Promises of Forever, page 6
The blank fits—as I called them—would sometimes persist for several long minutes. At first, they had scared me, but I learned how to dispel them on my own with sharp kicks and vigorous shakes, screaming in his face like the unsympathetic boy I was.
Only then would the snare set him free. Koa would blink and return to the present—often confused and moody—wipe drool from his mouth, and abandon whatever he had been doing at the time. In the aftermath, he generally wanted to be alone. When asked what had happened, he would shake his head. If I persisted, he would get angry.
The only person he talked to during those times was Huck.
The blank fit accosting him that afternoon in the parking lot lasted less than a minute, and Koa seemed to shake free on his own without difficulty. He glanced around once before ducking his head and maneuvering the keys in his fingers. An audible click announced his doors were unlocked.
The moment for a reunion was fast slipping away, and I let it, jarred by the recollection of things I’d forgotten and unsure how to approach the man who was once a troubled boy who had put his full trust in me.
And I had failed him.
I put the Gladiator in gear as Koa pulled out of the lot. Following him was shameful, and I knew better, but I wanted to know where he lived, so when I was ready to face the past, I could do so in a more private location.
I’d thought today was the day, but I was wrong.
6
Jersey
Camp Kawartha 1989
Lukas Innis, our cabin’s leader, announced the after-breakfast plans as the twelve of us stuffed our faces with banana chocolate chip pancakes drenched in syrup and washed them down with tall glasses of milk. Each cabin had a separate schedule to prevent overlapping activities and congestion. The exceptions included afternoon swim time at the lake, meals, and the evening bonfire.
“We’re starting with arts and crafts”—a ripple of groans leaked from behind overfull mouths—“at which time you can either do your own thing or help with set design for the end-of-season play. Next, we have archery”—whoops and cheers—”then free time in the woods. I was thinking we could arrange a game of capture the flag. In the afternoon…”
Lukas’s voice vanished into the rise of boyish chatter as we made our capture the flag teams. Peter, Daniel, Bruce, Justin, and me. That was five. We needed a sixth since we were a group of twelve.
“What about Arty?” Bruce whispered with his mouthful, spraying bits of chewed pancake onto the table.
Justin was already shaking his head, wearing a thin line of milk residue on his upper lip. “No good. He won’t want to be separated from Glen, and Glen will have Sam glued to his side, so that’s three no-goes.”
“Come on. We have to pick fast. Who?” Panic leaked into Daniel’s voice as he darted his gaze between the others.
I stared at the boy at the end of the table. Koa rarely interacted with anyone. During free time, he wandered into the woods to play with his imaginary friend, Huck. All the boys knew, and he was the laughingstock of our cabin. Unlike the kids I’d seen teased at school, Koa seemed oblivious to the taunts and torments of others.
We’d barely spoken since the first day of camp, but I watched him often when he wasn’t looking.
“Ollie.” Peter shouted at a redheaded boy on the far side of the table. “Wanna be on our team for capture the flag?”
Hair flopping over his eyes, Ollie shook his head. “Too late. They already snagged me.”
He’d joined ranks with Glen, Sam, and Arty. And before we could ask Robby or Kel, they had joined the opposition.
“Shit,” grumbled Bruce under his breath so Lukas wouldn’t hear. He smacked Peter’s shoulder, who was sitting beside him, and pointed at Koa before twirling a finger around his ear.
Peter giggle-snorted. “We’ll lose for sure now.”
Justin and Daniel commiserated.
Koa stared into the middle distance, oblivious, drawing absent lines with a fork through the puddle of syrup on his plate as he talked under his breath to the empty place beside him. To Huck.
Why did he do that? Did he know how babyish and weird he was acting? If he stopped, maybe people wouldn’t make fun of him.
As my friends continued lancing rude comments in Koa’s direction and inventing as many insults as possible, I finished my pancakes. Only once did I burst out laughing. Insults toward Koa had turned to banter among my friends; a string of “Yo mama” jokes, and they got worse and worse as we tried to one-up each other.
Daniel had a way of miming the actions along with his jokes, and when he stood on the bench and performed a particularly auditory and vulgar rendition of someone having sex, our ten-year-old brains broke.
Lukas put an end to the fun, telling us to clean up and get outside.
Koa didn’t once crack a smile.
During archery, I ended up in the lane beside Koa. A long line of straw-backed targets stood over twenty yards away, the papers so torn with holes they looked like Swiss cheese. It was our first-time having archery that season, but I’d been shooting a bow and arrow since my first year at camp when I was six. Like most sports, I caught on fast, and it went to my head.
Lukas gave a quick tutorial and explained the rules, then let us have fun as he supervised.
Eager to begin, I let fly my first arrow without remembering all the tricks I’d learned in the past, and it went wide of the target, landing somewhere in the long grass on the other side. Embarrassed, I glanced around quickly to see if anyone noticed, but my friends were too occupied with their own tasks.
My second arrow settled with a thunk on the edge of the straw barrier but outside the perimeter of the paper target. The next one pierced the third ring in. I was regaining the feel for the bow and its function, awakening muscle memory. My fourth arrow landed a few inches from the center, and I whooped and cheered, pumping a fist in the air.
“Nice one, Jersey,” Lukas shouted. “Bullseye next time.”
I aimed and fired, but my ego got in the way, and the arrow flew wide.
I glanced at my neighbor to see how Koa was doing. He struggled to nock his arrow. The few times he got it in place and lifted his gangly arms to aim, it fell.
Checking over my shoulder to be sure my friends were still busy, I moved in behind Koa to give him some pointers. God forbid I get caught talking to the weird kid, but I couldn’t help feeling sympathy toward him.
Koa flashed an inquisitive, wary-eyed glance in my direction but returned to his task, likely thinking I was there to make fun of him.
He fumbled again, and the arrow fell to the grass. “Dammit.”
I picked it up and handed it back. “Hook your finger loosely over the shaft when it’s resting on the shelf. It will stay in place when you pull the bowstring.”
Taking my advice, Koa managed to get the arrow nocked and retracted the string without losing it.
“See? It helps. Now hang on. Hold it like that for a second.”
Koa’s twig-thin arms trembled with the tension, but he waited, dashing a glance at me as I moved to his other side. Several beads of sweat ran from his temple to his cheek. His hair was damp with more. Standing as close as I was, I could smell the heat blistering his skin.
The hot July sun was unforgiving, even at ten in the morning. The archery field was in the wide open without the benefit of trees or shade. Our T-shirts clung to our bodies, and dirt and grass stuck to our knees. No one was immune.
Koa’s running shoe was untied, the lace coiling like a snake in the grass, but I didn’t tell him since it wouldn’t affect his shooting. On a soccer field or baseball diamond, I might have had the forethought to warn him lest he trip and fall, but archery didn’t involve running, so it slipped my mind to worry as I concentrated on the task at hand.
“Now, see this spot here?” I touched an area on his bow above the shelf where his arrow rested. “This is the spot you use to aim, but there’s a trick, and I’ll tell you in a minute. Try to hold the bow as steady as you can, and when you’re ready to release the arrow, move your hooked finger down with the rest of your fingers so it’s out of the way. If you don’t, it will catch the fletching.”
Koa did as I said, and his first arrow whizzed away at an angle, landing in the grass ten feet short of the target.
“You did it. See?”
Koa’s shoulders slumped. “I did. Poorly. It’s definitely harder than it looks.”
“That wasn’t bad for a first try. At least you didn’t drop the arrow that time. Try another, and I’ll tell you how to aim better.”
Koa nocked another arrow, keeping his finger hooked on the shaft like I’d taught him. Before he retracted the string, I touched his arm. “Wait. Lemme explain how to hit your target first, so you don’t get so tired holding it.”
Koa relaxed and held the nocked bow aimed at the ground. I used mine to demonstrate and prepared an arrow. My strength was greater, so when I retracted the string and held it, my arms didn’t shake the same.
“Archery isn’t like shooting a gun.” I said this like I had the knowledge required for the comparison when I didn’t. “It’s trickier because of gravity. A bullet flies fast outta the barrel and stays true to its target. So, with a gun, if you aim at someone’s head, you’ll probably hit someone’s head. Boom, brains everywhere, and they’re dead. With an arrow, you have to account for the curve, which changes depending on your target’s distance. It arcs through the air. So, from here, I try to aim at the top of the straw. That way, when the arrow comes down, it’s pretty close to where I want it to hit. Takes practice, but that’s the trick.”
My arrow flew, and it landed with a thunk on the third ring from the center. “For me, it helps if I pretend I’m killing the enemy. I want to aim for their guts since it’s the biggest target and a solid spot for a kill.”
I stole one of Koa’s arrows, nocked it, and aimed. “Adios amigos.” I let it fly. When it landed dead center, I pumped a fist and whooped. “Kill shot!”
Turning to Koa to share my glee, I found the odd boy staring catatonically across the field, his nocked bow still dangling in front of him, a glazed expression in his eyes.
My excitement simmered. “What’s wrong?”
Koa didn’t respond.
I waved a hand in front of his eyes, but he didn’t blink or acknowledge the action.
Panicked, I glanced around, concerned Lukas would see and think I’d done something when I hadn’t. Our cabin counselor was busy assisting Sam restring a bow. All my cabinmates were busy nocking and shooting over and over.
I turned back to Koa, who hadn’t moved. His lips were parted, and a string of drool escaped the corner of his mouth, trickling toward his chin. Part of me wanted to race back to my lane and pretend I hadn’t noticed, but a bigger part of me was scared he was having a seizure or something. A boy on my hockey team had seizures, and sometimes they made him stare into space and drool.
“Koa?” I shook his shoulder and called his name again and again.
No response.
I jostled him harder and told him to snap out of it. Panic turned to anger, and I knew, I just knew this boy was going to get me in trouble when I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I tore his bow and arrow from his hand, and he didn’t react. I shoved him. He compensated by stepping back so he wouldn’t fall. Otherwise, I got no reaction. His face remained blank. The saliva ran down his chin. It took a solid kick to the shin before Koa blinked his eyes clear and met my gaze.
“What the hell is wrong with you? What happened?”
Koa, confusion and terror in his eyes, backed away. “I… I don’t want to play this game anymore. Now I know why Huck said we shouldn’t.”
“Huck’s not real, you idiot. What is wrong with you?”
Koa turned and ran across the field toward the outhouses. Halfway to his destination, he tripped over his laces and fell hard. Getting up, he brushed grit from his palms and examined his legs. He hobbled the rest of the way to the bathrooms and disappeared inside.
Later that night, I noticed Band-Aids on both his knees. Guilt swamped me, and I wanted to apologize. I hadn’t meant to be mean like the rest of the boys, but he’d scared me.
Koa never played archery again.
That day was the first time I witnessed one of Koa’s blank fits, but it wasn’t the last. When they happened, if the counselors saw, they usually took Koa somewhere else until he was better. The adults seemed to share an understanding we campers didn’t.
More often than not, the fits occurred randomly during free play, away from the safety of grown-ups. Shouting and shaking him usually set Koa free from the trance, but whatever caused them lingered behind Koa’s eyes, dark, haunting, and secretive.
Koa never shared those miseries with anyone.
And it was just one more thing the other kids used as ammunition to tease him.
7
Koa
Present Day
I felt no sadness for the dying man in the hospital bed. No pity, no guilt, no remorse. Death was inevitable for all of us, and his was no more significant than the millions who had traveled the road first or those who would follow.
Our time on earth was short. We were born, we lived, we died. Humans served no great purpose to the universe. Our successes and failures meant nothing in the end. One man’s life was no different than another. It was something I’d come to realize as an adult. A belief that infuriated Niles and had caused many arguments.
As I stood a silent sentinel in the doorway, the man in the bed had yet to ascertain he wasn’t alone. Blind in both eyes, thanks to the cancer eating him alive, my grandfather peered blankly into a void, ear cocked as a radio announcer broadcasted the news. The ancient machine, with its dial knobs and clunky rolling-digit display, had come from the house—a house I had yet to deal with. A house where I refused to venture under any circumstances.
At eighty-nine, Grandfather’s skin, a victim of time and gravity, pulled in an unsightly manner away from the once strong and prominent bone structure of his face, disfiguring him and weakening the threat that had once tormented my nights and days in equal measure.
He trembled, insubstantial earthquakes on the surface, but ones that stole his fine motor control, leaving him feeble and inept. He loathed the nursing home and all it represented. He despised the nurses who fed him pills and helped him dress, who stole his dignity when he couldn’t toilet himself without help. He abhorred the cancer eating him alive yet had refused all treatment, telling the doctors he’d lived long enough and was ready to be with his god.
But the majority of the black, oily hatred that seeped out of his rotting soul was reserved for me. His grandson. The boy he’d willingly raised from the time he was eight years old to save him from a life in foster care.
I entered the room on soft feet, making enough noise to call his attention from the radio but not stepping loudly like the staff. A marked difference existed, and Grandfather picked it out.
I offered no greeting. It was unnecessary. His body may have given up, but Grandfather’s mind was as sharp as ever.
The dying man’s attention shifted. He blinked milk-hazy eyes in my direction. Lips like wrinkled worms parted, and wattles of skin undulated with the relentless tremors of old age and sickness.
“’Bout time you got here. It’s gotta be going on five.”
“It’s five after four. If it were five, Darnel would be delivering your dinner. You know that.”
Grandfather harrumphed. “Don’t get smart with me. You’re still late.”
“There was traffic, and I had to stay after class to help a few students.”
“Excuses. Turn that shit off.” He waved a bony arm in the direction of the radio.
I obliged and rotated the knob until it clicked. A heavy silence settled into the austere room, with its dull white walls and the scent of oppression stinging my lungs.
We had a routine, and like the loyal grandson I was, I fulfilled my duty without complaint. Anticipating my grandfather’s next command, I moved to the bedside table and retrieved what we literary fanatics had coined “the quintessential long book” from the drawer.
I fully respected Tolstoy and thoroughly enjoyed The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Anna Karenina. War and Peace was, indisputably, a masterpiece on every level, but any book force-fed to a person repeatedly grew wearisome. The tome had long ago lost its spark.
Books had saved my life growing up, but they’d also been a curse and punishment. I had therefore learned to use words as weapons. A wonderful thing for an English teacher. I’d taught my students year after year how any battle fought with words and intellect was a battle worth fighting. Once they learned to wield knowledge as a weapon, they would have no need for violence.
Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, through an inexplicable sense of obligation, I visited my grandfather in the nursing home and read to him as he’d done for me in my youth.
Giving credit where it was due, my grandfather and his love for literature had set me on the path to my career. The endless hours I had spent absorbed in books as a child helped dim the pain and black out the horrors of my past. My knowledge was frequently tested, as was my grandfather’s way, and if I didn’t fully grasp a concept or accurately relate a theory when asked, I earned a smack and was told to read it again.
My grandfather was a fan of corporal punishment. It was how he was raised, and if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me too. How different life might have been had my grandmother been alive when I’d been sent to his house.
Reading glasses on, I read War and Peace like I always did, careful not to stumble on the Russian names or mess up the flow of the prose. I paused to allow for proper rumination and participated in thought-provoking conversation when Grandfather insisted. Upsetting the dying man beside me would earn a demeaning reprimand, mirroring those I’d heard as a child, and at forty-four, I knew better how to avoid them. Arguing was pointless.
