The floating book shop has now been sidelined by the cold for three days. Which will come first -- going stir crazy or my eyes falling out from web abuse? Here's an excerpt from Exchanges, which I hope will be in print shortly. The year is 1988. Jenny is 15.
Shea Stadium was filled, as Mets’ fans, encouraged by the team's fast start, were flocking to the park, envisioning another divisional title and trip to the World Series. Jenny was wearing her white Mets jacket, which Loretta kept immaculate, as she did Billy's blue one. Their seats were in the third level, the mezzanine, along the right field line, a considerable distance from home plate. Charley was not disappointed, considering the circumstances.
As the moment of truth neared, father and daughter fell silent, a silence made unnerving by the buzz of the crowd. Jenny remained seated as the public address announcer asked everyone to rise, as everyone around her, including her father, stood. Charley was so tense he was unable to hum the melody. He did not address or even glance at his daughter. He tried his best to appear impartial and sensed he was failing miserably. In fact, he was torn. He did not approve of what she was doing, but he admired her courage. To his relief, she soon rose, quietly, as inconspicuously as possible, although no one had said anything to her or even appeared to notice her defiance. He reacted as if nothing had changed.
They were quiet throughout the top of the first. Jenny fought back tears, chomping on her lower lip. Sensing she craved escape, Charley said: "Let's go get a bite to eat."
He led her past a concession area and toward an open space near an exit ramp along the outer edge of the stadium. They leaned against a cement retaining wall that overlooked the parking lot, which was filled with cars and buses. Many people were still on their way into the ballpark.
"You okay?" he said.
She burst into tears and buried her face in his shoulder.
"Awright," he said, caressing her back; "let it out."
He gazed about, fearful a policeman would suspect he was molesting a minor, amazed he could have so absurd a thought.
"You tried. It ain’t easy to go against forty thousand people. At least you had the guts to try. I'm proud of you."
"No, you're not. I could see how uncomfortable you were."
"I didn't say I agreed with you. I'm proud you care enough to think about things. That was a good kind of protest, the kind where nobody gets hurt."
They parted and gazed out into the distance. There was a roar in the background.
"You're missing the game," said Jenny.
"There're plenty left. Some things're more important."
"I didn't think anything was more important to you than the Mets except Billy."
He was stumped for a reply.
"You know," said Jenny, "I didn't give in because I thought it was the right thing to do. I just didn't want you to be embarrassed."
"You shouldn't’ve let that stop you."
"It wasn't only that," she said, jerking and shaking her head in frustration at having tried to fool herself. "As I was sitting there it suddenly dawned on me that nobody knew why I wasn't standing. They probably assumed I didn't love my country, that I hated it, which isn't true at all. They might've guessed anything but the real reason,"
"Next time bring a sign: 'I'm not a robot!'"
"Daddy!"
"Just a little joke to break up the tension. Don't be so hard on yourself. You have a lotta guts for a fourteen-year-old kid, and a lotta brains. When I was your age somethin' like that woulda never even’ve crossed my mind. You'll have plenty of chances to try again, only I wish you'd wait ‘til you were old enough to go to games with your girlfriends. I wanna keep what hair I got left."
She kissed his cheek. "Thanks, Dad."
"D’you like those seats? Wanna see if we can find better?"
"No. I want to go back to them. I already chickened-out once today. That's enough."
He was in awe of her toughness. She put him to shame.
He’d suggested the change not only for her benefit but for his own as well. He did not want to face those people again. He dared not insist, however. He did not want her to suspect the truth -- that she was stronger than he.
It was a few innings before he was able to relax, to feel confident that those in the area weren't discussing them or making obscene gestures behind their backs. He wondered if anyone had even noticed or if those offended had been appeased when Jenny had relinquished. The only peculiarity that had him suspect they’d been ostracized was the fact that no one tried to engage them in conversation. Fans loved to discuss their team. He’d spoken to countless strangers at Shea about the fortunes of the Mets. He had a congenial manner that invited conversation. People frequently approached him in the cafeteria or on the ferry.
Just as he was beginning to believe he’d escaped the incident unscathed, a troubling thought occurred to him -- the people in the immediate area might mention it to the broker who’d given him the tickets. He realized he’d taken advantage of the man's generosity in order to satisfy his daughter's whim. He berated himself for not having foreseen this, for not having purchased his own tickets. He could have told his wife and son that the tickets had been given to him, that he hadn't left them out of the purchase. They would never have suspected a thing. Now he might face grave embarrassment. The entire Exchange might learn of the incident.
You'll just hafta tell the truth, he told himself, wondering if he would ever again have a sound night's sleep. He supposed he wouldn't until Jenny was out of the house.
"She's so strong it scares me," he said to his wife as they were preparing for bed. "And it's a good kinda strong. She doesn't use it to hurt anybody."
"I'm glad I wasn't there. I’d've been so embarrassed."
"You think I wasn't?"
"But you stood there without a word. Obviously she gets her strength from you."
"Then how come I feel so weak all the time?"
"Because you take your responsibilities so seriously. You never shirk them. You relish them."
"I do?"
The thought was with him long after his wife had switched off the lamp -- did he relish his conflicts with his daughter? No, he was sure. As she had felt compelled, against her wishes, to stand for the national anthem, he felt compelled to do his best as a parent. He could not even say it was instinct that guided him, as the lure of negligence, of freedom, tugged at him constantly. It was a matter of choice -- either the debilitation of trying to be a good parent or the ease of negligence, wherein one left the development of children entirely to chance, at the risk of suffering conscience if the children went too far astray. His greatest fear was that all his work, all his love, would have been for naught, that his children would not grow up right, leaving him a failure in his most important role in life, leaving him without a single accomplishment. There was no guarantee that a caring parent would raise solid children, although the chances were certainly in his favor.
"Will it ever get even just a little bit easier?" he whispered aloud.
Visit Vic's sites:
Vic's Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
No comments:
Post a Comment