When I Found You

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

  “I’m beginning to see why not,” Nathan said.

  Nat glanced up anxiously in the half-dark, then away again. He did not reply. He apparently did not dare.

  “What did you do for those three Wednesdays when you weren’t at work? Were you with that girl?”

  The boy squeezed his eyes shut. “You talked to LaPlante. Huh? That’s what I was afraid of. When I saw that note you left me.”

  “When a young man is your age—”

  “That wasn’t it. I wasn’t with Carol. I was at Little Manny’s. My trainer. Training two days a week just wasn’t getting it. It’s just not enough. I was never gonna get where I was going. If I could train full-time I’d be ready in six or seven months. Maybe eight. But just weekends … It’s like spinning your wheels. You might as well not be doing it at all.”

  A silence followed, a silence so complete that the sound of the refrigerator motor cycling on in the kitchen seemed startlingly loud.

  Nathan pulled a long, deep breath before speaking.

  “I’ll need a little time to think how I want to handle this situation. But one thing I do want to tell you right now. If you ever lie to me again … No. Wait. Let me start that sentence all over again, from the beginning. Don’t ever lie to me again. Are we clear?”

  “Very clear, sir.”

  “My name is not sir.”

  “Very clear, Nathan.”

  • • •

  Eleanor had already turned off the bedroom light. Nathan closed the door behind him and found his way to bed by feel.

  He was surprised that Eleanor had not closed the door. She always closed the door.

  Then again, he supposed she might have wanted to hear.

  “Are you awake?” Nathan asked quietly.

  “What kind of training? Training for what?”

  “Nat wants to be a professional boxer.”

  “God help us all,” Eleanor said.

  “I started to tell him that if he ever lied to me again … See, I can’t even finish the sentence now. If he lied to me again, then I would react how? Do what? Wash my hands of him? I promised him I never would. Throw him away? That would make three out of three.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason everybody throws him away.”

  “I find it hard to believe that he irreparably offended his mother in the first four or five hours of his life.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. In the dark, he felt himself unclear as to whether the conversation was over. It didn’t feel over.

  Then she said, “Are you trying to say that no matter what that boy does he will continue to have your support?”

  “Why … yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “So whatever kind of trouble he brings into our lives, we just have to sit here and accept it?”

  “I wish you hadn’t already made up your mind that he’ll be nothing but trouble.”

  “Goodnight, Nathan.”

  “Please try to have an open mind about the boy.”

  “Goodnight, Nathan.”

  A pause, while he weighed the potential benefits of saying more. Then a sigh, which he tried to keep silent.

  “Goodnight,” he said.

  25 November 1978

  A World Without Boundaries

  Nathan awoke to discover that the first good, deep snow of the season had fallen overnight.

  He stood a few moments at the bedroom window, surveying the yard. All the boundaries of the world disappeared after a good snow. Nathan had always noticed that. The seemingly sturdy, dependable dividing lines between his yard and his neighbor’s yard, or the sidewalk and the street, simply disappeared. Erased by white.

  As if the world were advising him not to put too much faith in such markings. That perhaps these lines had never been entirely real to begin with.

  This morning, though, Nathan’s appreciation of the pristine scene was dulled by a graininess in his eyes and a slightly unsettled digestion, the reminders of a spotty and unsuccessful night’s sleep.

  He looked down at Eleanor, still sleeping. It was early. Barely after five.

  It’s a happy turn of events that this is a Sunday, he thought. Everyone can have a good, hot breakfast, read the Sunday paper, and wake up slowly before tackling the big shoveling jobs.

  Nathan put on his robe and made his way to the kitchen for coffee.

  He found Nat already sitting at the table in the half-dark, wrapped in the hunter green quilt from his bed.

  “Nat?” Nathan turned on the kitchen light and the boy winced and blinked miserably, but said nothing. “Are you cold?”

  “I’m always cold.”

  “You can turn up the heat if you’re cold.”

  “I can?”

  “Of course. That’s what the heat is for.”

  Nathan sat in the chair next to the boy’s. Leaned in a bit closer. “I was awake a long time last night …”

  “Yeah, I was awake all of it.”

  “… thinking what would be the most appropriate action to take regarding our situation.”

  Nat’s face grew whiter. More miserable, if such a thing were even possible. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he said.

  Nathan could tell he meant it quite literally.

  “The sink, Nat.”

  The boy jumped up and stumbled toward the sink, tripping over the quilt and catching himself against the kitchen counter. When he had made it to the sink, he stood a moment, frozen, hands gripping the edge. Blessedly, nothing happened.

  Nathan walked over and put his hand on the boy’s back through the quilt.

  “Are you OK, Nat?”

  “OK, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m not going to be sick,” Nat said. “Oh. Uh-oh. Maybe I am.”

  “I’ve decided to give you your six to eight months to train.”

  A ringing silence. Over Nat’s head, another view of the white, boundary-free world of the side yard.

  “What?”

  “That’s how I’ve decided to handle our situation.”

  “You’re giving me … giving me how? What does that mean?”

  “The way I see it is this: I wasn’t planning on charging you for your room and board anyway. I insisted that you hold a job on principle. I didn’t want you lying around the house playing with your dog all day. It’s not a healthy way to live, in my opinion. I wanted to insist that you be working hard. Accomplishing something. Putting your energy into a good direction, to build something. But I was up last night thinking. And I decided, that’s exactly what you’re trying to do with your training. You’re trying to work hard to accomplish something that’s important to you. So I withdraw my insistence that you be employed while living under my roof. For as long as eight months.”

  “I can’t believe you would do that for me.” Nat still faced away, over the sink and looking out the window.

  “I know it means a great deal to you.”

  “I … That’s … I don’t know what to say.”

  “One thing will be challenging, though. I’m not going to give you any money. No allowance, no nickel-and-dime loans. I expect you to handle your own life, so your finances are your responsibility. You’ll have no money at all. Not even bus fare.”

  “I can walk to Little Manny’s.”

  “No money to take a girl on a date.”

  “Oh,” Nat said. Deflating even as the word passed through him.

  “Unless you find some way to earn a little. For example, when I was your age, I saw a morning like this one as a prime financial opportunity. I’d shovel our driveway, then sling the shovel over my shoulder and begin knocking on neighbors’ doors. Shoveling is a big job, and nobody really likes it. If an able-bodied young person is standing on your doorstep offering to take it off your hands for a few dollars, the temptation can be overwhelming.”

  No movement. No reply.

  Then the boy spun quite suddenly. Turned to face Nathan and threw his arms around him, startling the older man. The quilt fell to the kitchen floor, forgott
en.

  Nathan stood with his arms still at his sides, unable to react quickly. Before he could even decide whether or not to return the embrace, Nat had picked up the quilt and scrambled away.

  “I’ll go get dressed,” the boy said.

  “Nat. Wait. You can’t knock on anybody’s door at this hour.”

  But it was too late. He was already gone.

  No matter, Nathan thought. He would catch the boy on his way out the door.

  He made a quick trip to the living room, where he turned up the thermostat by five degrees. Then he went back into the kitchen to start a much-needed pot of coffee.

  Nat stuck his head back into the kitchen. “I thought you were going to tell me to get out,” he said.

  “I can understand how you would be gun-shy on that score,” Nathan replied.

  He looked up, prepared to say more, but Nat had gone.

  • • •

  “Oh, that’s telling him,” Eleanor said.

  Nathan had been somewhat prepared for her reaction. He knew she would take exception to his thinking on the matter. But he had not expected sarcasm to come out of her mouth. So far as he could remember, she had never spoken sarcastically to him.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her brush her hair in front of the mirror at the dresser. He had never seen her brush it quite so viciously before.

  “It’s his dream.”

  “To hit people for a living? To go around with black eyes and stitches in his lip and butterfly bandages holding the skin under his eyebrow together? To hang out in seedy places with seedy people? To take bets on whether he can knock some big bruiser down before he’s put in the hospital himself? That’s the dream you want to support in him?”

  Nathan took a deep breath and considered his words carefully.

  “Every word you just said adds up to one thing and one thing only. In my mind, anyway. That it’s Nat’s dream, not yours. You can’t tell someone to pursue their dream only if it’s a good match for your own. You can’t dictate what dream he should pursue.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides and turned to face him directly.

  “You went back on your word,” she said, pointing the hairbrush at him. “Your one absolute condition for his living here was that he had to hold a job.”

  “I know,” Nathan said. “I know that.” He paused again, to gather his thoughts. It seemed that the careful selection of words had never been more crucial. “I seem to remember that Gandhi once said his commitment was to truth, not consistency. Not that I’m comparing myself to the man in any way. Just borrowing some of his wisdom.”

  Eleanor looked to the bedroom window, as if something had caught her eye. “I thought you said he was shoveling snow for the neighbors.”

  Nathan looked out the window and saw that Nat had shoveled almost to the garage in their own driveway. “Maybe because I told him it was too early to knock on doors.”

  “Maybe because it’s easier to ask you for money than it is to ask a stranger. I always taught my son that a certain amount of work around the house was part of what it meant to live there. Especially after age eighteen.”

  “I would tend to agree with that.”

  “I never had these problems with my own son.”

  “You had the advantage of influencing his behavior from day one.”

  “So what will you say when he comes back in and tells you that will be twenty dollars?”

  “Maybe that’s an ‘if’ and not a ‘when.’ Eleanor. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I really don’t say this in criticism of you. But I feel that I need to say it, because I believe it’s true. I think the fact that you have this chip on your shoulder against Nat is what’s causing the bulk of the unrest around here.”

  She didn’t answer.

  She set her brush down on the dresser and walked out of the room.

  Nathan found her in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “So,” she said. “The problem is not that I have this big nail sticking into my foot. Digging in every time I take a step. The problem is that I mind it.”

  Nathan sighed. “How is he hurting you, Eleanor? How does it even affect you? Can you please explain to me how it directly injures you if Nat goes to his trainer’s every day instead of to a job on a loading dock?”

  Before she could even answer, Nat appeared in the kitchen doorway, still bundled against the cold, and very much out of breath.

  “Nat,” Eleanor said. “You’re dripping all over my clean floor.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I did our driveway. No charge for that, of course. Now I’m going to go out and see if I can earn some money.”

  He hurried out again.

  Eleanor simply turned back to her coffee, and Nathan wisely decided not to say it. Not only would he avoid saying “I told you so,” but he would avoid saying any more on the subject at all.

  He tore a few paper towels off the roll and mopped up the melted snow that had dripped off Nat’s winter boots.

  4 March 1979

  Like, Pretty Much Any Minute Now

  “Oh, my goodness,” Eleanor said when she heard the front door slam. “Nat’s home for dinner. Nat hasn’t been home for dinner in months.”

  “I think it will be good to see him,” Nathan said. Carefully laying out his view that Nat’s presence was a welcome surprise.

  Nearly every day since last November, Nat had been gone by the time they got to the breakfast table, leaving only a dirty cereal bowl in the sink as evidence that he lived in the house at all. Eleanor always left a dinner plate in the refrigerator for him, covered in plastic wrap. Nathan often heard the boy come in as late as midnight.

  He’d initially thought it was the sign of an active social life, but Nat had re-educated him. Carol always needed to be home by nine. House rules. The reason Nat stayed out so late was because his trainer, the man Nat called Little Manny, had to wait until after closing time to let them both into the downstairs gym with his key. Training involved more than just hitting punching bags, he was told. It was an overall system of fitness, and required a lot of professional equipment.

  Nathan hated to admit it, but things had finally settled down at his home, and in his marriage. Much as he wished it didn’t have to be that way, the more Nat stayed gone, the more Eleanor found her way back to happiness.

  “I’ll set an extra place,” she said.

  Nat appeared in the dining room doorway. Holding the hand of a young woman.

  Nathan knew Carol was Nat’s age, but she looked younger. She seemed slight and shy. Pretty. Very pretty, with her thick brown hair and freckled nose. Physically, she was much as Nat had described her. Yet somehow Nathan had expected her to be a tough girl. More fitting to Nat’s element. More worldly.

  Then he wondered why he would make an assumption like that. And what exactly was Nat’s element, anyway?

  “Nat,” Eleanor said. “What happened to your eye?”

  Nat’s hand came up to touch a dark, swollen bruise. “Oh. Nothing. I mean, it was just sparring. Little Manny’s been taking me to a gym across town where I can spar with some decent fighters. Nathan? Eleanor? This is Carol.”

  Nathan crossed the dining room to shake her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Carol muttered, so quietly that Nathan almost had to guess by context what she must have said.

  “We need to talk to you both,” Nat said.

  “Don’t make it sound terrible,” Carol told him. Nathan noticed that her voice gained more confidence — not to mention volume — when she spoke to Nat.

  “No, no, it’s not,” Nat said. “It’s not a bad thing. Not at all. It’s good news. And a favor. Maybe we could go sit down in the living room?”

  “We were just sitting down to dinner,” Eleanor said. “I was just setting an extra place for you, Nat. Are you both hungry? I could set two extra places.”

  Nat wore a look on his face that said dinner might be an entirely foreign concept to him. At least, at this
moment. As if someone had unexpectedly asked him if he wanted to go on an elephant ride or fly to Greenland.

  “Um. Is there enough?”

  “I guess there could be,” Eleanor said. “I could whip up a green salad. And we could have some bread and butter on the side.”

  “Carol eats like a bird, anyway,” Nat said. “And I’m not even very hungry.”

  “My goodness,” Eleanor said. “Since when are you not hungry after a long day of training?”

  When he’s nervous, Nathan thought. He loses his appetite when he’s nervous, or excited, or both. But of course he did not share that thought out loud.

  • • •

  “We’re getting married.”

  “Way to blurt it out, Nat.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to say it if I don’t just say it?”

  They had not even finished passing around the tuna casserole and dishing it on to their plates.

  Nathan set down his fork. “That is good news.”

  “See?” Nat said, obviously to Carol, though he wasn’t looking at her. “I told you he’d be OK.”

  Then Nat looked at Eleanor, who glanced up and caught him watching.

  “I think it’s wonderful, Nat,” she said.

  Nathan had no doubt, judging from her voice, that she spoke sincerely. He only hoped she was genuinely happy for Nat, rather than simply relieved to see him forging out on his own.

  “How long have you two known each other now?” Nathan asked.

  “About five months.”

  “That’s a reasonable enough time to start making your plans, I suppose. When were you thinking of setting the date?”

  “Soon,” Nat said.

  “How soon?”

  “Very soon.”

  “Months? Weeks?”

  “Pretty much right away.”

  Nathan dabbed at his mouth with the cloth napkin, then set it thoughtlessly beside his plate, rather than back in his lap. As if he had finished eating. “I’m not sure that’s ideal planning, Nat.”