I
wasn't the same for a long time after his accident. I can remember the
last time we were on the squash court. My son was a great player and
was as passionate as I was about the game. I was fortunate that I was
able to pass this great game of squash down to him. We played hundreds
if not thousands of times. I never told him this but squash was my way
of protecting him from all the evils of the outside world. He never had
time really for drugs and alcohol and he was always training for
tournaments and playing tournaments, so he had little time for social
life outside of squash.
I am a writer, I write short stories
and poems. I don't know if I'm any good at writing but it doesn't
matter. I love it and can't imagine ever not writing, just as I
couldn't imagine never stepping on a squash court.
3 years
ago my son met a girl. She was very pretty, played squash, was what
we'd call a hot head. She was very tempestuous, didn't like to lose but
was also very talented, so she didn't lose often At first I was so
happy for my son, telling him it was great that he found someone
special who shared his passion for squash.
They both went to
a college up North where they were standouts for their college team.
When I saw my son at holidays and breaks he was different. He was
quiet, subdued, and when we went and played he didn't seem himself. I
tried talking to him, I tried bringing him out. He had always been a
bit moody, especially if he wasn't playing well, but he was playing
extremely well. He told me he seemed distracted all the time and had
trouble sleeping. I asked him about his girlfriend how she was doing.
He told me she was fine. I asked if everything was okay between them
and he said yes. But I knew something wasn’t right.
That was
the last time I saw him alive. He and his girlfriend were killed up in
New Hampshire coming back from a school match in Boston, It was their
last match. I forgot to mention prior to that that I did receive an
email from him which I didn’t think of until I was notified by campus
security and school officials of the accident. His email thanked me for
the values I instilled in him, he hadn't been true to them recently but
he felt that it was because of his values that he didn't make wrong
choices.
I was divorced from my second wife and we had two
young children. My son, through a first marriage, was estranged from
his mother ever since she left us for a hip hop artist who promised her
fame and fortune. She was beautiful, a black girl whom I fell in love
with from Vassar College who always wanted to be "ghetto" as they used
to call it -- she hated being from an upper class black family out of
Boston where her father was a celebrated cardiologist. I seemed to be
an aberration in her life, a young white graduate student studying
classics and looking to be a college professor. We met one summer while
we both had summer internships at Fidelity Investments on Devonshire
Street in downtown Boston. We fell madly in love that summer and for
me, it was like something I never knew. A girl that beautiful could
fall in love with me. But it turned out I was just someone to
appease her dad, who never really took all that kindly to me because I
was a poor white graduate student in a field that had absolutely no
future. And besides, I wasn't from Harvard like he was. But he played
squash and I did too. He was a terrible player and I enjoyed beating
him the two times we played. He never played with me ever again.
My
first wife left me to raise my son by myself. It was the best thing in
my life and it seemed to bond us together like no other father and son
could be. My second wife came years later. She and my son immediately
clashed so it was a good thing we separated because she didn't like
that I had another child by some other woman, even if that woman had
not been in our lives for years. And it didn't make sense since my
first wife had killed herself some years back. My second wife seemed to
think I carried this torch for my first wife. It was crazy. We had two
little girls, beautiful girls, and I take great care of them when they
are with me. They are now just old enough to start playing squash. I
always took them to the courts when my son was around so they could
watch us play. They laughed at their father getting whipped every time
out. After our match the girls couldn't wait to get on the court and
soon enough they were playing each other and learning to rally a bit.
My son and I just marveled at how they took to this game just like he
did. We both acknowledged they would both be great players.
The
insurance company because of the large life insurance policy required
an autopsy before the payout. It was never supposed to be like this it
was an investment that when my son reached the age of 40 he would have
a very generous annuity. After the payout, I wanted to donate or set up
something with squash, a scholarship or the likes at his alma mater
with the insurance money.
When we cremated him and had his
ashes in a quiet ceremony atop Mt. Monadnock tossed to the blustering
and cold winds, I knew that with those ashes, in the wind, the very
life went out of me. I could hear the sound of the air going out of my
bicycle tire when I was a boy and that was what I heard inside of my
head that strangely grey and empty day. Many times we climbed that
mountain together -- we would never do that again.
The
autopsy came back with some startling news. My son had significant
traces of heroin in his blood. I was dumbfounded. It didn't make sense.
I wouldn't believe it and to this day never will. Part of me suspected
something hadn't been right with him. There was no autopsy on his
girlfriend. so I couldn't verify if they had been partying and that
somehow heroin got in the mix. I did find out that his girlfriend was 2
months pregnant.
I hit rock bottom to be honest. It took a
while, my girls kept me afloat but I was mostly haunted by what could
have been. I tried to imagine my son taking heroin but just
couldn't. I even hired an investigator and he came up with very
little. I wanted to remember my son not for the suspicion surrounding
his death but for the wonderful human being he was. ______________________
I
stopped playing squash. It was simply too painful for me to get on
court. Too many memories, I tried with my girls but it seemed I saw my
son more on the court in our past than I ever saw my girls in the
present. I stopped writing too. Nothing seemed to come out of me
and fill up the white space. I also started drinking a lot. I drank to
really numb the hurt inside, the drink enabled me to at least breathe
freely on occasion. I drank to fall asleep, to forget, to never
remember the past. Without drink it was the same memories of my son,
our life together and the horrible feeling I had been robbed. I tried
to imagine the grandson I lost, I lost two sons that day, my son and
his son, my grandson, the child his girlfriend carried. I read the
Bible but the drink was more effective. A couple of years went on like
that, I was in pretty bad shape and then something unexpectedly happed.
My old writing professor whom I often sent my work to, he was my
mentor, was living up in the Brattleboro area. He had heard about my
tragedy and reached out to me. He wanted to know if I was writing.
He
was retired from the University of Massachusetts English Department and
was doing some squash coaching at a small club in Brattleboro. He
wanted to know if I would come up and stay for awhile, that he could
really use some help coaching and he'd like to see if maybe a change in
place would get me writing again. I was a bit reluctant because as my
mentor he knew what I was about. He knew the squash would get my mind
and body into something healthy. He knew the writing would help me cope
with my tragedy. I blessed him for it and kept turning him down, until
one afternoon I packed up after 3 straight nights of drinking and
sleeplessness and headed north It was early autumn, the trees were
changing the sun and blue skies brilliant. I remembered a long time ago
that seemed like yesterday when I drove my son up to New Hampshire on a
similar day for his freshman orientation. We stopped at the basketball
Hall of Fame and at the University of Massachusetts where I showed him
where I went to college. He had seen it many times before but only as a
little boy. Now, he was where I was when I was his age.
My
mentor was genuinely happy to see me and took me to a guest house in
his converted barn. It was late afternoon and the air was chilly and
the sun hit the tops of the treetops and the shadows stretched across
my heavy heart. I pulled out my bottle and took a large swig or two it
seemed to settle me down. I lay on the bed looking at the exposed
beam ceilings and dosed off. I dreamt of my son, he was a little boy, I
held his head in my hands and told him I would never leave him, he was
distraught, "Daddy don't leave me." I told him I would never leave him
and I noticed he had a rash on his neck and kept scratching it and I
was scolding him to stop scratching and he just said to me "Daddy it
itches, it itches so much."
I woke in a dark room not
knowing where I was, at first I thought I was in a coffin, but as my
eyes adjusted to the darkness i could make out the outlines of the
room. I got up looked out at the window saw my car and saw my mentor in
the kitchen window staring out into space drinking a glass of wine.
We
drank quite a bit that night and went walking through the streets of
town which were deserted by 8 pm every night. We walked up and down
Main Street in Brattleboro and then he took me over to some row houses
on the outskirts of town. There was loud music, and the din of
bantering and young girls giggling. We stopped just short and stood in
the shadows.
"Look, do you see, these kids are buying
heroin from dealers who come in over Canada and sell it so cheaply.
These are 14 year old kids addicted to heroin. The town tries and cope
but mostly they want it to go away, they set up shelters and solicit
help from citizens and businesses alike. But it's no use. It's a wave,
a tidal wave, and no one knows how to stop it."
I just
listened, I didn't know why he thought I was interested in this and
what did it have to do with me anyways. Then he told me how he started
a squash program in his club in conjunction with the local police. Any
juvenile arrested for heroin instead of going to juvenile detention is
released to the custody of himself and a colleague who runs the
addiction program out of Brattleboro Memorial. They've partnered up to
try and use therapy and athletics to help these kids. He explained to
me that these kids are seduced by the dealers because these kids have
little or nothing in the area. I knew he was asking me because of my
son, I resented it but didn’t say anything.
The next morning
he and I hit the courts and played. I hadn't played in sometime, it was
hard, squash is very unforgiving and showed no mercy on me because I
lost my son or my life was ruined. I battled my mentor to a split. But
coming off the court it was like, I couldn't describe it except to say
there was a glimmer, the slightest crescent of hope that I might not be
gone or done for yet.
The next day the same thing and the
next day and the next. The girls were with my sister and her husband,
and I know how much they loved them.He introduced me to some of the
kids. I watched him with his great enthusiasm and passion try to
inspire them. I wondered how many of them were doomed, how many
would make it. What could possibly be more powerful than squash, if you
told me God I would understand, but drugs?
I met a young man
the other day who was part of the program he was fifteen, he was a
light skinned black teen , gaunt, who shuffled when he walked and
looked at his feet a lot but when he was on court and hitting the ball
he was something. I couldn't really look at him because I knew my son
was in him. He hitched his backhand the same way my son did, he snapped
his head to the left and hit to the right just like my son did. I was
dumbfounded. I just watched my mentor drill him and sat there. I
needed a drink, I was going to that space that sadness was drawing me
into. But I kept watching. Finally my mentor motioned for me to get on
court. I reluctantly agreed and got on court.
I hit around
with the young man and watched him out of the corner of my eye. I
suggested some technical adjustments and we drilled and played a bit. I
stopped and asked him why he played. He looked at his feet, "I dunno I
just play."
"Do you want to be good?"
"I dunno, I can try."
"How did you get involved with heroin."
"You
know a party everyone doin' it if you not doin' it they make fun, it
seem they wan you to be like them, all my friends doin it iv ya don't
you haf no friends."
We hit some more. I asked him what it was like -- what did it do for you.
"Mista, it aint like nothing it is like you on top of Everest looking down, and you are on top of the wurld."
"So why stop? Why not just keep using? I think most people feel they are not on top of the world."
"Thatz
just it when you not on top of the wurld you are in the worst place,
the bottom, the very bottom, mista without hope of ever gettin' out."
I
stayed up there and coached this kid for the next 6 months. He was the
only one I coached. He liked to read, but his level of reading wasn't
so good. I helped him with his reading and was quite taken aback just
how much he read. His squash was becoming quite good; he had a gift for
it and was now one of the better players.
I had stopped
drinking, I was now able to think of my son, feel the immense sadness
of missing him without drinking. Sometimes on court I would mistakenly
say my son's name to the boy. I seemed mixed up, but it made me
feel better, it made me feel like there was more to it all than those
ashes in the wind. I wanted this kid to be my son, being my son, being
with him, made everything so much better. I missed the girls terribly,
had them up for a week at Christmas, but I had to get better, for all
of us.
I took the boy to Springfield one Saturday afternoon
to hear a production of Madame Butterfly. I knew it was a long shot for
him to like it, but to my surprise he sat there enthralled throughout
it. In the end I saw tears streaming down his face when Butterfly kills
herself.
He failed to show for one of our sessions a week
after the Springfield trip and I didn't think much of it until he
didn't show for another. When he didn’t show for another week I became
alarmed and didn’t want to think the worst. The police and program
coordinator couldn't locate him, at the shelter he had failed to come
check in so they gave up his bed. The system wasn't good but they tried
and my mentor was listed as the emergency contact, but they said he'd
not been in the shelter for more than 4 nights so they would have to
give up his place.
Weeks went by and eventually my mentor
had some lead on the young man that he'd been spotted in neighboring
Keane, over the New Hampshire border. We went to Keane and after hours
of searching the addicts hangouts we were able to find him. He was
high, and at first didn't recognize me or my mentor.
"Son, what is wrong, can we help you?" I asked.
"Nah mista unless you on Everest you can't help me. And besides, I ain’t yurr son."
I
stayed with him a bit and was hoping he'd come down and maybe change
his mind and give it another go. But he never did give it another go.
I
left the young man alone and stopped trying to win him back. I stayed
another few months with my mentor, and wrote some stories that received
some modest acclaim. But it was empty, I never saw the young man again.
He could have been my son, you know, he really could have been.
This
story and the stories in this contest are works of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors'
imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, or to any other works of
fiction, is entirely coincidental.
