Forts Special Edition: Fathers and Sons

by Steven Novak

  “Hi, Tommy!” Staci cautiously called. She lifted her hand into the air, waving for him to see.

  The boy stopped briefly, glancing toward her with his sad eyes. He said nothing and lowered his head while opening his front door.

  Staci slowly dropped her arm. She could not help but feel sorry for both Tommy and his little brother. Sometimes, if she left her bedroom window open at night, she could hear yelling coming from their house. The yelling, the breaking and the screaming sometimes got too loud, forcing her to close the window again in order to fall asleep.

  Every single time she closed the window she felt bad, like she was turning her back on Tommy. In the end though, Staci understood that there was nothing she could do, and even if there was, she was not entirely sure Tommy would want it.

  Once inside the house, Staci dropped the mail on the kitchen counter before she walked upstairs into her mother’s office. Janet Alexander was on the phone with a client talking about loans, mortgages and other things which held no real interest for Staci. Plopping herself into a chair, she patiently waited, absentmindedly thumbing through a book on a nearby bookshelf.

  Her mother finished the conversation moments later, hung up the phone and turned to her daughter with a smile. “And what can I do for you today, lovely Miss Staci?”

  “Nothing…just bored.”

  “How about the mail?”

  “It’s downstairs on the counter.”

  “What about your homework, all done?”

  “Ya…I did not have much.”

  Staci kicked at the new hardwood floor in her mother’s recently remodeled office, staring down with a faraway look on her face. This was not a look that Janet Alexander often saw from her daughter. “What’s wrong baby? Everything alright?”

  Staci thought about the question for a moment, attempting to formulate an appropriate response in her head, but failed. Though their lives had moved in vastly different directions over the last few years, the truth of the matter was that sometimes she still found herself daydreaming about Tommy.

  To put it plainly, she often missed her friend.

  With a deep sigh, Staci turned her head and gazed out of the office window; she glanced at Tommy’s house but almost immediately looked away. Janet noticed the glance, instantly understanding exactly what weighed so heavily on her daughter’s mind. Briefly her eyes wandered in the direction of her neighbor’s home. It was no mystery to anyone in the neighborhood as to what was going on over there, though no one truly understood to what extent.

  After Megan’s death, Chris Jarvis had turned to drinking to help him make it through the day. More often than not, the drinking led to poor judgment. Poor judgment usually leads to bad things.

  It was amazing what the bottle could do to an otherwise good man.

  The awful things that Chris Jarvis put his sons through were just plain wrong. On more than one occasion, when the sounds coming from next door became almost too much to bear, Janet had found herself moments away from calling the police. Had it not been for a nearly twenty-year friendship and an understanding of how rough his wife’s death must have been on Chris, she might have done just that.

  Looking at her sweet, innocent little fourteen-year old daughter, with her light brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her sad green eyes, Janet felt compelled to rescue her in the way only a mother could. She wanted to make her forget about the Jarvis boys and fill her head with all the wonderful, non-threatening, non-adult things that she believed should stuff a little girl’s head.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Your dad won’t be home until late…so howzabout’ the two of us going out to dinner? It’ll be fun…you know, girls night out!”

  Staci looked up and half-heartedly shrugged her shoulders.

  “Come on Staci…tell you what, after dinner we’ll go to that store you’ve been bugging me to take you to…do a little shopping!”

  Staci glanced up again, this time with a little smile. Her mother’s ploy had worked, at least momentarily. She was willing to forget about Tommy Jarvis and continue on with her life - mostly because she really did not have any other choice. Standing up, Staci rushed to her mother’s side, wrapping her arms around her tightly. Dinner would be fun. They would laugh, talk and order something she had never tasted before. They would go out afterward. New shoes, maybe a purse - her mother would get her anything she wanted. As Staci hugged her close, she could feel the heat of her mother’s body against the side of her face. The feeling warmed her cheeks, traveled down into her chest and wrapped itself tightly around her heart. Her mother made her feel safe, secure, and loved. The very big heart of the very little girl that was Staci Alexander wished beyond all hope that the day would never come when she was forced to let go.

  *

  CHAPTER 4

  NOSEY LITTLE OWEN LITTLE

  *

  From the bay window, Owen Little watched intently as the situation in his neighbor’s front yard played out like a scene from a television show. Donald Rondage, Nathan Gallagher and the Williams brothers had surrounded Tommy Jarvis. They were taking turns kicking him as he lay curled up on the sidewalk. Owen found it strange, watching this happen to someone. Part of him wanted to help, and yet another, more dominant part, was filled with the fear of what might happen if he did. The last thing he wanted was to end up writhing around on the ground in Tommy’s place. By the time the foursome had stopped kicking and had spilled the contents of Tommy’s backpack onto the grass, Owen had slid behind the couch, completely out of sight. Only the top of his head and his eyes, hidden behind his thick glasses, peeked out, as he tried to slow his breathing and keep his hands from shaking. Even from as far away as forty feet and behind a thick pane of glass, Donald Rondage looked enormous. He was huge, hulkish, and very scary. In the sixth grade Donald had become the first kid to sprout something that resembled facial hair above his upper lip; ever since then the rest of the children had been terrified of him. How could you not fear a twelve-year-old with a mustache after all?

  It was not until Donald and his thugs had left Tommy and headed down the street that Owen began to slowly relax.

  “Owen, what the hell are you looking at?”

  Owen’s heart skipped a beat; spinning around like a top he hopped up from his hiding place behind the couch. His father was standing on the other side of the room with a confused, not to mention more than slightly annoyed, look on his face.

  “Oh, um, hi Dad…nothing. I was not looking at anything. Just dropped something behind the table…and I was um, you know, looking for it.”

  Resting his hands on his hips, Mack Little stared into his son’s eyes. It was painfully obvious that the boy was lying. He was shaking like a leaf on a breezy day and seemed moments away from having an asthma attack. He also noted that the table Owen claimed to be looking under sat on the opposite end of the living room, a good thirty feet from the spot where his son now stood jittery behind the couch.

  “Then what are you doing behind the couch, Owen? Last I checked the table was over there.”

  A million responses danced around in Owen’s brain, all moving toward his mouth as fast as they could, like a terrified crowd with the end of the world hot on their tail, “I um, I don’t, um…it rolled…I think…maybe.” Owen knew his excuse made no sense whatsoever, but under the circumstances it was the best that he could do.

  Mack sighed deeply, turned his head and rolled his eyes. He loved his son but had never been able to relate to the boy. Owen was gangly and uncoordinated – little more than a giant head bobbing back and forth on top of a fragile, twig-like body. The boy had started wearing glasses before the age of seven, often got bloody noses and spent the vast majority of the day tripping over his own feet. When Owen was eight, Mack took him to the park and had attempted to teach him how to catch a baseball. After twenty minutes of the ball smacking his forehead and eventually breaking the lenses on his glasses, Mack had realized it was a lost cause and called it a day. Owen was desti
ned to be a scientist, or a biologist, or a chemist, or something else that ended in an “-ist.” Mack had long since come to terms with that. His son was smart. Too often he used words that Mack did not understand. He read books Mack had never heard of and sometimes had trouble pronouncing the titles. It was very possible that Owen was smarter than Mack would ever be and for the most part he was fine with that because he loved him – for the most part. Looking past his son, Mack glanced at the window and saw Tommy Jarvis walk past his house, heading toward the end of the block. The Jarvis boys - now there was a sad little tale - depressing little anecdote in which Mack did not want his son involved.

  “Don’t you have some homework to finish, Owen?”

  “All done with it.”

  “Then how about you come outside and give your old man a hand with the hot rod? There’s a lot of work that needs to be done before the car show in a couple of weeks.”

  Hot rod? Owen wanted nothing to do with the hot rod. “You know what? Maybe I should get a jump on the paper that’s due next week.” Unlike his last pathetic excuse, Owen’s mind did not stumble for a second finding this one.

  Working with his dad in the garage was not exactly high on the list of things that he wanted to do. In fact, it was not on the list at all. He loved his father, but not quite as much as he hated cars, and grease, and working under hot cars while covered in grease. Quickly moving past Mack’s burly form, Owen headed down the hallway which led to his bedroom at the other end of the house. He was very nearly there when he heard his father’s voice, “Owen.”

  Turning around, he noticed his father staring at him with a stern, serious look on his face.

  Mack Little took a deep breath. “Stay away from Tommy Jarvis.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “I’m serious, Owen. I don’t want you hanging around either of the Jarvis boys. Do you understand me?”

  “Sure…I understand.”

  “Good.” Mack Little exhaled.

  Owen turned to walk away, but was stopped once more by his father’s deep voice. “Owen.”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  Turning to leave, Owen finally made it to his bedroom. He closed the door, opened a book and started to read. As wonderful information and beautiful knowledge started to fill his eager brain, thoughts of Tommy Jarvis’ sidewalk beating were patiently pushed out of sight – which was, after all, exactly where they belonged.

  Just ask his father.

  *

  CHAPTER 5

  QUIET LITTLE NICKY JARVIS

  *

  Nicky Jarvis was planted in front of the television on the living room floor when he heard his older brother come in the front door. Immediately after entering, Tommy stopped briefly to drop his backpack on the hardwood floor just inside the doorway, then glanced in Nicky’s direction. Instantly, Nicky recognized that his brother was in bad shape. His hair was a mess, his head hanging low, his expression tired and forlorn. The look on his face vaguely resembled the looks Nicky had seen on the animals at the zoo a week earlier when he class had been on a school field trip - sad, lost, and hopeless, as if they were meant to be somewhere else, to see something more but yet had been completely and totally unable to do so.

  A crooked, pathetic smile formed on Tommy’s lips, “Hey, bro.” His voice was distant and dreamy.

  Nicky immediately returned the smile, lifting his right hand slowly and waving at his brother. Tommy half-heartedly waved back and headed up the stairs and toward his bedroom without saying another word. Nicky watched him walk the entire way until he turned left at the top of the stairs. He could hear him make his way toward the bedroom at the end of the hall and was soon out of sight. The sound of the door closing came a moment later. With a deep sigh, Nicky turned his attention back to the television. Every day after school the action was the same. Moments after stepping into the house, Nicky plopped himself onto the living room floor and turned on his cartoons. He loved cartoons. The bright colors, the characters with their funny little smiles drawn onto their even funnier faces - cartoons made him feel good. They made him smile; it was not often that Nicky had been given a reason to smile. There was also the fact that many of the characters had reminded him of the things that Tommy would sometimes draw. He loved to watch his older brother draw. To see his fingers moving so quickly while creating entire worlds by simply dragging a pencil across a sheet of paper was amazing. When they had been younger, the brothers would often lie on the porch where Nicky would have Tommy draw pictures for him. He would name an animal, like “cow” for example, and Tommy had drawn a cow. He would say “cat” and moments later Tommy would have drawn a cat. Sometimes Nicky would feel adventurous and offer up a more difficult suggestion like “Superman” or “police officer” and Tommy would have thrown him a dirty look.

  People were so difficult to draw.

  The pair would spend hours outside in the sun, laughing and talking and enjoying their time together. Back then, as far as Nicky had been concerned, there were few things better in the world than simply having a brother.

  Now though, all of that fun seemed a long time ago, and very far away.

  Staring into the glow of the television screen, lost in the wonderfully safe world of cartoons, Nicky had lost track of time until he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the front door opened slowly. His father was home from work.

  The instant Chris Jarvis stepped through the doorway and into his home, after a rather long and extremely frustrating day at work, his foot caught on Tommy’s book bag, causing him to twist and stumble. With his arms flailing wildly, he just barely caught the railing on the stairs and managed to stay on his feet. Had he not been able to grab the railing, he would have been lying face down on the floor. Regaining his balance, a frustrated and confused Chris Jarvis looked down to see what he had tripped over. Sitting exactly where it should not be - exactly where he had told Tommy to never leave it - was Tommy’s ripped, dirty book bag. Every last ounce of blood in Chris Jarvis’ body quickly rushed to his head, slamming into the underside of his brain like a train smashing into a car left on the railroad tracks.

  The pressure in his skull quickly built up, pushing its way back down, escaping through his open mouth in a fiery rage. “TOMMY! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!”

  In the opposite room, Nicky sat perfectly still with his legs crossed, staring with a blank expression at the enraged red-faced man he had once believed was his father. The light of the television screen flashed wondrous colors off the contours of his face.

  “TOMMY! TOMMY, I SAID GET THE HELL DOWN HERE!”

  Picking up the broken and dirty book bag, Chris threw it violently into the living room. The bag skidded across the table past Nicky, who had rolled onto his side, burying his head in his hands. It crashed onto the floor, ripped open and scattered loose papers and heavy books in every direction.

  “GOD DAMN IT, TOMMY! GET DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS MINUTE!” Chris screamed again, even louder than before.

  Hesitantly, Nicky peeked at his father between his fingers. This was an all-too-common scene for the eleven year-old. He was both tired of it and accustomed to it at the same time.

  When Tommy still did not respond to his father’s screams, the large, angry red, huffing and puffing shape of Chris Jarvis turned his attention to his other son. “Nicky, where the hell is your brother? Is he upstairs? Did you see him come home? Is he upstairs? IF YOU’RE UP THERE, TOMMY, YOU BETTER GET YOUR SCRAWNY LITTLE ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!”

  Slowly Nicky removed his hands from his eyes, remaining silent. His breath quickened its pace and his limbs shook back and forth in small, jittery motions.

  “Well, is he up there or not, Nicky? I’m asking you a question. You should answer your father when he asks you a question.”

  Nicky felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. It pressed against his ribs, making the undersides ache as if trying to punch its way out. Sitting straight up,
he leaned back on his arms, very slowly scooting across the floor.

  With every backward movement, Chris Jarvis took one forward. Ever since his wife died, Nicky had not said a single solitary word. Not a peep, not a mutter, nothing. It would be the understatement of the century to say that Chris had found this frustrating to deal with, frustrating to live with, frustrating to be around. Every unanswered question, every silent non-response, and every blank faraway stare - the annoyance of having to deal with an eleven-year-old who would not talk on top of everything else in his pathetic excuse for a life was quickly wearing on him. It not only tested his patience, but tested his resolve as well.

  With his father still moving toward him, Nicky continued to slide back on his rear end. Thick, salty beads of sweat formed on his forehead and dribbled down his face.

  “Answer me, Nicky. Answer your father. Just open up your mouth and answer me. Say something…say anything! Is your brother home or isn’t he? Just one word…just one measly little word…a yes or a no. Answer me, Nicky. ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW!”

  Having scooted back as far as he could go, Nicky found himself pressed against the wall with the snarling, beastly thing wearing his father’s skin just a few steps away.

  “Leave him alone.”

  The soft, determined voice came from the stairs. It was Tommy.

  The very second the sound of his eldest son’s voice worked its way into his ears, Chris Jarvis turned to face him, immediately forgetting about the younger boy. Tommy was, after all, the one who had started this entire debacle. It was his bag he had tripped over. It was all Tommy’s fault. It was Tommy who did not know how to put his things away, Tommy whose grades were slipping in school, Tommy with the weird little drawings and the even weirder grown-up thoughts.