Forgive Me, Alex (6 page)

"Dance beneath the dangling limbs that reach to you in whither,

But move with purpose and with quickness, daring not to dither.

Let not him lay his hands upon your spindly arms or legs,

Or it will be for life and breath that you soon come to beg.

On the summer eve, in short and sleeve,

Lay not your head upon a pillow,

Of grass beneath his drooping reach, or bitter lessons he will teach,

Of crossing Old Man Willow."

Old Man Willow
verse, conceived by Tony Hooper for the neighborhood kids

~~~~~

Alex spun and put on his best move. "He drives the lane. No, he fakes and turns outside and goes up with the fifteen-foot jumper, and he...."

"Misses off the front of the rim," I finished. "You know, you may want to keep yourself within that ten- to twelve-foot range. Anything more is too far for you."

"But I've been practicing, Tony. I'm getting better."

"The problem is your strength. You struggle to get the basketball to the hoop from that distance, and you shoot right from the shoulder. Hoopster,
anyone
can block
that
shot."

The little guy's face was almost too much to bear. Only ten, he insisted on acting eighteen.

"Tell you what, Hoopster, why don't we get you started on a weight-lifting program? We need to build your upper body strength, perhaps your legs so you can get more air beneath you."

"No kidding? Dad thinks I'm still too young for that stuff."

"I'll speak to him and make sure he knows we won't get carried away—just some basic stuff. He'll be okay with it."

"Cool!"

We resumed our basketball contest, if you could call it that—the mismatch was severe. Nonetheless, I enjoyed shooting hoops with Alex, and I enjoyed coaching him even more. He handled the ball quite well, having learned to dribble with both hands.

He borrowed one of the shots from my own repertoire as he planted his right foot, spun first left and then right, and put up a fade-away jumper from twelve feet.
Swish!
His priceless ear-to-ear smile made me laugh. I couldn't tell which of us was more proud of his athletic development.

I'd sure miss him when I left for college.

Saturday morning meant no school, but I had to flip burgers and make sundaes at The Dairy Hut for a few hours, from four o'clock to eight o'clock. It didn't pay a heck of a lot but it was conveniently close. I could ride my bike if I wanted, and I made enough to keep my Bonnie on the road with a full gas tank.

With gas breaking forty cents per gallon, that was getting tougher. Dad provided the other necessities—shoes, clothes, food and medicine—but he insisted that if I had a car, I must maintain it myself, unless I was willing to leave it in the garage.

No chance! The Bonnie gave me freedom, the means by which I escaped the grind.

Dad rarely objected, or said much of anything, for that matter. Alex, on the other hand, preferred I pay more attention to
him
. I enjoyed spending time with the Hoopster, but all good things in moderation. I needed to get away and do my own thing occasionally. He could be a load, more work than fun, and the responsibility sometimes irritated me. He was innocent enough—only ten years old. The real source of my irritation, Dad, should have done more with Alex.

Still, when the Hoopster dragged me down, a simple escape offered the easiest way to refresh.

Diana served as my island, my paradise. It hardly mattered where we went or what we did, so long as I was with her. We hooked up with other friends to enjoy movies, restaurants, bowling, arcades, shooting darts or pool—simple activities. Some kids, cleverly turning a
Star Wars
phrase, claimed we'd gone over to the "Dork Side." Fine. We tried to stay away from the drug culture that seemed so prevalent.

My circle of friends—
real
friends—remained a relatively small one. I'd have been lost without Diana.

I left Alex to practice shooting on his own, which he could do for hours without pause, to shower and prepare for work.

***

I could relax and watch the Chicago Cubs game on TV for a couple hours before I had to leave. It sounded as though someone had beaten me to the punch.

"Bill Buckner lines a shot into the gap in right-center," Alex announced from the living room floor. "It rolls to the wall and he cruises into second with a stand-up double."

He enjoyed doing the play-by-play during the game, often with the TV volume off. He cracked me up, but he was getting pretty darn good at it.

The Cubs fell behind early—again. By the end of the third inning, my thoughts already drifted toward more pleasant diversions; Diana and I were going out tonight after I finished work.

She so occupied my mind these days, hard to imagine how I got anything done at all. Her face always grabbed me first, and when she smiled.... I'd get close and her scent would hit me next: perfume, shampoo, soap, breath. She always smelled so damned good. The feel of her skin, the caress of her fingers, and the taste of her mouth came next.

At that point, I must fight off thoughts of leaving for college and focus only on her. We'd draw close, closer, until I could think of nothing else, and I must—

Whoa, I'd better think of something else. Fast! This is no time to ignite the firestorm.

The phone startled me from my daydream. Perfect timing.

Frank Willow offered his best New York mob lingo, a silly attempt at humor, yet somehow hilarious coming from such an unlikely source. "Heyyy, Tony, howzya doowin?"

"Super, Frank, the Hoopster and I were watching the Cub game. Who knew we were such masochists?"

He laughed in his easy-going, Grandpa Everyman way. "Perhaps I can save you from the self-immolation."

Hah! I don't even have to look that one up.
Frank loved to challenge my vocabulary.

"If you can tear yourself away to help an old man, I need some help getting an air conditioner out of my car and into the living room window."

"I have to leave for work in a little over an hour but, if that's enough time, I'd be happy to help you out."

"It won't take long at all, and I'd be most grateful."

I hung up and tried to convince Alex to come along, hinting that Frank probably had some treats for him.

"I want to watch the rest of the game."

"Geez, Hoopster, I don't feel good about leaving you here by yourself."

"Come on! Gimme a break, will ya? Besides, Dad will be home any minute. Good grief!"

It made me uneasy, but Dad
was
due home soon. I instructed Mr. Ten-going-on-Eighteen to stay put until he arrived.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. See ya later, Gator. Tell Old Man Willow I said, 'Boo!'"

It was our little joke regarding all the ridiculous rumors about Frank.

"Mankind is safer when men seek pleasure than when they seek the power and the glory." – Geoffrey Gorer

~~~~~

I'm out at last, sweet freedom seventeen years in the making. I can't believe it took so fuckin' long. I'll never recapture that lost time. Someone owes me for that.

One of my most abiding memories is of the several shrinks I saw.

I occupied the last ten years with endless apologies, acts of contrition and outright acting.
That
was a difficult game, but I had to tell them what they wanted to hear. What I truly felt was irrelevant. No big deal. They all operated from the same playbook, the same set of expectations, the same set of practiced responses and resolutions. The fuckheads made it easy.

They also started from the assumption that I was stupid. Condescending pricks! I was never dumb, just uneducated. In the end, I had seventeen years to do little else but read—hundreds and hundreds of books. It changed me, though I saw little reason to share that fact with the fuckin' shrinks—at least not every detail.

It all started because of a little tumor, a small growth in my neocortex, the outer layer of the brain that houses the intellect and the imagination. Yeah, right. I couldn't help thinking at the time that there must be more to it.

Still can't.

Last night, my first back in the old house, frustrated the shit outta me. I enjoyed my reunion with Mom and Tommy, with some conversation and a couple drinks, but later, when I needed to sleep, anxiety attacked in full force.

My life must begin anew, but where to start? Is it too soon to worry about my future? I've much to consider, and there will be prying eyes, no doubt—those fuckin' protestors at my release! Who are they to judge
me
, to condemn
me
? They know nothing, the simple fuckheads.

For hours, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and, despite my unwillingness, remembered those extraordinary days.

***

May 20, 1978

I cruised around town, searching for the car that had carried my newfound angel.

I yelled to no one, "Jackpot!"

It pulled into a driveway off Cary Road, and I immediately recognized the driver, that fuckin' Tony. I wasn't paying much attention, absentmindedly going through the motions, when it leapt into view. I spun around and parked on a little dirt trek that was barely a road, across and down the street from the house where my archenemy lived.

"What the hell do I do now?"

The Reaper chose a lousy time to go silent.

Several minutes later, as I tried to figure my next move, Tony walked back out and toward his car.

"Shit! Should I follow him? He'll eventually pick up Diana."

It would have to be another time, as the uniform he wore clearly signaled his leaving for work. I recognized it—from The Dairy Hut, a place I visited on occasion. He pulled outta the driveway and turned down the old dirt road directly across the street. It must'a been a back way to work.

I sat and stared at the house. It drew me, stirred me, beckoned me.

"Why is Tony so special to my angel? Maybe there are clues about her inside. I might find her in a different way, unless....
Shit!
What should I do if someone is home? There's no car in the driveway. The garage is open, but it's empty. Still...."

Again, the Reaper didn't answer.

"I've got it!"

In a stroke of ingenuity, not exactly a common occurrence for me, I decided to masquerade as a newspaper delivery boy attempting to scare up subscriptions. It gave me a valid reason to knock on the door, and if nobody was home, I could do my reconnaissance. Most people didn't lock their doors in Sleepy Town.

Just one problem: at twenty-six, I might appear too old to be a newspaper delivery boy.

I struggled with it for quite a while, working through the possibilities, trying to ease my nervousness. Hell, I doubted anyone would question it. It wasn't as if anything bad ever happened in Algonquin.

I couldn't work up my courage. "Damn it! I'm so sick of being a fuckin' coward."

In a neighborhood like ours—almost suburban and almost rural, a hybrid—kids always looked for excitement and rarely found it. They settled on the next best thing, and manufactured some of their own.

A singular row of houses occupied our side of Cary Road, considered a main thoroughfare despite its relative calm. Behind us lay a stretch of mostly open land we called "The Outland." It encompassed several square miles between Cary Road and Highway 31, in the northern part of Algonquin, high above the Fox River valley. Kids had long biked, hiked, built forts and sought adventure in the Outland. A mix of tall grass and trees of every conceivable size made it an alluring playground.

Frank lived near the edge of The Outland, two blocks away and almost directly behind our home. At seventy-one, he'd earned the moniker of "Old Man Willow," the brainchild of some unknown local from years past—no doubt stolen from J.R.R. Tolkien's
The Lord of the Rings
.

Who knew how such idiotic rumors got started, but many believed him responsible for two children who'd disappeared many years ago. Rumor had it that Frank had buried them under his roses—special fertilization for a famous garden. A child's imagination needed an outlet, with little else to do in our sleepy little neighborhood.

I'd once told some of the younger kids that I'd seen tiny fingers, surely belonging to those missing children, protruding from the mud beneath Frank's roses. I'd scared the crap out of them!

Frank had thought it hilarious too, though he regretted his unfortunate reputation. I visited him a couple times a week, not counting my official duties as his lawn mower and driveway shoveler, often with Alex. He always plied us with special treats, the grandfather we'd never had, and loved us as his "adopted grandsons."

He told stories that kept us pinned to the edge of our seats, usually about the war he'd fought in or his many world travels. He'd also taught us a little something about gardening, which we enjoyed more than I would have thought possible. If there were a better gardener anywhere in the world... well, that seemed unlikely.

I'd developed a bond with Frank similar to the one I enjoyed with Alex. I'd gladly have stepped in front of a train in order to push Alex out of the way—without hesitation. I had no doubt Frank felt precisely that way about Alex and me. He showered us with gifts, fed us, and occasionally slipped us a few dollars with instructions not to tell Dad.

No one had ever enjoyed a better grandfather.

I usually rode my bike over the dirt road to his place, a pocked and uneven mess. Since I had to leave for work from there, and since I'd be picking up Diana after work, I had to drive today. I kept it to a crawl to preserve Bonnie's belly.

Grassy fields surrounded his place, with a few oddly spaced trees—huge oaks, elms, maple and birch—to guard his private sanctuary. Developers had tried to seduce him into selling off a bunch of it. No chance! The
last
thing he wanted was a bunch of noisy, nosy neighbors.

I pulled into his driveway, and he already stood behind his car with bungee cords in hand. A box protruded from the open trunk.

He offered his usual greeting. "Hey-howdy, young neighbor, and what a lovely day it is to install one of the twentieth century's most appreciated inventions."

"Hey, I'm glad you decided to
join
the twentieth century. If you don't mind my saying so, it's about time."

"Well, if this summer is the scorcher some are predicting, I want to be comfortable in my own living room. At my age, discomfort comes in many forms. The temperature in my home shouldn't be one of them."

"What about the bedroom, and the kitchen, and the bathroom?"

"The bathroom? Don't you think people might view an air conditioner in my bathroom window as excessive? A little strange?"

"Haven't you heard? It's 1978, the age of disco and lime-green polyester suits. Anything goes."

"Is that how you justify your hair?"

"Hey! What's wrong with my hair?"

"Ah, never mind." He waved his hand in surrender. "By the way, if you ever see me in a lime-green polyester suit, you'll find a shotgun in my bedroom closet. Kindly put me out of my misery."

Our biggest challenge proved to be maneuvering the box through the door. I grimaced as Frank struggled with the weight of it. He was so lively I often forgot his age.

Forty-five minutes later, he had air conditioning, and we had enough time to enjoy a glass of iced tea on his back patio before I must go to work.

I marveled at Frank's... well, it was inappropriate to call it a mere
garden
. More like a damned work of art, an extraordinary feat of engineering. Never mind the flowers; those were the least of it.

Most impressive was the manmade stream, engineered by old Gramps himself, which ran through and around his garden, entirely self-contained within his property, like something from an old Japanese palace. Frank even stocked it with fish during the warm months. The water flowed counter-clockwise at a light pace and twisted around his back yard, a liquid snake devouring its own tail.

Three evenly spaced bridges leapt the water to the center island, each wide enough for a single walker, and each carrying its own theme. One replicated a small nineteenth century covered bridge, complete with flowerpots that hung to the left and right of each end. The second looked like a ship-loading plank from the eighteenth century, with wooden floorboards and wooden posts, between which ran a sturdy rope as hand guide. Third, a bridge of concrete and stone reminiscent of the European Gothic era was guarded by miniature stone lions at one end, and rain-spitting gargoyles at the other.

He should have charged admission.

The stream began where it ended, at a three-foot waterfall that emptied into a small pool. It emerged and traveled its winding loop, guided by pumps hidden in three separate, hollowed-out tree trunks. Along the way, filters aerated the water for the benefit of the fish, which tended to remain close to the pool where Frank fed them. In the event of heavy rains, floodwaters ran off through nearly invisible micro-screen barriers that held back the fish.

The old softy had spent twenty years of his life dedicated to its creation and many improvements. Frank, the consummate grandfather who'd never had children, nonetheless doted over his baby.

I finished my tea. "Well, Gramps, I have to head into work."

"Thank you for your help, my boy, and for the extra visiting time."

"Sure. I'll be around tomorrow to mow the lawn. How does ten o'clock sound?"

"Perfect. I'll see you then."

***

I stopped at home long enough to bolt in and grab a clean shirt. Alex sat in his bedroom and sorted through his baseball card collection, to which I'd added a considerable stash.

"Hey, Hoopster, where's Dad?"

"He called to say he'd be home in a couple hours. He has more work than he thought."

"Are you kidding? Who's coming over to watch you?"

He gave me another one of his looks; I'd insulted him again. I couldn't afford to call in to work, so I considered asking Frank to drop by, but....

Alex
is
mature for his age, and this is Algonquin, not Detroit, for God's sake.
"What will you do for dinner?"

He put a sly edge on his voice. "Dad's bringing home a pizza from Gerra's."

Our favorite meal.

I sighed and played along, laying it on a little thick. "That figures, and I have to work. Just as well, I suppose." I paused for further effect. "Since Diana and I are going out for burgers and a movie after work."

He gave me his
gosh-you're-lucky-to-be-old-enough-to-drive
look—such an old soul for a kid of ten. I did my business and, as I hustled toward the door, offered up my usual farewell.

"See you in a short, Sport."