LIW&B Chapter 12

Mel sat in a cold wooden chair against a back stiff and upright. His old spine ached after a short period in the chair. He had entered the office combed and primped, but the aching without alcohol melted the costume and brought Mel back to the usual pained and gristled. The old man cursed the chair for ruining his good first impression. He wanted more than anything to put his best face forward. He hadn't been to see lawyer in forty years.

The last time he needed a lawyer to finalize a divorce. Mel found the business to be conniving and suspect. He had gone so far as to verbally accuse the lawyer of fraud, demanding to see a legal degree. His soon to be ex wife, Rosa, sat apologizing to the lawyer more grateful than ever for his services.

This time Mel felt the lawyer was his only hope to save his son, to save his own life. Mel had wrangled with the police about a pro bono attorney, but he had money saved from years of living frugally alone. Mel would pay any price to go back to just a year ago. New pains were aching other than the familiar arthritis in his bones, pains he feared would mean he was short on time. Mel knew he couldn't take his money with him.

If the old man hadn't been to a lawyer in 40 years then he hadn't been to a doctor in 50. The last time Mel saw a doctor was for his pre marital physicals. Mel had tested to have excellent health. His numbers had been better than Rosa's. The results were good, but not enough to last half a century. Mel wanted to avoid the inevitable, but he hadn't much success as of late.

Mel Stotch felt his life had been full and complete. Abandoned by his own parents when he was six, Mel grew up in the system, in Depression era orphanages overrun and diseased. Some nurses had shown him love, but older kids showed only contempt. Small as a child and a victim of bullies, Mel escaped the children's home unnoticed. He stole to survive until he could work.

Mel had been a crafty child and had taken his licks when he got caught. He sought refuge with father figures ranging from accepting to toxic. He learned and survived as long as he could. When he was fifteen, Mel tried to enter the army with a fake ID. He wanted to escape to the fight in World War II. A doctor reported his feet were flat and told him he couldn't go. Mel hadn't liked them since.

He located an uncle and worked for him helping to sweep the railroads which meant chasing hoboes from freight cars. The Depression was over, but it still had refugees wandering the rails. These men were angry, hopeless, and filthy, dead soldiers from their own war. It was an unglamorous life and one Mel never wanted.

Mel had three high points in his life. The first was the brief love with Rosa. Their marriage lasted a decade but the love had been less than a year. The second was the day he received his inheritance. His uncle passed and left him the acreage Mel had cleared for the dump. It was the best idea Mel had for making money with little work, simply allowing people to dump their waste on his property. Rosa demanded the divorce a year after the inheritance. Mel bought the trailer and kept in touch.

The third high point was Happy and it far outweighed the other two. Happy was the only thing worth fighting for, worth visiting a lawyer and wearing a tie. Mel hadn't worn a tie for thirty nine years. The last time was his appointment with zoning board to approve the license for his dump, for his life of stink and sloth. The board saw nothing wrong with the plan. Mel needed no further encouragement to live his life.

Mel sat stiff in the cold chair tugging his tie that felt so foreign. He was watching the clock on the wall and growing more impatient by the minute. After a lifetime of reflection, a door opened and a man wearing an expensive suit and a more expensive watch stepped smiling into the lobby. He was the lawyer and he looked like every other lawyer Mel remembered.

"Mr. Stotch," the lawyer greeted from his doorway, "I'm pleased you could make it this morning. Please, step into my office and have a seat."
He smiled and disappeared back into his office before Mel struggled to stand. Finally, the old man stood. He stepped into the lawyer's office and had a seat.

"Byron Mittle," the lawyer introduced and offered his hand across the desk. It was no easy task for Mel to meet him in the middle. The old man released a groan that Byron ignored. Byron couldn't afford to waste sympathy on potential clients. First he had to agree to take their case.

Mel explained his situation, starting from the day Happy was found. He produced the letter he now kept in a Ziploc bag. He produced his documents the police officers had given him. Mel called them "receipts" for his son with the greatest disdain.

"So, Mr. Stotch," Byron began, "When you found the child in your truck that morning whom all did you alert?"
Mittle was a slender, bearded man. He had a long torso and leaned over his desk as if trying to face Mel eye to eye. He mastered bogus compassion and a vocabulary of words perfectly scientific and void of any life. Mel didn't like him and knew the war was over.
"Well," Mel tugged his tie as he spoke, "I didn't tell too many. I took him to the store so the checkout girl saw him. And I called my ex wife for some tips."

Byron nodded, wide eyed under a intense, solid brow, "You never contacted any police, any child welfare officers?"

Mel knew where it was going. He knew what he did wrong and it was all intentional. Mel never intended anything more than he intended to keep Happy a secret. Here was this receipt chasing lawyer wanting to pull his secret apart. Mel released his tie and laid his palms on the desk. He scooted his chair closer to lean in as best he could.

"Look, I'll be straight with ya," the old man promised, "I'm an old man. I was an old man when I found Happy. I didn't think any child welfare officers would let me keep him and I was right! I didn't call the police because they would come and take him away. And I was right!"
"This isn't something you want to be right about," Byron corrected. "For your sake, stop boasting about it. You're admitting to willfully breaking the law."

Mel straightened up, disturbed with the statement. "I did what I had to do," he said.
"Those are the words of a vigilante, Mr. Stotch."
"Those are the words of a parent!" Mel was getting loud.

Byron eased back into his chair, considering the old man. "In the eyes of the law you're not a parent," he countered.
"Bullshit!" Mel denied, "His daddy gave him to me the day he was born!" Mel grabbed the baggie with the letter and tossed it across the desk. "There's the proof!"

Byron took the baggie and held it into the light. He opened the baggie and removed the paper. After a moment's glance, he began shaking his head in disbelief.
"No," he refused, "This won't work. There's no way to date this, no way to confirm the signature. If we could find the real dad, the state would just review him for guardianship."
Byron grabbed Mel's heart and squeezed it shut, "You would never come back into consideration as a parent for the boy."

"That's ridiculous!" Mel shouted, "The boy loves me like his father. He's healthy and strong! Why can't I get my boy back?" His palms were upward now, pleading to this suit for his life.

Byron eyeballed the begging old man. It was a losing case with no reason to waste anyone's time. Byron felt it necessary to always be honest and frank about the chances for a client. He felt it necessary to pull the plug.
"Mr. Stotch," the act began, "I'm truly sympathetic to your story and your relationship to the boy."
"Happy," Mel corrected.
"Yes, Happy," Byron continued without a hint of his annoyance, "I hate to hear when good people are treated so badly. That's when I got into this field, to get justice for those who are denied."
Now the truth started and Mel noticed the change in tone.

"But your case has no chance, however just it may be." The lawyer let the words settle before he explored the reasons why.
"First and foremost is your age. Mr. Stotch, no court system will charge the care of a child to a man in his eighties. There are a few judges I could try to isolate who are more giving to elder clients, but then we get to your living environment. Mr. Stotch, no court system is sending a child to live in the city dump."

The truth was crushing to hear. Mel grasped for a life preserver.
"Well, couldn't we work something out? Couldn't we claim age discrimination and make a case out of that?"
Byron wasn't impressed, "Mr. Stotch, I would save those arguments for any charges of kidnapping or child endangerment the state might have up their sleeve."
Mel looked like he'd been slapped in the face. Byron further confirmed it.
"I'm quite surprised you weren't taken into custody already."

That finished it for Mel. That was the end of the road. No charges were filed and the social worker dropped her charges when Happy was removed. Mel would learn all this later, but the pompous seriousness on Mittle's face convinced him it was true.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stotch," Byron ended, "But as an expert on parental rights and law I don't see any attorney in town taking this case. There's no way you can win."
Mel struggled to stand and made it to his feet. He walked out of the office without a word. The smoke from the lawyer's gun still hovered in the air.

Mel didn't seek a second opinion. The lawyer told him what he predicted for the last twelve years. No one would help him and no one gave a damn. They were rules Mel lived by and now he wished to die.

LIW&B Chapter 10

Officer Roy Bosen sat in his patrol car picking his cuticles with a thumb tack. It was a nervous habit that left his fingers scabbed and shredded. But it kept his concentration in slow times and stifled the boredom he deplored. Officer Roy appreciated slow shifts like the one just ending. They were few and far between. Slow meant safe which was alright by Roy. He considered himself a peace officer more than police.

Most of the sunrise was blocked by a billboard advertising a local Chrysler dealer. The speed radar beeped calmly as random vehicles passed. Roy had only written three citations in as many hours, all for speeding. It was a slow shift on a slow night. Roy was about to call his wife and ask if she wanted him to pick up breakfast when the radio called.

"Car 312, please respond." Static ended the transmission.
"Car 312 responding," Roy answered, "I'm gettin' ready to bring it in."

The dispatcher requested Officer Bosen to meet another officer for assistance. It was an easy call, something he could just hit on the way in. The officer in need of assistance was a social services assignment. They had to pick up a kid from a bad home and transport him to the residential treatment center for boys. There were no more orphanages. The term "orphanage" was too negative to keep them open.

Apparently, the kid lived at the city dump with an guy in his 80s. It sounded like a hobo and a runaway had taken up a place to live together. The old man attacked a social worker and missed a date in court. It was an easy assignment, but a dire one. The boy's welfare was in danger. He needed a safe, secure home. He needed a residential treatment center to tell him he wasn't an orphan.

"Just some old guy in his 80s, huh?" Officer Bosen remarked, "I guess I can do without a bullet proof vest." Roy chuckled to himself, arrogant and foolish.

Officer Bosen would never forget that morning. He would question his integrity and doubt his own reasons for choosing his career. There would be an onslaught a bullet proof vest couldn't defend.

Officer Bosen met his partner in a parking lot two miles from the dump. The other officer was younger and less sensitive to the civilians they served. Roy could tell the type from the marine hair cut. This officer was a police whose duty was to catch criminals. Roy's duty was to protect civilians, same duty with a different attitude. The other officer had no remorse from their tragic visit to the city dump. He was eager to bang on the door.

What first struck Roy was that Mel was not a hobo. Mel looked like a hobo, traveled and worn with a face red from years of wine, but the trailer was his home. Cluttered with ashes and bottles, pancake mix and syrup, this was the man's home. It was also the boy's home. The boy was named Happy. This name is what struck Roy second.

Mel promised himself he would drown his emotion on the fateful day. When the state came to take his son he refused to taint the memory with sorrowful feelings out of control. Mel wanted to see his son smile one last time, not separate in tears. He need something positive to cling to in moments of regret and despair. A treacherous backlog of pain would soon arrive. The old man would need reasons to live.

Mel opened the door and faced the two officers on his porch. He looked them in the eye and nodded his head. He spoke to his son as if he were late for the school bus.

"Go pack your bag like I told ya before, Happy," Mel instructed with immeasurable calm. His body started to tingle and numb like he was entering a coma. "It looks like today's Moving Day."

Happy pried the fork from his fingers which had submerged in maple syrup. He was taking his last glorious bites of his father's last pancake. Soon, Happy would long for such ignorant bliss.
"I'm moving today?" Happy asked with enthusiasm. "Where am I moving to?"

It was an excellent question. Mel stepped aside the doorway so Happy could see the two police officers and vice versa. Happy and the officers looked at each other. Officer Bosen received a brief image of his own son.
"You're moving with these two cops," Mel answered. "So wash your hands and grab your bags."

Mel suddenly felt like a landlord instead of a father. He cussed with the disappointing emotion, the only hostility he displayed all morning. The young police officer heard every word. Officer Bosen was too troubled to notice.

Happy did as we told without further questions. He washed his plate in the sink and walked away to pack his clothes. Mel never invited the officers inside, but he did start conversation.

"I reckon a lawyer wouldn't help me none at this point," Mel guessed. "Is that right?"
"That's right," the young officer said.
"You always want to have a lawyer, Mr. Stotch," Roy corrected.
Mel stopped to pull a cigar end out of his pocket and light it up. He puffed and exhales clouds inside the kitchen. Mel caught his stride and returned to the conversation.

"Can I get a free lawyer from the state?" Mel asked.
"Not in this case," Officer Bosen answered. "Only defendants get court appointed attorneys. You're not charged with a crime."
Mel exhaled another cloud and thought it over.
"Well, maybe you should charge me with somethin'," Mel considered, "And give me a chance to fight for my son."
Officer Bosen felt kicked in the shin. The young officer took it as a sign of war.
"The best lawyer in the world won't help you fight for your son," the young officer spit. "This place is shithole. No judge would keep a kid here."
Officer Bosen saw the hurt the young officer didn't. There was no chivalry in this duty.

The anger and rage for the old man had come and gone. Self pity and acceptance were ready to replace them. Mel just smiled and winked at the officers and puffed on his cigar. He didn't say another word until Happy appeared with two bags.

The third peculiarity to strike Officer Bosen that morning was the exchange between the old man and the boy named Happy. Mel plucked the cigar from his mouth and tossed it past the officers into the yard. He turned back to his son and patted him on the head. The pat on the head became a squeeze of the shoulder. Then Mel pulled Happy in for a hug. There were no tears. Mel stayed true to his promise. The hug lasted less than ten seconds.

"You're grown now, Happy," the old man said without conviction. "You can't just goof off around here forever." After the statement Mel leaned in close and whispered another lesson. Happy nodded. Officer Bosen wondered what Mel told him. Roy nudged the younger officer to silence when he started tapping his impatient boot on the porch step.

Their embrace over and the advice given, Mel stood up straight again to face his son. Happy now equaled his height if he hadn't surpassed it. Against the odds, Happy was strong and healthy. Against the odds, Mel raised him well. He extended his hand and shook farewell with his son.

Mel's lack of emotion served his purpose. Happy smiled at the officers and extended his hand. He held no resentment towards them. They were taking him on a trip. Happy felt excited and looked forward to fun. Officer Bosen was very familiar with the resident treatment centers for children. He knew they were not places a child should be excited to visit. Officer Bosen felt guilty to return the boy's good cheer. He felt guilty to take part in such a lie.

Tension hung in the air, heavy and bulging with words unspoken. Mel almost suffocated from swallowed screams. The peace was unnatural. Everything felt wrong. Mel placed a withered, spotted hand on Happy's back to caress him and soothe that which he couldn't soothe in himself. At last, he gently pushed Happy forward, away from the innocence he had worked tirelessly to preserve. Happy stepped into the morning sunlight to join the police officers.
"OK, I guess we can go," Happy beamed.
Officer Bosen swallowed a scream of his own.

The last disturbance to strike Officer Bosen struck the young officer as well. Roy had seen some cats wandering the yard when their patrol cars entered. He saw a few more walking up the steps to the trailer. They were just cats in a junkyard, no big deal.

As Happy and the officers descended the short steps, cries called out from all around. Officer Bosen looked back to Mel who remained silent in the doorway. He froze, bringing Happy and the other officer to a halt. They were surrounded. And it looked like they might not make it out.

Cats were everywhere. During the short time Happy took to pack his bags, the cats had been gathering, generations of cats, years of litters that had multiplied and wiped out decades of rats. They covered the ground between the trailer and the squad cars. Cats were mounted on ledges of fill dirt and mountains of garbage. At least a hundred crept over Mel's pickup truck. At least twice that many now covered and swarmed on the roof, some dangling over the doorway and Mel's head. They sensed the danger of their master and friend and now called for his release.

Hundreds of cats, silent and stealth, all lending their voices to a deafening symphony of protest. It was frightening, eerie, and born of primal love. Mel would have been as shocked as the officers had he not been so stubbornly paralyzed. The caterwauling overwhelmed the air. The voices were desperate and whining, orphans crying for one of their own. The images, the sounds, the silent screaming were too much for Officer Bosen to bear. He shut his eyes tight fearing madness. The young officer moved his hand to the butt of his gun.

The cats moved in, leaping from the trailer roof and the pickup truck, galloping down hills of tires and trash. The mass of fur and tabby stripes connected and surged like a flood. The flood followed Happy and his escorts, engulfing them and shielding their path. They were human branches floating through a fur stream from a bird's eye view.

None of the cats attacked, only growled and beckoned Happy's release, a thousand feline eyes screaming demands. The young officer almost kicked an adult out of his path in panic. He raised his boot and frowned at the animal. The crying stopped as quickly as it started. The adult swooped closer, daring the officer to kick. The young officer looked to Roy Bosen for guidance, but only found fear and disapproval. His boot returned to the ground in surrender. The catcalls recommenced.

Officer Bosen was certain the cats would flood their squad car as soon as they opened the door. They made it to the cars without injury. Happy continued to be elated with the events. Cats flowed between his legs, taking their last opportunities to rub against them with affection. Happy did his best to say good bye to each one.

"Bye One Eighty Four! Bye Six Fifty One! Bye Ninety Nine! Bye Whiskers!" Happy continued to name each one. The officers didn't attempt to stop the boy. They were powerless to stop him.

The only moment of sadness for Happy came just before he entered the car. Happy looked back at his home, his yard. An orchestra of purring, catcalls, and moans vibrated the world. Mel stood looking at him, so far away on the lonely little porch now void of the hundreds of pets that clung to the walls just a minute prior. Mel looked so small and old to Happy. Mel waved his hand to his son which brought the gravity of the situation crashing down. Happy looked at his father, his home, and his friends and realized he was wishing good bye to them all. A terrified truth occurred to him. He turned to the terrified policeman for comfort.

"When am I coming back?" Happy asked. Mel thought he had explained the situation well enough. The old man would've broken his promise and burst into tears had he heard such a question from his son. Officer Bosen didn't feel much better when he answered.
"I don't know if you'll be coming back," he yelled over the demanding crowd. "If you do, it won't be for a long time."
The change this answer brought to Happy's expression would stay with Roy Bosen for the rest of his life. It would be the only moment Officer Bosen doubted his integrity in his professional career. He was breaking up a happy family. He was tearing that family apart.

Officer Bosen put Happy in his car even though the young officer had the duty of driving the boy to the treatment center. Happy got in quietly and without incident. Once safe in the car from the angry, furry mob, Officer Bosen got on the radio and told the young officer he would take it from there. The young officer didn't fight it. He was happy to leave the yard with his life. Something unnatural had taken place. Even the young officer's arrogance couldn't blind him to the fact.

As they left the yard and entered the main highway into the city, away from the intimidating chorus, the tension dissolved. Officer Bosen found himself sweating. The easy assignment had scared him to death, both physically and morally. He needed to return to reality, the pleasant idea he had known just an hour before. He engaged the boy in his back seat, hoping to escape this impossible dream.

"I hope you're all right," Officer Bosen offered. "All of this can pretty tough to take."
"I'm OK," Happy was glad to answer. "I never left without my dad before."
Officer Bosen looked at the boy in his rear view mirror. He couldn't help but to think of his son.
He didn't know what else to say. When he did say something, he regretted it instantly.
"It looks like you two are very close," Bosen admitted.

"What are we gonna do now?" Happy asked.

Officer Bosen didn't answer immediately. He thought about his words. He constructed them carefully to provide a message of hope and peace. He spoke as seriously as if to his own son. Later he would pray he would never have to repeat a lie of such magnitude. Many sleepless nights would echo the lies in his head.

"Well, now we're gonna get you with other kids. We're gonna make it so you have lots of friends and can play games with them whenever you want." Roy faced the road as he spoke. He couldn't look at the boy in the mirror.
"Then you'll start going to school and making more friends. You'll get educated and uh," Roy hesitated looking for the best colors to paint his lies, "before you know it you'll be having more fun than you ever did."

"Do all kids do this when they grow up?" Happy asked.

Bosen cursed himself for taking the boy in his car. The curse was only selfish. As Bosen spoke, he knew he had done the right thing. This car ride might be the most important in the boy's life. Bosen was certain the other officer wouldn't share such compassion.

"Yeah," Roy lied, "All kids get the day when they leave home to start their new lives. Some kids new lives are better than their old ones. There's all kinds of things that can happen. You might even get a new mom."

The last sentence lingered in the air, uncomfortable to both the officer and the child. Officer Bosen wasn't sure what he meant. He hoped it would pass without comment.

"My mom was weak," Happy commented. "That's why she gave me to my dad."
Officer Bosen tried to let it pass, but Happy continued, "My dad is the best in the world."

Roy felt his eyes moisten with tears. His own son had said the same thing and Roy cherished the memory. He thought of the weak old man at the trailer missing these words, missing this memory, and it was too much to take.

"That's wonderful," Bosen choked out. He cleared his throat to maintain his voice. "I'm sure your dad would love to hear that." Bosen looked in the mirror, hoping Happy wouldn't see him wipe his eyes. Happy only stared back at him intently, seeing the tears and all.

"Happy," Bosen spoke. He pushed his words out, stealing any chance for them to falter. "You're a good kid. I know kids and I can see that." The peace officer had to stop and inhale. Any emotion Mel had spared collected deep in Officer Bosen's stomach.
"You're going to meet a lot of good kids and make some great friends for life. You're going to go to school and learn a lot and grow up to be smart, happy, and successful. You got nothing to worry about. Everything's going to be OK." Bosen spoke these words for himself more than for the boy.

Happy saw the officer breaking down, but didn't ask why. He only listened and added what he could. "I'm already Happy," he said with a smile. "I'll always be Happy. My dad named me so."

Roy pulled the car over to the shoulder of the highway. He had to get a grip on his feelings.
"Excuse me, Happy," he said without looking in the mirror, "I have to get some air."
Roy got out of the car and shut the door. He stood beside his car, wiping his eyes and nose. He gave himself a minute to breathe and pull himself together. He had to know the boy would be OK. He had to know he was doing the right thing. Roy got back in the car, ready to console Happy and himself.

"Look Happy," Roy began, "You have to trust me. Everything's gonna be all right."
The peace officer sat in the front seat facing the tall, bald child in the back seat.
"Life ain't always easy. You're gonna meet a bunch of people that want to hurt you. Some people won't be friendly and some friends will turn out not to be friends. But in the end you'll find people that love you, people that will be good to you."
He couldn't separate Happy from his own boy. He wanted to pull Happy close and give him a hug.

"Just trust me, OK. Whenever folks are bad to you, just remember those folks that are good. When other kids at the treatment center are mean to you, just think of your dad. Think of your cats!" The image of the cats would scar Roy forever.
"Everything in life turns out good in the end. Do you trust me about that, Happy? Can you trust me and remember that?"
Officer Bosen looked at the young boy, pleading for his understanding, pleading for his own solace.

"Sure, I trust you," Happy obliged. He still didn't see the reason for such concern. It was a warm summer morning, the beginning of a beautiful day. The simplicity was deafening and necessary.

Roy Bosen sighed in relief. "Good," he thanked the boy, "I'm glad you do." Officer Bosen continued breathing and pulled the car back onto the road.

The rest of the trip was silent. Officer Bosen parked the car in front of the residential treatment center. He opened the door for Happy and they both entered the lobby. Youths of all ages could be seen wandering the area behind the registration desk. No matter the age, the all shared a physical trait, a look of betrayal. Some reacted with anger, some with fear and retreat. All the kids wore the same invisible scar, something Bosen didn't see in his recruit. The love and care he preached in the car was not present here.

The registration nurse took the information from Officer Bosen. Soon after, a expressionless case worker arrived to escort Happy to his dorm. Officer Bosen couldn't help feeling responsible for what looked like a horrible decision. Before the case worker took Happy's bags, Officer Bosen gave him the hug he had held back.

"Just remember what I said in the car, OK," Bosen asked. "If it gets bad it will always get better. Just trust me on that." Happy nodded, still smiling and content.

Bosen felt so obligated. He would never have fathomed such an undeniable parental drive. He had taken this boy from what had seemed to be a loving father, just unfit per standards of the state. He tried to conjure some final words that he would fit his own son if facing the same end.

All he could recall was Mel whispering into Happy's ear before he stepped off the porch. What advice had he given? What parting thoughts were found appropriate for a boy being stolen from his father? Officer Bosen didn't want to intrude, but he would go mad unless he knew.

"Happy," Bosen asked as the boy followed the case worker down the hall, "What did your dad whisper in your ear before you left? Can you tell me?" The officer was begging.

"Sure," Happy agreed, calling his answer as he walked away, "He said to never trust a cop."

Happy turned the corner and disappeared before Officer Bosen exhaled.

LIW&B Note about consistency

For any loyal followers, I am aware of the age variaitons Mel has experienced. He was said to be 79 very early on and is now 83 12 years later. I'll be correcting these to fit as I believe is the most realistic when I do a final polishing.

There is also mention of Mel's cats very early on before Happy's litters are purchased. I'll be correcting all of these depending on what enhances the story the most.

If no one's following then I guess these are notes to myself.

LIW&B Chapter 9

One morning there was a knock at the trailer door. When Mel opened the door, there was a woman in a suit. The woman had a piece of paper with a stamp. There were no police officers. They would come later.

The piece of paper did not say Mel could no longer keep his son. That would come later with the police officers. This piece of paper on this morning simply said the woman holding it was approved by the state as qualified to assess the health and well being of children. It also said she was coming in to review Happy, or the undisclosed child at Mel's address as the paper read.

The scene wouldn't play out exactly as the old man thought it would, but it would be close enough. The social worker was named Madeline and her office had received word that a child was living in unfit conditions at this address. She asked a few questions Mel had always avoided answering.
"Does the child live at this address?"
"Yes," Mel growled.
"Are the child's parents here?"
"I'm the child's parent!" Mel roared.
After a moment's hesitation, Madeline tried again, "Are you the biological parent of this child?"
After a moment's hesitation, "No," Mel growled.

"Where are the child's biological parents?"
Madeline's perfume was starting to make Mel sick. It was too early for roses and lavender.
"I got no idea. The boy, Happy, was left to me the day he was born," Mel snarled.
Madeline removed her glasses and tilted her head. A perfect curvature of hair hung as it was programmed.
"So, the bo- Happy, has lived here for how long?" Madeline asked.
"Almost twelve years," Mel boasted, "Under my care, healthy and happy."

Madeline didn't look relieved. She extracted a pen and a note pad. She spoke as she wrote.
"Did you ever report the child?" Madeline asked.
Mel never considered being asked this question. Now that he heard, it quickly became the most dreaded to answer.
"No," Mel confessed.

Madeline made a quick note and replaced her glasses.
"OK, Mr. Stotch, this situation is in clear need of immediate evaluation for the welfare of this child," she stated.
"Happy," Mel corrected.
Madeline wasn't amused. To the contrary, she was ready to fight.
"Will you cooperate, Mr. Stotch?" she asked.

Mel had to hand it to her. She was a natural ice queen. Mel started to cuss under his breath, but only coughed to rush it out. It was early and he was old. Mel would need at least one more cup of coffee before he could fight the inevitable. He opened the door and welcomed in the social worker.

Mel felt a sick satisfaction of having predicted the nightmare, a thuggish, self righteousness, he regretted in a second. In reality, the neglected details mattered. Mel looked around at the trailer, dirty dishes in the sink, the furniture old and tattered, liquor bottles on the counter and in the trash. The air blowing in the windows wreaked especially foul and putrid this morning, an odor Mel assumed would be tear jerking to the untested. These missing details tilted the angle against his favor and made the nightmare all the more dreadful.

Mel looked at himself, old, sick, weak, and making himself worse each day through smoke and drink. Even quitting everything cold turkey would do little to help at his age. He was 83 now. It was a miracle he still got around without a cane. Mel was weak and in constant pain, but he still hadn't been pushed to the point to seek medical attention. He always thought there would be an alarm. He'd just know when it was time.

The old man still woke and stretched and made his rounds around the yard. Happy did a lot for him, practically everything he could do without getting too personable with people. He'd wave and talk some quick sports with the truck drivers, but most never even knew his name. Those that did had no clue he lived with old man. Happy was a 12 year old kid who worked at the dump, no more no less.

Here was an agent of the state tasked with giving the child the identity he had been denied. Her piece of paper confirmed her mission to maintain set standards of child nurture and development. Needless to say, these standards would not include rotting garbage and a rat problem.

Pros would be weighed against the cons and justice would prevail. A new improved life would finally be granted to the child with inclusion, a social life, and formal education. But an old, damaged life would need to end first. The state would need to write another paper, one that said Mel could no longer keep his son.

Mel felt he faced a tsunami. Neither fighting nor running would help. Mel was old and it was early. The old man introduced the angel of death to his son. Happy was sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal, oat loops stuck his chin.

Cereal had been a rite of passage for Happy. When he started working every day in the yard, he needed a quicker breakfast. Gone were the days when he would lounge and giggle until his father set out on his rounds. Those were days for pancakes. His new schedule had to be more thrifty and adult. When Happy explained all of this to his father, the old man laughed and wiped his eyes. Cereal represented Happy's entrance to adulthood which became fitting for the oat loops on his chin.

"Happy," Mel spoke small and defeated, "This here's Madeline. She wants to talk to ya."
He didn't look Happy in the eye as he left the room. The old man walked to the recliner and plopped down before the television. Happy wanted to ask what was wrong but Madeline interrupted.

"Hi Happy," she said with a smile, "That's a great name! Did Mr. Stotch name you that?"
In their life of seclusion Happy had rarely heard his father's last name. He looked at Madeline, confused.
"Hi Madeline," Happy greeted, "I don't know who named me Happy. It happened when I was born."
Madeline laughed, then Happy laughed. Happy looked for Mel to acknowledge the fun, but there was no movement from the recliner.

"Happy," Madeline continued, "How long have you lived here with Mr. Stotch?"
"Is Mr. Stotch my dad?" Happy asked.
Madeline didn't know how to respond. "Uh, well, I think maybe you might call him that."
"Yes, Happy, Mr. Stotch is your dad," Mel boomed from recliner.

Happy and Madeline looked to the living room, both struck by the outburst. The octogenarian moved slow, but he made it to his feet and faced the social worker, ready for war, ready for inevitable. The minute in the recliner had done wonders for his spirit. He pointed at Madeline, angry and accusing.
"This woman wants to tell ya I'm not your father!" Mel roared. "She wants to tell me, you're not my son!"

Madeline stood straight and wielded her briefcase. She had faced such adversaries before.
"Mr. Stotch, please, I have no intention of upsetting your son."
"Bullshit!" Mel accused. "Your intention is to find me unfit and take him away!"
"Mr. Stotch, please, let's not do this in front of Happy," Madeline implored.

"What's going on, Dad?" Happy asked, growing concerned with oat loops still clinging. He turned to Madeline, not afraid to face her. "Who are you?" he asked.
Madeline's warmth reignited. "I told you Happy, I'm Madeline," she glowed. "I'm here to make sure you're safe."

"Bullshit!" Mel exploded. "Get the hell out of my house and off my property!"
The old man made a beeline for the social worker. Happy cowered from her, loyal to his dad. Madeline backed up, holding her purse before her face.
"Mr. Stotch, this is not the way to conduct your business! This does not look good in the eyes of the law!" She held her purse as if being attacked, but the old man only cussed.
"I don't give a god damn what looks good to the law!" Mel insisted. "Get outta my house and leave us be!"

Madeline retreated and backed out onto the porch. She said no words but only gave a look to the angry old man slamming the door. The look told Mel what he all ready knew. This wasn't over. And he wouldn't win.

Mel sat down with his son and answered his questions as best he could. All he could do was explain the fears he always held and how they now appeared to be coming true. Happy started to cry. Mel didn't try to stop him.

The old man wanted vengeance. How could his fears have come true? All the hiding, secrets, and lies didn't save them. There were only a few that could have told. Mel would find them and make them pay. The old man walked out of the trailer and into the yard looking for a crowbar he was too weak to wield.

"Goddamn Dudmore," Mel growled through his teeth.
The culprit could only be Roger Dudmore, the owner of the tavern Mel used to frequent. He was a regular customer before he took Happy there on his tenth birthday. He hadn't been back since.

Mel found a heavy rusted crowbar in a pile of tools in his truck bed. He lifted it and tossed it hand to hand, making sure he could handle the weight. Dudmore was over thirty years younger than Mel. He had connect the winning blow on the first swing. He wouldn't get a second strike.

Mel walked to the side of the trailer and began beating the walls, testing the impact against his grip. He was practicing to crush a man's skull, the man who had stolen his son. Mel felt as compelled as if Happy was held hostage.

The commotion brought Happy from the kitchen, tears now dried streaks on his cheeks. He stood on the porch and saw his distraught father, weak and too old for such stress. Happy never viewed his father as old until that moment. He had only known Mel from the time he was seventy two. His appearance hadn't changed enough to recognize aging. But it changed at that moment. Mel looked ready to die.

Mel stopped swinging when Happy came out on the porch. He felt shame but as not as much as he expected. The intent to kill still echoed like the ringing of struck iron.
"What are you doing, Dad?" Happy asked.
"Nothing," Mel lied, "Just blowin' off steam."
Happy stood still. Father and son watched each other in silence.

"Are we going to work today?" Happy broke the trance.
Mel shook his head, not needing to decide. "No," Mel said, "Today, we're both sick."

Mel wanted to put Happy and the crowbar in the truck and drive to the tavern, but the place didn't open until evening. By that time, the murderous rage subsided in the old man. Reality took over and the geezer knew he was powerless. Even if Roger Dudmore sold him out he could do no good dead. Mel would only prove the social worker right, just like he had today.

Another letter would come, then a subpoena. Then the man in the suit and the two police officers with the final letter would arrive. Mel's prophecy would be complete. Mel knew all this more than he knew about this fateful morning. He still left out the details but they hadn't helped before. There was nothing they could do. Mel was feeble and obsolete. Their family were only refugees, waiting to be re located.

Mel put Happy in the truck and they drove to buy groceries. They came home and Happy started to run around playing with his various cats. Mel got busy perfecting his signature dish, beer can chicken. It felt like a special occasion.

Their days were numbered and they enjoyed every one. Happy shed his fondness for cereal and returned to flipping pancakes. Mel's only job for him was to clean rat traps which was essentially just play time with the cats. He wanted his son to spend as much time enjoying his home as possible. This meant no rushed mornings and no need for cereal. Happy's hands were sticky with syrup when the police knocked on the door.

LIW&B Chapter 8

By his tenth birthday Happy had grown very large for his age. He inherited the bulky frame of the man who left him in Mel's truck a decade ago. His hair was barely bristles, shaven clean by the old man every couple weeks. This habit was much easier than trying to trim or treat it. And it was cheaper than a barber shop too.

Happy was tall, bald, and heavy. He hovered just below Mel who stood five and half feet. He weighed over a hundred pounds but Mel didn't have a scale to be precise. Strength came with the weight. Happy grew very comfortable hauling wheel barrows full of anything from dirt to bricks. The baloney and pancakes had served him well.

The last ten years hadn't been as friendly to Mel. Then again, the old man never tried to live easy. Drinking and smoking takes a toll, especially with a poor diet. The abuse burst vessels in his arms and face, leaving spots of stained blood. As his cheeks sank to become jowls, they tanned with these spots. And Mel understood why most old people look like they live in Florida. "Half of 'em live there and the other half are drunks like me," he used to joke.

Beyond his appearance, he hurt more. Various aches, spasms, and burns increased with his age, but there was something new. The old man couldn't describe it, but it was his insides, his organs and blood. Sometimes it would be a pinch like swallowed a toenail clipper. Other times it was a hacksaw dissolving slowly in his intestines, iron cracking and rippings him apart as it crumpled through his liver. The pain had never been so bad as to make scream out loud. But that pain was coming. Mel was sure of it.

Mel never had a trust of doctors. With Happy, he kept himself as secretive as the boy. It simply became habit to avoid anything possible. Except for the tavern. That was the one place he still went for mere recreation. It was also a place he could go knowing his pain would cease. The tavern was an important part of his life. That's why he agreed to take Happy and reveal his biggest secret.

The boy was elated upon hearing the news. Mel hadn't been certain he would do it until that day. Mel never liked to set plans very far ahead. It only increased his chances of failure.

Mel had bought some other presents, mostly cat toys. Happy never gained much interest in toys except those for his cats. He never asked for specific gifts. Mel had told him to ask for present on his birthday, but there was never a party or a true celebration. This trip to the tavern would be the most fuss Mel had ever made. It meant the world to Happy. He was setting sail into the deep blue yonder.

As Mel's truck rolled into the parking lot of the shuddered tavern, Happy leaned out the window to capture it all. The neon glow beamed behind tattered shades. Only a Budweiser sign was visible on the circular window of the front door. Three cars sat in the parking lot and Mel knew them all. Happy was bouncing in his seat, scared and free. Mel put his hand on his son's shoulder to get his attention. He was very serious when he explained what he wanted.

"Listen Happy, at some point tonight, I may tell you to pull out your bill fold."
"I don't have a bill fold," Happy interrupted.
"Listen!" Mel jumped back in, "I know you ain't got one. That's not the point! If I ask you to pull out your bill fold, just tell me you left it at home. You got that?"
Happy thought it over and agreed. "I can do that, sure. But why?"
"It doesn't matter why," Mel said, "I hope I don't need to do it at all. But if I do I need you to tell me you left it at home."
Mel raised his eyebrows asking for another confirmation the boy understood. Happy didn't appreciate his father's doubts.
"I've got it, Dad! I left my bill fold at home. Geez!" Happy exclaimed.
"Hey," Mel pointed a finger at him, "I need all the attitude out of you."

Any demanding tone was pure bluff. The birthday meant more to the old man than the boy. There had been no first birthday party. Mel just turned on cartoons all day, hoping the infant could enjoy any of it. Mel had smoked a few cigars and put him to bed. There had been no first day of school, no first day of little league, no good report cards or bad. Happy had not celebrated the milestones within which parents normally rejoice.

The tenth birthday was different. A decade was an unquestionably substantial chunk of time. The tears Mel shed were as much in astonishment for his own life as the boy's. Mel couldn't believe how things had changed. Happy represented all possibilities, all miracles and magic. Mel loved for being so much more than his son.

"Come on, Dad, let's go!" Happy begged.
Mel caught himself drifting. A jagged blade dug its claws into his kidneys and Mel hopped to get a drink.
"You're right, son!" Mel agreed, swinging open the truck door. "It's time to start your birthday party!"
Happy cheered and they went inside.

Mel didn't meet as much resistance as he thought. When he introduced Happy as his son, the three geezers at the bar only nodded and smiled, barely sober enough to make a sentence much less notice the age difference. Only the bartender called for a correction, well aware the boy couldn't be the old man's son.

"Your son?" Billy the bartender shouted with a smile, "What do you mean your son? Who are you, Tony Quinn?"

Billy was in his fifties and therefore the kid of the group. He loved to ride the old bastards and bust their humps, but it was all meant in fun. Mel and the geezers laughed. Happy laughed to fit in. The boy was in Heaven.

"He's my boy. I raise him," Mel stated calmly but firm. "It's his birthday and he wanted to go out. This is the only place I know to go."
"Ain't that the truth?" Billy grinned devilishly, exposing his gold molar on his top row of teeth. He bent over the bar and reached out a hand to the tall, nervous boy. "Billy Bartender," he introduced, "Happy Birthday, uh, what's your name?"
"Happy," the boy burst.
"Happy?" Billy questioned and looked at Mel. "Is that his name? Happy?"
Mel nodded, "Damn right it is."
"Well then, Happy Birthday Happy!" Billy shook Happy's hand.

Happy was star struck. Mel walked him to the end of the bar and they sat on stools. Mel ordered a beer and Happy a soda. There they sat for a long time, Mel talked to some of the drunks. Happy wandered around the small bar, only finding a gumball machine of any true interest. They rest of the time Happy just absorbed the atmosphere, like a writer looking for inspiration.

For one beer, Mel walked Happy behind the bar. Billy allowed the boy to pour from the tap. Then he used a bar gun to pour his own soda and all his dreams were met.

The evening was without event and pleasant. Mel felt better and better about the risk he chose to take. He was grateful to shed a secret from his chest. Happy couldn't have been more satisfied. The old man was overwhelmed.

Roger Dudmore owned the tavern, formally known as "River's Bar" to those that remember the sign. Roger came in for the last couple of hours every night to shut things down. Roger was an all right fella by most counts, but he worried a lot. The more time he spent in the bar the more worried he would get. Billy preferred the least amount of time. Billy liked the last owner better.

But Roger was always kind and robust with his customers. He was a business owner that truly appreciated his patrons. There were frequent last rounds on the house since Roger began closing each night for those two or three patrons still clinging.

Roger entered his bar that night on Happy's birthday. In his serious, worried manner he immediately spotted the under age patron and the unorthodox companion. He knew Mel as one of his best customers. But he never heard of a child in his life. Roger's brain was in high gear before he even said "Hello".

"Hello everybody and good evening." It was his nightly salutation. He normally entered behind the bar on the end close to the front door. Instead, he made a beeline for the end of the bar, where Mel and Happy sat.

"Hello, Mel," Roger called as he neared, "It looks like you have a guest this evening."
Mel tense and cleared his throat. This is why he had planned.
"How ya doin' tonight, Rog," Mel waved. "This here's my boy. His name's Happy. It's his birthday."

Roger wore a smile that Mel considered fake.
"Happy, my gosh, I never heard of you." Roger extended the boy his hand, but he looked at Mel. "Happy birthday, whoever you are."
Happy shook his hand oblivious to the innuendo.
Mel cut to the chase. "Is something wrong?" Mel asked. The old man was drunk and ready for a fight.
Roger laughed, "No problem, Mel, it's just not every day I see a minor in my bar. Especially not as young as," Roger turned to Happy and asked, "How old are ya, son?"
"10!" Happy yelped.
"10 years old," Roger looked back to Mel. "I do have to worry about a liquor license. There's all sorts of folks who could bent out of shape."

Mel was easy. Roger was being easier than he thought.
"Don't worry. The kid's my son. All he's drinking is soda. He ain't gonna be in here every night."
"Your son!" Roger snapped. "You gotta be kiddin' me!"

Happy's beam dimmed and he frowned. "What?" Happy asked.
Mel jumped, protecting his cub, "I raise this boy! You got a problem with me bein' his father?"
Roger backed down, genuinely sorry for his attack. "No sir!" He backed off. "No problem at all!"

Roger stepped past them and behind the bar.
"I'm sorry, son, uh, Happy. I didn't mean to upset ya on your birthday."
Happy had already shrugged it off. "OK."
Mel had his arm around the boy, standing beside his stool.

Roger stopped once he was behind a barrier. His work wasn't done.
"Look, Mel, if that's your boy, that's great. I'm glad to meet him. If anybody asks, that'll make sense that an old man was watching his boy." Then Roger shifted and Mel smelled a rat.
"Why don't ya just let me see his ID, make sure I did what I have to do by law, and then we're totally cool."

Roger was young, younger than Billy by four years, barely out of his forties. The old guys didn't respect him. Mel thought tight behavior like this was why. But Roger was predictable. Mel knew this and had prepared his son.

Mel looked at his son. "Pull out your bill fold," he asked.
Happy only looked at him. He was confused. It took a moment to click. After an awkward second, he swallowed and played along.
"I don't have my bill fold," he quoted. "I left it at home."
Mel smiled and looked back to his foe. "I guess he didn't think he'd get carded."
Billy couldn't stifle his laugh. Roger glared at him down the bar.

"Look, it's not funny!" Roger stormed. The bar silenced against his volume. Even Roger quieted down, surprised at himself.
"What's your fucking problem, Rog?" Mel stormed back.
Happy shrank on his stool. Mel saw this and grew more bitter.
"Ya ain't gonna get raided in here! Are you serious? Pull your head out of your tight ass!"
Mel didn't regret his outburst.

Roger felt threatened with the outburst. He made a decision he felt was right.
"OK, then Mel!" He struck, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave. This is no place for a boy, especially one that can't be identified!"

Mel was moving. He was calm but he walked around the bar. Hell, he was in his seventies! How much of a threat could he be? Still, Roger stepped back and held out his hands in defense. Mel stopped within three feet.

"What, do you mean 'can't be identified'," the old drunk growled.
Roger stuttered when he talked. "I, I didn't mean nothing" he beseeched, "You said he ain't got ID!"
"I'm a good customer in this place for close to thirty years." Mel spoke, "You know me better than your own damn kids, livin' a thousand miles away out west. I tell you this boy's my son he is identified. If that ain't good enough, then I don't need this damn place!"

Mel turned and stormed back to grab his boy. Happy whimpered but didn't cry as he was rushed away from Oz. The three drunks waved good bye. Billy only looked down and shook his head as Roger tried to call forgiveness.

"Mel, please, come back! I didn't mean nothing! I didn't want to insult you but I gotta think of everything right? I'm a businessman! Come on!" Roger seemed genuinely sorry. He was a worried man.

Mel raced home drunk and angry. Happy sat strapped in a seat belt oblivious to the danger, enjoying the colorful words of his father's cuss. Happy thought about the bill fold. He still didn't understand.

"Why did you ask for my bill fold?" Happy asked.
Mel pulled the wheel from a swerve and answered. "I figured if someone wanted to see ID that would be a quick way out of it."
Happy watched the trees as they barely avoided them. "How did you know someone would ask for ID?"
"You're a young kid. It ain't legal for kids to be in taverns like that."

Happy felt struck with such an answer. "I was breaking the law!" Happy asked.
Mel considered the thought of innocence, breaking his rant.
"Yeah, I guess you kinda were. I was breaking the law mainly. I'm the only one that would get in trouble."
Mel intended for his answer to give the boy relief if he feared legal trouble. Instead, Happy analyzed it much further, becoming more disturbed than Mel hoped.
"Well, if you're in trouble, then I'm in trouble. If you're gone I've got no one left."

The truck fell silent. Mel couldn't believe the weight of the statement from his ten year old son. The perfect night was crashing. Mel ignored the question and fought to salvage the effort.

"Did you like your birthday, Happy?" the concerned father asked. "Did you like goin' to the tavern? Was it fun?"
Happy brightened instantly. "Oh yeah, Dad! That place was great!"
Mel closed his eyes and felt relief.

"But that last guy was a jerk," Happy added.
Mel found more surprised with this statement. He hadn't known Happy for such a verbal attack.
Mel liked this surprise. He smiled and patted his son's back.
"That's right, Son," Mel agreed. "That last guy was a jerk."

"But you knew he was gonna be a jerk!" Happy stated, waiting for confirmation.
"Yeah," Mel confirmed, "I figured he would be."
"That's smart, Dad," Happy beamed. "I want to be smart like you."

Mel allowed the compliment and expanded the lesson.
"Well, just always watch out for jerks. Learn how to spot 'em quick."
Mel slowed as they approached the junk yard.
"And once you spot 'em, stay away from 'em. Jerks like that are no better than the rats in the yard."
The old man was drunk but the words held strength. Happy would not soon forget them.

LIW&B Chapter 7

Time passed and the family of the old drunk and the hidden boy became closer and more cherished. Mel was awestruck by how his life could become so enriched so late. He shuddered to think how close he had been to never knowing the satisfaction of parenthood. When he thought of the mysterious events that had made the life possible, he was tempted to open himself to the possibilities of gods and even considered paying a visit to the local church. But the old man had lived too long spitting in the face of spirituality. He felt like a bully looking for friends.

Instead, Mel kept close to home. Aside from his trips to the tavern and occasionally a casino, he was at home with his son. He focused on concealing Happy's existence. He would take the boy on drives around town and to the library where Happy loved. Mel got a library card in his own name. Nobody asked any questions. It was the perfect place not to talk to anyone.

Mel pushed a lot of reading. The old man never read more than the sports page, but the hobby was best suited to Happy's low profile. Reading is a solitary activity that kept him at home. Getting Happy involved in sports or any team activities only invited conversation. People would ask about Happy's parents, obviously not being the wrinkled drunk. Coaches and other parents would only engage casually, but that was enough to blow their cover. The visit from a state social worker would be inevitable.

Mel imagined the day both drunk and sober. There would be a knock on the trailer door. There would be a man in a suit, maybe a woman. Two police officers would be standing on the gravel at the foot of the steps. The man in the suit would have a piece of paper with a stamp, declaring Mel could no longer keep his son. Then Happy would be taken away like a criminal, sent to live among angry, forgotten children. And the old man would die alone.

Thoughts of such injustice made his blood boil and he would feel young again. If Mel was sober when he thought this way he would quickly pour a shot. It was wrong but it was real. The old man had seen it happen.

So Mel blazed his own trail of parental guidance, one that excluded any social activity. When Happy got sick, Mel fed him soup and gave him an over the counter drug. When Happy had been too young for Aspirin, Mel took him to the smallest doctor clinics he could find. Mel could explain once that he was bringing in the boy for his son and daughter in law who both had to work. He could act embarrassed and confused when there would be no appointment and he didn't have the child's identification. He could use this act one time per clinic and then he would need to find another. This jumping around prevented any trail of medical records that might lead to his boiling nightmare.

He knew such sheltering would be unrealistic once Happy reached a certain age, but that age would bring more strength and mind. Such progression of years also promised Mel's frailty. The old man knew this too. He only hoped Happy's development would move faster than his decline. Mel was terrified of Happy being so vulnerable to the state.

Happy didn't know better. He was a very exuberant child. He didn't know a lot of people, but he was friends to plenty of cats. The two litters had multiplied. Within a year the rat population had been cut in half while the cats had more than quadrupled. Happy loved his pets. He named every one as it was born. After the 50th newborn he started just naming them numbers. Mel stayed amazed that Happy recognized every single one.

Between his books and his cats, Happy never mentioned playing sports or joining teams. Sometimes when he was playing with his cats near the road that entered the yard, a school bus would pass and Happy would stop and watch all the passing kids. He wondered about their school and what happened there. Mel would brush away the questions with vague, empty answers.

Finally, one afternoon the school bus passed as Happy played near the entrance of the yard. A child on the bus saw the kid in the city dump and shouted his curiosity out the window.
"Why did your mom throw you in the garbage, Smelly? Did you stink up the house?"
Happy reflected on the comment a long time before consulting his father. When Mel heard the taunt, he knew the time had come to tell the truth.

"Let's go sit in the kitchen and I'll explain some things to ya," Mel surrendered. "I'll fix some pancakes and we'll talk."
Happy did as he was told. He had been making his own pancakes since he was six years old, flipping them since six and a half. But he still appreciated when his father made them for him. They always tasted better.
"I never met your mother," Mel confessed as he poured syrup on a cake of his own. "But you been with me since the day you was born." Mel had to be delicate with his words.

"I found you in my truck," Mel said. "You were there with a note asking me to protect ya. I took it to heart and you became my son. You became my mission in life." It made the old man misty to say it out loud.

Happy was 7 years old when they had this conversation. He was clueless to the secrets of making babies. But his teaching television had shown families that looked different than his. It was a puzzle he had to complete.
"Why didn't you live with my mom?" Happy asked.

"Your mother was weak," Mel told him. "She couldn't raise you and teach you what you need to know." The old man struggled to stay positive. "I guess she heard I was a damn good teacher so she brought ya to me." Mel smiled and tapped his fork against the table. Happy stared intently, neither joyous nor distraught.

Mel thought he could get away without discussing his real father, but he didn't want to have this conversation a second time. Mel stood tall and took responsibility. He wanted no regrets.
"You had a different daddy when you was born too. He's the one that put you in my truck." Happy's intent stare broke with widened eyes. "You weren't my daddy?" Happy asked.
"That's right," Mel revealed, "But I didn't like him. So I run him off and told him I was your daddy instead."

Happy sat with his palms flat on the table and his legs dangling from his chair. The truth about his daddy still settled in his mind.
"Did you hit him?" Happy asked.
Mel shook his head. "I didn't need to. He was weak like your mother. He ran before I raised a fist."

Mel ate a piece of pancake and watched the boy. Happy looked into space and at his plate. He quietly assessed his situation. The trailer sat silent until he finished.
"I'm glad you're my daddy," Happy announced. "It's better not to be weak."
Mel nodded and agreed with his son. "Well, I'm glad you're my son," he welcomed, "And I think you're right."

Mel never explained the need for hiding and the threat of the social worker. He saw no reason to scare the boy. He all ready explained to the boy that he didn't go to school because they didn't have anything he wanted Happy to learn. It was another half truth but it satisfied the question.

The cats and the library provided all the social mixing Happy needed. Of course, as he grew his interests expanded. He admired his father and wanted to follow everything he did. By the age of 8, the boy pleaded for a new social discovery. He whined and stated his case for his father to share what he knew so well. But the old man still held fears that remained unspoken. It took eternal convincing to finally break him down and receive his wish.

At last, on Happy's 10th birthday, Mel took his son to the tavern.