William P. Adams lives near Seattle and writes short fiction, poetry, and memoirs, often inspired by his baby boomer childhood.
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It’s been nearly sixty years since I, Sonny Gallagher, looked upon the faces of both evil and divinity, which, at the time, were as tangible as a rare and precious gem you could touch and feel but now seem like a wisp of smoke, ascending into the ether.
Looking back, my childhood was a typical cross-section of middle-class life in the suburbs, nothing that would warrant or merit a fantastic recounting of any extraordinary and, frankly, unbelievable occurrences. However, there was this one thing…
My father's climb up the insurance business ladder involved a couple of job changes, and we moved three times in five years. After first grade, I went to three different schools. Being the new kid is never easy, but I’d rarely encounter any unpleasantness after being introduced to and scrutinized by my new peers and would always settle in seamlessly.
The last move in the fall of 1964 – the terminus of our vagabond wanderings – was to a nondescript three-bedroom rambler in a nondescript neighborhood near the new Community College. The neighborhood's northern border abutted against wetlands, which were the headwaters of Massey Creek. The smallish stream meandered in culverts and open water alongside the Cavendish Road, eventually emptying into the Salish Sea.
Alvie Bellamy lived with his parents and older brother Kurt several houses down toward the wetlands. We were the same age, in the same class at school, and became fast friends. Alvie was skinny with blondish hair, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and was brilliant. He excelled at school – especially in math and science. Kids back then would have referred to him as a Poindexter. Kurt was altogether not my friend. The first thing he said to me while I rode my bike in circles in front of their house was: "Hey, Dumbo, learn to fly yet?" – a derogatory comment on my protruding ears. He was two years older than Alvie and reminded me of a tall, cadaverous scarecrow. Kurt had a label maker that wrote on a plastic strip that he could stick to things. A sample: 'LBJ for the USA' and 'Goldwater is Dog Water' on his bike and in the shared bedroom with Alvie, 'Heil Hitler' on the top dresser drawer and again on the side of his bunk bed. Kurt Bellamy, the proud nazi democrat.
Things were going smoothly for me – making new friends at school and in the neighborhood, earning above-average report cards, and falling in love with playing football, basketball, and baseball. What kid could ask for more?
Of course, it wasn't all rainbows and lollipops. Starting at around six years old, I began to fall victim to seasonal airborne allergens, which would bring on asthma symptoms: wheezing, coughing, and chest tightening. Thankfully, it was never severe, and I could get it under control simply by sitting still and resting. The spring of my fourth-grade year was an especially virulent time for the kinds of pollen that triggered my condition. In the classroom, I sat beside Big Andi Donovan and behind her best friend, Lani Umber. Big Andi was tall and raw-boned with short blonde hair cut in the shag style of the time, and her freckled face always looked sunburnt. Blatantly fawning and short of stature, Lani Umber wore her dishwater blonde hair parted on the side and was the epitome of a faithful sidekick. Whenever I came in from outside and began breathing asthmatic, both girls would mimic my labored effort to continue living and break into laughter: Big Andi with loud braying guffaws and Lani with subservient tittering. I'd try and ignore them, but their jibing bothered me, and it festered within.
We spent the last two weeks of August 1966 on a family vacation near the ocean at the Tokeland Hotel with my father's cousin, her husband, and my second Cousin Monica Bailey. The Hotel was our go-to place for summer vacations from when I was six and Monica was seven. She was eleven and would be going into sixth grade. Monica was like my sister; we spent holidays, birthdays, and vacations together, and I thought the world of her. My mother called her an old soul. Like me, she was an only child, and unlike other girls of that time, instead of dolls, pretty dresses, and tea parties, Monica collected bird's eggs and knew how to fish for, catch, clean, and grill rainbow trout over a campfire. She also liked the Beatles over the Monkees and knew all the words to all their songs but wasn’t a fan-crazed screamer – she just realized they were special.
The time spent at Tokeland was sublime. Country breakfasts in the large hotel dining room, wandering the endless sandy stretches of beach looking for shells and clam holes by day, and evenings spent playing board games – especially Yahtzee – our favorite. Monica had heterochromia – two different colored eyes. Her left eye was azure blue, and her right was smoky grey. You didn't notice it unless she was near, then the difference was stark. Along with her dark brown hair, which she wore in a ponytail or French braid if she wanted to look spiffy, Monica was a rare beauty – at least, I thought so.
On our last evening in Tokeland, after we put away the Yahtzee game, Monica and I sat on the hotel's front porch, gazing at the star-filled, dark summer sky – no city lights made the stars look like glittering diamonds you could almost reach and touch. The only constellations I knew then were the Big and Little Dippers, but Monica could identify others, showing me where to look for Cygnus, the Swan. It also looks like a cross, the Northern Cross. I could have sat there forever with my cousin, marveling at the firmament, but vacations end, and for me, fifth grade was right around the corner.
Near the end of summer break, letters were sent to the incoming students before the new school year, informing them which teacher they would have for the new term. One fifth-grade teacher was an older lady with the disparaging nickname: 'The Old Gray Rat.' She was known for no-nonsense toughness and ran her classes with military precision. I was less than thrilled to learn I would spend the year with General Ratton. When I arrived on the first day of fifth grade, instead of The Old Gray Rat, a much younger and strikingly beautiful teacher was there in the room – Mrs. Nash. But to even things out, Big Andi and Lani were there as well.
While I had been living the good life at the ocean, Alvie occupied himself with several scientific endeavors, including following Massey Creek after it dumped out of a culvert to try and find crawdads in shallow pools along the bank. A dead-end at the extreme northwest of the neighborhood with a house at the end overlooked a steep ravine where the creek flowed at the bottom. Alvie told me a family had moved into the brick house the weekend I left on vacation and that they had two older junior high-aged boys. Alvie also described how he watched their father rig a rope swing from an old maple tree at the edge of the property – and that he had gone on the swing after watching the new boys and some other neighborhood kids doing it. He said it was bitchin'.
Word got around that the two brothers, Axel and Cade Grimshaw, would let kids swing the following Saturday morning – their father had built a small platform on the tree that held the thick rope away from anyone who wanted to sneak a ride. The only way to get the rope down was with a long pole from their garage.
Come Saturday, I was busting at the seams to go on the swing, and right after breakfast, I ran down to Alvie’s – he was already waiting for me on his front steps. The anticipation made us giddy, and Alvie and I walked on air down to the swing, talking excitedly about how great it would be. On the way, I stepped in some fresh dog shit and tried scraping it off my PF Flyers onto a neighbor's lawn. When we arrived at the swing, a line of about five or six kids stood waiting their turn. I watched them sit on top of the big knot tied near the bottom of the rope, grab hold, and soar into the vast expanse over Massey Creek.
Axel and Cade were helping the kids in line by holding the rope. It looked safe, and I could hardly wait for my turn. Since Alvie had done it before, I wanted to see how he looked, so I stood behind him in line. By this time, there were a few more kids, and some were getting back in line for another go. Alvie was finally at the rope, and he got on the knot and sailed out into the air with the greatest of ease. After his turn, I was more than ready to experience the sensation of flying and stepped up to the launch area. Axel was holding the rope, and instead of getting on the knot, Cade grabbed me, roughly took me aside, and yelled: "Hey, no cutting the line!" I tried to tell him I hadn't cut, and Alvie vouched for me, but it didn't do any good – the kid behind me was already sitting on the knot. I wasn't ready to give up. Maybe he thought I'd cut, and it was just a mistake.
We went to the back of the line, and Alvie said he heard the two brothers went to Catholic School at St. Phil's – Axel, grade eight, and Cade, grade seven. I asked Alvie if Cade had acted that way when he was here before, and he said no; Cade seemed normal. When we got to the swing, Alvie let me go first, and Cade stood there glaring and snarled: "I thought I told you no cutting. Are you deaf? And you smell like stinking shit, you little shit stain!"
His high-pitched voice, blotchy-red face, and severe, sharp-pointed dark widow's peak were terrifying and focused only on me. I stood there looking at him, stunned and scared. He then pulled back his right arm, made a fist, and drove it hard into my stomach. I went to my knees in more pain than I'd ever experienced and did the thing that, in my mind, was even worse – I started crying. Cade stood over me and admonished everyone to look at the shit baby crying his shitty tears. Axel finally approached his brother and said, "That's enough, Cade; put the rope back up on the tree." So, in addition to my agony, I'd ruined the swing for everyone else. As Alvie helped me up off the ground and we turned to leave, I heard, in that high-pitched malevolent tone: “Don’t come back, Shit Stain!” I didn’t. Alvie, to his credit, didn’t either. A friend indeed.
Sunday mornings found us at St. Phil’s – a massive, dark, mysterious place where the priest sometimes spoke in a strange language. I liked to look up at the ceiling, which seemed a mile away, and stare at the paintings – clouds, angels, guys in long robes, and a bleeding lamb with a sword stuck into its side. We sat, stood, kneeled, and mumbled things after the priest mumbled things. It was church.
There was a family at the end of our block, the Ashcrofts, whom my mother knew from St. Phil's. Mr. Ashcroft was a math and science teacher at the Catholic school, and I knew the son, Jerry, from various church functions. A week after the rope swing incident, I saw Jerry in his front yard while riding my bike and asked if he knew Cade and his brother from the dead end since they went to the same school. He said he knew them a little and that his dad had both in his class. I told him about my experience at the rope swing and asked Jerry if Cade was like that with other kids. Jerry didn't think so but said Cade sometimes acted tough. He also told me Axel was friendly and helped his dad in the classroom. I left Jerry and rode home, wondering what I had done to incur Cade's wrath. I'd never seen him before that day – I doubt he knew I existed. I hadn't done any mischief or wronged anyone to my knowledge.
A few days later, I rode my bike toward the Community College when I sensed someone
charging up behind me. I turned back to look, and Cade was riding a black bike, his face
contorted into a hellish grin. He rode behind as my fight-or-flight mechanism firmly lodged in
the flight column. Racing up 26
We were almost to the end of the block, on the border of the college, when he swerved left, forcing me onto the front lawn of the corner house, where I fell and landed unhurt in the grass. Before I knew it, Cade was on top of me with his knees on my upper arms. I couldn’t move and felt as helpless as an infant while this crazed adolescent psychopath had me pinned down. He held both of his hands against my mouth and nose, cutting off any chance I had of continuing breathing. I started rocking wildly back and forth under him as my need for oxygen became all- consuming.
I finally was able to force out air, which caused a fart noise between my tormentors’ fingers. The crazed maniac then loosened his grip and started laughing, which caused his knees to bounce against my upper arms. Cade tried to get me to say I liked eating shit and asked if I wanted to eat some now. He looked around the lawn; thankfully, the grassy area was turd-free. Cade repeated his promise to beat the living shit out of the shit baby if I told on him and said nobody would believe me anyway. And I knew he was right. Before Cade let me up, he hocked a huge nasty loogie onto my face. As he rode away, I prayed a silent prayer that a car would run him over.
My insides felt tied up in knots, and I could hardly fathom what had just happened. No one had seen the altercation, but even if they had, I knew it would go bad for me if Cade knew of any witnesses. It sounds unbelievable, but I started to believe he was somehow all-powerful. I got up, wiped the oyster off my cheek with a shirt sleeve, picked up my bike, and pedaled down 26th Avenue, thinking he was behind every tree, bush, and car. I made it home, put my bike in the garage, then went into the house and acted like nothing had happened. I wasn't going to tell anyone about Cade. Mentioning him to Jerry had got me into this predicament. Cade Grimshaw was bigger and stronger and would become a varsity wrestler at the catholic high school. I'd never been around anyone like him, and I couldn't understand why he was doing this. I hadn't done anything to deserve his maltreatment.
My strategy was two-fold: Don't tell anyone about him, even my parents. And strict avoidance. I still had to walk to school daily, and knowing he was at St. Phil's was a small consolation. I'd stay away from the street closest to his house and never venture near the dead-end – that was ironclad. Rather than riding my bike or playing outside, I'd stay in, reading or watching TV. I felt safe at Alvie's and would be there a lot during that time.
The strategy was working. I hadn't seen Cade for weeks, but he was in my head, and I never let my guard down. I'd heard it said that bullies were cowards; if you confronted them, they'd usually back down. That might be true in the movies or on an after-school special, but there was no way I would hunt Cade down and stand up to him. He had a psychological hold on me. I would remain vigilant, avoiding his part of the neighborhood and going out of my way to avoid wherever I thought he was. In my mind, it seemed like Cade was placed on this earth to make my young life miserable. Knowing I knew that was good enough for him. There would only be two more physical altercations between us. The first would launch my brief career as a bully and turn me into an emotional wreck.
By Thanksgiving, I settled into a routine. School, homework, helping Alvie with whatever animal, vegetable, or mineral project he had going on in his quest to learn about the natural world, and I joined the school band as the lone trombonist. The music teacher said I’d be good at it because of my long arms. That’s like saying a guy would be a great chef because he likes to eat.
Our small families traded off hosting holidays; this year, it was our turn to do Thanksgiving dinner. Besides two days off from school, the best part was seeing and spending all day with Monica. I needed someone in my corner these days, and Alvie was the only one who had even the vaguest notion of the turmoil that roiled inside me. I couldn’t tell him how Cade had rocked my once-happy little world to the core. My parents wondered why I spent so much time indoors with my nose in books and not outside with the other kids, riding bikes and playing football in the crisp fall air. I told them it was getting too cold and that my asthma flared up in this weather – a lie. Keeping out of Cade's way was a religion to me, and I was its most ardent follower. Monica and her parents arrived at our house mid-morning on Thanksgiving Day with her Mom’s famous marshmallow sweet potato dish in tow. When we went to the Bailey’s, our addition to the feast was my mom’s green bean casserole, which someone said they liked once (probably to be polite), but no one did – especially me.
Monica and I set the dining room table with my mom’s fine China and silver – six settings surrounding the obligatory cornucopia with fake plastic fruit spilling out of its maw. While engaged in this exercise, I wondered what the Grimshaw Thanksgiving table looked like and if Cade had a hand in its preparation. He was inhabiting my head, rent-free. Monica noticed I wasn’t “all there.” After we finished setting the table and sat down, she said: “What’s wrong, Sonny? I can tell something’s bothering you.” Determined to remain resolute in my – don’t tell anyone about Cade – self-imposed commandment; I told my favorite person in all the world the lame lie about my asthma flaring up. Monica, wise beyond her years, said: “No, it’s something else... I can tell.” I couldn’t keep lying to her, but the thought of spilling my guts about Cade Grimshaw was too daunting, so I told her a half-truth.
Even though Andi and Lani were in my fifth-grade class, they were on the other side of the room, and I could now breathe noisily in peace if the situation arose. Nevertheless, I needed to tell Monica something to assuage her concern for me, so I related how the two girls had mocked and laughed about my heavy breathing. Monica gave me the side-eye and said: “Okay, but that’s not so bad,” I asked her why they were making fun of me when I never said boo to either one. She said that was the problem – they wanted attention from me. Not likely, I thought. Monica sat there thoughtfully for a long moment, then said: “You know, girls can be mean sometimes, much meaner than boys – try being nice to them.” I also thought that was unlikely, so I gave Monica my interpretation of Andi and Lani’s laughing forms. She started laughing, which got me going, and for the rest of that Thanksgiving Day, I didn’t think about Cade even once. Before she left, Monica told me she’d light a candle for me at Mass on Sunday.
The calendar turned from 1966 to 1967, and the New Year would usher in many changes. The war in Vietnam was front and center on the TV news and in the daily papers. The conflict was beginning to heat up, and people were either gung-ho for it or fervently against it. Hawks and Doves. I was still too young to have an opinion, but my parents were on the ‘this is probably not a good idea’ side.
The Summer of Love was still several months away, but the music was already changing. Monica had the Beatles album Revolver and expounded reverentially on its importance. Later, The Sergeant Pepper album would blow both of our young minds. Hippies were a new phenomenon that spread like a spilled vial of patchouli oil.
Things were in a lull as far as Cade and I were concerned. He was in eighth grade at St. Phil’s busy with wrestling and acquiring a reputation as a top-flight grappler. The coach at the Catholic High School was no doubt drooling at the prospect of having him on the varsity next season. I kept my eyes and ears open and adhered to all the ‘Thou Shalt Nots’ in my religion while knowing deep inside that the ‘calm before the storm’ saying was not without accuracy. Monica’s candle was seemingly holding me up for the time being.
I was starting to notice girls this year – no, I hadn’t gone out of my way to be nice to Big Andi and Lani. Looking around, I saw many of them were more like Monica than the two laughing hyenas.
It was the first day of spring when Mrs. Nash introduced a new girl to our fifth-grade class – Eloise Himmel. Mrs. Nash invited her to take the empty desk at the back of the classroom, and she slipped in with most heads turned to look over the latest addition to the school, including mine. Eloise was neither short, tall, chubby, nor skinny – a plain Jane. Quiet and unassuming, it was almost like she was a museum prop in a classroom diorama. I turned back around and didn’t give the new girl another thought.
At lunch, I overheard some girls asking Eloise where she lived and where she went to school before, and I heard the words foster home and in another state. The girls didn’t press her beyond that, and instead of chattering about things like they usually did, they went to their desks and sat with their hands folded, dreamily calm and serene. It was weird.
Eloise came to school daily wearing a modest skirt, blouse, and sweater with white knee socks and white tennis shoes. I never saw her in any other outfit, but the colors of the clothes changed from day to day. She carried the textbooks we all used in a plain brown satchel with a strap that she slung over one shoulder.
We ate our lunches in the classroom at our desks, and I never saw Eloise eating either from a brown bag or lunchbox or from the hot lunch cart set up in the hallway. I guessed that she had eaten a big breakfast and wasn’t very hungry at noontime. Nobody seemed to care whether she ate or not. She turned in homework, answered questions when called upon, did well on quizzes and tests, and played four-square at recess, blending in nicely like she’d always been there and always would be. I began to wonder about Eloise – not in an ‘I like that girl and hope she likes me’ sense but in a ‘where did she come from and why she is here’ way.
I had a long-sleeved black turtleneck shirt that my mother picked up on sale at Value Mart and I paired the shirt with black slacks and shoes one school day. Big Andi and Lani saw me walk into the classroom in that getup, and then the fun began (for them.) When they noticed I was attired and turtlenecked all in black, Big Andi laughed in her full-throated hee-haw manner and called me 'Honey West' – from a TV show where the female lead played a private eye who dressed all in black. Lani then called out: “No, it’s Sonny West!” Then, everyone got into the revelry, snickering and commenting on my fashion choice. Even Mrs. Nash had a half-smile. I slunk into my desk, tried to block out the chatter, and suffered silently for the rest of the school day. I wasn’t hungry at lunchtime and stayed in class reading during recess – Mrs. Nash didn’t mind. The only consolation was that Eloise was absent and didn’t witness my being the butt-end of a joke. As the day wore on, the anger and embarrassment I felt lessened, and strange as it sounds, I felt Eloise somehow had a hand in that. I had no idea how.
When school let out that day, and as I walked home, the Honey West derision was still churning up my insides, and I couldn't wait to get home and change clothes. I crossed the crosswalk at Cavendish Road, and down the hill, I saw my mortal enemy walking toward me near a pile of dirt beside the road. Cade was with another eighth-grader – Robyn Neely, a pig-nosed girl who lived on the block I avoided. Robyn had a below-ground swimming pool in her backyard – the envy of all teens during summer. She threw barbecue parties, inviting only the cool kids. Kurt Bellamy said she was a stuck-up bitch.
Cade looked bigger and stronger from the last time I saw him, and he came right up to me, smiling his evil smile. I stood there, frozen with books and papers under one arm and holding my uneaten brown bag lunch with the other hand. With Robyn by his side, he blocked my path and said in a voice that would cut through iron: “What’s in the bag, Stain, your shit sandwich?” Robyn laughed in pig-like snorts, and Cade grinned like he had cleverness and wit that knew no bounds. He then swatted the lunch sack, and it landed near the pile of dirt – PBJ and an apple, hold the shit. I tried to get around them, and he grabbed me under my thigh in a wrestling hold, picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and slammed me down on my back into the dirt pile. Schoolbooks and homework went flying, with Robyn snort-laughing again and Cade standing over me like a conquering hero. The dirt was soft; if that was all he had in store, I might have gotten off easily this time. But no. Cade dropped down, flipped me over onto my stomach, and punched me hard in the left kidney. The pain was excruciating, and I thought I might pass out. As I tried to push myself up from the ground, the demon Cade – that’s how I thought of him now, grabbed me by the back of the neck and forced my face down near the brown bag lunch. “Time to eat some shit,” he said. “I know you love it.” Robyn was staring down at me, and instead of horror at what Cade was doing, she had a euphoric look that quashed whatever hope I had of survival. Cade then grabbed the bag with one hand, shook out the PBJ, and exclaimed: “Ha! I knew you were a shit-eater!” While he held me by the neck with one hand, with the other, he liberated the sandwich that my mom had made and tried cramming it into my mouth. I summoned what tiny shred of dignity I had left and refused to open. When Cade saw it was peanut butter, he cried out laughing: “It looks exactly like shit!” and smeared Skippy and Smuckers all over my face. He and Robyn stood laughing while I sat in the dirt, looking like a kid with a brown, pasty facial who just had the shit beaten out of him. Even though I wanted to, I didn’t cry. They both then started walking up the hill, still laughing.
I got up shakily, tried wiping my face with the hated Honey West turtleneck, and angrily gathered loose papers and books. I wished I’d never gone with Alvie that day to the rope swing. I hated Cade Grimshaw and wanted him dead. I didn't want to kill Cade – that was a mortal sin. I just wanted him gone somehow or some way. That was probably a sin, too. In the coming days, I would fantasize about harming him or harm coming to him so he would feel the same way I was feeling. The thought of another encounter weighed on my fragile psyche, and it was all I thought about. I still didn't tell anyone what had happened. Cade would deny everything and say I was lying. If I snitched, I feared he'd ramp up the persecution, and things would worsen – and I began to imagine the worst – my death at the hands of this young monster. After the Honey West/body slam incident, I became even more vigilant in avoiding my tormentor, riding my bike to school instead of walking, and never venturing too far outside our house alone if I could help it. I saw Cade around every corner. I often lashed out at my parents because of the smallest slight and began to hate myself for what I was becoming.
I started picking on a younger boy at school with verbal abuse and chased him once with threats that I was going to get him. He stopped suddenly, turned around, and asked why I was doing this. I looked at him standing there, small and scared and felt like the biggest shit heel on the face of the earth. I left him alone after that. My fear and hatred of Cade consumed what little moral fiber I possessed, and I knew I was becoming a monster like him. I would confess my faults and misdeeds to the priest and was getting very familiar with Hail Mary and Our Father.
My 11th Birthday was on Friday, May 26th. Usually, I’d be excited about a party, presents, cake, and ice cream with friends like Alvie and the kids from our neighborhood. I told Mom I didn’t want a party or a cake, and she looked at me like I had two heads. “Well, it’s up to you, Sonny, but the Baileys will be here, and we’ll order fried chicken – how does that sound?” I told her okay and felt a little bit better.
I kept quiet about it being my birthday at school and left for baseball practice after the 3:30 bell rang. I had my glove and cleats with me and started across the playground to the large backstop we shared with the Junior High next door. Eloise Himmel suddenly appeared beside me. I didn’t see her coming, but I wasn’t paying much attention to the surroundings. A few of my teammates started our way but veered off when they saw I was with Eloise. That was strange – it was like they came up against a Star Trek force field. Eloise asked me when practice started, and I said 4 o’clock. She suggested we sit on the bleachers down the rightfield line. I started wondering why Eloise was showing an interest in me, and at the same time, I knew it wasn’t for any earthbound reason. We sat on the second-row bench; it was the first time I’d seen her up close. We looked at each other, and her amber-colored eyes shone like a golden fire. We didn’t speak for what seemed like minutes but were probably only seconds, and I felt completely wrapped in a soft, warm blanket of comfort – there's no other way to describe it. Then, just like that, we were Sonny and Eloise from Mrs. Nash’s fifth-grade class. I sat there with my mouth open, and she said: “Close your mouth, or you’ll catch flies.” And she didn’t mean the baseball kind. She smiled shyly and said: “Happy Birthday, Sonny.” Part of me wanted to know how she knew; the other part was trying to process what had just happened. “I’ve always known, Sonny, I was there at your birth and beside you every step of the way.” You could have knocked me over with a feather.
“A-are you an angel?” I stammered. She bowed her head, and I felt a brief whisper of the comfort blanket. I then knew in my heart that she was. My knowledge of angels was limited to the Christmas Angel who announced ‘Good Tidings of Great Joy’ to the shepherds, the stained- glass depictions in church and various illustrations of heavenly, winged beings – baby-sized and adult-sized. I knew from the Catholic religious education classes my parents made me attend that there were good and bad angels. Still, in my childish perception, I thought of them as comic book characters like Superman or the Fantastic Four battling evil villains.
Eloise then looked at me with her amber eyes and said she knew about my trials and tribulations. She said that what is tried by fire will come forth like precious gold and silver. She told me of the unseen realm where her kind waged a constant battle with the forces of darkness over the souls of humankind. She said some dark powers sought to influence and corrupt those with a heart open to evil and violence. As I sat on the weathered wood bleacher seat, an understanding came rushing into my being – that's the only way to describe it – and Eloise put her hand on my arm and told me to let not my heart be troubled. This was heady stuff for a newly minted eleven-year-old boy, but her calm reassurance was like a healing balm, and I felt an enormous weight lifting from my shoulders.
The next thing I knew, I was in the third-base side dugout, putting on my cleats with a dozen other boys getting ready to field grounders, shag flies, take batting practice, and run the bases. It was a good practice, and Coach Reynolds singled me out for outstanding hustle and accurate arm in hitting the cutoff man from my position in right field. Alvie was watching us practice – he knew it was my birthday. When practice ended, we walked the mile back home, and he wanted to know how I’d gotten so good at baseball. I told him I’d always been that good – and was holding back so the other guys didn’t feel bad. “Yer a lyin’ sack,” said my pal. When I arrived home from baseball practice, the Baileys were already there, and after a birthday hug from Monica’s mom and a Happy Birthday Slugger! from her dad, I asked if Monica was there too. They acted coy, and her dad said: “Oh, she’s here, but she’s busy right now.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the bathroom door was wide open, so I knew she couldn’t be there. I needed a shower and took advantage of the empty washroom. After showering and changing clothes, I could smell the finger-lickin' good aroma of fried chicken ‘n fixin’s wafting from our kitchen, and it drew me like a magnet. We didn’t rely on the Colonel very often for our repast, so this made the occasion party-like, and I started to come out of my anti-party funk. Even though I told my mom I didn’t want a cake, she made my favorite yellow sheet cake with chocolate frosting. I even blew out the eleven candles but held back on the wish. I had an idea of what Monica had been up to when I first arrived when I saw what could only be an LP record album wrapped in colorful paper printed with about two dozen HAPPY BIRTHDAYS! The adults had their cake and coffee at the kitchen table while she and I went into the TV room, which also included a stereo record player. Monica’s bi-colored eyes sparkled as she handed me her gift and urged me to hurry up and tear off the paper. I said: “What’s this, the latest Monkees album?” She made an impatient grr sound and told me to “Just open it!!” When I removed the wrapping paper, a Beatles album emerged – one I’d never seen before but heard the rumors about - Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. “It only came out for sale today!” Monica exclaimed excitedly. “We bought one of the last copies in the rack from Value Mart on the way here!” I knew how much the Beatles meant to her, and my birthday, coinciding with the new album’s release date, seemed like a match made in heaven. Well, maybe not heaven, but it was cool, nonetheless.
We sat on the old couch in the TV room, gazing at the album cover, trying to identify the dozens and dozens of famous figures surrounding the now-mustachioed Fab Four. I thanked my cousin for her gift and told her it was the best I’d ever received. Not usually one for displays of emotion, Monica wiped a tear from her cheek and said: “Let’s listen to it, Sonny.” It was Memorial Day weekend, and I was off school Monday. I wondered if Eloise Himmel would be there Tuesday when school was back in session, and I wondered if I could keep from staring at her if she was. We went to Sunday mass, and St. Phil’s was only about half-full because of the holiday. I looked and didn’t see the Grimshaws – who always sat near the front on the left side. We normally sat wherever we could – usually near the back because we often arrived late. The few times I’d seen Cade in church, he was always on his best behavior and looked and acted like the perfect angel.
Church, for me, was just a place I went to on Sundays. I never felt any joy or good feeling being there; instead of listening to the priest, I often thought about what I would have done differently in a ballgame or wished he would hurry and finish so I could get home and change clothes. However, I made it a point this Sunday to pay attention, and the homily was on a section of The Sermon on the Mount. He talked about loving your enemy, blessing those who curse you, doing good to those who hate you, and praying for those who persecute you. It made me think about Cade, and those things were the opposite of what he deserved. The words sounded right and true, but they didn’t make sense. I still wanted him to suffer and feel pain – both physically and deep inside. I wanted him to feel what I had been feeling for the past year.
Eloise was at her desk in the back of the classroom on Tuesday morning, and seeing her brought forth a well of emotions that made me stop short and almost forget where I was. She glanced up in my direction, put her head back down to the book she had opened, and I quickly found my seat right before the tardy bell. Mrs. Nash had us break into study groups, and I ended up sitting next to Big Andi in one group while Eloise and Lani Umber were in another at the opposite end of the room. Andi turned and said: “Saw you and the new girl sitting together on the bleachers. Is she your girlfriend?” Eloise had been in class for over two months but still hadn’t shaken the new girl stigma. “No, we were just talking,” I said. “She’s weird, kind of like you – you two make a good match.” I shrugged and thought – if you only knew what I know, Big Andi. There was to be an end-of-the-school-year party in Mrs. Nash’s classroom on the last day before summer break, and she said we could bring records to play, provided they meet with her approval. I asked if Sergeant Pepper would be okay, and she said: “Yes, bring it!”
The party had a festive atmosphere, and Sergeant Pepper enhanced the celebration. The Monkees made a cameo appearance, but no one wanted it again after one spin around the turntable. Most kids were itching to get out and start their summer vacations. Mrs. Nash wished us all a lovely summer and let us out early, and most everyone ran out of the door in a state of high jubilation. A few stayed behind to help clean up. I lingered, and so did Eloise. After we said goodbye to Mrs. Nash, I placed the Sergeant Pepper album in a brown grocery sack and Eloise and I left together, crossing the now-empty playground toward the Junior High field. It seemed natural to be walking with her, and I became less aware of the surroundings and more tuned in to her presence. She didn’t say anything, and as we neared the same bleachers where she revealed her true nature a month ago, I suddenly became acutely aware of an imminent danger and saw Cade Grimshaw striding up a short berm from the direction of the Junior High. He was by himself.
I had that knotted-up-in-my-insides feeling as Cade strolled toward us with the same sardonic grin juxtaposed cruelly with his widow’s peak. He stood before us and, in that high-pitched tone, said: “Hey, Stain, it’s been a while – you making time with the orphan slut?” He looked at Eloise sneeringly, and I swear his eyes flashed red for a half-second. My reaction to being near Cade hadn’t changed, and I was rooted and frozen as he snatched the grocery sack from my hand. He lifted my treasured Birthday gift out, held it up, and said: “Oh, a pussy record for the shit-eating pussy,” then yelled: “Frisbee!” sailing it fifty yards into the outfield grass. I started after the LP, but Cade clamped his hand down hard on my upper arm, squeezing with inhuman strength. “Not so fast, Stain, that’s mine now, and I’ll pick it up after I’m through with you and the slut.” Eloise stood beside me quietly. I had forgotten she was there until she finally spoke. “You have no power here,” said in a voice that sounded clear and piercing – not loud but spoken with authority. Cade took a step back, stating not very convincingly: “Says you, slut.” Eloise’s amber eyes shone with that same golden fire and declared: “Be gone!” Cade then crumpled to his knees and managed a weak: “Shit eater,” uttered with no conviction. The surrounding area became vague and indistinct, with the three of us in stark reality on a small section of the green grass. I watched in disbelief as Cade abruptly made an oof sound, then grabbed his stomach, clearly in pain. Then, a second later, his mouth clamped shut, and his face turned red while he scratched at his throat with his fingers, unable to draw a breath. When his face took on a bluish tint, he suddenly gasped out air and began sucking it back in frantic gulps. As his breathing regulated, he cried out, grabbed his left flank, and started writhing on the ground in agony. All the while, Eloise seemed to grow in stature, and her eyes continued to shine like golden fire. Cade then started crying – huge, wracking sobs that mixed tears and snot down his blotchy face. I should have been exulting in his pain and suffering, but I wasn’t. I wanted it to stop. There’s a saying – I wouldn’t wish (fill in the blank) on my worst enemy. It’s true; at least, it was for me in that field.
The surrounding area again became focused as Cade got to his knees, then shakily stood up, rubbing his upper left arm. He looked at Eloise – now back to her schoolgirl personage – and started to say something that sounded like gibberish. Instead, he turned and ran toward his home.
Eloise and I watched Cade disappear; then, she turned and looked at me with her eyes now back to soft amber and said: “Remember today, and tomorrow will take care of itself.” I said I would, but I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant. I said I’d better go and fetch my record. She smiled and bowed her head as I jogged off. The disc had landed in the green, well-watered outfield grass and looked to be undamaged – not a scratch. As I turned to go back, I didn’t see Eloise anywhere and started running toward the bleachers. She was gone, but her satchel was on the second step. I frantically looked in every direction, trying to see where she went, but no one was around. I felt abandoned, sat down, picked up the satchel, and looked inside. It was empty, and as I held the rough canvas bag in my hands, I felt a warm blanket of comfort washing over me.
Cade never bothered me after that – staying out of my way was as strong a compulsion for him as mine was for staying out of his way. I still avoided his part of the neighborhood – old habits die hard. Alvie told me Cade’s father took down the rope swing after a kid fell and broke his arm. That summer, we heard about a rope swing at Lake Fenwick that swung out over the water. Alvie’s dad drove us there one Saturday – it was bitchin’.
Our summer trip to Tokeland arrived, and Monica never looked more grown up and beautiful. She would be entering junior high soon, and my dad said she’d probably have to beat the boys away with a stick. They didn't stand a chance if they weren’t fans of the Fab Four. We engaged in all our Tokeland activities during the vacation, and Monica told me she thought I seemed happier than usual. She wasn’t wrong.
The last evening again found us on the Hotel porch with myriad stars above. Monica pointed and said: “There’s the Swan.” I looked up and beheld the group of stars in Cygnus and said to my cousin: “You know, it looks more like an Angel.” She looked skyward with those remarkable eyes and said: “You’re right, Sonny, it does.”
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