Sons From Afar

by Cynthia Voigt

  “Sure.” James watched while Andy’s hands broke the cake in half. The French paper, one of the big final assignments you got in a lot of A-track classes as the year drew to a close, was supposed to get them ready for next year’s course. French III was a literature course, mostly a reading and writing course. For the paper, they had to pick a work of French literature from the list Mr. Norton had given them, read it, and then write a one-page report on it. They could read the work in English, in translation, because they were only French II students, but they had to write the report in French and then read it aloud before the class. After that, the class would ask questions. James could believe Andy was pretty worried about that assignment. It was a big part of the final grade.

  Andy reached over and took the other half of the piece of cake. “Okay?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just chomped away into it.

  “I’m doing The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” James told Andy.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you’ve got the time for a long book. I figured, you probably had some ideas you thought about but decided not to do. The way you brains always do. I mean, I’m not much on these kinds of things, reading and papers, and I’ve got so much to do already—the baseball season really wipes me out, and my old man’s got us painting the garage, and, you know, a man has to keep up his social life.”

  James wished he could kid himself about what was going on. Andy was kidding himself. James didn’t see why he couldn’t, if Andy could. Maybe that was something else that made him a dork?

  “The Little Prince,” he suggested. “Did you think of that? It’s good, and it’s an easy read.”

  “Hey, did I say I was looking for something easy? I’m no dummy.” Andy narrowed his eyes at James.

  “I meant easy as in not taking much time,” James apologized.

  “Besides, Celie’s doing that. I’m not going up against her, not with her having lived in France and all. That would be asking to look bad. Right?” Andy grinned, and crumpled up the wax paper. “Good cake. Homemade?”

  James nodded.

  “So, what other ideas did you have?”

  “ ‘The Myth of Sisyphus,’ the Camus essay,” James admitted.

  “But you’re not going to do it, right?”

  “I said I’m doing the Hunchback.”

  “Well how about it, you must have notes, a rough draft. You’re the kind of student who does all these rough drafts, right? Would you care to share that with somebody needy? Ordinarily I wouldn’t ask but I’m backed up in my schoolwork and all, on account of baseball. And all.”

  James knew what he was being asked but he didn’t dare name it to Andy. It might be that the guy really thought he could do the work in the course, or really didn’t think it was cheating to copy off of somebody’s homework. Or maybe he thought James had been happily going along with him all year.

  Which he sort of had, James realized, admitted, almost choking on a wave of self-disgust that broke right up in his face. He had no right to accuse Andy of cheating when he’d been going along with it the way he had. He wasn’t any better and maybe he was even worse. James, watching Andy’s eyes watching his reactions, had a sudden cold thought: He knew, as if Andy had said it out loud, that if he called Andy on copying, Andy would say just that; because Andy knew James knew, and if James got Andy in trouble, Andy would get even.

  “I’ll see. Anything I have will be at home,” James said.

  “I sure would appreciate it,” Andy said, getting up. “If you happen to have anything. No big deal, right?”

  “Yeah,” James said. He kept his eyes down on the table, watching his hands gather the crumpled ball of wax paper and drop it into the paper bag, before smashing the whole thing together in both of his hands.

  It could be worse, he thought, almost amused. He could have other classes with Andy. They did play baseball together, but that was so different—Andy acted as if James was invisible during baseball. James wished he were, and he wished helplessly that he had the nerve to just quit the team, no matter what anyone said. He didn’t have the nerve for that, either.

  James entered English class after lunch the way he thought medieval criminals must have entered a church, crying out Sanctuary, Sanctuary. He felt that way. As long as he was in a classroom, sitting at his desk, he felt safe. He knew everyone didn’t feel that way; he knew feeling that way marked him out as a dork. But he was glad to be there. He was even glad to be assigned a five-page paper on character in Macbeth. He knew what the teacher would like best—she wanted something on Lady Macbeth or on Macbeth himself, something that would show he’d been listening to all the things she’d said about character development, and something that showed he’d picked a hard subject. An easy subject for a character study would be the witches, or Macduff. James knew he’d steer away from those. He wished, though, that he could write about Shakespeare’s idea of what a king should be like. That was something he and Gram had talked about: James had said Macduff was the best man for the job, but Gram had said it had to be Malcolm because he had the right bloodlines. But the teacher said character and she meant a character from the cast; she didn’t mean any other kind of character, James knew that.

  Baseball practice was called because of rain, so James had time to rush into the library and take out a copy of Camus before he got the bus. When he and Maybeth got off at their driveway, Maybeth took the mail from the box and put it under her raincoat before running up the driveway. James hadn’t taken a raincoat and he didn’t feel like running. He hunched his body over to protect his books, and let the rain fall down gray all over his shoulders and back. He didn’t even try to avoid the puddles. His hair got wet, plastered down along his face. Water ran down his nose, down his neck; it sluiced along his cheeks. It felt like he was crying, and James didn’t mind that. He never did cry, because men didn’t, or at least that was the idea he got. The kids at school would sometimes tell stories about their fathers yelling, or whipping them, and they’d say things about their mothers bursting into tears in the middle of a big fight, but they never said anything about a father crying away. So James figured men didn’t. Certainly, not just over being pretty disgusted with yourself, and depressed about everything. The rain pushed at him, as if it were trying to get him flat down, flat with his face in the dark mud of the driveway, which was about where he thought he belonged. In the meantime, moving slow, with the rain running down his cheeks like tears, it felt almost as good as crying.

  Gram didn’t even bother to give him an earful when he came dripping into the kitchen. “I’ll have hot chocolate ready in five minutes,” she told him. James, toweled off and in dry clothes, took his mug into the living room, sitting at the big desk to drink it, while Maybeth told Gram about her day and Sammy interrupted to tell about his. James had picked up the weekly newspaper, sent out free in the mail, to look at.

  He thought, turning the pages, he really wanted to get to go on that Annapolis trip. Once there, maybe they’d go to the Hall of Records, because archives were part of state history, which was what the trip was about. If he didn’t get to go, then he’d never even have a chance to see what they had there on the Verrickers. He concentrated on wanting to go.

  When he came to the classifieds, he looked down the Help Wanted section. He didn’t see why women complained about work when there were so many jobs for them, like babysitting and housekeeping, being secretaries. For men it was mostly construction work. His eye was caught by an ad headed STUDENT WANTED. Well, he could meet that qualification. It was a job for part-time work, basic office work, some telephone answering, some typing, some filing. You had to have your own transportation, he read, which he guessed let him out. They were offering three twenty-five an hour, and he wished them luck, because most of the other jobs offered more than that, except babysitting. A person with his own transportation—in other words, a car—would be able to drive up to Salisbury to a job that would pay more. If the ad hadn’t said the job required transportation he might ju
st have written a letter to the post office box, just on the chance. He knew he didn’t do well with physical labor, he couldn’t work like that for hours and hours, and he’d be fired from any job that expected him to do that, but he would be able to do office work. He bet. If he only had transportation instead of just a bike.

  Rather than think about anything, about finding things out about his father or doing the work on a paper for Andy, about whether or not he could be accused of cheating in French or was going to be stuck playing baseball for the next two years, about Celie and the way she looked through him, about what a creep he was and how much he needed someone or something to help him be not the way he was—rather than think about all of those things, James went upstairs and typed a letter to the post office box the ad had mentioned. He said right away he only had a bike and wasn’t sixteen, so he’d never get the job, but writing the letter at least made him feel better.

  Because the weather cleared overnight, the scheduled game was played. It was a home game, which James hated more than an away game. Even though he knew nobody noticed him anyway, he still didn’t like being out there at the end of the bench where, if they were going to, people could see him. Not playing. And all.

  He thought, at first, that the worst thing was seeing Celie Anderson and her friends sitting in the bleachers, watching the game. He thought—he wished he could pretend to be sick and just crawl out of sight, so she wouldn’t see him, if she looked in his direction. But if he tried that, it would draw attention to him. James sat small, quiet. He didn’t even move when the game was over, waiting for Celie to go on. But she was coming down to say hi to Andy Walker, who was waiting around among people who were telling him what a good game he’d played. Andy saw Celie, but he didn’t interrupt his fans. When they were finished, she came up close to him. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey,” Andy answered. “Did you enjoy the game?”

  “Of course,” she answered.

  James sneaked looks at Celie, admiring the pale orange color of the blouse she was wearing, wondering what it was about Andy that made her look at him that way.

  “You don’t know a thing about baseball, do you?” Andy looked over her head, and waved to someone.

  “No,” she admitted. “But I did like the game.”

  Her eyes weren’t really green, but greenish, which was better than green.

  “I guess then there’s hope for you,” Andy told her. “Listen, you know this dance coming up?”

  There were two dances coming up, a sock hop on the weekend, and the Sophomore-Junior Prom in another week. James didn’t know which one Andy meant.

  Neither, apparently, did Celie. She hesitated before asking, “The one this weekend?”

  “Naw, the prom. You got a date for that yet?”

  “No,” Celie said.

  James wondered if this was how asking girls out went. First you found out if they already had a date, then you asked.

  “Well, I need to take a date to the prom, and I thought you might want to be it.”

  Her, James corrected. Then, she, he corrected himself. He wished he could get up and walk away, but then they’d know he’d been eavesdropping.

  Celie didn’t much like that way of being asked, he thought. She wanted to say no, he hoped.

  “Is that an invitation?” she asked, her eyebrows drawing together.

  “So what’s with the sarcasm?” Andy answered, finally smiling down at her. He knew she wanted to go with him.

  “I’d love to, thank you,” Celie said, as if Andy had asked her if she would please go to the prom with him.

  “That’s okay then. I’ll let you know when,” Andy said. He turned and walked away, big in his uniform. James watched Celie sort of shake her head, then turn back to her friends. When she shook her head like that, her hair brushed against her cheek, more gentle than anything else James could imagine. He watched her walk away, and then finally could get up himself.

  She hadn’t even noticed he was there. It was really funny, in a way, the way girls didn’t want to be seen with some people, because they thought those people were dorks, even though James was willing to bet money that a dork would ask a girl out as if he really wanted her to say yes. It was really funny, but it wasn’t funny a bit, and it was almost enough to make him angry.

  CHAPTER 7

  The answer to James’s letter about the clerical job came quickly, which surprised him. A. S. Landros, the person who wrote the answer, was one of two doctors whose names were printed at the top of the stationery. The answer asked James to come in for an interview, which also surprised him. He guessed he should have known there would be an interview, however; you didn’t just hire somebody from a letter. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go in for an interview. He didn’t know what they would ask him, he wouldn’t know what to say, and people didn’t take to him, so an interview would probably mean he wouldn’t get the job. But he wanted the job, so he would have to go to the interview.

  James wore khakis instead of jeans the day he was going to be interviewed. He rode his bike to school, because he would need it to get home on. He spoke to the baseball coach at the start of practice, to tell him he wouldn’t be there.

  The coach looked at him when he said that. “What’s your excuse?” the man asked, as if James—who had missed just one practice, and no games, all spring long—was in the habit of making excuses to miss sports.

  “I have a job interview.”

  “A job interview is it? Does that mean you’ll be leaving the team?”

  James had been thinking that with any luck it would turn out he’d have to drop baseball, but when the coach asked that, as if he really wanted to say quitting instead of leaving, he said “No, sir.” It was only a few more weeks. He could stick it out for a few more weeks. All he had to do was hold on—and he’d been doing that all spring long, so a few more weeks wouldn’t hurt him. He could make it through a few more weeks, he hoped.

  The doctors’ office was out on the north side of town, inland, a white stucco one-story building set back from the road at the end of a straight driveway. In that part of town, some of the fields had been cut up into square lots and ranch-style houses had been plopped down on them. James rode his bike up the paved driveway to the office. A sign by the door said A. S. LANDROS, GENERAL PRACTICE. LESLIE O’HARA, OBSTETRICS AND GYNECOLOGY. The letter had told James to come by any afternoon between three and five, so he opened the door and went in, not knowing what to expect, what to plan to say.

  He entered a waiting room, where a couple of pregnant women sat reading magazines in chairs, and a black man of about fifty sat on a sofa, looking at his hands. An empty desk, with a phone on it, had been set at the far side of the room. The one big window looked out over the parking lot. Beside the window stood tall filing cabinets.

  James didn’t know what he was supposed to do. There were voices down the corridor that led off the waiting room, but he didn’t feel right about just walking down there. He sat in a chair near the empty desk. After a while, a woman in a nurse’s uniform came out to sit at the desk. A middle-aged black woman whose hair was streaked with silver followed and the man rose from the sofa to greet them. The man wanted to ask the woman questions, but she just shook her head at him, to keep him from speaking.

  The nurse handed the woman a slip of paper. “Dr. Landros will call you when the X-ray results come in. Your appointment’s tomorrow, so we should hear by early next week.”

  The woman nodded her head. She opened her purse and paid her bill. The nurse gave her a receipt. The man put his arm around the woman’s shoulders, but she shrugged it off.

  “You’re not to eat anything until the X-rays have been taken. You know that? Only water to drink.” The nurse gave these instructions to both husband and wife. Both of them nodded their heads. The woman wouldn’t even look at her husband. Her shoulders were high and stiff, her back perfectly straight, her elbows tight in against her ribcage. Beside her, the man looked clumsy and ashamed, with his
neck bent a little and his shoulders sagging, his hands just hanging at his sides. He followed her out of the building, catching the door she pulled open for herself. The nurse was writing something on a piece of paper.

  Through the window, James watched the couple as they went to their car. As soon as they were in the parking lot, the woman turned to the man and leaned against his shoulder. She was tall enough so her face fit right into his neck. He put his arms around her, and patted her shoulder, and she let him comfort her, now that they were alone together, and private.

  “And what can we do for you, young man?” the nurse called James to attention. Before he could answer, she looked across the room at the pregnant women. “It’ll be just five minutes before we take you in, Mrs. Grogan. Hello, Mrs. Johnson, how are you feeling today?” Before they could answer, her attention returned to James. She looked friendly enough, but in a hurry.

  “I’m supposed to come in for an interview,” he said. “With Dr. Landros, he wrote me a letter but I left it home.”

  “She,” the nurse said, amused.

  “I’m sorry,” James said, although he could have pointed out that he had no way of knowing.

  “It’s a common enough mistake. Well, I can take you right in—her next appointment’s going to be late, it seems. But you might get interrupted.”

  “That’s all right,” James said. “Or I could wait,” he suggested, not knowing what he should say.

  “Better grab the chance you have,” the nurse said, leading him down the corridor and into an office with a big desk, framed diplomas on the wall, and a bookcase. She told him to wait.

  James waited. He sat down and waited, and then wandered around and waited, reading the titles of the books on the shelves, reading the diplomas. Finally, a stumpy woman with short bristly dark hair and a white doctor’s jacket on over her gray skirt entered the room and sat down at the desk. James returned to the chair facing her. She had a rough, square face, with no makeup. Her little eyes were brown and had pouches of flesh underneath them. Everybody in that place looked tired, he thought. He watched her blunt fingers search through papers on her desk.