There were three events that fed Happy's decision to escape, thundering ultimates connecting all the daily memories and pain. Happy lived with a number of aspersions as should be expected when someone changes from a person to a statistic. He lost some comforts but he could adapt. Three specific traumas worked in succession and broke the boy, sending him running after only eight months.
The problems revolved around Brian, or "King" as he insisted Happy call him. Brian was the king of the Motte county children's residential center and wanted to be called such. Happy could think of no reason not to call someone what they wanted to be called and complied with no debate. This passive nature forged a delicate friendship between the two roommates.
Brian's lunchtime arrangement forced a bond, a Stockholm syndrome that made Happy sympathetic and respectful of his jailer. Brian and Happy would sit at their table alone in the cafeteria watching the other kids. The other kids always seemed to be having fun to Brian, at least more fun than he was having. He hated them. Both Happy and his counselor knew this but only Happy knew how much.
"Look at that Reynolds kid wearing that gay sweater. I should tear it off him and kick his ass. I was in his reading group. He's a fuckin' dork."
"Did you hear Kyle Pladett's parents are in prison? Yeah, his dad robbed a gas station and his mom's a whore. He must be a total freak."
"I hate floor counselor Rob. I can kick his ass and he knows it. Just because he's in his 30's doesn't mean shit. He's a super pussy."
Happy addressed the comments directly when expected and said nothing when he wasn't. Happy was nothing but agreeable. Brian was disarmed of reasons to dislike Happy and allowed him to become his sole confidant. It was dangerous friendship. Happy was held to a new standard, a new height from which only he could fall.
Happy looked forward to the cafeteria and cherished his time there. Aside from the garbage trucks he watched from his window, the cafeteria was the only part of the children's center that reminded Happy of home. A lot of baloney lunches and hamburger dinners were served, just like home. Happy saw the 5 gallon bottles of syrup on the kitchen shelves behind the counter during breakfast and thought of the enormous pancakes Mel could cover. The cafeteria was a source of comfort to the boy he couldn't miss. Happy would inhale the sounds and smells and daydream of home. Brian could grumble and curse every kid in the place. Happy only appeared to listen.
Happy tried to make the best of things. He didn't know any other way. Happy became the straight man, the quiet man, to Brian's angry cuss. Sometimes Happy would suggest something positive to which Brian would scold him and snicker. Happy didn't learn and sometimes it would annoy his ticking roommate. He might get a slap or a shove, but nothing like the night of their first meeting. Happy had earned some leeway with his bully. He had proven he lacked the attitude Brian so bitterly loathed .
Happy tried to kill Brian with kindness, but the boy wouldn't die. Brian only rested, went through a cooling phase as any serial killer, and waited for the urge to return, the urge to humiliate and abuse. The urge returned in the cafeteria at lunch time two months after Happy arrived and started the domino effect that led to Happy's escape.
An unsuspecting boy named Wallace Belton made the mistake of being in the lunch line before Brian the King on the day the urge returned. The King watched Wally like a hawk, every move and step, scrutinizing for any lapse, any reason to banish the subject from his kingdom. Wally knew the King's reputation and felt his breath on the back of his neck. He took every care to step lively and not to slouch. Wally did an excellent job and the King got tired of waiting. Finally, Brian kicked Wally's foot as he took a step, sending him stumbling to the floor. Brian stood laughing while Happy came from behind and knelt to help Wally pick up his food.
"What are you doin' Keeper?" Brian yelled at Happy. Brian never used the name Happy, only Keeper, Faggot, or Freak. "Don't help this geek. He needs to learn how to walk."
Happy ignored this and placed Wally's tray back on the counter. This undoing of his evil deed drove Brian into rage, but if he hurt his friend he hurt himself. Brian felt Happy was weak and naive. He wouldn't blame Happy for trying to help. He would blame Wally for needing it.
"Get up, Geek!" Brian yelled at Wally. He pushed Happy out his way and towered over the fallen boy. "Get up while you still can!"
Lunch servers heard Brian's booming commands. A woman in an apron was already hurrying to get a counselor. Both Brian and Wally knew this. For Brian it meant the time to act was running out. For Wally, it meant help was on the way. Wally felt safe to react without fear. Wally got to his feet and spoke his mind while everyone was watching.
"You're such an asshole, Brian," Wally stated.
Brian's eyes widened. He hadn't expected a fight. Brian looked around and saw all eyes were on them. Even kids sitting and eating had stopped and began to gather. A whistle blew in the distance as counselors were running to the scene. Brian stepped forward and grabbed Wally by the shirt to pull him close.
"You call me 'King'," Brian snarled. "I'm the king here. Call me Brian again and you're a dead man."
Footsteps could be heard running, rushing, frantically trying to stop what was happening. It was only a matter of seconds before it was over. Wally heard the steps and wanted to finish big.
"You're the king," Wally said loudly, still gripped in Brian's paws, "You're the King of the Keepers."
Wally smiled just before the laughter exploded. Then the laughs came, a flood Brian wasn't dressed to take. Seconds were ticking away, footsteps away. Brian felt foolish and helpless and shamed. Wally smiled and looked him right in the eye. The rules changed for Brian. The dam broke.
Now time froze. Brian spun and grabbed his fork from the counter. His other hand still clung to Wally's collar. The king turned back with blood in his eyes. Wally realized his help would be too late. The smile disappeared. Brian plunged the fork deep into Wally's right cheek. He yanked it out and stabbed Wally in the face a second time, this hit closer to the chin. Blood sprayed on Brian's hand before his victim screamed.
After the second impact, Brian let go of Wally's shirt. The bleeding boy dropped to the floor screaming. Brian wasn't finished. He dove on the fallen boy and stabbed him a few more times with the fork, this time arm and shoulder as Wally held this up to shield his attack. Happy jumped on Brian's back to pull him off, but was only bucked away by the raging bull. By the time counselors arrived and restrained the king, Wally had been stabbed six times. It was nothing fatal, only stitches, but the trauma would last forever and cause Happy to reconsider his friend.
Brian would stay in Isolation for two weeks, the maximum allowed for children by the state. Counselor Rob tried to push that Brian be tried as an adult for the attack and sent to an adult detention center. He pleaded for the safety of the children that he not be returned to the children's center.
But no criminal charges were filed for the attack. Wally had no family or anyone to press charges on his behalf. The state was Wally's guardian and saw it is an isolated incident, the kind that happens between unloved teenagers, not bloodthirsty adults. The residence committee of the children's center also did not see fit to highlight an internal security lapse with an attempted murder trial. The entire episode was listed in Brian's permanent record and his probationary status was taken to the final step.
This last step of probation was counselor Rob's only satisfaction. The last step meant if Brian misbehaved by even the slightest of offenses, he would be transferred to the juvenile corrections center, a kids' prison that made the residential center look like a carnival. Counselor Rob made certain to stress this guarantee when Brian was sent back to his room. He made certain to stress this to all of the kids, including Happy, before Brian returned.
"If Brian touches you in any way you don't like, if he curses at you, or threatens you in any way, report it to me immediately. He's a bad kid and we need to get him out of here." Counselor Rob told Happy. Happy liked counselor Rob and wanted to do what he said.
Brian was quiet for a few days after his return. Even the look of anger had been erased. Almost a full week passed before the familiar grumbles re started. Brian still confided in Happy, clinging to him now more than ever. Brian knew he might not be king in the kids' prison. Happy was the only subject with who the king could talk without fear of being banished to that place.
"I hate all these people," Brian told Happy. "I wish this place never existed. I wish someone would drop a fucking bomb on this place and roast us all."
"That's awful!" Happy disagreed, "I don't want to die! Don't wish that on me!"
"I wish who I want dead," Brian insisted, "And that means everyone."
Such sentiment bothered Happy. He didn't understand it at all.
"Do you want to kill yourself?" Happy asked.
Brian didn't like the question. Anyone other than Happy would've been cussed.
"Not really," Brian answered. "Some days I just don't want to live. I really don't care either way."
Happy couldn't understand but some of his fear became sympathy. Happy felt very sad for Wally Belton, but he wanted to help Brian too. As time moved on in the children's center, Happy remained by Brian's side as his only friend. The set up was no different than before, but now the other kids looked at Happy much like they looked at Brian. Happy was no longer a prisoner. All the kids knew this had changed. Brian was their enemy. Now Happy was their enemy too.
The other kids, the keepers, had seen more episodes from Brian than just that in the cafeteria. They had received their punches, bruised backs and blackened eyes, worse than what Happy had received that first night. Not everyone was as agreeable as Happy. Not everyone was as slow. The other keepers had no delusions about the rehabilitation of their king. Evil would return. Happy would see it and he would be one step closer to escape.
Wally wouldn't agree, but his stabbing brought a lot of good. Brian couldn't bother anyone. He was a shell of himself, head down, chest slumped, standing in the lunch line. He was just a hairy fat kid, overgrown and unwanted, scared to go to jail. Other kids didn't go so far as to taunt him openly, but where they once wouldn't cross his path they now put him at the back of the line. Brian would grow livid with the jeers he sensed from his old subjects. He wanted so badly to put them in line. He bottled up all his frustration and rage and saved it for a rainy day.
The rainy day came on a Thursday and it rained cats and dogs. One of the cats wandered into the play yard, an innocent in a strange part of town. Brian found the cat and yanked it upward by the nape. The old cat howled in pain as Brian tucked it into the thick crook of his elbow. Brian smacked the cat in the face to stop the howling and smiled viciously when it hissed. The young monster had found a victim that couldn't tell on him. He had a lot of violence to release.
In his ecstasy, Brian thought it a good idea to include Happy in his mayhem. Either Brian would enjoy some butchery with his friend or he'd enjoy some butchery while terrifying his friend. Both options would be a joy. Brian took the back stairwell up to their room on the eighth floor with the cat folded in his arms. If the cat cried, Brian would squeeze his arms until it stopped.
Happy was standing at the window looking down at the dumpsters when Brian burst in with the cat. Happy had found his way to this loading area over the course of the past few months. He knew three different routes to emerge by the dumpsters. He noted the lack of attention in the area. Security is light around the garbage area. Most people find the smell revolting. To Happy, it smelled like his dad's cologne.
"Check it out, Happy!" Brian said as low as he could. The taste of blood burned his tongue.
Happy turned and was overjoyed at the sight of a cat. What a great memory from home! The delight passed as he noticed the fear in the cat.
"Cool, a cat! But wait, you're hurting him," Happy said and moved to help.
As Happy neared, Brian held out his arm to stop him.
"That's the plan, my man," Brian boasted. "We're gonna hurt this cat. I was thinking we'd throw him off the roof. I wish I had some firecrackers to stick up his ass."
Happy was horrified. He couldn't imagine such abuses to any of his 700.
"You can't hurt that cat! Here, give him to me and I'll get him outta here." Happy moved forward. Brian turned his shoulders downward and rammed into him, knocking Happy backward against the desk. The cat could barely release a frightened howl.
"No fucking way, Keeper," Brian growled. It was the first time Brian called him Keeper since being released from Isolation. He had referred to his friend by his name until now.
Happy got to his feet quick. The cat was the second reason he had seen to fight Brian. The first had been the stabbing. Happy had jumped on Brian to pull him off, but the raging energy overwhelmed him. He felt weightless being shaken off Brian's back. The evil had returned, evil Happy wouldn't dismiss the second time. He had no choice but to fight again.
Happy came forward, not charging, but reaching for the cat. Brian realized he couldn't have it both ways like he thought. Happy was determined like he hadn't seen before. Brian didn't see Happy's eyes when he had jumped on his back. He saw them now and knew they were set dead against him. Brian held the cat with one arm and pulled back the other. Happy walked right into the punch.
Happy staggered backward, dazed, again hitting the desk, but not falling. Still holding the cat, Brian walked forward and landed and few more blows to the face. At last, Happy dropped. Brian secured the cat again in his arms and knelt to speak to him.
"I don't know what your deal is, but you know better than to come at me like that," Brian said. "Whatever's going through your head, you better not say shit to anybody. I'll throw your ass off the roof with this fuckin' cat."
He stepped backwards and turned to leave the room.
"See ya, Keeper," he bade, "I'm gonna make this cat fly."
He laughed and dashed into the hallway.
Happy needed a second to catch his breath, but that was all. He couldn't beat Brian, but he must figure out a way to release the cat. He lay still while Brian whisper those threats and waited to hear his steps leave the room. Then Happy leapt to his feet and ran after him. The door to the stairwell hadn't closed shut by the time Happy approached. He skidded to halt just before running through. A broom leaned beside the door. Happy grabbed it and continued, unsure what he could do with it.
Brian didn't notice the other footsteps echoing in the stairwell. He was running, maniacal, frothing at the muzzle. Only he and the cat were in the world and for one of them the world was about to end. It was so seductive, enchanting. Brian felt so powerful. He was God to the cat. He could create and destroy. The mad king crashed through the doors and was upon the ledge before he knew he was followed. He was drooling and ready to kill.
Brian jumped up on the concrete wall looking down at the city below. He hovered twelve stories above the concrete. The cat was uncovered from his cramped shape and held over the abyss.
"Brian, stop!" Happy yelled as he ran through the rooftop doors, his breath still short from the run. "Don't hurt the cat!"
Happy spotted Brian on the ledge and sprinted to him. He held the broomstick tight, but still without purpose. The king turned and saw his adversary. Such contempt enraged him. He would show no more mercy to such a fool.
Happy didn't stop. Holding the broomstick pointing forward, he appeared like a knight in a joust. His only thought was to free the cat from the snarling dragon. Happy aimed and jumped when he got within reach.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Brian yelled.
The stick poked at the cat, jabbing it in the side. Brian lurched backward to avoid the spear and stumbled for balance. The cat screeched and found a grip for its claws when Brian released. The cat clawed a trek up his chest and over his head in a split second. The cat leapt from his head, diving over Happy and landing on the rooftop behind.
Brian was fallin backwards off the roof. He reached out and grabbed the broomstick. Happy was yanked forward, but put his foot out to stop the momentum. Brian screamed feeling his feet leave the ledge. Happy reached an arm upward on the broom stick to gain more leverage and also screamed as adrenaline and his body weight used all its force to pull Brian in off the ledge.
Brian didn't come back completely, but bent forward enough for Happy to lunge for his waist. Happy grabbed hold and heaved him in like a bag of trash. Brian hit the rooftop still holding the broomstick. He was shaken but not shattered. The cat was nowhere to be found.
Brian sat up with tears in his eyes. He launched from the ground and attacked Happy, screaming wordlessly. He tackled his savior and wrestled him to the ground. He pounded Happy with a flurry of strikes far worse than their initial meeting. Had there been any weapon at Brian's disposal Happy would be dead. Brian released the violence he had stored for so long.
After he finished, Brian went downstairs without Happy. Happy lay on the ground with two broken ribs and a concussion. He was found by security officers when counselor Rob ordered a sweep of the children's center. Counselor Rob couldn't get an answer out of Brian to account for his roommate at lights out. He feared the worst and ordered the sweep which almost confirmed it.
Counselor Rob knew only one person could be guilty of the brutality Happy endured. He hated to admit the small thrill to finally be able to treat Brian like the criminal he was destined to be. Counselor Rob was waiting next to Happy's bed when he first awoke from the beating.
"Happy," Rob said, "All you have to do is say the name. You have nothing to worry about. You'll never see him again."
"Who?" Happy asked with voice weakened and raw.
"Well, that's what you gotta tell me," Rob pushed. "We both know who did this to you."
Happy was silent, recalling everything that had happened. When the picture cleared he asked his main concern.
"How's the cat?"
"Cat?" Rob asked. "What cat?"
"Did you find a cat near me?" Happy asked.
"No," Rob answered.
Happy thought about the possibilities.
"Did you find a dead cat on the street?" Happy asked.
Rob looked at the beaten boy, confused. "No," he answered.
Happy smiled with a job well done. He felt healed.
"Happy," Rob continued after the subject had apparently been dropped, "Did Brian beat you up? I know he did. I just need you to tell me and he won't be able to beat up anybody else here."
Happy knew all his options and knew what he could do. He felt redeemed knowing the cat survived and saw no need for more pain. He was one step closer to escaping, one step closer to going home. Happy harbored no ill will. He wanted to forgive.
"I don't know who did this to me," he lied, "just some guy on the roof."
Counselor Rob stopped smiling. His tone became serious.
"Excuse me, Happy, are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure," Happy answered to his discontent. "I'd never seen the guy before."
Counselor Rob knew the game. He hated this game and had enough of it. Brian was as good as gone. Rob wouldn't let this pass.
"Happy, we both know it was Brian," Rob said. "I talked to the bastard last night. He was sweaty and his hands were cut up. The smart little shit knew to wash them. They were cut and clean. And he acted guilty and nervous as he could when I asked where you were."
Happy looked at counselor Rob shamefully. He hated to lie.
"He can't hurt you, Happy," Rob promised. "You'll never see him again. He'll be in jail before you're back to your room."
"It wasn't Brian," Happy could only think to say. "It was somebody I didn't know."
Counselor Rob looked at Happy a long time before leaving. When he got up, he said the most unfriendly thing he had said to Happy.
"I'm sorry, Happy, but if nothing else I have to cite you for being on the roof. That's trespassing. It can get ya a week in Isolation. I guess we'll see."
He walked to the door of the recovery room and stopped for one last chance.
"You sure you don't know who did that to you, Happy?"
Happy just shook his head.
"I'm sorry counselor Rob. I wish I did."
Happy spent a week in Isolation. With no evidence, Brian received no citation and remained his roommate. Happy was now an enemy to counselor Rob as well as the rest of the kids. Brian didn't know how to interpret this sacrifice. He grew more suspicious of his roommate than ever. He continued eating with Happy so as not to arouse suspicion, but they never spoke.
Happy enjoyed his time in Isolation. The counselors on watch had never heard so many "Thank you" and "please"s. They couldn't believe such a polite boy received a week in Isolation. Happy didn't mind. He was raised without a lot of people and was quite comfortable being alone. His spirits visibly lowered when he was told he was returning to his dorm.
Happy didn't know exactly why he lied to counselor Rob. It just felt like the right thing to do. It felt like something Mel would do. Happy would deal with Brian but he didn't know how yet. He didn't want to be pushed into a decision. Happy turned the other cheek. The worst had happened. Happy wasn't wise enough to fear death.
Happy was confident he could escape if things got too rough. He would just wrap himself in a trash bag and jump in the dumpster on a Thursday afternoon. He'd be at home in a matter of hours. Brian's terror couldn't push the boy to break his father's wishes. The experience made him consider escape more seriously, but it wouldn't be the final straw.
The final straw would come from someone much more important, Mel Stotch, his father himself. Happy's 12th birthday fell two weeks after Mel's appointment with Byron Mittle. The old man hadn't called his son since the disappointment of that day. He couldn't bring himself to admit they would never be together again.
Mel called once every two or three weeks. It had fallen off from every day, to every two days, every three days and so on. It was harder for both of them to stay too close. Neither father nor son remarked when the calls diminished. By Happy's 12th birthday five weeks had passed. After talking with the lawyer Mel didn't know where to start.
The old man never minced words and didn't know how. Everything was blunt and honest, maybe sarcastic if there's room. He had sugar coated reality for Happy over the last few months to the point they didn't speak rather than face their desperation. Mel disgusted himself with his weakness and what he was teaching the boy. So he wished his son a Happy Birthday. Then he told his son they would never be together again. He couldn't offer explanations, only that he was too old and weak to keep up.
He didn't mention the searing pain from his insides rotting out. Not even constant alcohol could veil the agony. Mel reasoned it was good he didn't have much time left. There was that much less suffering to endure. He didn't tell Happy any of this. He could save that for another birthday.
Happy accepted the call as Mel's blessing to escape. Hearing everything he dreamed about was no longer there was too much for Happy to shrug off like the broken ribs. Happy hung up the phone and returned to his room. He never mentioned his birthday to Brian and hoped no one else mentioned it.
Brian sat on his bed, gawking and sullen. He hadn't raised his voice to Happy in the months that had passed since the beating. Happy had no more fear of him and he knew it. Happy had a terrible secret over him. He held Brian's freedom in his hands. Whether he knew it or not, Happy held immeasurable power. Brian hated him for it all the more.
Happy walked straight to the window and looked down at the dumpsters beside the loading dock. He stood and stared for a long time. Happy made his decision. It was time to go home.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
LIW&B Chapter 11
"I don't like havin' roommates. They stuck you in here because you're almost as big as me, but I'll still kick your ass. You're just a kid. I'm fifteen. If you mess with me or any of my stuff, I'll beat the shit out of you."
Happy had never heard such threatening aggression. Only desperate, dying rats had directed anything close to the spite this angry teenager displayed. Rats had bared their teeth and cursed their maker. But that was a long time ago. Mel sheltered the boy, leaving him soft and stupid.
Happy remained oblivious to the danger. He barely understood the words. Only moments ago, Ms. Janice, the newly assigned case worker, watched the boys introduce themselves and shake hands before she left. Happy was sincerely glad to meet a new friend. Brian was not.
Brian held a few pounds and inches over Happy, gruff and mean enough for a man more than twice his age. Brian had been in too many fights. His youth was dead and gone. He was a big, angry bully, experienced in the carelessness of the system and the predators roaming for children. He had as little hope for adoption as he had respect for parents. Brian didn't wish to be adopted. It had only hurt before. He wished to be free.
Brian was molded more than raised. His sculpture was brutish from necessity, calloused like a shield. Thick curls of black hair surrounded his portly face to make his appearance jovial. The dark splotches of young whiskers scattered randomly on his pale skin turned the joke into a dark one. His voice stayed low and serious when he laughed.
"I can't believe your name's Happy," Brian continued. "You parents must've been fags. You're probably a pussy just like them."
No one had spoke to Happy this way before. Where most of the children in the residential center instinctively shrank to such language, Happy could only do his best to interpret. Hostility was a foreign tongue Happy didn't recognize.
"Yeah, I guess so," Happy agreed with a smile, "I didn't know my first mom and dad. I only know my dad Mel, but he didn't name me."
Brian looked at this smirking newbie and couldn't be certain if he was serious or giving him attitude. Brian didn't like kids giving him attitude and fought hard to stomp it out. He went with his gut and decided Happy needed a warning.
"Don't get smart with me, pussy!" Brian demanded. He shoved Happy backwards with both meaty arms. Still off guard, Happy reeled backwards into the desk at the foot of his bed. The impact bounced him to the floor. Brian moved forward, getting closer and he launched a diatribe.
"This is my fuckin' room and I don't take any attitude! I'll beat your ass if you ever get smart with me again! And if you tell on me it will only get worse!"
Happy could only think to sit and listen. His aches subsided without notice. Happy could withstand the blows, but he struggled with their intention. He sat on the floor and looked up at Brian like a student to a teacher.
"You're just another keeper!" Brian shouted down, "No way anyone adopts you. You're too fucking big and ugly. You're gonna be here a long time so you better learn fast and do what I say. I'm the king around here."
Brian stood looking down at Happy, waiting for a challenge. Happy had no interest in making the rules. He just looked at his tormentor and replied, "OK".
Brian kept watching, wanting a reason to keep going. Happy only sat still aside from reaching back and rubbing his new abrasion. At last Brian accepted the surrender. He returned to his bunk and grabbed a magazine he had no focus to read.
"I told the doc I didn't want any roommates. He's a fuckin' liar like the rest of 'em." Brian said this to himself more than Happy. He flipped the pages in the magazine with no aim.
Happy got up off the floor and returned to the bags he laid on the bed. The boy still wasn't entirely sure what he was doing in this place, but it was beginning to feel more permanent than he thought. He questions for Brian but now had caution to ask.
The room was typical dorm design, two beds, a bunk on each side with a desk at the foot. The walls were white and the tile speckled gray, as dreary as most of the children. One window broke up the center of the room that looked down to the loading bay of the facility. Happy's room was on the eighth floor. There were a lot of dreary children here, "keepers" as the chronically unadopted were known. Despair slid down the walls like the paint was fresh.
Happy thought about Ms. Janice as he unpacked. She had been with him most of the day. Happy had filled out a lot of paper work and taken tests. Ms. Janice had explained his schedule, 2 classes in the morning and 2 in the afternoon, with a meeting with a counselor three times a week at the end of the day. It was all new to Happy and sounded like fun. But none of the kids, of whom he saw quite a few, appeared to be having fun. Even Ms. Janice didn't appear to be having fun. She smiled behind a voice that didn't mean it.
Ms. Janice took great pains to keep her perspective professional. She wasn't a robot. She wouldn't look at children as units. She wouldn't reduce the human factor in her job. A lot of her colleagues did. It's a survival mechanism, a method to block the emotion that could tear you apart after years and years of escalating tales of child abuse. Any person worthy of the position would have stress from seeing such pain and years of stress can kill. Ms. Janice fought the stress and took steps to reduce it, but she wasn't a robot. She was a professional social case worker on behalf of children's welfare, no more no less. That's all she could sustain.
Happy was a child, but he was another child, another child of hundred after hundreds more. To say he wasn't a number is facetious. Happy was a child and a number, a statistic of loss and regret, of unwanted babies and mistakes, of unwanted adults who remembered their losses too well. Ms. Janice didn't love Happy any more than any of the children she registered which was no more than she loved any child of God. She worked for the welfare of children because it was her job. If it was for love the pain would be too great. Happy knew nothing about the reasons behind the facade. He only sensed the lack of connection between herself and other people. If she was a different person at home, he would never know it.
Ms. Janice had taken the results of Happy's tests and worked out his schedule. His abilities in reading and spelling leveled at the bottom tier, his handwriting was illegible. These all indicated the lack of designed education that matched his profile. Ms. Janice noted how Happy's personality reflected the opposite of his test results. Happy had talked her ear off all day, overflowing with initiative.
The most telling result was Happy writing his name. On his first test, he wrote "Happy" and stopped. He moved on to the test.
"Write your last name too, Happy," Ms. Janice asked.
Happy thought about it and frowned.
"Last name," Happy said, "I don't know. I never wrote it before."
Ms. Janice bent her brow. This was a new one for an eleven year old. Ms. Janice grabbed his folder and read.
"You were living with a Melvin Stotch," Ms. Janice advised. "Is your last name, Stotch?"
Happy looked to the ceiling and back and Ms. Janice.
"Mel's my dad. His name would be mine." Happy didn't know a Melvin.
"Is Mel who you were living with?" Ms. Janice asked.
"Yeah, I live with my dad," Happy confirmed.
"Well, then your last name is Stotch," Ms. Janice deduced.
"Thank you!" Happy said then moved and stopped again with his pencil. "Can you spell that please?"
Ms. Janice also noted the episode and emphasized it very dramatically.
Happy recalled the episode himself as unloaded his clothes. It had been a long day. Happy thought about the questions on the tests, and the cops and his cats. He thought about Mel least. He didn't purposely avoid it, but naturally avoided those thoughts which bring the most pain. Instead, Happy thought about pancakes as he put some underwear in his desk drawers.
Suddenly, he heard a sound, a beeping, a voice from home. Happy moved so swiftly, Brian lifted off his bunk and stood ready for war. Happy walked over to the window and looked down to the loading dock. A row of dumpsters caught his eye and then garbage truck backing up before them.
Happy sat and watched as the truck unloaded each dumpster into its tank. The boy became dreamy and drifted home. He would soon memorize garbage days and times and never miss a show. Brian glared at Happy's hypnosis and didn't understand it, which meant he didn't like it. He moved around the desk and grabbed Happy by the back of the shirt.
"What are you looking at down there?" Brian asked and looked down at the garbage truck. This only led to more mystery and anger. He looked at Happy with disgust as he still watched the trucks with love. Brian impulsively shoved Happy again. This time the thug moved forward with the push, sending Happy crashing against the concrete wall.
"You gettin' off watching a fucking garbage truck!" Brian exploded, his baby jowls jiggling with rage and spit. "What kind of a freak are you?"
Happy hit the wall with arm and shoulder. His shoulder took an impact that would bruise deeply. Happy had never experienced such an attack. He just sat and watched Brian yell. The lonely boy became incensed with the silence.
"Answer me, Freak!" Brian yelled and moved in to beat him.
"Happy Stotch? Hey, what's going on in here?"
Brian stopped and backed up. He knew a floor counselor when he heard one.
"Are you OK? Brian did you hit him?" The counselor entered the room, understanding what he had stopped. Brian was known well. The counselors wanted him to be free also. Only 27 months before he was old enough for the state to want it too.
"I didn't hit him. He fell," Brian lied.
Happy was on his feet before the counselor arrived at his side. The counselor's name was Rob. He rubbed Happy's back to comfort him and become the warmest face Happy had seen since leaving home. He seemed sincere in his concern against this bully. Rob had reported Brian's behavior before.
"Are you all right?" Rob asked.
"Sure," Happy said.
Rob didn't see the same look of fear he saw in most kids, but he still knew the score. He wouldn't push it. Not today.
"Well," Rob surrendered, "OK, but I saw what was going on." He gave Brian another look that told him the same.
Rob turned back to Happy, "Are you Happy Stotch? You've got a phone call."
Happy nodded his head and forgot about his shoulder. "Is it my dad?" he asked.
"Yes, I believe it is. Follow me."
Rob turned and walked out of the room with Happy behind him. Brian stood facing the wall, his back to the entire exchange. He remained in the spot stewing and smoldering until Happy returned.
The call was brief. Mel spent the day drinking and wiping his eyes. He wanted to hear his son's voice, but too much would bring him to collapse. He had to stay strong like he had that morning. He had to keep his boy strong. Happy was the one that needed strength most.
So Mel just asked what Happy had done and let the boy ramble on while he stayed silent. Every word risked breaking a dam in his heart. Listening was bearable but speaking almost impossible. To stifle tears in his voice, Mel added some phony coughs in with the real ones. The entire call lasted less than five minutes, but it felt like an eternal struggle.
Happy returned to his room feeling replenished of exuberance. He entered his dorm room wanting to square things away with his new friend. Happy talked to the slouched back of wounded kid he wished to please.
"Hi Brian," Happy greeted, "It was a call from my dad, just asking how things are."
It was gasoline on the fire. Brian wiped his own eyes and turned around.
"Your dad? What dad? If you had a dad you wouldn't be here."
Happy didn't know how to answer. Once again, he was unsure what the boy meant.
"I'm just here to visit, I guess," Happy tried. "I live with my dad and 700 cats."
Brian didn't understand Happy either. He was tired of trying. It was easier to abuse him and that's what he did. Brian didn't make a sound. He made a beeline to Happy who stood smiling back. Happy had never seen someone rear back their arm to punch him. He made no effort to move.
Brian clamped his teeth together and threw a fist into Happy's cheek. Skin broke upon impact and blood squirt through a narrow stream. Happy's eyes shut involuntarily and his knees buckled. The big, bald boy hit the floor and Brian started to kick him.
"You don't have a dad, Freak! You're just a fuckin' keeper!" Brian yelled.
He gave Happy five kicks in the stomach before he stopped. Brian knew his latitude. Counselors wouldn't come running after one loud outburst. Those happened all the time. They waited until the second to confirm a continuing battle.
Brian walked back to his bunk and sat down, mindlessly grabbing the same magazine as before. It was more difficult for Brian to stop hitting somebody than to start. He sat on his bunk and flipped pages, trying his best to stifle a second outburst.
Happy remained in a lying crouch while the shocks worked their way through his body. Blood dripped to the floor under eye and started a pool. The side of his head heated with swelling. Happy could hear his heartbeat. He began to sit up as soon as the throbbing in his abdomen disappeared.
"Get up, you pussy, before a floor counselor walks by," Brian watched him hawkishly. The kids couldn't close their dorm doors. Happy was risking his probation.
Happy got to his feet. "I'm sorry if I made you mad," he apologized to the brute and walked to his bunk.
"You're damn right you're sorry," Brian barked. "As long as you're in this room, you do what I say. This is my room! You got that, Freak?" He demanded.
Happy only stared and nodded. He sat on his bunk and stretched his legs, wincing at the pain this brought to his stomach.
Brian stood up to finish his demands. "As long as you're in here, I decide what you do. Any time you're not in class or counseling, you'll be where I tell you to be. And you're sitting at my table at lunch so I keep can an eye on you."
The latter demand stemmed from loneliness more than any idea of keeping order. Brian made friends by taking them hostage, a charm learned from more than one abusive foster home.
"And remember," Brian concluded, "If you tell and get me in trouble I'll beat you until you don't remember nothin' anyway." And then in a lower, more sinister volume, "I'll kill you if you tell."
Happy sat reclined on his bunk looking into the eyes of this dangerous animal, ravaged and rabid since birth. The boy didn't know evil enough to recognize it. Happy still thought the hitting was due to something he wasn't understanding. Happy thought the whole event must be his fault. He felt no hatred for his abuser, just caution and concern.
"I don't want to tell anybody anything," Happy said. "I just want to be friends."
Brian stiffened, unaccustomed to such an even answer not powerless and soaked in fear. It almost made Brian believe they could be friends. Such an idea was a foolish indulgence to the broken boy. He assumed it was deception like everything else.
"Fuck you, Freak," Brian answered. "We're not gonna be friends."
Brian returned to his bunk and laid down. He rolled to face the wall away from Happy and would stay there until morning, fully dressed and all. His sleep would be haunted by scarred memories.
Happy dressed for bed and slept without incident. The next day started his new life and routine. Happy would learn to enjoy his classes and fear Brian. He would learn to avoid Brian whenever he could, particularly after counseling sessions. He would sit beside him at lunch, the only two boys at their table, and stay quiet while he threatened and complained. Happy would learn to read emotions, not just from Brian, but from every child and every member of the staff. Happy had never been exposed to so much human interaction and it was time to learn.
Mostly Happy thought about home and how great it would be when he returned. Within a month of brief phone calls with his father, he would understand that he couldn't leave. Mel never said it outright, but he never mentioned coming home. It brought more pain Happy couldn't place. Happy wanted to go home, and wasn't exactly certain why he couldn't.
Happy was a very bright child as Ms. Janice noted to the counseling staff. He absorbed change and adapted quickly, aware of his surroundings. Ms. Janice gave a very positive report of the boy's potential. What wasn't noted and remained unseen was the way Happy noticed open doors and unattended exits. Happy thought it didn't appear so difficult to leave. Maybe it was OK after all.
Happy did what he was told, but he always thought of home. On evenings when he would hear the warning beeps of the garbage truck in reverse, he would think of where the garbage went. He knew it went home. He watched the dumpsters fill the tanks and drive away, a free ride to the yard he held so dear. But he would do what he was told. He thought Mel would want it that way. So he would stay until the old man told him different.
Happy had never heard such threatening aggression. Only desperate, dying rats had directed anything close to the spite this angry teenager displayed. Rats had bared their teeth and cursed their maker. But that was a long time ago. Mel sheltered the boy, leaving him soft and stupid.
Happy remained oblivious to the danger. He barely understood the words. Only moments ago, Ms. Janice, the newly assigned case worker, watched the boys introduce themselves and shake hands before she left. Happy was sincerely glad to meet a new friend. Brian was not.
Brian held a few pounds and inches over Happy, gruff and mean enough for a man more than twice his age. Brian had been in too many fights. His youth was dead and gone. He was a big, angry bully, experienced in the carelessness of the system and the predators roaming for children. He had as little hope for adoption as he had respect for parents. Brian didn't wish to be adopted. It had only hurt before. He wished to be free.
Brian was molded more than raised. His sculpture was brutish from necessity, calloused like a shield. Thick curls of black hair surrounded his portly face to make his appearance jovial. The dark splotches of young whiskers scattered randomly on his pale skin turned the joke into a dark one. His voice stayed low and serious when he laughed.
"I can't believe your name's Happy," Brian continued. "You parents must've been fags. You're probably a pussy just like them."
No one had spoke to Happy this way before. Where most of the children in the residential center instinctively shrank to such language, Happy could only do his best to interpret. Hostility was a foreign tongue Happy didn't recognize.
"Yeah, I guess so," Happy agreed with a smile, "I didn't know my first mom and dad. I only know my dad Mel, but he didn't name me."
Brian looked at this smirking newbie and couldn't be certain if he was serious or giving him attitude. Brian didn't like kids giving him attitude and fought hard to stomp it out. He went with his gut and decided Happy needed a warning.
"Don't get smart with me, pussy!" Brian demanded. He shoved Happy backwards with both meaty arms. Still off guard, Happy reeled backwards into the desk at the foot of his bed. The impact bounced him to the floor. Brian moved forward, getting closer and he launched a diatribe.
"This is my fuckin' room and I don't take any attitude! I'll beat your ass if you ever get smart with me again! And if you tell on me it will only get worse!"
Happy could only think to sit and listen. His aches subsided without notice. Happy could withstand the blows, but he struggled with their intention. He sat on the floor and looked up at Brian like a student to a teacher.
"You're just another keeper!" Brian shouted down, "No way anyone adopts you. You're too fucking big and ugly. You're gonna be here a long time so you better learn fast and do what I say. I'm the king around here."
Brian stood looking down at Happy, waiting for a challenge. Happy had no interest in making the rules. He just looked at his tormentor and replied, "OK".
Brian kept watching, wanting a reason to keep going. Happy only sat still aside from reaching back and rubbing his new abrasion. At last Brian accepted the surrender. He returned to his bunk and grabbed a magazine he had no focus to read.
"I told the doc I didn't want any roommates. He's a fuckin' liar like the rest of 'em." Brian said this to himself more than Happy. He flipped the pages in the magazine with no aim.
Happy got up off the floor and returned to the bags he laid on the bed. The boy still wasn't entirely sure what he was doing in this place, but it was beginning to feel more permanent than he thought. He questions for Brian but now had caution to ask.
The room was typical dorm design, two beds, a bunk on each side with a desk at the foot. The walls were white and the tile speckled gray, as dreary as most of the children. One window broke up the center of the room that looked down to the loading bay of the facility. Happy's room was on the eighth floor. There were a lot of dreary children here, "keepers" as the chronically unadopted were known. Despair slid down the walls like the paint was fresh.
Happy thought about Ms. Janice as he unpacked. She had been with him most of the day. Happy had filled out a lot of paper work and taken tests. Ms. Janice had explained his schedule, 2 classes in the morning and 2 in the afternoon, with a meeting with a counselor three times a week at the end of the day. It was all new to Happy and sounded like fun. But none of the kids, of whom he saw quite a few, appeared to be having fun. Even Ms. Janice didn't appear to be having fun. She smiled behind a voice that didn't mean it.
Ms. Janice took great pains to keep her perspective professional. She wasn't a robot. She wouldn't look at children as units. She wouldn't reduce the human factor in her job. A lot of her colleagues did. It's a survival mechanism, a method to block the emotion that could tear you apart after years and years of escalating tales of child abuse. Any person worthy of the position would have stress from seeing such pain and years of stress can kill. Ms. Janice fought the stress and took steps to reduce it, but she wasn't a robot. She was a professional social case worker on behalf of children's welfare, no more no less. That's all she could sustain.
Happy was a child, but he was another child, another child of hundred after hundreds more. To say he wasn't a number is facetious. Happy was a child and a number, a statistic of loss and regret, of unwanted babies and mistakes, of unwanted adults who remembered their losses too well. Ms. Janice didn't love Happy any more than any of the children she registered which was no more than she loved any child of God. She worked for the welfare of children because it was her job. If it was for love the pain would be too great. Happy knew nothing about the reasons behind the facade. He only sensed the lack of connection between herself and other people. If she was a different person at home, he would never know it.
Ms. Janice had taken the results of Happy's tests and worked out his schedule. His abilities in reading and spelling leveled at the bottom tier, his handwriting was illegible. These all indicated the lack of designed education that matched his profile. Ms. Janice noted how Happy's personality reflected the opposite of his test results. Happy had talked her ear off all day, overflowing with initiative.
The most telling result was Happy writing his name. On his first test, he wrote "Happy" and stopped. He moved on to the test.
"Write your last name too, Happy," Ms. Janice asked.
Happy thought about it and frowned.
"Last name," Happy said, "I don't know. I never wrote it before."
Ms. Janice bent her brow. This was a new one for an eleven year old. Ms. Janice grabbed his folder and read.
"You were living with a Melvin Stotch," Ms. Janice advised. "Is your last name, Stotch?"
Happy looked to the ceiling and back and Ms. Janice.
"Mel's my dad. His name would be mine." Happy didn't know a Melvin.
"Is Mel who you were living with?" Ms. Janice asked.
"Yeah, I live with my dad," Happy confirmed.
"Well, then your last name is Stotch," Ms. Janice deduced.
"Thank you!" Happy said then moved and stopped again with his pencil. "Can you spell that please?"
Ms. Janice also noted the episode and emphasized it very dramatically.
Happy recalled the episode himself as unloaded his clothes. It had been a long day. Happy thought about the questions on the tests, and the cops and his cats. He thought about Mel least. He didn't purposely avoid it, but naturally avoided those thoughts which bring the most pain. Instead, Happy thought about pancakes as he put some underwear in his desk drawers.
Suddenly, he heard a sound, a beeping, a voice from home. Happy moved so swiftly, Brian lifted off his bunk and stood ready for war. Happy walked over to the window and looked down to the loading dock. A row of dumpsters caught his eye and then garbage truck backing up before them.
Happy sat and watched as the truck unloaded each dumpster into its tank. The boy became dreamy and drifted home. He would soon memorize garbage days and times and never miss a show. Brian glared at Happy's hypnosis and didn't understand it, which meant he didn't like it. He moved around the desk and grabbed Happy by the back of the shirt.
"What are you looking at down there?" Brian asked and looked down at the garbage truck. This only led to more mystery and anger. He looked at Happy with disgust as he still watched the trucks with love. Brian impulsively shoved Happy again. This time the thug moved forward with the push, sending Happy crashing against the concrete wall.
"You gettin' off watching a fucking garbage truck!" Brian exploded, his baby jowls jiggling with rage and spit. "What kind of a freak are you?"
Happy hit the wall with arm and shoulder. His shoulder took an impact that would bruise deeply. Happy had never experienced such an attack. He just sat and watched Brian yell. The lonely boy became incensed with the silence.
"Answer me, Freak!" Brian yelled and moved in to beat him.
"Happy Stotch? Hey, what's going on in here?"
Brian stopped and backed up. He knew a floor counselor when he heard one.
"Are you OK? Brian did you hit him?" The counselor entered the room, understanding what he had stopped. Brian was known well. The counselors wanted him to be free also. Only 27 months before he was old enough for the state to want it too.
"I didn't hit him. He fell," Brian lied.
Happy was on his feet before the counselor arrived at his side. The counselor's name was Rob. He rubbed Happy's back to comfort him and become the warmest face Happy had seen since leaving home. He seemed sincere in his concern against this bully. Rob had reported Brian's behavior before.
"Are you all right?" Rob asked.
"Sure," Happy said.
Rob didn't see the same look of fear he saw in most kids, but he still knew the score. He wouldn't push it. Not today.
"Well," Rob surrendered, "OK, but I saw what was going on." He gave Brian another look that told him the same.
Rob turned back to Happy, "Are you Happy Stotch? You've got a phone call."
Happy nodded his head and forgot about his shoulder. "Is it my dad?" he asked.
"Yes, I believe it is. Follow me."
Rob turned and walked out of the room with Happy behind him. Brian stood facing the wall, his back to the entire exchange. He remained in the spot stewing and smoldering until Happy returned.
The call was brief. Mel spent the day drinking and wiping his eyes. He wanted to hear his son's voice, but too much would bring him to collapse. He had to stay strong like he had that morning. He had to keep his boy strong. Happy was the one that needed strength most.
So Mel just asked what Happy had done and let the boy ramble on while he stayed silent. Every word risked breaking a dam in his heart. Listening was bearable but speaking almost impossible. To stifle tears in his voice, Mel added some phony coughs in with the real ones. The entire call lasted less than five minutes, but it felt like an eternal struggle.
Happy returned to his room feeling replenished of exuberance. He entered his dorm room wanting to square things away with his new friend. Happy talked to the slouched back of wounded kid he wished to please.
"Hi Brian," Happy greeted, "It was a call from my dad, just asking how things are."
It was gasoline on the fire. Brian wiped his own eyes and turned around.
"Your dad? What dad? If you had a dad you wouldn't be here."
Happy didn't know how to answer. Once again, he was unsure what the boy meant.
"I'm just here to visit, I guess," Happy tried. "I live with my dad and 700 cats."
Brian didn't understand Happy either. He was tired of trying. It was easier to abuse him and that's what he did. Brian didn't make a sound. He made a beeline to Happy who stood smiling back. Happy had never seen someone rear back their arm to punch him. He made no effort to move.
Brian clamped his teeth together and threw a fist into Happy's cheek. Skin broke upon impact and blood squirt through a narrow stream. Happy's eyes shut involuntarily and his knees buckled. The big, bald boy hit the floor and Brian started to kick him.
"You don't have a dad, Freak! You're just a fuckin' keeper!" Brian yelled.
He gave Happy five kicks in the stomach before he stopped. Brian knew his latitude. Counselors wouldn't come running after one loud outburst. Those happened all the time. They waited until the second to confirm a continuing battle.
Brian walked back to his bunk and sat down, mindlessly grabbing the same magazine as before. It was more difficult for Brian to stop hitting somebody than to start. He sat on his bunk and flipped pages, trying his best to stifle a second outburst.
Happy remained in a lying crouch while the shocks worked their way through his body. Blood dripped to the floor under eye and started a pool. The side of his head heated with swelling. Happy could hear his heartbeat. He began to sit up as soon as the throbbing in his abdomen disappeared.
"Get up, you pussy, before a floor counselor walks by," Brian watched him hawkishly. The kids couldn't close their dorm doors. Happy was risking his probation.
Happy got to his feet. "I'm sorry if I made you mad," he apologized to the brute and walked to his bunk.
"You're damn right you're sorry," Brian barked. "As long as you're in this room, you do what I say. This is my room! You got that, Freak?" He demanded.
Happy only stared and nodded. He sat on his bunk and stretched his legs, wincing at the pain this brought to his stomach.
Brian stood up to finish his demands. "As long as you're in here, I decide what you do. Any time you're not in class or counseling, you'll be where I tell you to be. And you're sitting at my table at lunch so I keep can an eye on you."
The latter demand stemmed from loneliness more than any idea of keeping order. Brian made friends by taking them hostage, a charm learned from more than one abusive foster home.
"And remember," Brian concluded, "If you tell and get me in trouble I'll beat you until you don't remember nothin' anyway." And then in a lower, more sinister volume, "I'll kill you if you tell."
Happy sat reclined on his bunk looking into the eyes of this dangerous animal, ravaged and rabid since birth. The boy didn't know evil enough to recognize it. Happy still thought the hitting was due to something he wasn't understanding. Happy thought the whole event must be his fault. He felt no hatred for his abuser, just caution and concern.
"I don't want to tell anybody anything," Happy said. "I just want to be friends."
Brian stiffened, unaccustomed to such an even answer not powerless and soaked in fear. It almost made Brian believe they could be friends. Such an idea was a foolish indulgence to the broken boy. He assumed it was deception like everything else.
"Fuck you, Freak," Brian answered. "We're not gonna be friends."
Brian returned to his bunk and laid down. He rolled to face the wall away from Happy and would stay there until morning, fully dressed and all. His sleep would be haunted by scarred memories.
Happy dressed for bed and slept without incident. The next day started his new life and routine. Happy would learn to enjoy his classes and fear Brian. He would learn to avoid Brian whenever he could, particularly after counseling sessions. He would sit beside him at lunch, the only two boys at their table, and stay quiet while he threatened and complained. Happy would learn to read emotions, not just from Brian, but from every child and every member of the staff. Happy had never been exposed to so much human interaction and it was time to learn.
Mostly Happy thought about home and how great it would be when he returned. Within a month of brief phone calls with his father, he would understand that he couldn't leave. Mel never said it outright, but he never mentioned coming home. It brought more pain Happy couldn't place. Happy wanted to go home, and wasn't exactly certain why he couldn't.
Happy was a very bright child as Ms. Janice noted to the counseling staff. He absorbed change and adapted quickly, aware of his surroundings. Ms. Janice gave a very positive report of the boy's potential. What wasn't noted and remained unseen was the way Happy noticed open doors and unattended exits. Happy thought it didn't appear so difficult to leave. Maybe it was OK after all.
Happy did what he was told, but he always thought of home. On evenings when he would hear the warning beeps of the garbage truck in reverse, he would think of where the garbage went. He knew it went home. He watched the dumpsters fill the tanks and drive away, a free ride to the yard he held so dear. But he would do what he was told. He thought Mel would want it that way. So he would stay until the old man told him different.
LIW&B Note - Chapter switch
Upon further consideration of this story, the previous chapter will be chapter 12. The chapter about to be written will be chapter 11. Once the story is completed (either chapter 14 or 15), it will make a lot more sense in this order.
So today will be Chapter 11, no deja vu.
So today will be Chapter 11, no deja vu.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, November 20, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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