Episode 21
When the East Wind driver comes for me, I’m more than glad to go. My duffel bag is still at Ernie’s along with my shoes and camera, so besides the tee shirt, briefs, and knee shorts I had on the night of the wreck, handed to me in a plastic hospital bag, all I leave with are the two-day-old charity items I’m wearing, courtesy of the foster family whose name I’ve already forgotten.
The driver’s a middle-aged man I’ve never seen and we say absolutely nothing for the 200 miles to the school. I make a note to myself to ask for a map and push pin the places I’ve been, if I can find them. During the trip, my mind races in circles, with pit stops in between.
Did John’s hearing go as planned? Has Ernie’s dad built a case against Jordan, enough to bring him to trial and put him away for killing Margie? Hoodoo’s leg must be healing faster than my collarbone. Where is Ernie’s mom now? Fran’s probably already in some rehab place for wayward girls. Mostly I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to say a few last words to Ernie. Tommy. Tommy Gordon, son of Thomas Gordon, Atty.
I toy with the idea of legally changing my name to Scott Vincent. I never liked ‘Vinnie’ and am more uncomfortable with it than ever. Mouse suited me better.
We arrive just before supper time and nothing seems different, except the trees are in full leaf and the grass has been cut. The driver sets me off at my dorm. On the way in, I toss the hospital bag into a trash can. O’Leary meets me in the lobby. Waiting for me, like a spider. “Vincent, I trust this escapade has made a proper impression on you. You’ll find Mister Gregory more vigilant than your former dorm master, so henceforth I want only good reports. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, suspicious at the emptiness of the lobby and the corridor beyond. The poison he injected fails to paralyze me.
Passing the dorm master’s office, I see new Gregory working at old Collie’s desk. He’s a younger version of O’Leary. Doors on my hall are open, but everyone’s either at supper or in town for some recreation. The third week in June is deceptively daylight, so I could be off about the time.
My room seems stifflingly small. A few of Steve’s things are on my side, but he’s not here. What will everyone think when I appear in the mess hall? Have they been warned about my injuries? Will I be an outcast, or a secret hero? I really don’t care. I lie down on my cot and try to relax. Impossible with the sling on my arm, so I take that off, but a lack of medication is starting to catch up with me.
Footsteps in the hallway. I sit up. From the quick shift in Steve’s face, he’s been briefed. A bit of a shock when he sees the deep bruises on mine, the sling on the floor beside my bed, the plastic shield on my right hand to protect the broken finger. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
He flops down in the only comfortable chair, placed between our sides of the room and meant to be shared. “You didn’t tell.”
“Did you think I would?”
“Hoped you wouldn’t. Jerry’s in D-hall right now for throwing old Collie’s teeth in the john, but he’ll be out tonight. Collie’s gone. On sabbatical, they told us.”
“So how long has the new guy been in charge?”
“Long enough to lay down the law.”
I’ve been AWOL for only 13 days, so he must be quick on the trigger. “Where is everybody?”
“Doing laps. He says we’re out of shape. But all it does is give me an appetite.” Steve leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Is it true? What we heard on tv?”
“What did you hear?”
“That you were in a wreck that totaled an antique car that belonged to a murderer. And it was his wife we saw dragged out of the old well last week.”
“Who the hell put that on the news?”
Steve looks startled at my language and sharp tone. “Some reporter named Bob Something. Said he’d been following the case for days.”
“Yeah, I guess he was. But his story’s crap.”
We stare at each other, him waiting for me to set things straight, me challenging him to ask another stupid question.
He gives up first, and comes over to high-five me. “Good to have you back, Mouse.”
I return the gesture, but then he eyes me and adds, “I guess it’s you.”
If it’s not, it soon will be. Jerry comes in, does a little victory dance that reminds me of Hoodoo, and yells, “Vinnie, my man! How’s the collarbone?”
“Hurts,” I tell him.
He offers me a half dozen pink and blue pills bound up in plastic wrap. I’m glad when the dinner buzzer sounds and everybody rushes out, since that keeps him from asking what I did with his money.
The Jell-O is red and rubbery. Jerry flings his at Eric. It bounces off Eric’s head into the aisle, and Gregory hauls Jerry out of his chair by the ear and orders him to stand in the corner. Shoves Jerry’s plate in his hand, and I think, Oboy! a huge fight is coming. I get ready to duck and cover.
They stand toe to toe for what feels like a minute but can’t be more than half, before Jerry mutters “Sorry” and carries his plate to a table near the kitchen doorway. Standing because there’s no chair, he finishes his meal. We finish, too, cowed. I was wrong. Things HAVE changed.
When Steve and I are in our room, he explains how Gregory got the upper hand so completely. “Oh they had it out the first day. Gregory beat the snot out of him.”
“Bet that one’s off the books.”
“O’Leary doesn’t know. He’s in his own little world, delirious to have Jerry under control and you safe and almost sound.”
After their first curiosity over the sling, deep bruises, and the patch on my head, the guys on our hall forget about me. I pick up my half-finished library book and block out the noisy board games and horseplay happening in other rooms, and Steve playing his clarinet.
Past curfew, I sneak to the pay phone. If there’s news I want to hear it straight. The only listing in the directory is under Thomas Gordon, but I dial it anyway, hoping a maid will take the call and put Ernie on the line. An answering machine in his dad’s office picks up, so I don’t leave a message.
Normally I would never trust any pill Jerry could get his hands on, but if these few hours at East Wind are a sample of what’s to come, I’m going to need something to dull my senses. The hospital doctor predicted that concussion cotton disappears in a week or two, and the collarbone should knit without complication in six weeks. The pinky should heal faster.
Passing a fountain, I take one of the pills. This time, I’m careful not to let the water wash it out of my mouth and down the drain.
I miss Ernie. John. Sailing down unfamiliar highways in a Caddy.
Steve’s clock dial glows in the darkness. After two a.m. He’s snoring and I can’t sleep. The pill has eased my pain and I don’t notice the cotton so much when I’m not talking. Thank God it’s summertime and there’s no homework due tomorrow.
* * * *
After breakfast, when I’ve been here more than a week and am dying of boredom, Gregory singles me out. “Vinnie, the counselor is ready to see you in his office. Nine, sharp. Don’t be late.”
Mister Jarvis has been at East Wind forever. I remember being counseled by him each time I was returned from a foster home. He’s a nice old codger but he makes me nervous just the same. Today I notice his hair’s really gray. Wrinkles. Brown spots on his hands. Getting stooped, too.
He motions me to the interrogation chair sized for Middles, and freshens a pencil on an old-fashioned sharpener bolted to the window frame. I know it’s only for show, because he records sessions in pen.
“Well, Vinnie.” He sits down, opens a folder. He always starts this way, with a long pause afterward. Then, “Do you want to tell me anything?”
“Not really.”
“You’re settling in okay?”
“Sure.” It’s not like I’ve been gone for months, like when I was being farmed out for a taste of family life.
“Well. I have some things to tell you.”
I sit up straighter. New rules? News of John? Someone wants to adopt me at this late date? That’s a laugh. But my palms sweat while I’m waiting for him to find words.
He clears his throat. Applies so much pressure to the pencil he’s still fiddling with that it breaks in half. He throws the pieces into his trash can. “I’m retiring at the end of the month.”
This doesn’t seem to require my input, so I just nod.
“I remember when you came to us. If I’d been married, I would have adopted you myself. You’ve been an exemplary student.”
‘Until now,’ I hear his thought continue.
“And if I were married, I’d still give it some thought.”
I’m thankful he’s never married. I can’t imagine living with him. Into a long silence, one question pushes at my lips and finally escapes. “If I was so adoptable, why didn’t anyone else want me?”
He gives me a sad look, and I just know he’s never going to answer that.
But he does.
“Your birth mother wanted to keep you safe here. We sent you to homes only to comply with state regulations.”
I croak, “You know her. Who she is. Where she is.”
He gives me that look again. “Yes.”
I can’t say anything. Can’t think.
“You’ll be free to find her, when you’re of age.”
I knew that already. Five years more?
“She has never forgotten you, nor given up her intention of revealing herself when she can.”
“Why can’t she?”
“It’s complicated.”
The old fart thinks he’s being kind, but I’m filled with rage. Maybe he’s only soothing his conscience for keeping quiet. He doesn’t mention my father, and that’s a bad sign. I stand up. My fists clench and it takes all my strength to keep from hitting him. “Happy retirement.” I walk out.
Complicated. What does that mean? She’s married again? Ill and unable to take care of a kid who’s almost a teenager? Too poor to send me to a good school, so I’m a ward of the state most of my life?
I wish I’d never known freedom and adventure. Wish I’d stayed here and spent the summer in the pool or on the basketball court, whenever I wasn’t in the library. Maybe without all the uproar and drama, Jarvis would have simply toddled off to his new life without feeling the need to ruin mine.
I’m in the bathroom between our room and the next, about to swallow the rest of Jerry’s pills, when someone in the hall yells, “Vinnie! Telephone!”
When I reach the lobby, a tv newscaster is interviewing John on the steps of a court house with a tall man who must be Atty Gordon. Grabbing up the dangling phone, I shout, “Hello?”
“Vinnie, I got your message.”
“You couldn’t have. I didn’t leave one.” Ernie’s voice is as much a relief as seeing John in an ankle brace instead of chains.
“We have caller ID. I would have gotten back to you sooner, but I was out of town gathering evidence. Is everything okay?”
“Better than okay. Are you watching tv? I just saw John and I guess it’s your dad, leaving a court house with big smiles. Does this mean he’s been cleared?”
“Pretty much. Jordan’s in jail, and Dad has a copy of his signed confession.”
“Wow! That was quick.”
“His secretary and I did all the paperwork. The rest was just fanfare.”
There’s a silence, everything else I wanted to say has flown out of my head. Our connection is so clear he sounds like he’s in the next room. Wish he was.
“Vinnie, I have a surprise for you. It ought to be there next week. In time for July Fourth.”
“What is it?”
“It’ll be nice.”
“What color is it? Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
“All colors, and I won’t answer the last question. You’ll just have to see it.”
“How’s your mom?”
“Oh, she’s calmed down. Never better.”
I want to ask more but he signs off with, “Behave and stay out of D-hall.”
All colors, hmm. Must be prints of the pictures we took. He’s had the film developed and is mailing the photos to me. Maybe my camera, too.
“Damn! Wish I’d told him to send me my running shoes.” Then I remember it’s Ernie and he probably thought of that himself.
Glad I didn’t take those pills, I go to my room whistling the last tune Steve played on his clarinet. Ernie hasn’t abandoned me. Whatever the surprise is, it will be here for our East Wind Fourth of July celebration.
* * * * *
During a baseball game which our dorm Middles are losing, Jerry sidles up to me on the bleachers and says, “Okay, Mouse, where’s the money?”
TO BE CONTINUED!