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.