me to my room when the phone rang, he turned into a different person. Maybe it was bill collectors wanting money, saying that they would put us out on the street if the debts weren’t paid.
My dad did a very good job of hiding our problems from me and from the world, but I knew what was going on with his finances after he lost his job at the paper mill. Even though he never took me to work, he said that he was a very important man at his job, so I believed him.
My dad.
A good guy at heart, a gentleman to every woman he didn’t know at the local grocer or department store. Tall and slender, dark skinned and square shouldered with a five o’clock shadow and balding on top. Always laid back, laughing and in good spirits. I can remember the Sunday nights when he would cook dinner and would play his stereo at the perfect point between racket and a whisper. The room would fill with smells of cayenne pepper and fish and sounds of hot sauce from the trumpets of the best blues players. My father would sing the tunes in scat onomatopoeia, as if he were the musician himself. In between his scat he would give me a history lesson on the music and musician as his feet tapped on the linoleum kitchen floor, still grooving to the tunes.
Chess Players: Atlantis and the Mockingbird Page 9
