by Daria
[Disclaimer: All Thunderbirds characters are the property of ITV/Granada Ventures; all rights reserved. This work of fiction is solely for non-profit entertainment. Please do not republish this work without notice to and permission from the author.]
"Come on, boys---let's get a move on! We should have been on the road by now," I beckon my kids to the family van, knowing all the while that it won't make them move a jot any faster. Five of them...all boys. What could I have been thinking...? Lucy and I must have been mad, but then no one could blame us for being a bit more than amorous after our many long months apart every year, with me away building structures on the Moon and my loyal wife alone so far below. No loving couple should be forced apart for so long and so often, so when I got my leave...we made up for lost time. Now you'd think I would have gotten one sweet, charming daughter out of all of that, but no. Instead, I get five boisterous, wild, loud, silly, argumentative, head-strong, wacky... "Boys!"
"We're coming, Dad," calls Scott, at 16 my eldest, as he dutifully helps the younger boys with their sleeping bags. He's always been a good child and the one that I can trust to help me keep things together around here. Much like the next in line, 14 year old Virgil, Scott is dependable, caring and, sadly, forceably mature beyond his years for having to help his widower dad to raise this houseful of little men.
"Blame Alan, Dad," my ginger red-headed terror, Gordon, calls out, kicking a soccer ball as he walks from the house, knapsack on his head, apple in hand, brain full of mischief, not looking where he's going, as usual. "He lost his shoes...again. Virgil found 'em---in two different rooms, of course!"
With a punt, he adds his knapsack to the pile in the second row of the van. "He shoots, he scores---and the crowd goes wild! Yeaaaaaaaaaaaa! That's champion Gordon Tracy, folks! Remember that name---you'll be seeing a lot of it!"
"Yeah---on wanted posters! Shut up, Gordo!" Alan, being right behind him, was a few seconds later on the draw than I'd have expected.
"Don't tell your brother to 'shut up,' Alan," I admonish him, knowing in my heart that it's futile.
"Sorry, Father," he replies in singsong childlike contrition, quickly adding the part I wasn't meant to hear, "I'll get you LATER!"
Five of 'em. *sigh* What on Earth were we thinking, Lucy...? My head hurts.
"Are we all here now?" I ask with a tone of finality, looking around for a head count. "Scott?"
"I'm putting stuff in the trunk, Dad," comes his reassuring voice.
"Virgil?"
"Me too, Dad."
No need to look for the two little ones since they're fighting right in front of me. A hand on either head pushes them far enough apart to break up the swinging arms, not that they've noticed yet. "Gordon, get in and strap on your seatbelt before I reach for MY belt!"
Eventually this gets his attention; his shoulders heave dejectedly as he follows my orders. Taking Alan, our "baby," by the hand, I guide him to the middle row of seats and prepare to strap him in.
"I'm not a baby! I don't want to sit in the back! I wanna sit up front with you, Dad!" he screams, pouting with a frown that could stop an eight-day clock. Well, granted, at the age of 9, I suppose he's really not that small any more. Still, he's safer sitting behind me, no matter how much I know I'll come to regret it.
"Like it or not, you sit back here with Gordon. Now get in and don't let me hear another word of it." With a fierce look which belies his more angelic qualities, Alan scrambles into his seat, sneering at the giggling Gordon next to him.
"You make me SICK," he shouts, folding his arms in a snit.
"Hey, Dad," Gordon calls out, "We'll have to take Alan to the hospital first; he's too sick to go to Grandma's house!"
"I am NOT!" cries Alan, but one "don't let me come back there" look from me puts an end to it all, for the time being anyway. Now where was I...?
Wait a minute...one, two here...three and four are back there...
"John?"
Silence. Why am I not surprised? That kid is just the opposite of the two younger ones: TOO quiet, if a kid can actually be such. I can be in the house with John all day and not hear a peep from him, as long as he hasn't been lured into some mischief with his brothers. He usually wouldn't think to start trouble, but he can be a great joiner-inner, especially when razzed about letting the side down by the other four. Somehow, as unnerving as my often dour middle son can be, I'm largely tempted not to try to alter his behavior. A little peace and quiet is hard to find when you're a single father.
"John! Get out here---we're late leaving for your Grandma's as it is! Where is that boy?"
Scott closes the trunk and walks over to assist with Alan, stopping to look around. "John's checking the faucets and house alarm and stuff...I think. Oh...here he comes."
Slowly but surely, the fair-haired John is the last to leave the house, noisily dragging his sleeping bag and backpack along the ground behind him, his baggy sweater---a hand-me-down from Scott---hanging off of one shoulder, his shoelaces untied, head buried in a comic book, ears muffled by his disc player's headphones. Heaven knows I've tried to encourage this boy to be more neat, but, in these rebellious, existentialist-driven preteen days of his, he refuses to shop for clothing, determined that it doesn't matter what he looks like. Trying to get him to go for a haircut is equivalent to the act of dragging the condemned into the death chamber kicking and screaming, and for all the good of it he may as well have just stuck his finger in a light socket, considering the bushy mess his hair becomes almost immediately after it's been styled. Inevitably, the order "John, get a hair cut," returns as a muttered, "It'll only grow back, Father...and someday it'll all fall out and it won't have mattered that I ever cut it."
Noting that as being conceivable, I've reminded him that neither Camus nor Sartre would argue against me being able to actually see my son's eyes once in a while. Dutifully, I've indulged his curiosity, cognitive thought processes and imagination, engaging in spirited discussions as to whether not being able to see his eyes negated him actually having them, and, much like the "tree falling in the forest" scenario, we argued ourselves into a circle which didn't end until bedtime. Out of concern for his social development, I've since appealed to his older brothers to speak to John about taking pride in his appearance and to encourage him to pay attention to what he's doing and what's going on around him, but, alas, he's spending his "wonder years" with a book in hand, a furrowed brow and his head in the clouds.
"Nice of you to join us today, John," I needle him, not really expecting a reply; I know this boy too well for that. He stops chewing gum long enough to blow a medium-sized bubble, then pops it for effect, allowing it to function as his response. "No gum in the car; you know better. Go toss it out---and hurry up! It's time to get going---we've a long drive ahead of us!"
With the speed of a snail and without missing a beat of his superhero saga, he's off to the trash cans on the side of the house, dutifully tossing out the gum. "Hurry up, John!" I call, pleased with myself that I've once again managed to assemble the fruit of my loins without too much of a fight. Glumly, John surveys the available places to sit in the van through squinted eyes, soon resigning himself to a fate worse than life without comic books: having to sit up front with dear old dad. With a heavy sigh, he drops his shoulders and his gear, his bags landing on the floor in a heap, his feet landing on top of them once he's plopped his just-a-bit-too-lean body in the seat. "Put those in the back," I begin to order him, but I think better of it. If I make "ol' speedy" do that, I'll be in the driveway for another hour!
"I've got 'em, Dad," the intrepid Scott intercepts as he takes John's things to the back.
"Thanks, son," I reply with a relieved smile. "Is that everything now?"
The boys look around at me, then the van, then at me again, while at the same time, I check them as well. Seatbelts fastened, clean faces...mostly, clean hands...I think. Could do something about John's messy hair, but you have to pick your battles in my position, and it's just not that kind of morning. Besides, I don't think his grandmother would recognize him if he didn't look like an unkempt Newfoundland hound. One, two, three, four...wait a darn minute! Another one is missing! A quick "Virgil!" in the direction of the neighbor's lawn to alert the heartsick young Abigail that it's time to let go of "Virgie's" hand, and, once my talented, handsome and popular boy bounds across the box hedges and into the van, that about wraps it up.
"All right, boys---we're off!"
"Wait..." I hear a little voice behind me just as I turn the key in the ignition.
"Alan? What's wrong?" I check on him, wincing as I fight against my seatbelt restraint.
"I've gotta GO."
Thankfully, Scott speaks up just as I'm about to lose it all. "S'ok, Dad---I'll take him!"
"Thanks, Scott---anyone else? It's now or never!" Gordon and Virgil shake their heads while John hasn't heard a word out of anyone since he arrived on the scene. A sudden thought comes to mind and I shout after Scott, "And don't forget about the..."
Too late. The alarm bell rings loudly, alerting anyone within ear-shot that the Tracys are about to leave on vacation. "Sorry, Dad!" Scott calls out, "Alan forgot!" His announcement is quickly followed by Alan's response, "Tattle-tale!" Sigh. Minutes later, Alan's buckled in again, the security company has been apologized to and the alarm reset. We are on our way. Finally.
As much as I love this annual week-long visit with my mother for Thanksgiving, I dread this drive equally. The I-5 is no joy at any time of year, but the holiday week traffic is a nightmare to behold, especially once entering Los Angeles County. Fortunately, between Vandenberg Air Force base where I'm currently at work completing a military construction project and the desert oasis of Palm Grove out in the dunes beyond the Parola Sands Raceway lie the lush, green farmland communities of the inland valleys...and miles and miles of oldies radio. Punctuating my peaceful musings and the humming of a tune or two, I am treated to the normal sort of banter that a parent of young children is apt to hear...the sort of blathering which often makes one wonder why chloroform is not readily available in vending machines:
"Are we there yet?"
"No, Alan; we still have a ways to go. Color in your book."
"I can't. Gordon took my blue crayon."
"There are 52 crayons in the box; pick another."
"Don't blame me if the sky is red!"
Sigh.
"Dad! John looked at me funny!"
Peripheral vision notwithstanding, I didn't really notice anything more than a narrow side glance in Gordon's general direction. "John didn't do anything to you, Gordon."
Not content, he balks at my even-handed approach. "Yes he did, Dad---you just weren't looking at him!"
Fine. "If you weren't looking at him, you'd never notice whether or not he's looking at you. He's reading a book; why don't you do the same."
"He did it again!"
Traffic is beginning to slow, just as my temper begins to rise. "Don't make me come back there, Gordon!"
Alan, not content to allow Gordon to be the only one bucking for a spanking, adds, "Can you REALLY drive and be in the back seat, Father?" One look in the rear-view mirror is all it takes for my youngest son to get the message that I'm a man with little patience left to try.
And then, from the back row, I can hear Virgil's voice rise in protest. "Hey! That's not fair! Give over!"
"You don't get your money back, Virg. That's not how Three Card Monte works. Double or nothing?"
"Hmm...ok...let me try this again...!
Before I have a chance to insert myself into that illicit game of chance, I'm stilled by yet another protest from Alan.
"Quit it, Gordon!"
"YOU quit it!"
"I mean it, Gordon!"
"I mean it! I mean it! Big crybaby!"
"I know you are, but what am I? But what am I? But what am I?"
Before I have a chance to quell this latest exchange, John, so far the silent member of the squad, jumps into the fray. "Father, can't you do something about these ghastly children? I'm trying to read!"
Having foolishly handed his younger brother a straight line he could hardly resist, John cringes at Gordon's return, "How's my shutting up going to teach you to read?"
Chiming in, Alan adds, "You read with your eyes, not with your ears! Haaaaaa!"
Having just about had it, I decide that it's time to try to get some cooperation from the elder child in this melee. "Try to show you're more grown up than they are, John. Settle them down."
Blankly, my third son casually blinks at me. "I forgot to bring the ether...but I've got my Swiss Army knife and I know how to use it."
Gordon hisses at him, swinging a baby-fat fist in his direction. "I'd like to see you try it!"
Ok, so much for appealing for diplomacy. "Boys! That's enough! I want it quiet! You're missing a lot of beautiful scenery. Just be quiet and enjoy the view. Or ELSE!"
"Do the Swiss even have an army, Father?" Virgil asks aloud, more rhetorically than anything.
Before I can hazard a guess at that question, Scott jumps in to assure his brother, stating very matter-of-factly, "Sure they do---they're those guys in those stupid mix-matched comic opera costumes who protect the Pope."
Virgil frowns at him, dismissing him with a wave. "No, those are the Swiss Guard, Scott. They started out as Renaissance varlets and mercenaries. And Michelangelo designed those uniforms; they are NOT stupid. You obviously have no appreciation for high art!"
Staring at his young brother, Scott seems rather surprised at Virgil's response. "So...what does a Renaissance varlet do: tag castle walls with 'di Medici was here?' or 'Raphael rules; Michelangelo drools?'" Thinking himself rather clever, my eldest son laughs out loud, entertaining himself more than anyone else.
I must say that I'm rather please at the subject matter they've chosen to argue about. At least I know that they're paying attention in their history classes. But Virgil isn't having it. "You're thinking of a vandal, not a varlet; two totally different things. Totally. So...shut up and deal already!"
Despite the humor of the elder boys going completely over their heads, Alan and Gordon can't resist getting involved now. "Ooooo, Scott," Gordon chides him at Alan's urging, "Virgil told you to shut up! You're not going to take that off him, are ya?"
"Errrr....Gordon?" I interject, "Have you forgotten what I've already told you several times today?" A pair of deer-in-the-headlights hazel eyes in the mirror and a hushed "No, Dad," is all I need to see that he only needed the slightest reminder to put him in check this time, but, as always, he's pushing his luck and my patience to the limit.
Finally quiet for a few happy, restful moments, I get back to enjoying the view, once again blissfully listening to the music as the scenery passes by. It doesn't last long. Funny how peaceful moments never do. Before I have a chance to realize how nice it's been, there's Alan's voice again.
"Faaaather! Gordon's looking out of my window!"
REST AREA: 1/4 MILE. So help me, they may not make it that far.
A little mist on the highway and people drive ten times worse than they normally do, especially on a steep downgrade such as this as we enter the Santa Clarita Valley. Of course, it's not saying much to describe driving in this state as being pretty bad, as driving habits seem to be worsening every day no matter where you go. I check my rear view mirror to evaluate what the boys are up to and then the outside mirrors to check on what looks like a speeder flashing his lights behind me. I'm usually not impressed nor intimidated by this kind of behavior, but with my precious cargo aboard I'm not risking the lives of my Wild Bunch out of any possessive assertion that the lane is mine just because I'm in it. Through the California Dew on the mirror, I check for cars in the next lane and carefully move over when clear, just as the car behind me overtakes and passes me.
I can't help it---I gaze over to give a look of displeasure to that reckless speeder, certain that my children and I could have been injured if I weren't such an attentive driver. To my astonishment, instead of the young hot-rodder I expect to see, there's instead a middle aged woman at the wheel. She looks to be in a panic---screaming, in fact---and I can see through the moist window that her hands are gripped tightly around the steering wheel. I notice that she's looking at the floor, then the wheel, then the window and back and forth. As she passes us, I can also see the terrified faces of the children in the second seat, too afraid to move or cry out. She wasn't trying to cut me off---her brakes are gone and the car is free-wheeling down the Interstate at breakneck speed!
Having been an Air Force pilot, an astronaut, a business man and the father of five rambunctious boys, I've had to be a man who thinks on his feet---quick and decisive, clever and inventive. I have to have my wits about me even in my sleep. There's only one thing I can do in a case like this: act, and act quickly.
"John!" I yell as I yank off his earphones with a downward sweep of my hand. Grabbing my cel phone from its belt holster, I toss it to my now startled flaxen-haired son. "Call 9-1-1! Advise them there's a runaway station wagon going south on the I-5 just above the Pyramid Lake camping exit! License plate XL5J090! Hurry!"
While John jumps to attention, I look into the rear view mirror at my other sons, all of them staring out of the windows toward the runaway car. "Boys, make sure you're buckled in tight! I'm going to try to slow down that car!"
Their worried faces turn to expressions of shock as all eyes are now fixed on me. "Father---do you think it will work?" Virgil asks, his face ashen with concern.
"It has to work, son; it just has to," is all I can offer him as a form of reassurance. In the mirror, I can see Scott shake his head in the affirmative.
"If anyone can do it, Dad can." With that vote of confidence, we're off on the chase.
Seeing a chance to jump lanes to the right to position myself in front of the fast-moving car, I take it by accelerating with a jab at the pedal causing a burst of fuel to punch on all cylinders. Waving to the panicked woman, I speed up just enough to stay a bit ahead of her so that I can slow down without jostling either set of passengers too badly. It's a dangerous maneuver, especially with the speed at which we are traveling on the downhill grade, but as I take my foot off of the pedal I can tell that this should work, provided the driver of the other car understands what it is that I'm trying to do. After a few moments, I can see her wagon getting closer and closer; seconds later, our van is jarred by the violent bump of her front end against the large rubber cushion on the back of our conveyance. I gradually apply the brakes to slow both vehicles to a safer speed, again reminding the boys to brace themselves. The boys in the back are all turned around, transfixed by the towing motion of the one car against the other and the frightened look on the other driver's face. The back of the van and the front of the wagon eventually knock against each other several times like a couple of high-priced bumper cars, though with eons more riding on our accuracy than the price of a carnival admission ticket.
John---the only one of my boys who doesn't outwardly seem phased by the proceedings---calmly calls in the report to the Highway Patrol. Being that this neck of the woods is usually patrolled heavily for downhill grade speeders, I'm expecting to see a patrol car any minute, John's call to them notwithstanding. All I need is a ticket for trying this reckless act in a car loaded with kids and speeding at the same time. Fortunately, before I see an officer, I look far enough ahead to lay eyes on the runaway truck lane. Turning slightly to get the attention of the lady in the car behind us, I hand-signal to her to start pulling to the right, pointing to the sign for the emergency lane. Checking in the rear view mirror, I nod as she waves an acknowledgement; she also seems to have calmed down considerably.
Within a few moments I'm able to lead the now slowed car off of the highway and onto the dirt runaway lane. Thankfully, there aren't any 16-wheelers in our path or our number would be up. I'm not having an easy time of it trying to slow both cars on the uneven, unpaved lane; my biggest fear is that we'll run out of lane before too long and have nowhere left to go but into the emergency lane of the freeway. Luckily, the uphill climb at the far end of the trail allows the friction between the two cars to lessen; soon I can feel the pressure drop as the car behind me comes to a halt, then slides slowly backwards to a stop. As I look in the mirror, I can see the relieved woman resting her head on her hands, still wrapped atop the steering wheel. I exit my van to check on her, first checking to see that my boys are all right. Too late---they are all unbuckled and running toward the other car before I even have a chance to ask. My young men have had to be tough and resilient, being raised without their mother...but this is bordering on the ridiculous.
Petite, dark and matronly with a kindly face, the lady who was behind the wheel of the other car now stands just outside the driver-side door, her hands folded in prayer. As Scott, first aid kit in hand, runs over to ask her if she's all right, she throws her arms around him in gratitude. Flustered, he points in my direction as I walk over to join them.
"Mister, I don't know what I would have done without you!" she cries through tears, greeting me as she had Scott. "I went to press the brakes...and they were just gone! All I could think of was what would happen to my grandbabies if I couldn't stop the car...and I just couldn't stop it! My goodness, my heart is racing faster than that car was, I tell you!" She holds me at arms length, searching my face with her moist eyes and then all but collapses into my arms. I guess it's finally just gotten to me as well as I feel like doing the same to her.
"Steady now," I comfort her, patting her on the back soothingly. "It's ok. My name's Tracy...Jeff Tracy. Everything's all right now. How are the children?"
My boys have already found out how the children are. Alan and Gordon have just made new friends as the twin nine year old boys from the station wagon have joined them along side the car to kick around their soccer ball. Scott and Virgil, both with their "girl-dar" tuned for maximum high alert quickly make the acquaintance of the lovely teenage girl with glittering dark eyes, her ginger-colored face beaming with relief after such a harrowing ordeal. And John? My quiet little nihilist is tenderly holding an infant with soft brown curls, feeding the baby from a bottle while cooing soothing sounds into her ear. I look around me and I'm hit with a sudden sense of joy, knowing that the outcome here could have been so much different. Offering a silent prayer of thanks, I think of my Lucy and how happy she would be if she were to see this moment in time.
On cue, two Highway Patrol cars roll up on the scene, stirring up dust and sand as they roll along and come to a stop behind our cars. Mrs. Fontaneaux, as she's told me her name is, breaks slowly away from me to greet the officers; I nod in their direction and prepare to collect my children. I can see I'll have to pry Scott and Virgil away from Mrs. Fontaneaux' grand-daughter Clare, just as it'll be difficult to break up the soccer match action playing out among the smaller boys. As I contemplate which to attempt first, I'm surprised by a tap on my arm.
"Look at her, Father!" an excited John calls out, his cornflower eyes sparkling brightly as he brings the baby close to me. "She's so sweet, and she's as good as gold, Father. She didn't even cry when everyone started panicking. Clare said so." As a tiny hand reaches up to touch his cheek, he kisses her fingertips, softly chirping to her, "You're a good baby! Yes you are! Yes you are!" Turning away, he pulls his oversized sweater over her head to shield her from the mid-day sun which has finally poked through the marine layer, all the while dandling her softly in the crook of his arm. That boy never ceases to amaze me; I hope that he never will.
"All right, boys---break it up," I chide my two eldest boys. "Give this young lady some air. She's been through a lot today!" Smiling at Clare, I can see why the boys are so quickly smitten with her. Tall, slim and elegant in her Sunday best, she has a winning, girlish charm about her that's easy to spot. \
"Thank you for helping us, Mr. Tracy," she offers in a shy voice, punctuating it with a hug. I pat her shoulder, glad to see her safe and happy. "My cousins, Jimmy and Johnny thank you too. Well they should, at least. Jimmy! Johnny! This is Mr. Tracy, Alan and Gordon's dad. He's the one who helped us."
The twins stop kicking at the ball and join my small ones as they walk over. Taking a small hand in each of mine, I shake with both of the boys, marveling at how incredibly alike their appearance is. "I have a Johnny too, son," I advise the younger Johnny, motioning in the direction of my son as he stands near the wagon watching the officers inspect it.
"We met him, Mr. Tracy," Jimmy replies, eyes shining with mischief. "He likes Sara---that's the baby. He's nice. Even we don't like her much, and she's our sister. Babies cry too much. But I guess she'll be OK when she's big like us."
I can't help but smirk at that remark. I used to wonder if my boys would have felt that way about the sister they never had, the daughter I'd always wanted. When my friend from Malaysia recently came to live with us and brought his young daughter in tow, I knew from the way that the boys quickly took to her that they would have been the doting, loving, ideal brothers for an admiring little sister. Lucy and I missed the chance to have a little girl of our own, but that's just one of a myriad of joys we never had a chance to share. Still, I'm grateful for the five little joys we did share and for the short but wonderful time we had together.
"I took the children to church this morning..." It was a moment before I broke away from thoughts of Lucy to realize that Mrs. Fontaneaux was speaking to me.
"Oh...really?" I reply, pleased to see her so much more calm than when we'd first met.
"I thought I'd take them for a Sunday drive after Mass so they could see Val Verde. It's that valley down the other side of these hills where the camping and picnic areas are. My grandmother grew up over there. In her day, that was the only camping area our people could use, you know. I like for the children to learn something about history, even when they are out having fun. They think all of what I tell them is about old-timey things that aren't important any more, but that's how it was back then and they should know about it so they'll better appreciate what they have."
I take note that John is hanging on her every word without missing a beat with baby Sara. Nuzzling the infant's cheek, I can just hear John speaking to her. "I'm glad that's not the world you're going to grow up in." Better trained than to interject himself into the conversations of adults, he smiles demurely at Mrs. Fontaneaux, nodding an understanding of her words, a thoughtful look knitting his brow.
"You sure have some fine sons, Mr. Tracy. Nice boys, every one of them," she says, patting John on the shoulder in a motherly fashion. "We have a picnic basket full of sandwiches and I know how growing boys are. Do you think they'd like some lunch?"
"No, they've been munching since we left the house, but thank you for your kindness, just the same. And it's 'Jeff,' please. After what we've been through, I think we're definitely on a first name basis by now."
She laughs and clasps her hands together. "Marie," she replies, "You call me 'Marie,' then. And there isn't enough I could do to thank you for all that you've done for us."
After a quick interview with the officers, I'm reminded of how much farther we have to travel this afternoon and prepare to leave. Marie and I exchange addresses and telephone numbers, assuring each other that we'll keep in touch. Of course, Clare, Scott and Virgil have already beat us old timers to the punch, with the boys' names and phone number quickly having been entered into her cel phone's memory and the boys entering her information into their pocket electronic date books.
The younger boys punch each other lightly on opposing shoulders, this being their junior version of a hug or handshake. "See ya, De Jean," Gordon calls out as he waves goodbye, with "See ya, Tracy" as Jimmy's reply. Apparently they didn't get the memo about exchanging first names. Scott and Virgil take their little brothers in hand and steer them back to our van, leaving behind the lone hold-out: John.
"Come on, Uncle John," I nudge him. "Help Mrs. Fontaneaux to buckle little Sara into her car seat. It's time we push off to Grandma's."
Quickly, his wistful look turns to a slight frown; I can tell he's dreading saying goodbye. As he puts the baby into her seat, I notice a glint of something catching and reflecting the sunlight; could be a belt buckle, but I can't be sure. A peck on her forehead and John forces himself to leave his new little friend behind, whispering "Don't forget me. I won't forget you."
I put an arm over his shoulder as we wave goodbye and begin to walk to the van, but then he feverishly squirms out of my grasp just as I rough up his hair, having let my fatherly pride get the better of me. As he adjusts his sweater, I notice that the chain he normally wears is missing. Seeing the look of a question forming on my face, John stands in place to address me. "I gave her my St. Christopher's medal, Father---the one I won for being the best at Catechism. It'll protect her so that nothing like that will happen to her again. Now I know that someone will always be looking out for her, just like Mom looks out for us."
I reach out for this child of mine, this boy who puts up such a front of being untouchable and allergic to affection, but he rebuffs my hand and runs to the front seat of the van. "Awwwww, come on, Father---Grandma's going to worry about us being so late!" he calls out, his face trying to create a careless look that his heart can't possibly support. As I slide in and buckle up, I hear a sigh from him not intended for my ears as he sullenly pulls back on his headphones and tunes out everyone around him.
Hours later and we're just finally reaching Palm Grove after passing every date tree, fruit stand, farmers market and Indian reservation casino in the state. Along the way, beyond the flickering sounds of the radio stations as we pass through their varying frequencies, my ears have picked up on my two eldest sons as they debate the relative merits of NHL goalies, my two youngest sons softly snoring in the center seats and the high-pitched, tinny sound of a drummer handily riding a high-hat and crash cymbals on the same song playing over and over as it steals out of John's headphones.
As I pull into Mother's driveway, the boys in the back start to cheer. "It's a good thing we finally got here," says Virgil to Scott, "I think I owe you my allowance until the year 2165!" Oh yes...that.
"Scott, give Virgil back his money and whatever else you've won from him or you'll be sitting at the little table on Thanksgiving Day, fighting off the flung peas from your little brothers. Do I make myself clear?"
With a shrug, Virgil is returned $23.12, two cat's eye marbles and the memory card from his camera. "And if I catch either of you playing Three Card Monte again, you'll pay for it with something much more uncomfortable than empty pockets."
A pair of little voices gleefully punctuate that thought with, "You're gonna GET it! You're gonna GET it! Ha-ha-ha-ha-HA-ha!"
"That's enough Alan! Gordon!" I bark, knowing how quickly a baby brother's taunting can turn into a full-scale skirmish. And, just as quickly, Alan unbuckles his seat belt and flies out of the van toward Mother's front door, both Scott and Virgil running behind him ready to do battle. Gordon trots off next, determined to try to rescue his partner in crime or start World War III trying.
Looking over at the front seat, I realize that John hasn't moved. One call out to him reveals that he's been asleep for Heaven know's how long. "Come on, pokey," I nudge him. "Grandma's going to think you don't love her." Eyes at half-mast, he drops the headphones to the floor and lumbers out of the van.
"You know, you were once a darling little baby who liked for your dad to whisper sweet little nothings into your ear. Some day in the distant future, you'll be the dad to someone tiny and cute who will love you to do that for him or her, just like little Sara did. Believe me, despite evidence to the contrary, it's nice to be the dad...sometimes."
I reach out to hold him against me and for once those bony little elbows don't attempt to push me away. His chin is dropped to his chest, but I can hear him plainly as he surrenders. "Yeah, I guess this is all right, too...sometimes."
-----DB