Chapter 13

The Friday morning sunshine is warm, and Kerry doesn’t say anything when I tell her I’m leaving on a personal errand. She knows that I don’t shirk my work that often and probably figures I need to get ready for the fundraiser tonight.

Besides, she’s probably glad that I’m getting out for a little bit. While I doubt she’s already got the tequila flowing and is dancing on her desk, she is probably happy to take her foot off the gas for a few hours.

At least I won’t be able to dump any more work in her lap.

But starting yesterday for no apparent reason, I just couldn’t get the voice out of my head.

Hammering me.

Weak.

Stupid.

A failure.

So I knew I had to get out or else explode.

Going up to my penthouse, I go into my closet, where I quickly change into my disguise for the day, a baggy old-school Clyde Drexler Trailblazers jersey, shorts, custom-fit blond wig, and a snapback hat. Armed with a small duffel bag and using my keycard, I lock everyone out of the elevator all the way down to the sub-basement parking garage, where I get in my ten-year-old F150 that I use when I don’t want to be noticed.

I wish I could go talk to Mia. It might help. But I can’t. For two days, the prospect of having to do this event tonight has ratcheted up the pressure cooker that is my temper and my soul, and I can’t let her see me like this. I need to have my head on straight when we waltz into that room tonight because I won’t let her down when a public appearance like this is a big deal, and we both know it.

I need to let some of the anger and rage and pain out. And this... this helps. In fact, until this past Friday, it was just about the only thing that did help for more than a few hours.

Roseboro is beautiful as I pull away, a picture perfect warm blue sky with a few clouds that scream for kids to be running beneath them, pretending they’re one of their sports heroes.

As I drive, I wish for the millionth time that I could learn to enjoy days like this like normal people, maybe go for a walk or have a picnic and appreciate the gift of the sunshine, but I’m anything but normal. I can’t be normal... was never brought up to be anything of the sort. I was raised to be hard, suspicious, a hard shell wrapped around a dark pain that I could never discuss.

The eastern half of Roseboro is my destination for the day. This part of town is decidedly not the best, a far cry from the downtown bustle and the quaint suburbs. While Roseboro doesn’t have any real inner-city ghettos, it does have its bad areas.

And it’s from those dirt-lot parks full of single-wide hellholes that the kids I get to see today come from, orphans who were either abandoned by their families or just taken when their parents decided that alcohol or meth were more important than taking care of their progeny.

I get out of my truck at the Roseboro Boys’ Home, looking around at the old but well-maintained building. It’s been a personal project of mine, no publicity, no naming of any buildings... just my place to have a release. Slipping on my sunglasses, I get out and stretch, eager for what’s about to happen.

“Hey, Tom!”

I normally hate that name, but when I hear it from the excited mouth of an eager nine-year-old boy whose face is split with a huge smile as I approach the fence to the orphanage, it’s more than worth the instinctual flinch I hide inside.

“Hey, Frankie,” I greet my young friend and mentee, one of a dozen that I work with here. Going around to the back of the truck, I grab a big plastic cooler, wheeling it behind me. “How’re you looking for school next week?”

“You know how it is,” Frankie says. “I mean, I do okay, but what’s the point?” He shrugs dismissively, his eyes more haunted than any child’s should be.

“You know what the point is,” I reply, unzipping my bag and pulling out a football. “How’re you going to ever play for the Seahawks if you can’t get into college?”

Frankie grins, the old fantasy still having enough tread between us to at least let him hope for a moment. He’s barely a shade over four feet tall, and if he weighs fifty pounds, it’s because he’s soaking wet and someone’s put bricks in his pockets. But he’s a good kid, and he solidly catches the ball when I toss it to him.

After checking in with the orphanage staff using my fake ID, I follow Frankie out to the best part of the facility, a large grassy play area. It’s not big enough for all forty kids to play at once, but for the dozen who wander out to play some pickup football with me, it’s more than enough.

“Okay, guys, now who’s going to play QB?” I ask, waving my hands when everyone points at me. “Oh, no, I told you guys last time you’d have to work on your spirals. I want to catch once in a while too, you know.”

In the end, I actually end up not playing at all, which is what I want. Instead, I act as a ref, coach, and cheerleader as the kids strike up a spirited, sometimes rough, but still clean game of touch football.

Laughter, some smack talk, and joy fill the air as the ball flies back and forth. Frankie even catches a touchdown, which he celebrates with a half-respectable spike before all is said and done.

After the last pass, I open up my cooler, passing out Gatorades to everyone as they gather around.

“Okay, guys, good game today,” I tell them, closing the cooler and sitting down on the lid. “So listen, I heard what everyone was jaw jacking about during the game... seems you’re excited about Monday?” I’m trying to rename their emotions in a positive light, even though their chatter was full of nervousness and anxiety.

The groans around me are universal. Frankie’s not the only kid who’s not looking forward to school on Monday.

“Yo, Tom,” one of the guys says, “why should we be excited? Same bullshit, different year. Kids are gonna rag on us about our clothes, rag on us about being losers, all that shit.”

“Maybe they will,” I admit, and the guys nod. It’s probably what gives me a chance to connect with these kids better than a lot of the so-called volunteers who come down here. I give it to them straight, but at the same time, I encourage them.

So I’m going to be bluntly honest because that’s what they respect.

“I know most of you are going to say that I’m full of shit, but let me give it to you. A lot of kids, you know what happens to them? They sort themselves into some slot in their heads right about the same age you guys are, and they cruise in those slots. You see it now, the kids who just sort of know in their heads that they’re going to go to college, those who’re going to be blue collar, and then... well, you guys.”

“You mean the losers?” one of the boys says, copying his cohort’s word choice, and though they all laugh, I’m betting they’ve heard that and worse.

But I don’t laugh. “A lot of people probably already see you that way. Teachers who won’t give you that extra chance to fix mistakes that they’re giving Timmy Bank Account who comes from a ‘good family’. Other kids who have no idea what it’s like to wonder where your next meal is going to come from are going to bag on your PBamp;J lunch. You get a bit older, and you’re going to be pushed into a few categories. Those of you who have skills, folks will sometimes encourage you, especially if you’re good with a ball.”

There are cheers for Jeremy, who is a pretty sick point guard, and he flashes a thumbs-up. “Good... go for it, man. The rest of you, it’s not too late, and sports aren’t the only way out.”

A few of the boys look down, and I clear my throat. “Don’t let them write your future for you,” I tell them. “I come down here because I look around and I see possibilities. I see a ball player, a lawyer, a writer, a business owner.”

“Man, I ain’t ownin’ no business,” someone says, and I shake my head, growling.

“The only thing stopping you is you. It isn’t going to be easy, and it won’t be fair. You guys, more than anyone, know that life isn’t fair. But that’s okay. Because having to fight that much harder means you’re going to be that much stronger. So when I look at you guys, I see someone who’s going to be a man someday, maybe with a wife, a couple of kids, and a good home. And he’s going to look back at this place and see what he’s accomplished.”

I look at the building behind us, bland and institutional. “Turn around and look. That building right there—that’s where you are, not who you are. Where you’re at right now is beyond your control, but who you are? That’s your choice, today and everyday. Make the right choices and ultimately, you’ll get to be where you want to be too.” I let that sink in before adding, “Anyway, I’ll stop by sometime next week to see how school goes. I expect to see your heads held high. Deal?”

Of course it’s a deal. A lot of these boys are desperate for affection in any form, and more than one of them sticks by me as we gather my stuff up and get ready to leave. For a lot of these boys, it’s the only time adults give them the time of day, and it pains me to think that I’m somehow acting in a big brother or father figure role for a lot of them.

They deserve better than me.

The office door finally cuts me off from them, and Reba, the staffer on duty right now, signs me out. “How were they today?”

“Good boys,” I reply before starting to cough. “Sorry, Reba, you mind grabbing me a cup of water or something? Little dusty out there.”

While Reba’s back is turned, I slip my envelope into the incoming mail, wait until she comes back, and sip the water. “Thanks.”

“No problem. The boys here really are glad you come by.”

“I told them I’d be back sometime next week. I’ll give you guys a call, see what we can work out,” I reply. I figure she wants me to continue to come by but didn’t want to ask directly. She doesn’t need to. I enjoy this.

In some ways, I need this as much as the boys do.

“Thanks again, Reba.”

“Have a good one, Tom,” Reba says as ‘Tom Nicholson’ walks out of the Roseboro Boys’ Home. I get back in my truck, and I’m able to make it out of the parking lot and all the way to the nearest supermarket parking lot before I have to pull over, the memories too strong to deny anymore.

The Cadillac waiting outside of school is expected but unwanted as I come out of Briarwood Elementary, my bag over my shoulder and my new jeans still stiff and uncomfortable.

I didn’t get to ‘break them in’ like they call it. Nobody wanted to play with me... again. Since Kenny Tyson came to school talking about Mom and what his dad, who’s a cop, told him, everyone seems to not want to play with me.

But that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to the ride in the big black Cadillac.

Still, I don’t want Dad honking like he does if I go too slow, so I hurry across the parking lot and get in, buckling my seatbelt.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Tom,” Dad says coldly. It’s the only thing he says for the whole ride to his office, where my ‘after school corner’ is set up in the firm’s coffee room. I know to go right to work and sit down, looking at the math worksheet Mrs. Higgins sent home with me.

But homework doesn’t take me long, and by five o’clock, I’m done. I even read my library book for the third time, but the story about the frog and the pig is just boring by now.

Getting up, I go out to the hallway, walking carefully down to Dad’s office. The other lawyers in the office seem nice, but I don’t want to make them angry. Dad says I’m not to bother them or else.

But Dad’s secretary, a pretty girl named Christina, is nice. “Hi, Thomas!” she says, smiling as I walk in. “What can I do for you?”

“Uhm... I’m done with my homework,” I say, but before I can say more, Dad’s office opens and he walks out, stopping when he sees me.

“Go back to your work,” Dad says, barely even looking at me. “You’re not—”

“Sorry, Mr. Goldstone. I asked Thomas to help me with some stapling,” Christina says quickly, smiling at me. “He’s already done with his work, and I figured, well—”

“Whatever,” Dad says, leaving the office and walking out. I let out a sigh, wishing Dad would be like he was before Mom died.

“Come on, Thomas,” Christina says in that voice adults make when they’re not happy but don’t want us to know, patting the chair next to her. “You can help me do... something.”

Actually, something turns out to be fun as Christina puts me behind her computer, pulling up a game website. Protecting my castle from the monster blobs is fun, and I’m starting to smile when a little bubble pops up that says Email: RE: Autopsy, Grace Goldstone.

I don’t know what an ‘au-top-si’ is, I think, sounding out the unfamiliar word like Mrs. Higgins taught me, but Mom’s name makes me click on the bubble, and a new window opens. It’s a picture of some kind of paperwork, and a lot of it I can’t understand, but I recognize Mom’s name, our old address, and a few other things.

The first thing I see is Cause of Death. A lot of the words make no sense, but I learned what it meant later... suicide.

Something else highlighted makes my eyes fill with tears. Time of Death ... three thirty PM.

I know three thirty... that’s when Animaniacs comes on.

“No...” I whisper, and suddenly, Christina’s next to me, curious as to why I’m crying so hard. I want to be a big boy, I’m not supposed to cry, but I can’t stop.

“Thomas, what... oh, Jesus,” Christina says, seeing the screen. She hugs me, stroking my hair. “Honey, you weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Is it true?” I ask. “Was... was Mommy alive when I got home?”

Christina pulls away, looking into my eyes. “Thomas... Tom, never, ever blame yourself for that. What your mother did is her fault, not yours.”

“But if I’d not watched cartoons, if I’d checked on Mommy earlier—”

“No!” Christina says, hugging me again. “Never, ever blame yourself, Tom.”

But I already did. I wipe my eyes, blinking back the pain. Starting up my truck, I drive back to the Goldstone building, parking and going up to my penthouse. I smell, I’m sweaty, and I need to shower before I get ready for the evening.

As the water runs over my shoulders and I’m letting the conditioner soak into my hair, I think about things. Twenty years from that day, and Christina’s words still ring hollow.

Because I do blame myself.

If I had focused, if I hadn’t been weak... if I had been a good son, I could have gotten the ambulance there in time.

I could have had my mother... and I could have really had my father instead of the cold, distant man who’s never shown me love since that day.

You deserve it. You failed her.

Maybe that’s why I go to the orphanage to help out from time to time. I especially go before events like this dog and pony show tonight.

Those kids, from Frankie to Jeremy to even shy little Shawn, who’ve got issues even deeper than mine, understand. Like understands like, and they see that, regardless of whether my father’s still alive or not, I’m just as much an orphan as they are.