Hold the Light (15 page)

Resting my elbow on the mahogany table, cupping my chin in my palm, I looked into my father's cold, blue eyes. With a raise of his thin eyebrow, folds of skin bunched atop his wrinkled nose, and he smirked, creating an age-old dimple in his cheek. It was a look I had seen time and time again that often preceded my defeat. He chewed on his bottom lip, still pondering his next move.

We both sat staring. I was fixated on him, thinking about how old he was. I never noticed it before, but my father was rather old to have a son as young as me, being over fifty and myself in my mid-teens. I think he was born in 1945, but I can't remember if that's right. The life within him never matched his age though, whether he seemed older or younger at any particular time. He was a tough man and even harder to pinpoint; the only true thing I could ever get from my father was criticism.

"I'll have to find out his age from Mother," I thought.

Through all the bad times, he often found a way to calm the throbbing of my youth, even if he was the one that usually started the problems. He became so good at dissecting me that I grew to see him as a genius, versed in the world; combined with his charisma, I believed he had a plan to show me how to prosper as a man.

Being no slouch myself, on high honor roll and the best on the chess team, I realized that no matter how stubborn and unbreakable I could feel, his help was always necessary. My father fixed everything from scrapes on my knee to when a friend of mine was killed by a drunk driver. In my young eyes, he knew everything and shared it all with me, giving me a huge jump-start on life. I felt I could do everything quicker and faster, but I had grown up too quickly. Age stirred inside of me too early, twisting and weaving out before my eyes could handle the images of adulthood.

"Checkmate," my father gloated, clinking the ivory knight on the marble chessboard and leaning back in his chair.

"Awh, we just started. Can't you win slower?" I said, gazing over the board in disbelief.

"Maybe this will teach you a better strategy."

The room grew a cold layer every time he said something demeaning, and that sentence gave me a shiver. My gaze wandered about the den, hopping from trophy to trophy, remembering all the rewards I earned over the years that my father kept on his shelves. Dull artificial light bounced off the gold painted plastic and I wondered if I ever deserved any of them. The only reason I won them was because of him. They would all be mine if I could beat my father one of these days.

Without breaking his tradition of never smiling, Father cracked the corner of his mouth without an iota of amusement.

"That's amusing," he said.

I'd pay him a million bucks if he'd actually laugh, but I always play along.

"What is, Dad?"

A frown quickly killed his pathetic smirk, and then he tried to squeeze a sentence past his lips. Heaven forbid if for once his father's words would just be said and he could actually connect with his only child.

"Your fly is down," he said pointing.

"Yeah," I said embarrassed, zipping up.

"Yes what, son?" He said condescendingly, adjusting his pendant pipe into the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, sir," I reluctantly corrected myself.

The room was cold with his compassion. An awkward silence loomed. His emotions quickly climaxed into a small coy cough and then he scratched his arm. All I wanted to do was to deck him. How the hell could my father be so blind? I was bigger than he was, but I could never match his strength. All those years behind him, all his knowledge, all spurting off like radiation that burned within, ceaselessly feeding off his energy. The day I was stronger than him was the day I was going to leave.

The doorbell chimed and my father began to rise, but I wanted to get away.

"I'll get it."

I rushed into the hallway with enthusiasm and looked up the stairs, past the teardrop chandelier, to see if my mother had emerged from the bedroom. Not a sound stirred, so I turned back and ran to the big, brown, oak door, loaded with decorative carvings that covered every square inch. I could sit and study it for hours, but I never really gave it much thought until then. It always seemed to be a waste of time.

Stepping onto the throw rug in the hallway, I made an awkward run for the door, slipping on the polished hardwood floor like always and smashing my scrawny body into the wall. And, like always, when I hit the wall in this way, a loud clank sounded against the floor from the other side in the living room. Speeding into the dark room, I picked up the sheathed sword that my dad kept and hung it back in place gently, trying to cover up any evidence of the fall. It was a sword from the 18th century that Dad purchased in an estate sale. It was his pride and joy. I could just see him in my mind, shaking his head disapprovingly every time I knocked it down.

Once at the door, I flipped the outside light on for the visitor. The stoop illuminated and through the small glass portal, I saw a head of frizzy black hair. Slowly I opened the massive door and saw Carl politely standing with a box of candy bars and an envelope in his hand, with green bills peeping out. Just seeing the money, I knew that he would have a smile from ear to ear.

Carl was in the chess club and also in my history class, plus we were pretty good friends. He looked up from his envelope and his thick glasses glided down his nose but his chubby pointer finger shoved them tightly back in place.

"Carl, what ya doin' here?" I chuckled.

I often giggled when people from outside my family talked to me. I always thought other people had a way of living that was more fun than mine.

"Selling candy for band. The winner gets lots of prize money," he said, his eyes shining.

"Let me get my dad. He'll probably hook you up. Hold on, Carl."

Leaving the door open, I went back to peek in the den.

"Um, Dad, sir, um, one of my friends is here selling candy. Could you?"

Clanking his heavy wood pipe in the crystal ashtray, he slowly rose and walked to the door.

"Hello, Mr. Gabney," Carl loudly engaged his sales pitch.

I stayed in the den looking over the chessboard in disbelief. Nimble gray smoke from the pipe curled about my head and hovered throughout the brown den.

"How could I loose so quickly?" I whispered over the board, "Could he have cheated? No. He had to have won fair and square. I
have
to beat him one of these days."

"No, no, no!" Dad barked and slammed the door shut so hard, the chess pieces danced and the sword clanked against the ground in the living room. Slowly making my way to the hallway I looked at him in the doorway. Anger swathed his face, the only emotion he knew how to show.

"No more of that, son."

"Um, but?" I asked in confusion.

"But what, George?" He demanded, "Are you disputing me?"

"No sir."

We stood still for a minute in yet another awkward silence, both wondering what the other was thinking. How could I dispute him if he wasn't making sense? Easy, tell him he's a stubborn jackass.

"Well, yeah, I'm going upstairs," I shuffled my feet the rest of the distance of the den submissively and then bolted up the stairs to my room. It was getting late anyway and I had school the next day. Going to school tired was something I never liked. It interfered with my studies too much; and that's me talking, not my father.

I laid down on my bed and punched play on my portable CD player, put the headphones over my ears, and let the first few minutes of
Hey Jude
take me. Paul's voice washed around in my ears. Most times I listen to this song my mind immediately wanders to the little conspiracy that my uncle revealed over Christmas dinner. All I remember are snippets of his tale, but he said,

'Mr. McCartney died in a car crash and a guy who won a look alike contest took his place in the Beatles. The new Paul broke up with his girlfriend and started dating Linda.' He also had a little scar but, hey, no one
ever
gets scars from car crashes. My family can be pretty stupid sometimes.

Resting atop of my covers, I wondered why my dad acted so strangely towards Carl. There must be a hundred different reasons for his reaction, but he still could have helped out like he had done in the past for my other friends.

After skipping to
I am the Walrus
and listening closely to the end of the song, trying to hear John Lennon say 'I killed Paul,' I ripped off my headphones. I felt bad for Carl, and I was enraged for the way my father treated me like a child.

I pounced to my feet and strode over to the wall and punched it harder than normal. My fist sunk hard and fast into the drywall with crackles and snaps. Flinching in discomfort, I gazed curiously at my hand in the wall, as pain began to surge. Slowly jiggling my hand out of the plaster crevice, I walked over to my closet. Little maroon droplets oozed from my knuckles as I slid open the closet door. Fidgeting deep in the mess of hanging clothes I pulled out a
Cure
poster. On top of my desk was the double-sided tape and I hung the poster over the hole. Smiling, I felt like I was actually fooling someone. I looked around at the multitude of posters hanging in my room, then back at my hand. Strangely enough, the noise of punching through the drywall never alerted my parents. It's hard to make a noise louder than their yelling.

Tired of the day, I hopped into bed.

Chapter 25

In the morning, my alarm went off late. I rushed to dress and barely made it downstairs in time to grab a sack lunch and out to catch the bus. Onboard, I rummaged through my bag to see what I had crammed in. I knew I had had a dream that kept me asleep through the alarm, but I couldn't remember it for the life of me. The dream seemed violent somehow.

I felt angry and wronged; though I knew it was an important dream, and I hoped I would have it again. My hand began to throb and I was distracted so I began to talk with the other kids.

The bus arrived at school and the day was the same as any other. After my third class, I saw Carl passing the mural by my locker, heading for the band room.

"Carl," I yelled and waved my bruised hand. "What happened with my dad?"

From the distance his face looked different. He was frowning and his right eye looked darker than his chocolate skin. A cheerleader passed in front and blocked my view of Carl and glanced at me. I smiled at her and she scoffed and frowned in response and scurried off. When Carl was within arms reach, my jaw dropped.

"Man, you need to send your dad to anger management or something,"

Carl barked at George.

"What did he do to you?" I nearly yelled.

"He friggin' slapped me!"

"Slapped you? You're kidding." But bubbling in my gut was my subconscious nagging that Carl could be right.

"No, I'm not kidding. I asked him if he wanted some candy. I told him what it was for and all that stuff. He just looked through me frowning like I wasn't even there! He refused a few times. After that I asked again, saying something like 'Hey, don't ignore me, its rude.' He said something like 'The day I take that from someone like you boy,' and slapped me in the eye! In the eye! And hard. I was stunned. He slammed the door in my face before I could say anything. What a giant asshole!"

I was speechless. Slapped him? Why? What would make him slap Carl?

"I ...I ...I'm sorry, Carl," was all I could get out. "I have no idea ...He hit you?"

"Yeah well, I had to run outta the house this morning so my parents didn't see me.

My first period teacher asked me what happened to my eye and I said that I ran into a tree branch last night, not paying attention. She bought it. I'll tell my dad something similar ...God, you're dad's a dick!"

"I can't believe it Carl," words began to come to me. "I'm gonna yell at him.Yeah, I'm gonna tear him a new one. That's just bullshit, he can't do that to you!"

"Whatever man. I'm gonna be late, George, I'll catch ya later."

"Yeah," I mumbled and returned to my locker.

God, what got into him? I don't know what was with him. He was probably just tired. Yeah, tired enough to slap a friend of mine? No. I fumbled with the rest of my books as I headed to my next class. The teacher let me alone as I spaced out through class, stunned to hear the bell ring. I collected my things and lugged them lethargically to the next class. When I arrived, there was a television on a rolling stand by the chalkboard. I knew what that meant and let out a cheer in my head. We were going to watch a movie and not listen to the teacher drone on. I tossed all the paltry notions bouncing around in my head and prepared to watch TV. Taking my usual seat in the back, the rest of class filed in during the next few minutes and Carl plopped down next to me. The teacher came in, turned off the lights and stood next to the TV.

"Since it is almost Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I decided that we'd watch some footage and discuss his accomplishments," the teacher said as she turned on the television and sat at her desk to grade papers.

Everyone usually became more talkative every time we watched something in class, until the footage started and we were reticent. I turned to look around the room and stopped at Carl, who was engrossed.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Carl quickly whispered to me, "he's the greatest."

"It's more fun watching Jordan though."

"Yeah, but King was a martyr, and that's real greatness."

I couldn't imagine anything worth dying for at that time. But I couldn't argue with Carl, I knew he was right somehow.

I watched Dr. King's persecution. I watched and hoped, almost convincing myself that he wouldn't get shot at the end. No one should ever have to bear that much pain and responsibility. My world shrunk into the solemn light emanating from the television as everything peripheral disappeared into the dark surroundings.

How could people hate so much, for no reason? I knew life had always been easy to throw into the grinder from history class and the news, but it seemed to me that history can only wash its hands so many times before the blood permanently stained. Watching with close precision, squeezing every detail out of Dr. King's speeches, I stored much of what he said in my mind. Fixating on his eyes, I searched for more of his wisdom that could be buried within his soul, but was I preempted by something.