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Martin, Revisited
Chapter TBD
WHO'S THE HERO?
Copyright 2016 - 2020 Christina M. Guerrero
INTERMEDIATE DRAFT
PROLOGUE, FIRST SECTION - Martin - Thoughts while falling asleep. Which led to a short story. Which led to a novel.
CHAPTER ONE - The English Rose - Martin in love.
CHAPTER TWO - The Mooch Message - You may think words don't matter. But they do.
CHAPTER THREE - Congratulations - Time to celebrate. Or is it?
CHAPTER FOUR - The Heart Of Man - Who we are.
INTERLUDE NUMBER ONE - Turning A Writing Project Into A Novel - A few things to consider
CHAPTER FIVE - The Dead Thing - The green spaceship theory.
CHAPTER SIX - TBD
CHAPTER SEVEN - TBD
CHAPTER EIGHT part one - Their Children, Again - Life as a child.
CHAPTER EIGHT part two - Their Children, Once More - Growing up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- A Scent Of Roses - Pondering infinity.
IN PROGRESS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft One:
Not sure if I want this in the story, or where to place it if I do, but I like it.
This definitely needs editing.
The part at the coffee shop was a bit of a challenge to write.
Spoiler alert ::: spoiler alert ::: spoiler alert ::::
Yes, Carter gets to interact with his biological father.
So many children do not make it out of an abusive situation. In writing this, I imagine all of them,
including those I personally know, moving on to be and experience all they want, without the abuse.
What a wonderful world it would be without abuse of any kind.
DISCLAIMER
Except for the first section of the prologue and the interludes, this is a work of fiction.
The rest is either a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, things, or events is coincidental and unintentional.
Carter stopped in the doorway of his bedroom, still and silent with grief.
Grief had been approaching all day long. Now it was here including but not limited to feeling: longing, sadness, serious, achey, confused, tired, and many other things.
He shook his head, trying to get rid of the feelings and images.
But she had died. His sweet early childhood crush had died. He was fifteen, and it had been eleven years, but the loss was still fresh in his mind, as if it had happened only moments ago.
Instinct and survival skills surfaced: Put your phone in plain sight and turn on the film application. Just in case.
He did so, then went to his bed and sat. After a while he put the crutches on the floor, perpendicular to the bed. He did not want to get up again this evening. He might skip dinner. They rarely objected to that.
Carter was already crying, but silently. He had perfected the art. Some day he might loan out this skill; teach others how to release emotions without making a sound; become an instructor.
He let out a sob as he stretched out on his bed: a small, barely audible sound. A frown, then a grimace, wrinkled his face; he felt the muscles contorting. Once, while crying at the table when he least expected it at age six -- grief was like that, a doctor would tell him -- he was asked, “What is WRONG with you? Why does your face look like that? You didn’t LOVE her. You hardly KNEW her.” Correction: they had been friends for a year; they were smart kids; they both were aware of having a good friendship. Ignoring the speaker, he had simply wept as he wished. The complaining turned into taunting, then threats, then an order to leave the table until he could sit there with a smile on his face. He had grabbed several rolls and left; for whatever reason no one had followed him.
That time.
Footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He looked toward the doorway. One of them stood there, looking in, then vanished.
Carter tensed, then felt his jaw clench. He continued to cry silently but now he felt confused at the next memory: crying in the privacy of the library, with the door closed, when it burst open and he was asked loudly, close to but not quite shouting: “WEREN’T YOU TOLD NOT TO CRY OVER THAT GIRL?”
He had just turned seven, and had been reading about grief shortly before the crying began. According to the encyclopedias (there were several sets in the place where he grew up, one dating back to the 1800s), and the medical books, he would be crying around birthdays and holidays and major events. It was normal.
After reading that, he felt better. The girl had died on his fourth birthday. Every year on his birthday so far, he cried the most.
As usual, he ignored the contentious, raging speaker and continued crying. The crying would not stop on command. The body needed to let it out. He had figured that out on his own. Then he would need time to recover from the crying.
The speaker started up again, ranting about irrelevant nonsense.
Carter wept, wiping his eyes with tissues.
Suddenly, he heard a loud thump, as if something heavy had hit the floor.
Wearily, he opened his eyes.
The dictionary was on the floor, apparently haven fallen from its stand.
“What was that?” Someone called from another floor.
“Jacob knocked the dictionary onto the floor,” the contentious speaker shouted.
“Jacob can’t move that thing. Try again. Something’ll stick.”
The speaker struggled to get the dictionary back on the stand.
Carter took advantage of this moment to get his crutches and move to the doorway, where he expertly and quickly moved to the lift. He buckled up and was on his way to the third floor, where the playroom was, when the speaker rushed over and stopped the lift.
Carter unbuckled the buckle, heaved himself out of the lift and flung himself to the stair railing, which he clung to, and moved upstairs as quickly as possible, but it was difficult; he had to use mostly the strength in his arms. They usually did not follow him for too long, but there was always a first time to be tackled and abused.
The speaker made the lift go up and down the stairs, then made it go slowly as it it were mocking Carter, who moved out of sight of the speaker ... or so he hoped. At that point, he took a set of crutches out of a nook, went to a large window, opened it, heaved himself onto the small balcony, shut the window, and slowly made his way to the ground via the outside stairs that led to each balcony and then to the alley next to the building. He went slowly but steadily, with the crutches in his shirt, figuring they would meet him near the street, as there was no other exit. At the street, no one was there. He simply made a left turn and disappeared into the evening, crying once again.
On his bed, he smiled. That was triumphant. He had been stopped by the police, who had received calls about a child who was wandering around and weeping. They had brought him back to The Building, and about an hour later, a social worker arrived, reminding them that this was the second phone call.
There had been a conversation between a loud voice and a reasonable voice: “Who called the police?” “That’s confidential.” “Why do you have to interview everyone?” “We need to get the facts.” “Why is this happening?” A pause then the reasonable voice, “Perhaps the child could be placed elsewhere. Perhaps this is not a place where he can thrive.” “Are you insinuating he is not thriving? He has everything he could possibly WANT.” Pause. “A child is not thriving if he is lying on a regular basis. If he is not lying, then he is definitely not in a place where he is safe.” Longer pause. The loud voice: “Why do there have to be unannounced visits?” “So we can be sure his civil rights are not being violated. Including but not limited to cruel and unusual punishment.” “He is NOT BEING PUNISHED.” “Please lower your voice.” Pause. “Okay.” “Thank you. Now. If the child is telling the truth, then it is cruel to criticize or punish him for grieving. He witnessed another human being’s death--” “He did NOT.” “Yes, he did. There were fifty witnesses who not only saw what he saw, but also saw him watching. Please stop contradicting me.” “I am NOT contraDICting you--” “Please stop.” Long pause. The reasonable voice: “We will be making unannounced visits until we are confident the child is thriving. If not, then we may look into foster care. In the meantime, he will be allowed to grieve properly.”
Carter had been barely acknowledged for four years; an incident occurred when he was eleven; he decided to stay.
Now, he continued to cry silently. He had just turned fifteen; he still remembered every detail of his fourth birthday; he felt nauseated at the images of his friend’s death. Weary and overwhelmed, he covered his eyes with one big hand.
The voice did not startle him or scare him.
“What are you doing in bed on a Saturday?”
He pretended not to hear. Still crying, he decided to ignore the fact that the voice was not asking about his state of mind.
The voice said, “Did you HEAR me?”
Hands grabbed Carter -- one hand on his collar, the other on his belt.
He was dragged to the edge of the bed. He was five-ten but rather slim -- only one hundred and forty pounds, due to moving around a lot and burning off more calories than he took in.
Carter said without moving the hand over his eyes, “Let gooo.”
“What’s that?”
He was dragged a bit further. With his right hand he held on to the comforter, which was tight between the bed and the wall.
“Let gooo,” Carter said again, calmly.
“Ooo,” the voice mimicked.
The hands appeared to let go. Carter’s right hand loosened.
Then, faster than he could have anticipated, Carter was grabbed again and yanked off the bed.
He landed on his left side on something hard: his crutches. The fall knocked the wind out of him and he felt stinging pains up and down his left side. For several long moments he balanced awkwardly. Then his breath returned and he absorbed air.
He moved to a sitting position. His left side burned and ached. He grunted at the pain.
Someone poked their head in and said, “Dinner’s in thirty minutes” then left.
Carter ignored this. He prepared for a maze of hell to his freedom.
He decided to take only a light jacket, his wallet, and his cell phone, which he hoped to use as proof of the abuse, and also to call his social worker, who had officially stopped visiting only a month ago.
Perhaps they might think he had business outside; that had worked once. He got his most reliable crutches, went to the lift, placed them on his lap, and had an uneventful ride down except for the terrible pain in his side. He got up, went to the door, opened it, went outside, and shut the door. He went down the stairs carefully, then started walking. He looked back once and saw a silent building.
Abruptly, he jaywalked across the street; traffic stopped silently, almost reverently. No one shouted or called out. He reached the other side and kept going.
After a few blocks, he hailed a cab and went to the library, where he researched -- grunting in pain the entire time -- the job opportunity he had been considering, and the attorney recommended to him. Everyone and everything appeared to be legitimate.
After that, he went to the hospital, where he called Esperanza, his social worker. She listened, then told him to wait for her. She arrived thirty minutes later with a police officer and a detective, and coordinated health care for him. Everyone agreed to assist him with emancipating, and everyone had good things to say about Hughes Taylor, Attorney-At-Law.
Carter listened and watched everything, answering questions dully, often staring into space, not understanding why human beings were so violent.
“Hey, buddy, you with me?”
The voice belonged to a soft-spoken man named Grady, a counselor. He was with his supervisor, another soft-spoken man named Kramer. They had explained it was a teaching hospital.
Carter shook his head no. “I I I ... I I I have these staring spells. When I I remember things. Sometiiimes they laaast a looong time. Theyyy interfere with my studies and my wooork.”
“When they’re finished collecting evidence, and if you’re up to it, how about telling me more about the spells?”
“Okayyy.”
Everyone left after a while. Carter called the attorney’s office and reached only voicemail: a firm yet polite tenor that announced, “You have reached the law offices of Hughes Taylor. I am either away from my desk or with a client. Please leave a message including your name, phone number and purpose of your call and I will respond within twelve hours. Thank you.” After a beep, Carter said, “Hello, Mr. Huuughes. I would liiike to talk to you about fiiiiling for emancipaaation. Aaand a name change.” He left his number.
As he stared yet again into space, a nurse and the counselors returned.
As the nurse checked Carter’s side, he grunted and said, “This is nooot the first tiiime I I I have been abuuused.”
Kramer appeared to think about something. He said, “Carter, do you mind if the officer and the detective join us?”
“Nooo, I I I don’t mind.”
When they had returned, along with Esperanza, Carter began talking. At first, they all took notes. No one interrupted him; they appeared to fully understand him, which made him angry because he had been told hundreds of times at The Building that he made no sense and that his attempts at conversation were suspicious and/or random.
The day in the playroom made them shake their heads. The death of his friend and his struggle to grieve properly made them shake their heads, but they continued writing. He described the crying in the streets. They took notes and observed sympathetically.
When he got to the time between age seven and eleven, and to age fifteen, they gradually stopped writing. The officer nudged the detective, who resumed. Kramer frowned and sighed then also resumed.
Carter said, “The trouble with chiiild abuse is that it haaappens to children. Children who sometiiimes don’t understaaand that they aaare being abused. Sometiiimes theyyy are not so-called ‘hurt’, just disturbed or startled and then apologized to. Some children mayyy be easily tricked or lured or rewarded into being alone with someone whooo only wants to harm the chiiild in sneaky wayyys. This has happened to meee. Over aaaand over. The system looks at us from the outside, and mayyy consider that either side mayyy be lying or telling the truuuth, no matter how much the child is being abused. Theyyy ... the entities ... over at The Building where I I I I lived ... will tell you that none of this ever haaaappened, that they consider meee a liar, that they think I I I have no brains and could not possiblyyy understaaand anything beyond my own nose. Those of us who aaare abused will aaask for help a few times with hope, and then a few more times with desperation, and then if we dooo not leave or aaare not rescued ... youuu discover ourrr dead bodies as evidence of everything we experienced. Youuu reallyyyy neeed to change something about this system. I will beee suffering the rest of my liiife, and yes I I I know I I could have left last tiime, because I knew it might get worse. So I I I know it is not your fault. But for those who end up dead ....” Carter shook his head.
Esperanza said, “It’s not your fault, Jacob. None of it-”
“Call meee Carter. I I I will beee changing my naaame, too. Jaaacob is aaa good name. But I I I liiike Carter better.”
“It’s not your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong. Even if you chose to stay.”
Carter shook his head, squinting. He had a migraine; it had started while he was crying on the bed.
“I I I don’t want to go to a foster home tonight. I I want my own room. A hotel room. Is thaaat possible?”
Esperanza said, “We can get you your own room in a therapeutic foster home. You can stay there until you are granted emancipation. I think we’ll be able to get that done as quickly as possible.”
Carter frowned again. “Therapeutic? I’ve never heard of such aaa thing.”
Kramer nodded. “You can receive many services there. And once you get emancipated, you can do what you want. I’ve only known you a few hours, and I think you’re all right and will be okay.”
Carter started shaking; he knew there was no expression on his face; he had perfected the art of amusement without projection as well.
Grady said, “You okay?”
Carter smiled. “Yes. I I I am laughing. With gratitude and triiiumph.”
He suffered through a few more examinations and being photographed, and instructions from the doctors and counselors. When it was over, Esperanza accompanied Carter to the foster home, which was close to the lower west side.
With interest, Carter entered the blandest, most unremarkable brownstone he had ever seen and met with several adults and a group of teenagers. Esperanza and another social worker handled introductions, rules, and regulations, and endless paperwork.
Carter observed, but had shut down. He only wanted to know one thing from each person: how badly did they want to go to jail? If the answer was “Never” then they would have to act accordingly.
After a long orientation, he went to a decent room. It was clean and might be comfortable if he cared for it to be.
As he tried to make himself at home, his phone buzzed. A text message from The Building announced, “It’s dinner time. Where are you?”
Carter frowned. He heard Esperanza’s voice and went to her and showed her.
“We’re waiting,” she said.
“For whaaat.”
She hesitated. Looked around quickly. “For maximum effect. We also need a warrant. Which shouldn’t take too much longer.”
“Maaaximum effect. Tell me whaaat happens.”
“Oh, I will.” She shook her head, and appeared to stare into the distance. She touched a charm on one of her necklaces. “I’ll be here until it happens and then update you.”
Carter nodded, then returned to his room.
His phone beeped. He found a voicemail message: “Carter, this is Hughes Taylor. Thank you for calling. When you're free, please call me back.”
Carter eagerly returned the call.
The firm voice said, “Good evening, Hughes Taylor At Law.”
“Hiii, Mr. Taylor. I I I want to know if youuu dooo pro bono work.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Is it okayyy if my social worker talks to youuu?”
“Yes.”
“Her naaame is Esperanza.” Carter found her, briefly explained, then handed her the phone.
She spoke for a while, outlining Carter’s experiences, and his legal needs. She grew quiet, and Carter waited. Finally, the conversation picked up again. She wrote several lines of notes, then hung up. “He said he would like to talk to you, with the possibility of offering pro bono for the emancipation and name change, and a fifty percent discount on his fees for five years after that.”
Carter felt his stomach somewhere near his throat, imagining vast quantities of his money going toward legal fees, no matter what the discount. He imagined this was like a divorce, and promptly decided he would avoid getting married until he was reasonably sure he would not be getting divorced. “Okay. Will you go with me?”
“Yes. Let’s decide on a good time for an appointment and get back to him.”
Carter returned to his room and tried to get comfortable, but it was impossible. He could not properly sit or lie down or stand. He settled for a recliner, in which he sat mostly on his left buttock, pillows behind his right side, and giggled briefly. “Waaake up and grieve; go to bed with fractured ribs,” he muttered. “Well. Hairline fractures.” He could barely breathe without some pain; he winced constantly; it was difficult to move without burning pain up and down his left side.
He stared into space, and suddenly felt like no time had passed since the sunny playroom day. He was being hit, then thrown, and he was in the hallway ....
“Carter?”
He turned. One of the foster parents was there, holding a tray with glasses of milk and a vast quantity of cookies. They smelled home-made.
“Carter, would you like me to get the counselor?”
He nodded, then reached for the tray.
“Please. Take some milk. This here is soy milk near my left hand. And chocolate chip, oatmeal. That’s it. Take one of each.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
A few minutes later, the on-site counselor arrived and said, “I love chocolate chip cookies” as she nibbled on one.
“Meee too.”
“Having flashbacks?”
“Yes.”
“I see you have a prescription for an anti-depressant, and another for anxiety. You said you’d rather do this without meds?”
“Yes.”
“That may be possible with talk therapy and relaxation techniques. Have you tried either of those before?”
“No. Both sound good to meee.”
“If you’d like, we could chat now, and I could suggest some ways to relax so you can get some sleep.”
He listened, but regretted wasting her time. Everything she said, he already knew from reading extensively in the library at The Building. He had been left alone there often enough that he had expanded his knowledge quite a bit. With as much patience as possible, he took notes on his phone, then thanked the counselor as she left.
Carter chewed on the cookie and sipped at his milk. As he thought that perhaps he might enjoy some peace, even just a few seconds, his phone rang.
It was The Building.
He hit “accept” then put the call on speaker.
“What,” he said blandly.
“HOW DARE YOU CALL THE POLICE! HOW DARE YOU! YOU FELL OFF THE BED, YOU STUPID IDIOT! YOU STUPID, STUPID, STUPID. STUPID.”
Esperanza appeared in the doorway. Carter nodded at her and held his phone so she could hear. She walked in, followed by a medium-sized, slim black man who wore a fitted dark gray suit; he carried a briefcase. Everything about him was long, slim and narrow.
“What,” Carter said again.
“YOU FELL ... OFF ... THE BED. HOW DARE YOU TELL THE POLICE YOU WERE YANKED OFF. YOU ... FELL. YOU STUPID DUMB-ASS. YOU ARE ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS PLAYING THE VICTIM. HOW DARE YOU???” The speaker choked and gagged and coughed.
“Can’t hear you,” Carter said, using the words that he could speak that would go through as clearly as possible. “You’re talking too loud.”
“HOW DARE YOU. YOU LIAR. AND THAT LITTLE VIDEOTAPE YOU CLAIM TO HAVE CANNOT BE USED IN A COURT OF LAW. YOU ARE SUCH A LOSER.”
Carter growled, something he had done only once in this lifetime. The first time at age five, his attacker had turned and run away.
Esperanza and the black man stepped back. The voice stopped.
Carter ended the phone call and said clearly yet roughly, “Make it stop. Please.”
Esperanza said, “Carter, this is Hughes Taylor.”
Hughes Taylor observed silently, and did not extend his hand. “Carter, with your permission, I can accept you as a client right now.”
Carter remembered everything from his research, gave it a few seconds of thought, then said, “I agree. What do we need to do?”
Hughes said, “Many things. If you’ve got time right now, we can set up our basic plan of attack.”
“Yes, please.”
Carter got as comfortable as possible.
He aged years during this first meeting with counsel. Counsel. He liked that word. He checked Esperanza now and then; she was touching that charm; she appeared to be thoughtful and pleased. She was also long and slim, with olive skin and long dark brown hair with strands of gray. She looked like photographs of Indians he had seen in his schoolbooks. She wore long flowing garments that still looked professional and appropriate for the office. Sometimes he thought he might have a crush on her. Sometimes he did not.
Hughes listened to Carter first, like the medical staff and police: as if he made perfect sense. Nothing needed to be repeated, and nothing was criticized and nothing was labeled random or hard to understand. Carter asked about several possible outcomes to his situation, and for clarification and costs of each outcome.
Carter listened then. Hughes was thorough and helpful and entertaining as well. “Carter, you could do this the so-called easy way. Or you could do this the so-called hard way. It’s a quality of life thing. You could do what makes you happy. Or you could continue making them happy. What would make you happy? Give that some thought. We are all here to help you. And if you fall, we are sworn to help you get back up: your social worker, your doctors and counselors, and me, or if you’re not happy with me at any time, with whomever you choose as counsel. We are supposed to listen, and help you achieve what you want to achieve. If you want to walk out that door right now and sell purple band-aids the rest of your life and get awards in the future for doing so, we can set that up. Now, I am all for justice, so if you want to get a nice settlement, we can certainly work on that. You have suffered enough. Let’s bring some joy back into your world. If it’s not money, then let us help you find what brings you joy.”
Carter smiled tiredly, and nodded. “Okayyy. I want this first plan. Emancipation, name change, modified contact. Go from there.”
“You could sleep on it. You seem a bit tired.”
“I am. How about aaa firmer aaanswer in the mooorning?”
“That would be fine. Esperanza, any input?”
“I agree with both of you. Whatever makes Carter happy. And we are here to help him heal and be what he wants to be.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be waiting for your call tomorrow.”
After a pleasant goodbye near the front door, Hughes left.
Carter saw Esperanza touching the charm again.
“Is thaaat charm for someone you did this for?” He asked.
“Yes.” She lifted her right pant leg. “I paid for it with my lower leg. I called the police and saved a ... friend ... from abuse. The perpetrator stabbed my leg five times with a rusty, dirty knife. I lost my lower leg.”
Carter looked at the steel and rubber. He felt deja vu, but not sure why. “How is yourrr friend nooow?”
“She struggles. But she has a life she loves.”
“Off to do it again tomorrow?”
Her face grew calm yet pleased. “Yes. And every day of my life until I no longer can.”
Carter woke from a sound sleep, shaking his head, breathing hard, sitting up, clutching his left side.
He looked around. In his dreams, someone from The Building had thrown Esperanza down the hallway and separated her shoulder. She had bounded back to him on one bionic limb made of bouncy steel.
To his left was a panel with buttons on it, and a chart. A counselor was on call overnight. The chocolate chip woman was the daytime counselor. The nighttime counselor was a tall, blond man who had a face like a rock, but who had nodded politely at Carter and said, “Welcome.”
Carter decided he did not want company. He waited for his heart to slow down, then he stared into space for a long time.
Out of curiosity he turned on the TV with the sound off and captions on, and flipped through the guide. He clicked on a show called “Celebrities with disabled children.” A tiny blond appeared in mid sentence: “--understood that not many would want to be featured, as the privacy of the disabled is important. One family who agreed to be on camera--”
Carter looked away for a moment. He did not like the word ‘family’ and had not for a long time. He frowned, then looked back at the screen.
A boy about his age was in a library, shelving books from a wheelchair. Another shot showed him using a modified cart in a greenhouse. The captions read “--has one paying job and one volunteer job. He spends most of his time at boarding school in England. Cerebral palsy has not stopped him from achieving his goals. He is undecided about journalism or agriculture, so may have a double major in college.”
Carter turned up the sound. The next shot revealed a woman with long dark hair, the boy -- who had her long face, dark hair, and slim build -- and a man to his left who looked like an older version of the boy. Then Carter studied the parents and was surprised: the woman was a writer and the man was a musician, and someone Carter had once met near a concert venue.
“Strange combination,” Carter said. “And they have children.”
The boy was talking; he had a faint British accent. He stopped, and his mother said, “Martin is focused and level-headed. He has his challenges, but he works around them.” Martin said, “You have to. You just forge ahead, sometimes making your own path.” His father nodded, and smiled, and wiped under one eye. Martin said, “Don’t cry, Dad.” “I’m not; something itches.” Martin said, “He’s such a liar. I don’t know how she puts up with it.” Martin’s father’s eyes looked wet; the tip of his nose turned pink as he said, “She doesn’t.” The camera flipped to a medium shot of a tiny blond who asked, “And Martin, you emancipated?” Martin said, “Yes. I was ready to be on my own. And I want to get by on my own work and merits.”
Carter looked away again. “If he caaan do it, I I I caaan do it.” He turned the sound off and watched until the segment was over. The family lived on the west side near Chelsea, or so the captions said. He felt worried that they were giving out the information. Then he gave serious thought as to how one would find three human beings in jam-packed New York City, if they had unlisted phone numbers and addresses, and felt a little bit better.
He remembered meeting the man and other musicians in an alley, and the man being kind. Possibly thinking of his own son? This Martin seemed to be tall, with dark brown hair combed straight back, blue eyes like his parents, and a slender build.
He turned off the TV and fell asleep right away, and slept fairly well until daylight.
In the morning, he felt an urge to get a good cup of coffee from a privately-owned coffee shop. He showered, dressed, and went to the kitchen and wrote his location on a big board, then went outside and down the ramp.
He looked around, and then at some papers he had received the night before.
After looking at a map, he took a short walk, crossed one street, went down the block and turned right. Across the one-way street was a big brown and gold building, and he could see, and smell, coffee-related activities going on.
Carter waited at the crosswalk. And waited. And waited. The cars kept coming and coming. Finally the light changed. He stepped out and went as fast as possible. Just as he hit the center of the crosswalk, the light changed. He sighed and went a bit faster. Horns honked. He squinted. “Shut up,” he mumbled. More horns honked. He moved on to the other sidewalk and aimed for the coffee shop.
A car passed by; a voice called out, “Slowpoke!”
“I I I’ve been called worse,” Carter mumbled.
He went inside the coffee shop and looked around. It was gold and deep brown and black. If he had personally designed a coffee cafe it would look like this. He ordered something to drink and eat, asked if they would take it to his table, and sat near the front window.
At first, he sniffed his mocha, then looked around.
Then he felt his eyes widen.
Almost directly across the street, three people emerged from a building and went to a limousine at the curb: a petite older woman, a man younger than her walked with crutches, and an older man. They moved swiftly to the limo. The older man hugged the woman and the man with the crutches; the latter two got into the limo which moved away rather quickly. The man jaywalked across the street and walked to the coffee shop and inside.
Carter stared. He had seen them on TV the night before.
The man appeared to be sniffing gratefully. He moved closer to the ordering area, and then noticed Carter, and frowned. After that, he waved and said, “Kirby.”
The man moved rather slowly -- regally, Carter thought, remembering their first meeting -- and stopped next to Carter and said, “Kirby, just a moment.”
Carter awkwardly stood, looked to his right, and found one of the other musicians from that night sitting and sipping a cup of coffee. The one who looked like Martin’s father ... Kirby.
Kirby said, “Hey. We’ve seen you before. How’ve you been?”
Carter looked back and forth.
Martin’s father said, “He’s my evil twin.”
Carter started laughing without making a sound.
Kirby said, “He laughs like you, Caleb.”
Carter wondered about the name, but figured it might be a privacy thing.
Caleb nodded. “And you, sir. I’ve thought about you now and then.”
Carter said, “I owe you twenty dollars--”
“No, sir. Help someone else. Please. You remind me ....” Caleb stared, then wiped under one eye. “Well. Would youuu .... caaare to join us?”
Carter considered the elongated vowels, decided it was a way the man chose to be friendly, looked at the tiny table next to Kirby, who was a big man, and wondered how two more big men would sit there. “Uh.”
“Here. We’ll move these tables and chairs together.” Caleb swiftly created a more suitable arrangement of furniture.
Carter sat across from Kirby, and Caleb sat to Carter’s left, facing the street.
“Something to drink?” Kirby said.
Caleb nodded. “I knew there was something I was forgetting.” He wiped under his right eye. The tip of his nose was pink.
“The brain is always the second thing to go. I got it. Latte?”
“Yes, please.”
“Got it.” Kirby stood and went to the cashier, moving quicker than Caleb. Kirby was approximately six-three or four, had long dark brown hair and big blue eyes. He had a tall, slim, wide-shouldered build, and a quick pace.
Carter felt the cheeky words leave his mouth and hoped he would not get clobbered. “Better nooot go into aaa daaark room with him aaand youuur wife.”
Caleb sat there for a second, then a couple of wrinkles appeared at the outside of his right eye. He shook but did not make a sound. He looked at Carter’s hands, then openly stared. “You look a lot like one of my sons. If he lost some weight and had a decent haircut. He’s a bit fat, like his mother.”
“Faaat?” Carter was confused; he remembered the other two as rather slim.
“Well. Healthy. In all the right places. She is.” He wiped under both eyes now.
Carter grabbed a few napkins and handed them over.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Aaare you okayyy?”
“I will be. He’s leaving again. I worry about him more than she does.”
“I I I saw youuu on TV last night. And him and her.”
“Really. Yeah, that was ... unusual. But book and record sales rose overnight, so I can’t complain.”
Kirby returned and placed a drink in front of Caleb, who said, “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” Kirby got comfortable. His face was more serious than Caleb’s; Kirby said, “We never did get your name. I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
“No. Carter.” He shook hands with both men, feeling an odd sense of comfort and strength from them.
“Carter, are you well?”
“Yes. I I will be okayyy. I aaam mostly on my own now. With a good team.” He thought fondly of Esperanza and Hughes.
“Good. This guy talked about you at least once a year for the last three years.”
Caleb nodded as he looked out the window.
“Were you living on the streets?” Kirby asked.
“Nooo. With ....” Carter felt nauseated. “In aaa bad situation. I I I am out of it now.”
Kirby’s face grew solemn. “Do you need work?”
“No.” Carter thought about elaborating. But he barely knew them.
Caleb was quiet. He sipped and stared out the window. Carter felt mostly comfortable; the man’s habits were similar to his own.
The other man, Kirby, appeared to be slightly more friendly, although serious. He said, “Well. If all is well, Carter, then I’m glad. I’ve had my own struggles, so I know about bad situations and getting out of them.” Kirby made only light eye contact; otherwise he observed the coffee shop in wide sweeps as he spoke.
Caleb sipped and stared across the street, but Carter did not for one minute believe that was all he was doing. When a woman nearby whispered, “He made five million last year and only paid five thousand in taxes,” Caleb frowned briefly and shifted his head a bit toward the whispering. He said, “I can’t say I’ve had many struggles, but I’ve had them.”
Kirby said, “You’ll be okay, Caleb? She’ll be back from the airport soon. He’ll be okay; he’s a soldier.”
“He’ll always be okay. Gets it from his mother.”
“From his father too.”
“Eh. Perhaps.”
Carter was about to ask a polite question when Caleb said, “Carter. My son, Martin, lives in England part of the time. It’s always difficult saying good-bye to him. I cry more than his mother does.”
Carter tried to figure that out. He had no relevant experiences. He quickly concluded that perhaps mothers eventually had to let go, like birds hoping their baby birds would fly, and then be there if needed. He had never witnessed anyone crying over his safety, but simply decided that some people felt that way about others.
He said, “I I I saw all of youuu on TV last night. Heee seems tough.”
Caleb nodded and smiled. “He’s a soldier. Kirby is right.”
Carter abruptly decided the two men probably wanted to spend quality time together, so said, “Well ... thank youuu for your hospitalityyy. I have to go.”
“So soon,” Caleb said.
“Yes. I I I have appointments.” Carter drank the rest of his drink.
“I’ll throw that away for you,” Caleb said.
“Thanks.”
Kirby said, “Hey, Carter. Here are some cards. One with my contact information, and one about a support group. It’s mostly for PTSD and depression, but all are welcome.”
“Thank you.” Carter put the cards into his inside jacket pocket, then stood and said, “It was niiice talking to both of youuu.”
He shook hands with both, then turned to the door. As he got closer, Caleb stood and joined him and said, “I’ll walk you to the street. Just feels right.”
They got to the corner, where the light changed to green.
Carter started walking and said again, “Thank you, Caleb.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
As Carter reached the halfway mark, the light changed to red. Horns started honking. Three cars away, a heavyset man leaned out of his car and shouted, “Hurry up, buddy! I gotta get to work!”
Caleb shouted, surprising Carter, “Oh, hello, Rex! He’s disabled; give the man more respect than that!”
Carter continued moving, but listening.
Rex shouted back, “Aw. You again! Shut your coffee-loving, skinny ass!”
They shouted back and forth as Carter turned a corner and got on a bus toward his high school.
Martin laughed. “You saw me first.”
“I I I think so. When did you see meee?”
“It was after that, when you were in the magazine.”
“Sooo, technicallyyyy, you were myyy hero first.”
“Technically.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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