Nowadays, when my contemporaries grow sick and die they are commemorated but seldom lionized. They leave small imprint: a paragraph in the alumni magazine or local paper—worked at. . . . survived by . . . condolences to.

“Phil?” I speak into the phone.

“Yes, this is Phil.”

“Tom Hutchinson here . . . from high school.”

“Who?”

“Tom Hutchinson from the Prentiss School. You and I were roommates freshman year: it’s been a very long time.”

“Tommy?”

“Thirty years, my friend. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“No, of course not—not at all. Wow, this is a surprise.”

“We missed you at the reunions. I’m on the committee this year and want you to consider joining us this fall. We can drink some beer on the back lawn, eat cafeteria food and reminiscence about when . . . ”

. . . everything was possible because nothing mattered, except waking and making it to class before the final bell, taking chances seemed as ridiculously simple as walking across the campus late at night. Sneaking out after curfew freshman year, rolling down suicide hill, stripping in the cool light of the moon, you and I leaped into the lake, stepped out naked with goose bumps riddling our flesh and gazed at the pallor of skin and complexity of parts. Something delicate stirred within me as I peeked into the depths of who I was. We dressed like dervishes. snuck back into the dorm—unspent and alive. Surely you recall such things?

“Of course, my God—that was such a long time ago. Tommy! I’m sorry, I . . . it’s just . . . you know, I didn’t like Prentiss that much. Didn’t hate it but boarding school was hard, being away from friends and family, not to mention the pressure of getting into a good school.”

From a thousand miles away I nod in agreement.

“You’re a contractor?” I ask. “That’s what it says—living in a town in Vermont?”

“My wife and I own a small business around Elmore, no kids, we keep expenses down. Not much extra cash, we get by all right.”

“Like for reunions, you mean?”

An abyss separates then from now—for most people traversing from past to present is easy enough but for some: where are the eyes that danced? the curved shoulders, pale-white thigh of the boy I once loved who has left the world for places unknown?

“What about you, Hutch?” he asks, referencing the nickname as though it was yesterday. “Where are you? This is unexpected—really, I never imagined . . .”

We chit the chat. I pace like a girl prepping for a date, only this is a different century and I’m married to the man of my dreams with a son trying to gain admission into my alma mater. Extorting money from classmates is part of the process.

“I invest and write fiction on the side,” I explain.

“Like a stock broker or something?”

“Not exactly: I run the family office.”

“Ahhh,” he says and grows quiet before continuing, “good for you—beats working; right?”

“You could put it like that,” I respond amicably before beginning the pitch. “You should come back for the reunion in June. The school has changed since we were students. . . other classmates will be there . . . we could . . . ”

. . . get high on top of the ski jump, smoke a joint of Acapulco gold and hide as others rattle past to some secret rendezvous. We can discuss girls and how much we loathe those who deserve loathing and adore those whose spirits are wild and free but as remote as caverns at the bottom of the sea—and teachers and deans and pass the joint and don’t Bogart it before rolling another and climbing down the rickety ladder constructed long before women attended the school. Flying high, Peter and I unleash ourselves like crazed acrobats floating across a cascade of rocks. We roam the woods like djinn from another age and bound over streams as if levitating from boulder to boulder with the ease of dancers pirouetting across a stage. We are unknown gods, addled deities deranged in giddiness in the midst of discovering who we are and might someday be. At the end of the journey on the outskirts of the woods we pause in exhilaration and press our lips together like caravans colliding, shrugging off the dust, continuing through the desert like mendicants in search of some lost oasis where we might rest until morning.    

“You ran on the track team,” says Phil.

“I was the manager—yes.”

“And the newspaper?”

“Editor.”

“It’s coming back: you used to hang out with that guy Derringer and those people from Rye, right? You guys were tight.”

“Us guys were tight, right—Peter was my best friend.”

“I remember. Sure—stand-up guy. You keep in touch with any of those fellas?”

In dreams.

“He passed a few months ago,” I say.   

After a slight pause I continue: “I’m sorry to bother you, Phil—your name was first on the list so . . . is this a bad time?”

He hears the crack in my voice.

“I’m sorry, Hutch. High school is funny, you know: none of it true, all of it—I don’t know – more real than it actually was?”

“I guess.”

“Sometimes things . . .  how . . . ”

How now?

“ . . . did he die?”

In broad strokes I explain what I know while imagination fills the gaps with details of . .

. . . a once beautiful boy, round and jovial, lying on pink sand off the coast of Eleuthera with an empty bottle and a vial of pills: vodka and valium and an ex-wife with children in Norway sheltered from the bloated corpse found before the tide can roll the remains into the sea for the fish to feed. A girl discovered my friend, an unmoving mound in a swimsuit, and yelled for help as the mother of the mound rushed from a villa to identify and drop to her knees and howl like a wounded animal.

An overdose—the death was characterized as cardiac arrest in the pages of the paper. This was a man of substance. An old sad tale told over and over by different voices in different times and tenses, only this one is mine: all of it real, none of it true, except a lasting image held safe in a place of comfort and light.

A few days after graduation Derringer stood at the bottom of suicide hill with a backpack on his shoulders and indicated with a wave that he was walking down the lane toward the road that led into the future: I wasn’t ready. The figure proffered a final farewell: I watched from a distance and never laid eyes upon him again. We spoke once or twice over the phone. I learned of his story from acquaintances, articles in the paper—whispers in the wind.

“I’ll make the reunion this year,” says the voice by way of consolation. “Maybe we can hoist a beer.”

“A farewell toast,” I say from my driveway in Indiana. “To Peter.”

I hang up the phone, kiss my husband good night and dream of the life that used to be.

I rolled back toward the night table. Illuminated numerals read 5:59. Reaching out to touch them, I felt a large oblong object, a clock radio. No one has a clock radio any more, do they? Without a better plan I awaited daylight, reflecting on what might have happened and where I had alighted. In prison? No, prisons don’t have night tables and clock radios. Maybe a hospital, but not without other people, nurses and orderlies, even at night. No satisfying conjecture. I returned from work at 10 pm, ending long hours that stressed my relationship with Janelle. She felt I should show investment more time in the family. We had two children who needed more “Daddy time,” and she needed occasional respite. I worked to pay a barely affordable mortgage in an upscale neighborhood near the elite schools the children attended. I hoped to catch up financially by the turn of the century in nine years. She had already gone to bed, emitting a muffled snoring that I found endearing. After brushing my teeth and showering, I had carefully slid under the sheets beside her and fallen asleep. A normal evening.

The radio alarm came on. Pete Seeger sang, “We were knee deep in the big muddy, but the big fool said to push on.” Could I find a light switch without hurting myself in the dark? Time passed. Daybreak revealed a miracle. I was in my childhood room, awakening in the single bed with green vinyl headboard beside the maple night table with a lamp beyond the clock radio, my built-in bookcase framing the window of the knotty pine room, arching above the Formica desk where I did my homework.

Memory of a childhood dream returned. Looking outside I saw a bald man with glasses lurking in the garden beneath my window. I called my parents, but they could not see the man. That they could not see was frightening. I fell asleep in this bed and awoke to hear people in the other room. Arising and going to the door, I saw the backs of my parents as they observed the man sitting at the dining room table, across the living room, typing on my father’s portable Remington. I pointed. “That’s the man, Mom, Dad.” My mother turned to me, smiled, raised her finger to her lips and said, “Shhhh!”

“Richie, are you up? Mr. Ashmore will be waiting in about an hour.” My mother’s voice. Young and strong. I knew where I was and approximately when. I worked part-time at a congressional office on Capitol Hill from 1966 to 1967, taking college classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It must be Tuesday or Thursday. Sometimes the neighbor across the street gave me a lift downtown in his VW Beetle. The morning paper in the dining room should provide the exact date. Ah, November 10, 1966. The folks in the office would be ecstatic today following the GOP victory on Tuesday. And, Dad. Dad lives for another six months before dying of a massive heart attack on the first hole of Native Spring Country Club. I did not see my father, but the paper had been read. Dad worked long, hard hours. I felt that contributed to his early death.

I shaved, showered and dressed, wearing a coat and tie despite frequent manual labor, cleaning the supply closet or moving file cabinets. Every man on Capitol Hill wore a coat and tie. After a quick breakfast of orange juice and corn flakes with milk, I brushed my teeth, careful not to soil my tie. I called “Goodbye. See you tonight” to my mother, still showering. I missed kissing her on the cheek, savoring the familiar body smell from long ago. After walking outside and slamming the door behind me to ensure it closed, I walked down the front concrete pavement toward the curb. Ashmore’s VW Beetle spewed exhaust as it heated. I greeted my neighbor and seated himself for the ride, between 20 and 40 minutes depending upon traffic on North Capitol Street. Ashmore, known as the neighborhood gossip, rattled on in endless sentences. I daydreamed as the driver chattered, occasionally interrupting the reverie to respond to a question. I had a lot to think about, processing the implications of awakening to my life 25 years earlier.

How could my 44-year-old self operate in my 19 year old life without irrevocably changing the future? Considering the butterfly effect, could I save my father’s life, extending it beyond age 45. I was the same age as Dad, both 44. There were no statin drugs in 1966, or precursors to address high cholesterol. My father had begun the popular Air Force exercise program, totally insufficient to his current health. One thing alone might give my father a chance to survive until medical technology made his inherited tendency to cardiovascular disease manageable. If I convinced my father to take a daily aspirin, the inevitable heart attack might avoid instant fatality.

Ashmore dropped me off near Union Station before proceeding West toward his law offices on E Street. I turned back across the Mall and Capitol grounds toward the new Rayburn Office Building, walking briskly, shivering in the cool November weather. I disdained all but the most necessary outer garments, the coat and tie sufficiently burdensome, a jacket and scarf against the cold. Arriving at the second floor office, I saw Marian stationed at her desk. Short, displaying a beehive hairstyle that added some height, the friendly Kansan sported an officious veneer that masked her personal warmth. Today promised an easy six hours of filing. Staff typed every response to a constituent on a 3-part manifold in their IBM Selectrics. The white copy filed alphabetically by the constituent’s last name. The yellow copy went into a subject file by date.

Staff gathered in the reception area as they arrived, greeting one another and discussing the day’s work, except for Dan O’Reilly. The dour policy analyst sat at his desk researching trade with the Soviet Union. There were the Müller couple, middle aged Christian conservatives, as well as Margaret, married to Melvin Laird’s Administrative Assistant. Five years older than me, Diana, whose well-tailored dresses flattered a figure not needing flattery, arrived last. She had an eternal tan and a fetching smile, with a natural effervescence as she bubbled, “I met this guy last night and he really snowed me.”

“I don’t blame him.”

My 44-year-old self responded, to the surprise of the others. Diana blushed. The group quietly disbanded. Diana looked at me; I winked.

A few minutes later she asked, “Were you flirting with me?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that at the office. How about if I buy you lunch on Tuesday and you can tell me about the new guy?

”
“I’ll think about it and let you know.”

I did not know what I answered in the past, unable to duplicate forgotten conversations. I did not respond with a wink, so the future had been altered. I did not care. At least I had not drooled helplessly, I had 25 years earlier.

The congressman came in later, flashing boyish charm at age 50, greeting all of the staff. Earnest, conservative, and hard-working, he died three years later of a heart attack as had his father. I obsessed about their deaths most of the day, particularly as I left, the staff putting out snacks of cold sausage and cheese with crackers, higher in cholesterol and saturated fat than any conceivable alternative, for the Marching and Chowder Society, a group of conservative Republican members.

After work I exited the Rayburn building turning back up Constitution Avenue to the Federal Triangle to catch a bus toward home, thinking about Diana and about my father. I had suggested lunch the following Tuesday, not only because she likely had lunch plans today, but to buy myself time to consider how far I wanted to take my wink. Not doubting that I could “snow her” and fulfill my teenage fantasies, I wanted certainty before irrevocably and purposefully altering the future. Similar considerations marked thoughts about my father. Both were part of the same question, consequences of the same answer.

The sun had set when I arrived home. Before entering, I circled the house, squinting through the darkness for memories lost. I viewed the gardens I had reluctantly weeded, passed the forsythia hedge that brightened spring with a cheerful yellow, turned back toward the umbrella clothes line that yielded fresh smelling clothing and sheets, its loose line jingling in the autumn breeze, back toward the butterfly bushes in front that attracted bright-winged quarry I chased with a net. I opened the front door with the key I had found that morning, beside my wallet containing my first driver’s license.

The kitchen fluorescent illuminated a note on the table. “We’re having dinner with the London’s at the club tonight. You can reheat the spaghetti in the fridge for dinner.” I loved my mother’s spaghetti, so I put it in a sauce pan on the gas stove with a little extra water to avoid scorching it. After dinner I turned on the TV, tuning in to the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite, discussing the election and Vietnam. After Star Trek, I turned off the TV, brushed my teeth, and showered before bed.

I retired to my bedroom, examining the bookcases, fingering the books there, the ones that were formative, that had taken me beyond my teen years. Some were old when purchased, musky with mildew. I inhaled nostalgia. They were mostly political, mostly conservative, reflecting Dad’s views. The rugged individualism of movement conservatism held special appeal to the post-adolescent youth of that past. Picking up my copy of Lao-tsu’s Tao Te Ching, I opened it to a random page. “Too much success is not an advantage; do not clatter like chimes of jade.”

After a long day, physically and emotionally draining, I turned back toward the bed to await the return of my parents. My questions had become clearer, along with my answers. I dismissed my misguided concern about timelines. Not God determining the future of all humankind but a 44-year-old man trapped in a mystery, I could not remember what I had said and done the first time around. My flirtation with Diana had altered the timeline if I enjoyed such power. I could have lunch with her or not, see her outside the office or not. Equivalent outcomes, just the stuff of life. If true of Diana, then doubly true of Dad. I would advise him to take a daily aspirin. My father would take the advice or reject it. If he took the advice, it would either stave off a fatal heart attack or not.

I remembered that Dad had attended all of my little league games, that Mom had milk and cookies waiting when I returned from school. They could dance at the club on a Thursday night. They did not let work, a means to an end, interfere with their joyous relationship. Happy with life in a small house with a large heart, happiness that made Dad’s early death doubly painful, they lived and rejoiced in each other.

Whatever tomorrow brought, I could appear in the public library at the day and time I knew, finding Janelle on the day we met. Along the way I would use hindsight to avoid some of the friction. We could buy a smaller house in a less trendy neighborhood with a smaller mortgage. We could avoid some expenses, along with the need to work long hours to pay for them. When the time came, Janelle and I could discuss the work and home life tradeoffs, decide mutually upon the best course. And, if we could not decide, a marriage counselor could help us address the right questions. Without further thought or awareness, I drifted into sleep.

I awoke in a darkened room. I heard soft snoring beside me. Janelle? Probably. I hoped so. We had a lot to discuss today. I reached for my cell phone and quickly found it. The screen read 6:00 a.m.

Peyton’s gymnastics class is close to a strip mall with a grocery store and a chain restaurant that sells fresh chicken, rice, and veggie bowls. Sometimes, after gymnastics, it’s nice to stop and get a healthy dinner, then head to the grocery store for whatever we need for home, and maybe a treat. Today is one of those sometimes days and we’ve just finished our chicken bowls, so we’re heading across the parking lot for our treat.

“Mommy, do you see the hole in the sky?” I didn’t realize how distracted I was until I hear her little voice sounding more urgent than usual.

“Hole in the sky? What do you mean?” Peyton’s six year old mind is always merging fantasy and reality, so I think some clarification might be useful.

“There!” She points right above the supermarket.

My eye follows where her little index finger leads, and I am surprised to find that there does appear to be something above the store. It is flat and disc-shaped, the diameter maybe equal to a school bus. I squint, then put on the prescription sun glasses I know I should have been wearing all along.

“Can we go up there?” Peyton is excited. I am always proud of her fearless, adventuresome spirit that keeps her trying in gymnastics class and curious enough to want to climb to the top of the grocery store.

I nod and we ascend in the glass elevator to the rooftop portion of the parking lot. There are solar panels atop the car covers, so as we scale the metal structure, I guide my daughter’s feet, along with my own, to avoid stepping on the panels. The disc is softening in contrast against the blue sky, which is mostly clear—only a puff or two of clouds near the horizon to the east. I stop Peyton’s hands from raising, a bit concerned as to what the disc actually is. I softly use my own fingertips to try and stroke this foreign, cylindrical thing above us. As we stand on top of the carport, on top of the supermarket, it takes less than my arm length to reach what we had seen from the parking lot on the ground below.

As I reach up, I quickly gather that my daughter had been right. There is really nothing to stroke. It is indeed a hole in the sky. I put my daughter on my shoulders and we look through the hole. Our heads peak into a sea of colorful shapes. There are butterflies and diamonds and hearts and Chinese dragons—all with strings sticking straight up. As I look up the length of each string, I notice it is attached to a person—one a little child staring right back at me. How curious these people upside down through this hole in the sky.

“Kites!” Peyton shouts, thrilled with her discovery.

“Kites?” I wonder if I am asking my daughter, myself, or no one at all.

Under the child’s feet, who I thought was floating in the sky, is grass. Suddenly, I am aware that from his perspective, it is Peyton and I, not he, who is upside down in the sky. I grip Peyton’s legs a little tighter and enjoy her giggles as we stand, my feet firm on the top of the carport, hanging in the sky of kites.

A shudder of panic ran her spine as they were swept into the dark void of the tunnel’s bowels. She closed her eyes tightly and held her breath to the exhaust fumes that habitate long tunnels. This was not her first trip through the Pitt; she scrunched her eyes tightly closed. and she knew just how many Mississippis to count. When she was a little girl, the magic was at the end of the tunnel. If you timed it right, you opened your eyes just before the end of the tunnel, and the masonry arch looked like a picture frame that exploded with the twinkling gleam of Pittsburgh’s point. It was like looking into a giant’s kaleidoscope at a fairy tale city.

It was still a mesmerizing sight, but as she rose from her seat, she gasped. Not because of the dazzling display of high rises, bridges, and stop and go lights, not because of the snowflakes illuminated in the bus’s headlights, but from a realization that took her breath away. She knew a certainty. The only thing left was to face her father and respect him, not for what he believed, but for the strength of his beliefs. The one thing they held in common. Conviction to their beliefs, taking stock, and the earnestness that supported and made life viable for each of them. She smiled. She felt a warm liquid, an even keel, a moisturizing calm beneath her skin as the bus clanked its way across the double deck, bowstring bridge into Pittsburgh.

The savage Appalachian snowstorm of Thanksgiving weekend 1950 convulsed Mid-West life. Snow fell to a depth of thirty inches in Pittsburgh and into drifts over twenty-five feet high elsewhere. Over three hundred and fifty people died before it was over. The wind whipped snow into efficient, white roadblocks. Life balanced its eggy head on the edge of a wall as temperatures plummeted and snow thickened.

The twenty-five-year-old man stood on the sloped, uphill ramp to the bridge outside the borrowed car. He wiped snow from the windshield with his coat sleeve and smiled what he hoped looked like encouragement. He shivered from the cold and something else. He slogged ten steps, with the trafficked mush of snow and coal cinders seeping into his shoes. He looked over the deserted bridge’s abutment to the crossroad below and saw only long shadows. The landscape was eerily still and silent. He felt the darkening void in his gut.

He slipped and slid back down the ramp to brake himself on the car’s hood. He bit his bottom lip. He looked back the way they had come as the snow melted on his glasses and made halos of the few lights in the distance. Without a hat, his hair turned white with snow, and the cold shoveled itself down the back of his neck. He raised his coat collar and resolutely pushed his hands into the car coat’s pockets. He shivered and stomped his feet. He looked south again and convulsively shook his head, releasing a tiny snow avalanche.

As he paced, the coal ash laid down earlier by a city truck turned dark and foul. The cold and wet seeped further into socks and soles. He looked at the buildings on the side of the bridge; the car salvage lot was closed. A welding business and gas station were shuttered against the storm. People were home with family and friends.

Heavy gray clouds crowded down on the city, and darkness was not going to be his friend. He looked at his watch, turned, and walked shrug-shouldered back up the bridge’s incline to the car.

The temperature dropped another degree or two, and snow pelted his back and froze icicles in his hair. He reached out and steadied himself on the car’s trunk as he slid sideways on the berm of the bridge. He looked down at the car’s tires. He hoped to see a change, a way out of the predicament.

After the car had slid into the snowbank, he had tried. He alternated the clutch and the gas, the forward and the reverse. He had buried the car deeper in the plowed snow at the edge of the bridge.

“Damn.” The tires did not rise up and extricate themselves. The snow around them was wetter and denser, and it froze harder with every minute that passed. The man opened the car door a few inches. The car’s tilt toward the berm’s edge made the Plymouth’s heavy door clumsier. He braced himself with his knee against the sedan’s side. He felt the warmth from the car’s interior rush past him into the night. He whispered to his wife, then closed the door before more heat escaped.
He rechecked his watch. As he looked north toward Bellevue and the hospital, headlights appeared in the distance. He ran, slipping and sliding, to flag down the approaching vehicle.

It was a police car out on patrol and heading back downtown. The officer’s shift was over; he envisioned checking in and going home to a late dinner of Thanksgiving leftovers with his wife and children. All had looked well on Pittsburgh’s deserted, snow-crowded streets. Until now.

Despite the deteriorating road conditions, the policeman was determined to get this man and his wife to the nearest hospital. Soon after they arrived, a baby girl was born, a new life on a snowy, end-of-November cyclonic night dubbed by newspapers The Storm of the Century and The Great Appalachian Snowstorm.

She stands at the window and watches as the light but accumulating snow falls. It has been more than sixty years, yet the TV weatherman referenced The Storm of the Century as an intro to his weather report on the TV in the hospital’s waiting room. An involuntary shiver quakes the woman’s shoulders as she stares out the window. She stopped biting her thumbnail; now, she bites her lip and sucks on the soreness. She feels the dropping temperature and senses the flakes’ wetness as she watches them land and cling to each other on bare tree limbs.

She wonders how that young man reacted so long ago to the blowing cold as its iciness chilled him head to foot. She tries to conjure the pain in his wife’s eyes, and if her cries focused or confused him. She wants to know how he reacted to the policeman’s sour face and oath-filled utterances.

Did that new father prove himself two days after Thanksgiving on that snowy, wind-driven night? Did he prove himself then and still on for another sixty-two years so she would be with him this night as he lay taking his last of the world?

She often felt the gulf between them was too wide to bridge. Over their arguments and years, there was no solid land, so they floundered apart in contesting oceans. Their beliefs have been different since the sixties.

She moved in one direction against what she saw as his conventional, narrow-minded current. Like a salmon fighting upstream, her life sometimes took great leaps. Other times her days were caught in stagnant water, and she swam in confused circles or tripped backward with the currents. The longer they live, the more debatable their ethics.

His war was in the Pacific, hers in Viet Nam. His three-martini lunches versus her LSD. His devotion to a one-week family vacation every year and her attitude adjustment days off work.

He gathered the tenets she spewed and used them to bolster his stand. He was right, and she was wrong. His beliefs mattered; hers were abstract and non-committal. His thoughts were tempered by the farm life he left to be his own man. He was soured by the bigotry of national wariness in wartime and subdued by life’s office cubicle. He was troubled to see a daughter unencumbered by Christian beliefs.

She grabbed bits and pieces of life, hung on to them, and wondered why he was so stubborn. She made quick, rash decisions but stood two feet in concrete, an unmovable column in her integrity and prerogative. She had conquered the biases taught in her childhood but still struggled with the fears imprinted since birth.

His belief is in the church, the literal word of the Bible, and a Christ who died for him. Blind faith to her on all accounts. Her faith, born of resentment, rebelliousness, and anger but tempered to the steel of social equality and peace, also a blind faith in a world mad with greed, corruption, vandalism, larceny, murderous intent, slander, terrorist attacks, gluttony, poverty, climate change, and hunger. She has no more proof of what she believes than he has of his.

A strong belief is their common bond. She lays her flat palm on the frosted windowpane and feels the heat of her hand pulled away into the night. She listens and hears that the end is near; his breathing is shallow and erratic.

Her recollections are all she knows; she wishes she knew more about that long-ago November night. More of her mother and father’s relationship that kept them together when separating seemed the better choice. More about his teenage years in Pittsburgh, the hunting and fishing cabin in Emlenton, his skill at growing tomatoes, and his feelings as a father. Just more.
At the side of the bed, she gently takes his rigid, pale hand and waits for a sign. As his eyes flicker open and focus on her face, she feels the warmth of tears on her cheeks.
“We believe the same way, Dad. I’ll be fine. I want you to stay, but I understand if you need to go. I’ll be right here.” She tries to smile, but her face breaks, and the tears flow.

She sniffles and struggles with the words, “Believe, Dad. Believe.” Her words are true.

He closes his eyes.

She looks out the window; the world is white.

He nods once, exhales, and is born to a new life on a snowy night in late November.

Whoever knows the one thought that it requires to trigger introspection or reassessment of the trajectory that ones life is taking.  Does it require a historic event that lights the fire to turn back and look from where you came and look up to wherever you goin’?  Which way lights a path?  Which way leads to a road paved and smooth?  Easy?  You can’t go back.  I know that.  So, where am I goin’?  Where am I going?  Sometimes I wish I could just be a lost ball in high grass, go away and never worry about nothing.  It’s not easy forgetting all the things you said you’d always remember, but it numbs and burdens the body so that forgetting is the only hope you have.  It’s a familiar feeling that eats your insides and feels good at the same time.  Like a moth being drawn to a flame.

When the man and the woman came from up north they brought with them a child about two years old that seemed to do nothing else but cry and ball its head off, and the woman was carrying one in her belly that popped out not long after they got here.  The husband, Burton Means, was a willowy-looking man with reddish brown hair and whiskers on his tobacco-stained chin, about down to the first button on his shirt.  He was mostly clean but didn’t have but two changes of clothes, so he was usually wearing a brown wool suit, or black slacks and a plaid jacket of forest green and mustard yellow.  He had a pair of overalls for the field and a pair of run over, broke down boots that were lucky to still have soles and be recognizable as shoes.  When they arrived the wife was friendly enough and most of their neighbors greeted them with the cordial indifference and suspicion afforded to those who had deserted up north and rubbed shoulders with Yankees. This put them in an awkward position as most southerners view deserters as suspect and sometimes with hostile appreciation.  A curiosity to be tolerated; barely.

So the bawling child kept bawling and it seemed like his lungs would burst, then he’d stop, gasp for air, and then start off all over again.  It was painful to listen to, to say the least, and if I hadn’t been so curious I’d have turned and left, crying baby and all.  My shoes had been spent and already relined with cardboard.  It felt like I had walked a hand full of country miles and I still had a bucket more to go. 

When I said I would deliver the message for the strange woman that had a baby about to bust her seams, talked funny, dressed funny, and even kept her money folded and hidden in funny places, I didn’t realize it was so far.  It didn’t seem like it was far, sounded like it was right across town, but as I set out and started asking folks and inquiring it got further and further and further.  The last place I stopped for a drink out of the well told me that it wasn’t far, but that already seems like that was a far piece back.

I should have recognized the signs when my foot started itching that something wasn’t right.  If something’s not right my left foot starts to itch one of those itches you just can seem to scratch.  I had never seen the strange woman, and why she was at the fish fry was an even stranger mystery.  Reverend Prichart could preach but that never brought any of the folks from across the way over to our side of the road.  The road was the dividing line, the line between the haves and the have-nots.  The privileged and the not-so.  The old folks always say if you live long enough you’ll see some of everything.  Well, I feel like at twelve I’ve seen it all.  A pregnant white woman at the annual fish fry creeping about in the shadows, in the dark, asked me, a little Black child, to deliver a letter.

Now Sundays were for church and picnics by the river.  Once a year the church held an annual fish fry that brought folks down from up north and up from down south.  The fish fry would last way into the night and sometimes up until the morning, past dawn and through breakfast.  Fish and grits got to be one of my favorite combinations. 

Reverend Prichart’d preach from sun up to sun down.  Many of the ladies made eyes at him and commented on his good looks, which I didn’t see.  I think he was good-looking if you closed one eye and looked at him sideways with the other.  They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and somebody must a been holding his beauty hostage cause it hadn’t been around to visit in a month of Sundays, in my opinion.  Many folks were tired and feel asleep leaning on the shoulders of kin, and kids against a tent pole, or sitting straight up, but nobody went home.  Nobody wanted to miss they blessing or the second coming and neither did I. 

There had been a big blow-up at church a few weeks back when Reverend Prichart decided Hell and Damnation would be his message that particular Sunday, on the particular Sunday that Viola Beams decided to attend church.  Viola being well known in the community, paid her tithes, volunteered at church functions, sang in the choir, and was generally liked in spite of being looked down on and despised by some over her position on abortion and performing them at a profit while at the same time providing a service needed and wanted by many and acknowledged by few.  Viola was the town midwife, abortionist, and psychologist rolled into one and her customers were the down on their luck, can’t afford any more mouths to feed families which included most of the Black families and plenty of the white.  Viola took particular exception to the message in the sermon, as she believed that it was directed at her.  “When Pharaoh decreed the firstborn to die he was the enemy and the enemy is sometimes clothed as a friend among us.”  The reverend’s voice rose and fell with emphasis in the usual places with hushed tones and sustained vibrato in others.  “The wicked shall be cut down like a blade of grass.”  The reverend looked directly at Viola, which caused most of the congregation to turn and look too.  Some looked out of habit.  Some looked out of curiosity.  Others looked out of shame.  They searched for her reaction.  They waited for her response.  Viola barely blinked an eye.  The air around her did not stir.  She met reverend Prichart’s stare with one of her own as the tension hung in the air.  Thick.  The reverend moved on.  “Can I get an amen?”  The congregation obliged with amens, and yes sirs, and hallelujahs.  The congregation moved on but Viola did not.  This was the last time the two were together in the same room.  Until now.

Reverend Prichart would preach his usual “loaves and fishes” and David and Goliath.  He stuck Jonah and the Whale in the middle and ended with the deliverance of the Jews from Egypt by Moses and the parting of the Red Sea.  That stirred the crowd as tambourines thumped and shouts of hallelujah and amens left several women prostrate on the ground, fanned and tended to by the ushers and the mothers of the church. 

As I backed away from the crowd a hand clutched my shoulder and called my name, “Little Lady.”  How did the strange white woman know my name?  “Little Lady.”  Yes, that’s me.  Little Lady Capricious Honey.  “Little Lady I’ll give you a dollar if you deliver this letter for me.”  A dollar!  I could do a lot with a dollar.  A whole dollar just for delivering a letter.  She reached down and pulled a damp dollar from someplace I don’t want to think about or even speculate the location but I took the dollar just the same.  Chewing gum, licorice, and Mary Jane’s won’t care where the dollar came from and neither would I as I stuffed them into my mouth by the handfuls. 

I remember passing this house a few times while out creepin’ about, doin’ nothin’ and searchin’ for more of the same. Since then I have walked past it so many times, that house, it became nonexistent, unnoticed, unacknowledged, and a non-concern.  This day it felt different, I don’t know how or why but it was different.  Maybe because I had business there.  Maybe because I know more about the people living there.

I passed this house on the many nights that my friend Julie and I would sneak out after everyone else had gone to bed.  Slippin’ out past bedtime was just something we do.  We didn’t think about it, we didn’t plan it.  Like I said, it was something we do.  During the summer we’d slip out most nights and stay out ‘til almost mornin’.  Julie and I’d visit familiar places and try to catch up on all we missed seeing in the spring and fall while we were in school.

I could not, and would not deny myself the knowledge of knowing what was in the note.  There was nothing that said don’t look.  The strange woman gave no warning.  It wasn’t sealed in an envelope.  No longer moist from perspiration I unfolded it and read, “Baby on the way!”

Becky Sue, the pregnant woman with the bursting seams, with money in strange places was at fish fry to get Viola.  Viola would deliver the baby she was carrying as no white doctor would risk their practice or standing in the community to deliver the baby of an unwed mother and an adulterous one to boot.  Viola sent the woman in my direction to deliver the letter to the baby’s father and the other half of the adulterous couple.

I knocked on the door and the man answered looking quizzical and confused.  He appeared just as surprised as I was to be standing there on his front porch.  The unexpected delivery and unexpected visitor aroused suspicion and stoked the imagination.  I handed him the note that he quietly took and shut the door.  No thanks.  No acknowledgement.  Not even boo.  Nothing.  It’s just as well.

There was a certain kind of urgency and expectancy that arrested the household and put everyone on notice, something was about to happen and whether it was good or bad was secondary to the knowledge that it was coming just the same.  You could put on your best face, wait, with questions that might be wrongly interpreted, gave a sense of interest, or hinted at the slightest curiosity where there was none.  Indifference was a justifiable and secure position, or better, a posture of indifferently indifference served a purpose beyond understanding.

Burton Means felt an immediate sense of obligation and duty that was quite odd since he never demonstrated, or exhibited these feelings before.  Burton Means immediately left in his jalopy of an automobile.  I returned to the fish fry.  The crowd had thinned a little but still had a sizable number of people testifying and bearing witness.   I saw no sign of the pregnant woman or Viola.

After about two or three years the first bawling baby started to go to school and the second one was starting to get about in the yard and moving faster than his mama and sometimes his daddy could run after him.  It was last week, or the week before last that I saw the wife tiptoe up to Viola Beams gate and step in the yard but then she turned around and went on back down the road.  I wondered, for a minute, but didn’t think too much about it until we saw the fire on the way home from school one day, it was out in the barn, and the smoke was black as tar and thick as the mud down by the creek bottoms.  The oldest bawling child that went to school ran in the house hollering Mama!  Daddy!  ‘cept they didn’t answer and he ran out the back toward the barn that was already collapsing and already had flames leaping out.

The news of the soon-to-come baby really broke the spirit of the wife and caused her days to be filled with thoughts of how she could fix it and turn it around.  The thought of a third bawling baby took the color right out of her cheeks and the little curl there was left out of her hair.  The first baby liked to killed her, came into the world feet first, twisted and backwards from the beginning and upsetting everyone and everything every since.  The second one came before she had a chance to recover from the first and it seemed like her life had been a hell ever since.  She recognized that the incessant crying came from the husband’s side of the family and that they were nothing but a bunch of cry babies themselves.  Somebody had always done them wrong, didn’t give them what they thought they deserved and caused them to be angry in their actions and their thoughts.  When she first left with her husband she was trying to get out from under the heel of her own mother and father who insisted on attending church every Sunday for the morning and the evening service in addition to doing the Lord’s work in between by visiting and tending the sick Monday through Friday after completing the daily chores, of which seemed to be endless.   Knowing that her husband fathered a child with another woman did nothing to help and quite possibly tipped the scales and sent her on an emotional tailspin. 

First she cried.  “How could you?  You said you loved me!”  Next she threatened to leave and take the children with her but soon realized it was an empty threat with no bite.  “I’ll kill myself,” she hurled in one of her fits of anger, to which Burton laughed and shined her on.

The smoke hung thick, and the still humid air caused it to sit.  When the wife’s family heard about what had happened they sent for the oldest child to come and live with them.  What happened to Burton Means and the younger child is not known.  Soon after the fire, Becky Sue, Burton Means, and the baby disappeared.  Some say of up north.  Most folks don’t speculate, just hunch their shoulders and move on.

Chico was leaving. Chico their good buddy. Chico the smartest guy of their whole gang. Chico who had won every sandlot ballgame they had ever played against the Uptowners and still managed to get higher marks in school than anybody else they knew, and that included studious Maria Olancho who they had heard would probably be their high school salutatorian —whatever dumb thing that was supposed to mean.

Chico’s father was a rocket scientist—an aerospace engineer to be even more accurate. Two months before, he had been offered a job at NASA, but that meant that his family had to move to someplace called New Orleans. It sounded French to Willy, but Nort said it was Spanish. Whatever it was, and wherever it was, the boys didn’t enjoy the idea of Chico leaving. They’d never see him again.

Mikey broke the draining silence. ‘Hey Chico. Drop us a line every now and again, hoh? Postcard or something from this New Orlando place, will ya?’

Chico casually wiped his face, hoping the guys wouldn’t see him brushing tears away instead of a gnat or a mosquito. ‘Of course, Mikey. Whatcha think? I might disappear and never come back around again? Think I’m some kinda fake friend, do ya?’

‘Naw!’ two or three of the gang exclaimed. ‘Never!’

‘Good then, cause you’d have me all wrong if ya did think that.’

‘Hey,’ Theo added. ‘Are you really a Indian, Chico? My daddy says we got some Cherokee in us, but when I look in the mirror all I see is a white kid. Blue eyes, red hair, freckles—the works!’

‘Yep. I’m Indian. I’m Diné.’

‘I never heard of that tribe on any Western flick I ever seen!’ exclaimed Kingston. His first name was Randy, but he liked going by his surname.

‘But Kingston believes you though,’ supplied Greaser (whose real name was Gerald). ‘He ain’t sayin’ he don’t believe you’re a Indian, Chico.’

‘So where’s this New Orlaneens place?’ asked the kid they all called Mars Bar. ‘Is it in America? Is it too far away to ride our bikes?’

‘It’s in Louisiana,’ replied Chico. ‘That’s a state down South.’

‘Man that’s far! Who’s gonna help us win our games against the Flopdowners?’ cried Nort. ‘Gosh darn it! There goes the neighborhood!’

Chico grinned. ‘Ha! Those Uptown wussies couldn’t win a game if they had Babe Ruth on their team! Or Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio!’

All the guys scuffled their tennis shoes in the sand and laughed. They knew it was true, but still—Chico was the one who had really beaten the other sandlot team. And now he was leaving—and it looked like for good.

‘I really will come back to see you guys—one day,’ Chico promised, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. He didn’t want to move to New Orleans, but when you’re a kid you have to do what your parents say. After all, they probably know what’s right—most of the time, anyway. But what can you do about it when you’re eleven? It’s not like anybody’ll hire you at a good job yet, and getting a place to live might be pretty hard too—especially without a job! And with a rowdy dog like Scallywag!

Willy disappeared suddenly and was gone for a few minutes, but when he came back he handed Chico something lumpy wrapped up in tinfoil. ‘You takin’ Scallywag with ya? Here’s a uncooked beef bone for him. Scruff decided he don’t like bones no more.’

‘Thanks Willy! He’ll like this!’

‘But I bet he’ll hate New Orlando!’ Mikey added. ‘All them creampuff French poodles runnin’ around all dolled up with ribbons and poof-balls for legs! And pink painted toenails!’

‘Gross!’ screamed Big Linguini, the tallest of the gang. ‘That’s disgustin’! What kinda damn dog is that?’

‘I don’t think New Orleans is like that, fellas,’ said Chico hopefully, ‘but if it is, I won’t be stayin’ for long. Dad can just work for NASA by himself.’

‘That-a-boy Chico!’ bellowed Nort. ‘No sissies in our gang—even if we do move a million miles away and never see each other again!’

‘So, whadda we do now?’ asked Kingston. ‘We all grew up together in this ol’ neighborhood, and now one of us is leavin’. Well I’m leavin’ too then!’

‘Me too,’ cried three or four of the guys, and eight heads wagged up and down, all agreeing that everybody was leaving if Chico was leaving.

‘We’ll never find a pitcher or a better switch-hitter than Chico!’ screamed Theo as he ran to his friend and wriggled under his left arm. Nort was under Chico’s right in no time, Big Linguini and Mikey had his legs, and before another second passed the neighborhood hero had been hoisted high on the shoulders of his best buddies in the whole wide world.
‘Hip-Hip Hooray! Hip-Hip Hooray!’ they cried as a full moon crept over the nearest hill and a few of the brighter stars began to twinkle in the indigo.

‘Let me down! Guys! Put me down! You’re actin’ like I just saved you boys from drownin’ or somethin’. Geesh!’

‘We’re just gonna miss ya is all, Chico,’ said Greaser tearfully.

‘Yeah,’ said a few of the others.

‘We don’t want ya to go, buddy,’ added Mars Bar.

Tears shot out of Chico’s eyes like tiny liquid rockets. ‘I gotta go, gang. I ain’t gotta choice.’

Seeing Chico let his emotions go willy-nilly turned everybody else into lawn sprinklers.

‘Would ya look at us all?’ said Willy. ‘Cryin’ up a storm like a buncha little whiny girls.’

‘Thank goodness there’s no real girls around to see us,’ added Big Linguini as he whipped his bandana out and blew his nose.

‘But there is, though,’ declared a familiar voice behind them.

Whirling around, the boys faced Maria Olancho standing akimbo with her lips pursed and angrily tapping her foot.

‘Hey Maria,’ said Chico, thinking on his feet like he always did. ‘I hear you’ve got a pretty good arm. And, ah, these fellas are gonna be needin’ a new pitcher.’

Su-min Han hunched over a sewing machine in the back of a small garment shop in Itaewon. Tucked out of sight from the customers, she spent her days stitching names and logos onto clothing sold to Americans stationed at Yongsan. While the shop specialized in sports uniforms, their biggest sellers were the bomber jackets and parkas popular with the soldiers. They featured an ornate dragon emblazoned on the back and the customer’s name sewn above the left breast.

The pay was decent, but the work was tedious and Mr. Chung, the owner, was an abrasive boss. The hours were long and Su-min had little time to spend with her son, Sang-yeol; she felt his childhood slipping away every day she spent at work. 

In his mother’s absence, Sang-yeol’s childhood companion had become AFKN—the American radio and television stations broadcast from the army base. He had become enamored with American culture; he was well-versed in the latest tv shows, movies, and music that America had to offer. His fondness for all things American culminated in his desire for an American name.

Thanks to a friend’s referral, Su-min had just gotten a job as a housekeeper on Yongsan. The pay was better and she would have evenings and weekends off. She planned to finish the week and, once her final paycheck was in hand, would then inform Mr. Chung she was quitting. He was temperamental and if she gave her notice too soon, he would withhold her paycheck as penance.

Su-min was working on a pile of soccer jerseys when she heard Mr. Chung beckon her. Hurrying to the sales floor, she saw him holding a child’s jacket and speaking in apologetic tones to an American woman. He turned to Su-min to berate her, in English, for misspelling the child’s name on the jacket. The customer chimed in, pointing to her lips as she spoke:  “B B B… Benton; not D D D… Denton!!! Can you speak English???!!!” Mr. Chung again apologized profusely to the woman.

Su-min bowed in apology as Mr. Chung dramatically threw the jacket at her. While she knew the theatrics were for the customer’s benefit, she took the opportunity to clutch the jacket and walk out of the store. It was worth more than the week’s salary she would receive if she stayed; winter was approaching and her son desperately needed a warm coat. She ignored Mr. Chung’s obscenities (now in Korean) and walked down the street where she boarded a bus that took her home.

Sang-yeol ran to his mother as she walked in the door; it was an unexpected surprise to see her home so early. She pulled out the jacket and handed it to her son. A big grin spread across his face as he pointed to the name sewn on the front of the jacket, first spelling it, then pronouncing “Denton.” He tried it on; it was a little large, but he would grow into it. He gave her a big hug; she had done more than provide him warmth for the winter—she had given him an American name.

one

Sean had just moved into quarters on Yongsan Garrison with his parents and was out investigating his new neighborhood, hoping to find some other kids his age. He hadn’t acclimated to the humidity of the Korean summer yet and was about to give up for the day when he heard someone yell “L.A. Dodgers!” He turned to see a boy approaching and realized he was referring to the hat his mother made him wear to protect him from the sun. Excited at the prospect of making a new friend, Sean introduced himself, though admitted he wasn’t actually a Dodgers fan.

“That’s ok, Sean; nobody’s perfect” They both laughed. “I’m Denton Han and I AM a Dodgers fan.” Sean liked him immediately.

Denton told Sean his mother, Su-min, had recently married an MP named Jackson and they lived not too far from Sean’s parents. He loved living on the American base but confided he wasn’t fond of his step father.

The boys quickly became friends and spent the remaining days of summer exploring Yongsan together. Once school started and they discovered they were in the same classroom, the two became inseparable.

One afternoon they were at Denton’s house watching TV. Denton looked over at Sean and said “You know, my mom made me a Dodgers hat once….”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you wear it?”

Denton disappeared down the hall to his bedroom and re-emerged wearing a powder blue, mesh cap. The front of the hat was embroidered with a very loose interpretation of a cursive capital D.

The boys started laughing uncontrollably when the door flew open and Denton’s step father, a 6-foot-tall stone wall of a man, burst into the living room. His sergeant’s voice drowned out the television: “Keep it down; I have to work tonight!” He slammed the door as Denton slowly removed the hat. Su-min explained that Jackson was very tired and suggested they go play outside.

Denton’s birthday was in December and, in what had become a tradition, his mother was taking him out for his favorite meal—kimchi jjigae—and invited Sean to join. Sean was unfamiliar with Korean food, but saw how happy it made his friend so he gladly accepted.

Exiting the bus in one of Seoul’s bustling shopping districts, the two boys followed Su-min as she threaded her way through rows of merchants and storefronts. As they turned into an alley lined with food vendors, the smell of grilled meat and fried food filled the air. They stepped inside the flaps to one of the covered stalls and sat down in plastic chairs.

Sean looked across the table, admiring Denton’s winter jacket and feeling a little jealous. It looked much warmer than his own and had a cool dragon on the back. He asked where he got it and Denton boasted “My mom made it!” Sean, half-jokingly, suggested that maybe she could make him one, too, but received no response.

The owner brought out three earthenware bowls of soup at a roiling boil, and three small containers of rice, placing one of each in front of them. Sean warmed himself over the steam rising from the food; he looked around the table to see if anyone had started eating. He saw Denton place several spoonfuls of rice into the soup and, after watching Su-min do the same, followed suit (intrigued by this ritual) and carefully took a bite of the scalding mixture. He felt the warmth of the jjigae permeate his entire body and eagerly spooned up more. Su-min watched the boys eat, happy to see Denton still held an appreciation for some of his Korean culture.

Spring soon arrived, bringing the return of warmer weather, but also news that Jackson’s request to extend his tour of duty had been declined. He had already been granted one extension when he married Su-min and the army felt he had spent enough time in Korea. Denton would be moving that summer.

The two boys tried to make the most of their last few months together. But the reality of their impending separation began creeping into their friendship and they often found themselves bickering until the tension culminated into an all out fist fight. Neither boy admitted to losing, nor to being at fault. Both refused to see or speak to each other for their final month together in Korea.

two

Dodger Stadium sprawled out before Denton as he walked out of the tunnel into the stands. Even under cloudy skies the panoramic view was impressive. He had dreamed about this moment since he was a boy, yet the euphoria of the moment eluded him. He had always imagined his mother would be here with him, yet found himself alone in Los Angeles.

Su-min was in Chambersburg where the family had moved when Jackson got out of the army. Rural Pennsylvania was not the America Denton had envisioned. Nor was living with his step father who had grown increasingly abusive to both he and his mother. The army’s structure and discipline had provided a framework to channel the man’s anger and meanness, but stripped of that environment, he lashed out at everyone. As Denton grew older, clashes with Jackson escalated. To diffuse the situation, Su-min arranged for Denton to live with her cousin, Sam Han, who owned a convenience store in Los Angeles. 

The night before he left, Su-min presented her son with a pair of white leather Adidas—shoes he had coveted since childhood. She told him he’d be on his feet most of the day helping Sam in the store and would need comfortable footwear. She also gave him an envelope of cash, which she stipulated was for a day at Dodger Stadium; it was enough for his ticket, a cap, and some food. He hugged his mom, unable to hold back his tears.

Denton felt several raindrops fall onto his new hat. He looked down to see rain bounce off his Adidas and thought about the sacrifices his mother had made for him to be here; he missed her and wished she could be part of this new life. He wanted her to leave Jackson and come live with him, but knew she would balk. Regardless, he decided to mention it to her every time they spoke, hoping to wear her down.

The rain steadily increased, turning into a downpour before the game had a chance to begin. Fans began to file out of the stadium but Denton remained in his seat, hat soaked, watching the grounds crew rush to cover the infield with a tarp.

Denton immersed himself in his work, spending 10-12 hours a day in the store. Aside from living expenses, he kept all the money he made in the office safe. Sam was impressed with Denton’s work ethic and thrift, and before long, found himself doing the unthinkable: taking a day off and leaving Denton in charge of the store.

In the spring of 1992, Su-min came to visit Denton in Los Angeles. Stepping off the bus, she embraced her son. She removed the hat from his head and placed it over the curls of her permed hair. “L.A.!” she said posing in his Dodgers cap as the two laughed and hugged again. He felt like their family was whole again.

Su-min enjoyed her time in California. For the first time in years, she could relax and just be herself. She phoned her husband to inform him she was staying an additional week.

Denton awoke in the middle of the night to Jackson’s 300 pound frame forcing its way into his apartment like a battering ram. When he tried to block his step father’s path, Denton was quickly dispatched to the ground. The intruder flung the bedroom door open, ordering Su to get her things—she was coming home.

Getting back on his feet, Denton tried to place himself between Jackson and his mother but found himself flat on his back again. He heard his mother scream as things went dark. When he regained consciousness, the apartment was empty and his head was throbbing.

Denton tried to distract himself with work until he could contact his mom again but, within days, the city erupted in violence. Anger and frustration boiled over into the streets of Los Angeles, consuming everything in their path, including the Han’s convenience store.

In the wake of the riots, Denton shuffled through the debris in his now grey Adidas. He made his way to the office where Sam was inspecting broken file cabinets and sifting through paperwork strewn about the room. Looking up, he somberly informed Denton that the looters had made off with the safe; both of their money was gone. He stood up and located some plastic tarp which he pulled over the desk, effectively pronouncing his business dead.

three

Sean sat alone in a small Korean restaurant just outside of Olympia, dipping spoonfuls of rice into a bowl of jjigae. He was feeling particularly melancholy: he had just graduated from college, had no real job, and his roommate had moved out of state for a job. The empty house and lack of direction left him contemplative and lonely.

The jjigae brought back fond memories of his childhood in Korea; it had been years since he had eaten Korean food. He recalled his first jjigae experience with Denton and Su-min in Seoul and wondered what had become of his friend.

He took his time finishing his meal, then got up to pay his bill. As he was leaving, he heard the owner yell back to the kitchen in Korean. He couldn’t understand what she was saying, but distinctly heard “Denton” in her commands. He looked back and saw a man emerge from the kitchen and start to clear the table; he was wearing a faded Dodgers cap.

The owner let Denton go early and the two went back to Sean’s house. They stayed up all night talking; the rekindling of an old friendship was exactly what Sean needed. Denton told him how he lost his money in the riots and didn’t know what he was going to do until a relative of Sam’s invited him to come live in her spare room in exchange for help at her restaurant. Her husband had passed away and she was having a difficult time running the business alone.

Denton had made his way to Washington but, despite working at the restaurant a year, hadn’t made any money. The business wasn’t doing well and the free room was all the owner could afford to pay him. Sean insisted Denton stay in his spare room and look for a better job. 

Denton was hesitant to leave the owner; he knew she couldn’t run the place on her own. But within a month, she informed him she was closing the restaurant; there wasn’t enough business to justify keeping it open any longer. Denton moved into Sean’s house and quickly became a fixture on the couch.

Several weeks passed and Sean was becoming concerned; to his knowledge, Denton had yet to apply for even one job. Every day he came home from work to find Denton watching tv and drinking beer. His grey Adidas—heels flattened from years of slipping the shoes on and off from the rear—and Dodgers cap sat just inside the front door, unused since the day he moved in.

Driving home one evening, Sean knew he had to confront his friend. But when he walked inside, he noticed Denton’s shoes were gone… and so was his hat. For the first time in weeks, Denton had left the house.

Sean was awakened several hours later when the front door opened. Denton walked in, proudly holding a bag of groceries and a case of beer. “I got a job!”

He had been hired as a server in one of the nicer restaurants near the capitol. His first shift was over the lunch hour; he wanted to make sure it worked out before telling Sean. In addition, he had heard from his mother. She was warming to the idea of leaving Jackson if Denton had a place for her to stay, but didn’t want to commit until he was able to support them both. This had been motivation for Denton to find a job as soon as possible.

Sean told Denton that Su-min was welcome to live with them, but Denton insisted on getting his own place; he didn’t want someone else supporting his mother and he didn’t want Jackson knocking down Sean’s door in the middle of the night.

As in Los Angeles, Denton threw himself into his work. Within a year, he was promoted to manager. The increased salary would be more than enough to support both him and his mother. Ecstatic, he contacted her and the two began making plans.

The day she was scheduled to arrive, Sean was staying with friends. Denton couldn’t take possession of the new apartment for another week and Sean wanted to give the mother and son space to reconnect. Denton was stepping out of the shower when he heard someone leaving a message on the machine. His mom’s friend Todd was frantically begging Denton to call as soon as possible.

interlude

My daddy named me after General Stonewall Jackson. He said he had the fear of God and of nothing else. He was a fighter and told me that’s what I needed to be to survive in this world. And I suppose it’s a good thing, because I’ve had to fight all my life. I was always big for my age and boys were always picking fights with me to try and prove themselves.

When I hit my teenage years, I found myself at eye level with my daddy who had to remind me he was still the bigger man. He would beat me pretty bad sometimes and I took it… until my 17th birthday when I fought back. The day I whooped my daddy, I was no longer welcome in his house. So I lied about my age and joined the army.

The recruiter made me military police because of my size and sent me to Saigon. I spent my time breaking up bar fights instead of fighting communists, but I got to meet a pretty Vietnamese woman there. We started getting close, but my unit rotated home before we could marry. I could’ve asked for a transfer but I didn’t fight to stay with her. It’s one of the few regrets I got in life.

I met Su many years later when I was stationed in Korea. She came into the MP station for a work permit and I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Later that month I saw her down in Itaewon being harassed by a drunk Marine. I was off duty, but intervened and sent the guy running. She and I became friends and started meeting up regularly. I didn’t want another regret in my life, so I proposed and we were married within the year.

Su had a son, though I never considered him my boy. When we lived in Korea, he didn’t give me much trouble, but when we moved to Chambersburg, he was always under foot. He was growing up and there was only room in the house for one man.

Once he moved out, things got cold between Su and me. I think she blamed me for the boy leaving. She got a job up in Shippensburg so I didn’t see her much during the day. She started hanging out with a fellow named Todd. I usually don’t approve of my wife hanging out with any man, but since he was queer, I figured it was safe. So I tolerated him.

I felt Su slipping farther away; we’d go weeks without a word between us. I thought about kicking her out, but I respected the institution of marriage—that’s forever; for better or for worse. So I abided the distance she put between us. Though sometimes I had to show her I still loved her. Like the time she went to visit her son in California: said she was staying for a week, then tried to tell me she was staying longer. That was disrespectful. Her place is with her husband, not her grown son.

Su started spending more time outside the house and I started getting suspicious. When she thought I was asleep, I was listening to her phone calls and soon found out she was plotting to leave me and break the sacred bonds. I didn’t fight for my woman in Vietnam, but I would sure as hell fight for my marriage.

The day she was planning to leave, she said she was going to work. Todd picked her up. I fought that part of me that wanted to just let her go and pulled myself off the couch to follow them. I had to make sure she didn’t have a change of heart. I wanted to believe in her commitment to me—maybe she was going to work after all. As the car passed the Shippensburg exit and continued north toward Harrisburg, my heart broke.

At the airport, I watched Su get a suitcase out of the trunk and walk toward the terminal. I stepped behind her and called her name. She was caught off guard but kept walking. I pulled out my .45 and pointed it toward her; I told her to get into my car, but Todd ran between us.

“This doesn’t concern you,” I clicked off the safety and motioned for him to step aside. I could see the fear in his eyes. I didn’t like him but I wasn’t a murderer. He retreated to his car like the coward I knew him to be.

Su still wouldn’t look at me; she continued walking away. I started to follow and called to her again. When she refused to heed me, I shot once… twice. She collapsed onto the parking lot.

I walked over to her and turned the gun on myself. I fell to the ground where I joined my wife.

I was done fighting.

four

A Washington State trooper stood over the body in the pouring rain, a pair of Adidas lay on the pavement several feet away. After interviewing several witnesses, he entered “suicide” into his notes and, unable to find any identifying documents on the body, listed the victim as “John Doe of Asian Descent.” Somewhere in the 67 foot plunge from the Capitol Boulevard bridge to the left hand lane of I5 southbound, Denton Han lost his name.

Another officer on the scene diverted traffic into the center and right lanes of the highway while the trooper covered the corpse with a blue tarp. Rainwater trickled down the folds of the plastic shroud onto the highway, washing blood from the asphalt.

epilogue

The last image Sean had of Denton Han was the photograph of a bruised and broken body presented by the coroner’s office for him to identify. He had been able to restore Denton’s name to the anonymous corpse that lay in the morgue, but had spent the last 25 years trying to exorcise the image from his memory.

Sean contemplated the jjigae and rice on the table before him. Every December, on Denton’s birthday, he partook of the rite of jjigae in remembrance of his friend. He ate the meal slowly, every bite deliberate and with purpose—as if it were the holy Eucharist—until the bowl was empty.

He pulled on the Dodgers hat Denton had left in the house—a parting gift. As his arms struggled to find their way into his jacket, he had a vision of his friend as a smiling child in Korea, proudly wearing the dragon jacket his mother had made. He tried to hold onto this version of Denton but, as he stepped outside, the bitter cold air filled his lungs, sapping the memory—and residual warmth of the jjigae—from his body.

Close to the square lived Ivan Ciobanu with his girlfriend Masha Grigoreva. Ivan was a tall, handsome man in his mid-thirties. His pointy nose, slicked-back black hair, and thin face made him look like an actor from the Fifties. Masha, still in her early twenties, was often envied by her peers for her wavy golden hair, vast green eyes, slim figure, and ample bosom.

The pair had met some years back when Masha had just turned eighteen. At first, she was fully enamored by the older guy, but the things that made her fall for him gradually became irritating. His intellectualism she began seeing as pretentious, his cynicism as spiteful, his rationality as callous, and his aloofness as antisocial. She’d settled for him because she knew that a generous non-drinker who owned a house, had a good job, and never laid a hand on her was a rarity in Trușeni.

Such fatalistic acceptance is rampant among young women in Moldova. With their light-colored eyes, slender bodies, and fair skin, they enter adulthood often with high spirits yearning, only to meet a harsh reality of corruption, indifference, violence, and poverty. After graduating from college, unless they escape to some other country, they usually end up marrying someone from their village and having kids. Depression then sets in, and their beauty begins fading until they suddenly find themselves in their forties—shackled by their ungrateful children and unnoticed by their alcoholic husbands. They hence turn into obsessive religiosity, calling their miserable existence an act of fate.

Men in Moldova are often oblivious to the plight of their women. Centuries of normalized misogyny have endowed them with unparalleled callousness. To most of them, breadwinning is a man’s sole duty. Emotional availability and presence are simply foreign luxuries, much like chewing gum in those awful communist times. Men are taught not to show emotions. And when the latter rear their unwelcomed heads, a good man must calmly drown them in vodka.

Masha was initially fascinated by Ivan because she thought he was different. But after getting to really know him, she realized that instead of drinking, he found superficially intellectual ways to suffocate his feelings: he read fanatically, talked about humanity as if he did not belong to it, and always trivialized tragedies by over-rationalizing them, often regurgitating stoics’ ideas about the neutrality of pain, suffering, and death. “Thinking about how suffering and death never spare anyone makes me accept them without feeling bitter. If everyone embraced such ideas, our collective reaction to these plights would be much better. Depressing things like funerals wouldn’t even exist. We’d have only burials and celebrations of the cycle of life and death. If you adopt such an attitude, nothing would upset you. You’d be able to achieve peace of mind. Nothing that falls upon your ears can harm you. All news is good. All sounds are similar in the end. They’re merely noises echoing in this vast universe.”

But that is precisely the problem with stoicism. Not all sounds are the same—news also. Certain sounds break us, and certain news changes who we are. Some suffering is beyond impartiality. Imagine being told that your spouse has been murdered or that your child was obliterated into pieces in some freak accident. To take such news stoically, you must be either deluded or psychopathic. Even the all-knowing Son of God did not take his pain on the cross neutrally. Instead, he cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Ivan was a man, a terribly-flawed one. And his ideas about pain and suffering would surely be impressive in books, in writing, in the realm of ideas. But in the real world, where one is subject to the tragedy of existence, one needs more than ideas. One simply needs faith. Not necessarily religious faith, but a source of hope that one day, there might be a meaning behind it all, that something good may come out of our suffering. If someone cannot find faith, then agnosticism may do. But to just sit on the edge of the universe observing the cycle of life and death (and all the suffering in-between) and then claim that it is all neutral is simply the intellectual equivalent of primitive superstitions.

One night, almost when it turned twelve, Ivan and Masha heard a concerto of unnerving screams coming from the neighbor’s house. “Aaaah…aaaah!” Brimming with agony, the shrill uproars of an old woman pierced through the starless sky for almost half an hour. For a few nights, Ivan pretended to ignore them, but they only grew more poignant.

“Is she going to do that every midnight?” almost shuddering, he asked Masha as they sat in the living room.

“The poor woman,” she said and shook her head.

“What the hell is wrong with her?”

“Don’t you know?”

“How would I know? I don’t even know her name.”

“Her name is Vera. She’s been your neighbor for years!” Her eyes grew in surprise. “Everyone in Trușeni is talking about her tragedy! She recently lost both of her sons and her husband in a car accident. The other day, someone told me at the church that their bodies were completely mangled. I now often see her praying and lighting candles for them.”

“Okay, I am sorry for her.” He got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a glassful of water. “I can’t quench this thirst.” He took a couple of sips. “Anyhow, her screaming is terrifying. I just can’t take it. Someone should talk to her, take her to a psychiatrist or a therapist or something. She needs a cure.”

“The woman is in her seventies and extremely poor.” She paused. “And not everything can be ‘cured.’ Sometimes, people just need to grieve, to be broken.”

“But also, people have to heal by coming to terms with their tragedies. Look at me, for example. I lost both of my parents when I was in my late teens. Did I suffer? Sure. Was I heartbroken? Most definitely. Did I become an alcoholic like most men in this commune? No. Did I take it as a stoic? Yes, because if you’re alive, you can tolerate anything. The minute life truly breaks you, you’re dead. In any case, death is not terrifying, it’s just going back to the ‘elements of the universe,’ as Marcus Aurelius would put it.”

“How comforting?” Masha rolled her eyes. “Do you really think that a woman who’s just buried a husband and two sons would be consoled by such ideas? Such ideas seem impressive in books, but they’re irrelevant in real life. If anything, in such times, it’s good to have some faith, some—”

“Okay, again, back to your spiritual nonsense.”

She turned away and sighed. “You know, it’s a good idea not to call other people’s opinions nonsense.” She looked back at him, this time in disgust.

“Let’s be rational. Was she under the impression that her loved ones would live forever? We all die in the end, just like the billions that died before us and the billions to die after us. It’s a natural process. It is ‘like birth,’ as Marcus Aurelius says. Once the old woman realizes this, she’ll feel—”

“It’s insane to think that such things would make a grieving mother feel better. ‘Oh, Vera, don’t mourn. Death is like birth; it’s going back to the elements. Can’t you understand? Now, whenever you remember the mangled corpses of your sons and husband, remember that. It will take the pain away.’ Is that what we should tell her?”

He ignored her. “I can’t quench this thirst,” he mumbled, grabbed the glass of water, looked at it for a second, and gulped it down.

Months passed. Vera’s ominous screaming never ceased, neither did Masha’s frustration with Ivan’s irritability and spite. “Idiots. I work with idiots,” he would often complain upon returning from work. “My colleagues are useless. They can’t get anything right apart from talking about football, pop culture, and women. I can’t take another day at the office.” He would then go to the kitchen and grab a big glass of water, muttering something like, “This thirst is killing me. It must be my diet. I should eat less meat.” And whenever he saw Masha reading something he did not like, he would go on about the value of time. “Life is limited, Masha. Sadly, we must waste time on meaningless stuff, like our day jobs, to put food on the table. But why would you voluntarily waste your time on meaningless reads?” He got angry when she talked back. “I sometimes feel that you’re still too young. I hope you’ll understand better when you are older. Don’t be an idiot like the rest of those naked apes.” He would then sink into silence and drink his water.

His most repugnant words, however, were reserved for Vera. “That whore! That cow! I can’t take her shrieks anymore. She’s making me anxious. Someone should stop her. Maybe the government should hospitalize her.” He even called the police several times, but to no avail. Two kinds of people don’t like to act in most post-Soviet countries: policemen and doctors.

On a Sunday morning, he followed the unwitting Masha and waited outside the church during the Divine Liturgy. Once he saw Vera coming out, he pulled her aside. “Do you love your husband and your sons?” When the gaunt woman nodded, he continued, “Great! Hear me out then. The dead don’t fear anything; they don’t have unfulfilled desires; they don’t suffer, feel hungry or thirsty, or get sick or depressed. You are, at this very same moment, worse off than your husband and sons. They’re free, you’re not. They’re in total bliss, you’re not. If you looked at it this way, you’d begin accepting the whole matter. Screaming is just—”

The poor woman broke into tears.

“Please stop crying.” He exhaled his frustration. “I just want you to stop shouting every midnight. You’re howling like a wolf. I can’t take it. It’s so unnerving. It gives me anxiety, one I’ve never had before.”

Vera did not reply. She just looked at him with a pair of hopeless, protruding eyes.

He suddenly felt someone grabbing him by the arm. “Are you insane?” said Masha, pulling him away. She then went to the woman, held her hand, and rubbed it compassionately. “I’m sorry. My boyfriend is an idiot.” She embraced the old woman. “If I can do anything to make it a bit better, please let me know. I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling,” she whispered in her ear.

The couple walked back home in silence, one that was pregnant with tension. As soon as Ivan unlocked the door, he headed to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. “I can’t quench this thirst.”

Masha followed him. “Did you think you’d get away with it?” Her face was now fully flushed.

He turned towards her. “Get away with what?” He raised his eyebrows, shaking his head.

“With how you treated the old woman.”

“I just want her to stop. That’s it.”

She took in a deep breath and exhaled. Her eyes were now brimming with something worse than anger; it was pure disgust. “You could’ve been more compassionate.”

“Why? What did I say wrong?”

“Everything! You bullied her. You made her cry. You offered no compassion—”

“I was rational, simply.”

“You were psychopathic. I heard everything; I was behind you from the beginning.”

“I just want her to stop. Her wailing is driving me insane. The cow should stop. I hope she dies and follows her sons and husband. The crazy old hag; did she think that people usually live forever? Everyone dies!”

“Stop saying that. I can’t take it anymore.” She started trembling. “I can’t take you anymore. I don’t think we’re working out.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“I want to leave you. You make me anxious and miserable. You’re heartless, inconsiderate, and obsessive. You keep on referring to people as idiots and apes. Well, you’re a person, aren’t you? You’re as much an ape as anyone else. Hiding behind a veil of superficial rationality doesn’t make you superior. It makes you pathetic. You could’ve shown more compassion to an old woman. Maybe her shrieks are just cries for h—”

“I lost my parents as a teenager. I was in pain but didn’t burden other people with my suffering. I was stoic about it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been. Maybe you should’ve allowed yourself to be broken for a while, to howl like a dying wolf, to feel that your pain is a bit more than just random suffering. It’s clear to me that her screams are resurrecting the unprocessed angst lurking in the deepest valleys of your miserable soul. Maybe because you’ve experienced profound loss, you should be more sympathetic.”

“I’m sympathetic!”

“No, you’re peevish.” She left to the living room, sat on the couch, and wept.

Still holding his glass of water, he followed her. “I can’t believe what I heard.”

She wiped her tears and gazed at him in defiance. “Well, believe it. Why didn’t you insult me back?”

“I don’t know.” He looked away.

“I know. It’s because you don’t know me. You don’t know me enough to insult me. To you, I am the thing you occasionally sleep with and always complain to.” Her breathing gradually became heavier.

He sized her up, then smashed the glass against the wall behind the couch. “Get the hell out!” he yelled.

“You’re insane.” The terrified Masha got up.

“I’ll leave now and be back at eight. Pack your stuff. I want you out.”

Loneliness broke him when he returned to an empty house that night. He sat on the couch and spent the next four hours or so blankly staring at the wall, and for the first time, Vera’s shrieks did not bother him. They were now the echoes of his own agony.

Several months after their breakup, Masha found a job in Chișinău. She terribly missed Ivan in the beginning. She would often hold her phone and dial his number, only to change her mind and throw the phone away. Soon after, however, the longing turned into disgust. Then, the disgust became indifference.

Ivan could barely tolerate life without Masha. Now that she was gone, he realized how much he loved her. But his pride was strong, very strong. He twisted and turned in bed every night, thinking of her green eyes. He would then get up, pick up his phone, and stare at it. “To hell with her,” he would tell himself, then go back to bed, uselessly gazing at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

His voracious thirst only got worse and was now coupled with a crippling frequent need to urinate. He finally decided to seek help. Upon reviewing his blood work, the bald doctor shook his fat head, pursed his lips, and said, “Mr. Ciobanu, you have diabetes. Your blood sugar levels are very high. We should immediately put you on insulin.”

Ivan clasped his hands behind his head and nodded in agreement.

The disease was very hard to control, however, and diabetic fatigue became his worst enemy. At work, he often sat behind his desk, staring into space and then dozing off. After his colleagues would gently shake him awake and ask if he was fine, he would smile at them, then go to the bathroom to wash his face. “I’ll get through the day. I can do it. I’m strong,” he’d say to himself. He then would go back to his desk and work for a while before beginning to rub his eyes and yawn. “Can I take the rest of the day off? I’m not feeling well,” he’d finally ask his supervisor, who always reluctantly agreed.

Eventually, the supervisor called him to his office. “Here, Ivan.” He handed him a thin dossier. “Take this to the accountant to claim your severance package. You’ve been relieved from your duties. Please clear your desk.”

Ivan did not say a word. With a bitter smile on his face, he just shrugged his shoulders and left.

His life was in the throes of collapse. Everything he’s taken for granted was gone: Masha, his health, and his job. The only thing that remained for him was Vera’s terrible screaming.

Now, whenever her shrill voice fills up the midnight skies of Trușeni, Ivan eagerly joins in. He hurries towards the window facing her direction, opens it, and begins shouting with tearful eyes. “Aaaah…aaaah…aaaah,” he repeats until he collapses. It is known to everyone in Trușeni that nothing is more depressing than hearing these two broken souls scream.