The Newman Resident (14 page)

“If you camped here,” Grandma added.

“Now I remember. Who wanted to camp in their own yard?”

“That’s why we built the house on four acres,” Grandpa told Christopher, “so the boys could be in the woods without having to leave home. Anyway, your daddy and Andy packed everything up, wouldn’t even let me help, and took their long hike a few yards back into our woods. And how long do you think your brave daddy roughed it with his friend?”

“I don’t know. Did he last for a week?”

“More like one night! Those boys were jumping at the chance to get warm and have Grandma’s cooking for breakfast.”

“That’s when we took this picture of our own Lewis and Clark,” Grandma said.

“Well, it was cold,” Richard said. “And when we woke up we realized all we’d packed for breakfast was a can of pork and beans.”

“And no can opener!” Grandpa said.

“Who’s that?” Christopher asked, pointing at a different photo. It was a picture of Richard’s brother, about sixteen years old, sitting on the railing of the deck, the woods behind him. His jeans had several holes, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. There was no smile on his face, and it looked like he was working hard to make sure one didn’t show up. “Is that you when you were a boy, Richard?”

Richard looked closely at the photo, then looked away. “We need to get you to bed,” he said.

“That’s a good question, Christopher,” Grandma said. “That’s your daddy’s brother, David.”

Richard sighed.

“Richard has a brother?” Christopher asked.

“He never told you about his brother?” Grandpa asked. Christopher shook his head no. Grandpa looked over to Grandma. “You need to meet your uncle, little buddy.”

“Now, I’m not—” Richard started.

“It’s almost tomorrow, Grandpa,” she said, then smiled. “You’ve got a grandson to spend tomorrow with.”

“You’re absolutely, positively, correctalamente, my dear. Come on, buddy, help me carry this bag to your room. We got it all ready especially for you.”

Christopher helped Grandpa carry the bag down the hall. As they got close to a room, Grandpa told Christopher that it would be his, and he and his grandmother went in first. Grandpa waited for Richard to come.

“Richard, I want you and our grandson to have a wonderful time here,” his father said quietly as he followed Richard into the room.

In the bedroom was an oak student desk and chair, a bookcase full of books, a baseball and mitt on top of a tall oak dresser with
a bat in the nearby corner, and even a couple of new Batman and Spiderman posters. And what a bed! It was piled high with pillows and covered with a thick, plush, inviting red and brown comforter. Such a bed would make getting up in the morning, especially a cold morning, very difficult.

“This used to be your daddy’s room,” Grandma said. “We thought you’d like to sleep in it.”

“It’s changed,” Richard said, still staring around at the walls. “Not a lot, but some.”

“Of course,” Grandpa said. “This is a bedroom, son, not a museum.” He knelt next to his grandson. “So what do you think?”

“This is very nice and spacious. You’re very kind.”

“Now boy, quit talking like you’re a text book. You’re home—act like it!”

“Don’t listen to that old owl, honey,” Grandma interjected. “You can talk any way you want. So long as you call me ‘Grandma’ all the time.”

“Life’s too short to talk like you’re being interviewed for a job, for Pete’s sake,” Grandpa said. He turned Christopher around so they were looking eye to eye. “That’s right, little buddy, you talk anyway you want. Not the way they told you to talk.”

There was an uneasiness, but just for a few seconds, then the boy smiled. “I can talk any way I want?”

“Take it from me, an old English professor. You be yourself. With which a preposition you may even end a sentence.”

“Then, may I ask you a question?”

“Sure little buddy, shoot.”

“Those big pictures of those two men—”

“Yeah, we got those posters just for you.”

“Are they friends of yours?”

“Batman and Spidey?” Grandpa said. “You bet they are! We go way back. In fact—”

“Not tonight, Grandpa,” Grandma said. “This boy needs to go to bed. You’ll have to forgive him, Christopher. Grandpa’s so excited to have someone in the house his own age, he can barely stand it. Your daddy will be in the room right across the hall. You won’t get scared by yourself, will you, sweetie?”

“No, I will be just fine.”

“What?” Grandpa said, trying to look stern.

“I’ll be okay,” Christopher said. He looked up at his grandpa and smiled.

“And if you get scared,” Grandpa said to Richard, pointing at him and talking in a little old lady’s voice, “you just crawl in bed with my little buddy here. He’ll protect you. Okay, sweetie?”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

I
t took three tries, but Richard finally got Hunter on the phone. “Look, can’t you take a hint?” Hunter said. “I’m not picking up. It’s late. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“It’s not that late,” Richard said. It was that late, but he didn’t want anyone in the house to know he was making a call so he’d waited. He stood by the window in the bedroom with the lights off, looking at the forest behind his parents house. “This is important.”

“I’m getting tired of these phone calls, Richard. You got your sabbatical. What do you want now?”

“Neuroplasticity.”

Hunter paused. “There’s an article about that on our site. You should—”

“I have. But tell me more.”

“Well, it’s like I told you at the lab. The brain is a living organ. It changes when we learn and—”

“What is Newman doing with neuroplasticity?”

“That’s in the article. He’s developed exercises that enhance the residents’ ability to learn and develop their brains. Their minds. People used to say teaching was an art. Believe me, it’s science, all the way.”

“You’re so careful to not tell me anything that’s not in the article.”

“Richard, what do you want? If you want to learn more about it, you’ve got a computer.”

“That’s just it, Hunter. I can find plenty about neuroplasticity. What I can’t find is anything about Newman’s agenda.”

“I told you, we have mental exercises—”

“There’s got to be more to it.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s it. I’ve got to get going. We’re not all on vacation, you know.”

“Like, is Newman doing anything that would require an incision of some sort?”

There was a long pause.

“Hunter?”

“Is that what this is all about? Sorry we didn’t tell you, Richard, but Christopher had a little fall at the playground a while ago. Nothing serious. The nurse took care of it in no time.”

“Why hide it?”

“We weren’t hiding it. It just seemed so insignificant we didn’t even think about telling you. Those kinds of scrapes and bruises happen all the time.”

“What about his left hand? The twitching?”

“Maybe you should bring him home so we can take a look at him. Sounds like he’s having problems with you he didn’t have with us.”

Richard hung up.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

T
he morning sunlight felt warm and comfortable as Richard walked into the kitchen. He’d set his alarm for five so he could write, but he didn’t even remember shutting it off. He leaned against the doorway and watched his mother stacking dishes at the breakfast table, her back to him. The sunlight...the waffle iron on the counter...a couple of the oak cabinet doors left open just a little...and his mother in her own world, humming.

His mother turned to take the dishes to the sink and saw him. She smiled right away.

“You’re up! I’m so glad you slept in. You needed to get more of that New York air out of you so you can breathe better up here.” She put the dishes near the sink and gave Richard a hug.

“Am I going to get a hug every time I come into a room around here?” Richard asked.

“No, this is the last hug I’m going to give you. I just won’t let go.”

They both smiled, then started loading the dishwasher together.

“As soon as I’m finished here,” she said, “I want to fix you a big Vermont breakfast. What would you like?”

“I’m the one who slept in. I’ll fix me something later.”

“Nonsense.”

“And don’t worry about Christopher—he never eats much for breakfast.”

“Oh, that must be the city, son. He already ate with Grandpa and me.”

“He actually ate something?”

“Not something—everything. Two eggs, toast, waffles, bacon—the whole works. Your father was glad it wasn’t his turn to cook.”

“He never eats like that at home. Not even that big of a dinner.”

“City living will do that to you.”

His mother pressed the buttons on the dishwasher while Richard walked over to the table.

“Where is he, anyway?” Richard asked.

“Can’t you hear them laughing? They’re having a great time in the back.”

Richard walked to the French doors leading to the deck in the back. He reached for the knob, but when he heard shouting and laughing, he pulled back and parted the curtain. About thirty yards from the back of the house was the old stump and ax he remembered from when he was a boy. Wood was stacked near the stump, only three or four split pieces on the other side. Richard heard more laughter and finally spotted Grandpa and Christopher farther back, near the edge of the trees. Grandpa was chasing Christopher, and neither of them could run very well because they were laughing too hard. Finally, Grandpa caught up with the boy and tackled him. Christopher laughed and kicked his legs, trying to get free.

Richard watched, like he’d just walked into a theatre in the middle of a fascinating scene. He tried to figure out what he’d missed, feeling deep within himself that he was a spectator, that
he was watching something far away, separate from himself, something he was no more a part of than he would be of that movie.

He moved away from the door, numb.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Oh, nothing.”

His mother looked out the window over the sink and laughed. “They’re not getting any more wood chopped than you and your father ever used to. Go out there and give them some help.”

“No, I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“Richard, go out there and have some fun with them.”

“I really don’t walk enough, Mom. City living will do that to you.”

“Can’t I at least get you something to eat?”

“I’m really not that hungry.” As he passed through the kitchen he noticed the Jeep keys hanging on a hook near the doorway. “Do you mind if I borrow the Cherokee? It’d be nice to go for a drive.”

“Don’t get enough driving in the city?”

Richard stopped and looked at his mother. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re giving me that look of yours.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re shaking your head in disappointment without moving it an inch. How do you do that, is it with your eyes?”

“It’s more in the forehead,” she said as she turned back to the sink.

Richard looked back at the window to the backyard.

“What’s his secret, Mom? What’s yours? You’re both so comfortable, so easygoing with Christopher.”

She turned from the sink and studied her son for a moment as though she were weighing her words, trying to make certain they
were something of substance, but not too heavy. Then she smiled. “We’re not perfect, you know that. But it’s nice to hear, anyway. It’s good to have you home, son.”

She started to turn back around, but his voice stopped her. “Mom, what’s the secret?”

“There’s no secret, honey, you just have to be sure you’re on the same side of the door as your children.”

He looked at the keys, looked at the window over the sink, heard the laughter. “Sounds easy, but sometimes the door has been slammed and locked. And not necessarily by you or your kid.” He turned to leave.

“That’s when you climb in through the window,” she said just before he left the kitchen.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

R
ichard enjoyed the feel of driving the Jeep, like he was being set free. There were a few houses along this road, but they were far apart. That didn’t stop the neighbors from being neighborly, it just stopped them from tripping over each other. And that made for long friendships. He was getting near the Bedfords’ home, where his best friend Andy had grown up.

As he rounded the curve, he saw the house and stopped. He had spent so many months on his novel, trying to capture what it meant to be a child, and here he was looking at it. There was the long wooden porch that had been such a large part of his childhood.

Hundreds of times, Richard had ridden his bicycle down the road, rounded the curve, and found Andy sitting on the edge of the porch waiting for him. Richard would ride his bike onto the lawn—despite Andy’s mom trying to look stern when she told him not to—and drop it by the cedar because they were always in such a hurry to do something. Anything. Sometimes they’d crawl under the porch and pretend they were spies or soldiers or whatever they felt at the moment. Sometimes they’d bring games out on the porch—one of their favorites was Risk—and play all afternoon.

He pulled away from the house and headed down the road. It had been a long time, but Richard and the roads knew each other well, and now they were leading him through the hills. He wasn’t thinking of his driving or of the scenery, he was just going. Andy’s house was a mile behind him now, and Richard turned past the last house on the road. There was a “Dead End” sign, but he knew to turn again and let the Jeep’s tires find the ruts of an old path that led up the side of the hill. It was a path his bicycles, then his motorcycle, had taken him up many times, alone.

Richard stopped the Jeep. He climbed out and walked to the round, ancient rock. He sat down, absorbing the scene before him. This wasn’t a Vermont postcard scene. There was no small, white church with towering steeple, no covered bridge or centuries-old mill with a water wheel. He could see no trace of a person in any direction from that hill; even the path ended a hundred yards from the top. All you could see from the hill were trees...sky...dirt. And it certainly wasn’t some sort of hill of mythological proportions, dominating all others like Mount Olympus. He could see from his rock at least two, maybe three other hills that were taller.