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.