You Don't Always Get What You Want
by Nico Grey
III
It had been a tempestuous year, at least by Ed's standards. But he was once again feeling quite pleased with himself as Antioch welcomed the first robins of spring.
Ed had finished his story about little, two-spirits Scawesco before the new year had even begun. Then he spent some time trying to decide whether Trenton Dyce should try to publish it at his usual LGBT online fiction site, or whether Ed Russell should put a little more effort into filling out the story with historical details, then try to publish it himself as a work of historical fiction in one of the New England history journals that occasionally accepted his work
In the end, Dyce won out. Ed really didn't want to underplay the sexual aspects of the story, limited as they were, in order to avoid offending stuffy editors at history journals. He was pretty sure that Scawesco's story demanded at least some attention to the needs of the flesh.
The news that Dyce's primary online publisher was eager to acquire the story triggered a weeks-long period of intense productivity from both authors. Ed was inclined to just let Dyce run wild. It wasn't like he needed the income from his own free-lance writing. But he didn't want an extended publishing lull to mothball his name in the back of editors' minds. He understood that a time would come when he would feel a passion to release another piece or two about local culture or history.
He barely noticed that his e-mail remained empty, except for the occasional reply or inquiry from editors about projects he was working on. It didn't bother him that every time he opened his e-mail program there was nothing there. . . until there was.
As Ed prepared himself to open the message, he wondered if the robins would stop singing when he did. It came from his ex-wife.
There probably wasn't any way to avoid the message, he decided. And much as he might want it to disappear, he did feel a morbid curiosity about what Emily was up to this time.
" Dear Scumbag," the message began. It might have seemed an unusual greeting had Ed not been corresponding with Emily for years.
"Even after you refused to help Meghan with your own grandson's medical emergency, I still never dreamed you'd become so miserly that you wouldn't even send Christmas gifts to your children. I don't know how you can live with yourself. I'm just eternally grateful that I'm not living with you anymore."
Emily hadn't signed the message. But, Ed decided, there really had been no need. Every word was as good as a signature. No one wrote quite like Emily.
He understood there was no reason to reply. Nothing he said would change Emily's attitude one bit. But he replied anyway. He felt the need to explain that he had offered to pay all of the grand— person's?— medical expenses if the provider simply billed him. Meghan just hadn't forwarded contact information for the hospitals and doctors. But Ed renewed his offer if Emily could convince Meghan to put him in touch with the necessary billing offices.
Ed didn't even have time to close his e-mail program before a new message arrived.
" That was quick," he muttered when he noticed the sender's address. His mouse hovered over the new message icon. 'In for a penny, in for a pound,' he shrugged.
"Just send me the damn cash, you cheap son-of-a-bitch!"
'Quick and to the point,' Ed amended. He appreciated the clarity of the message. He just wasn't persuaded by it.
" It makes a lot more sense for me to pay the bills directly," Ed keyed in the message. "Both for tax purposes and in case there's any problem with billing errors. All I need is contact information for the providers." He didn't see how Emily could argue with keeping lawyers and the IRS out of their business. He just hoped she wouldn't start asking questions about why it was necessary.
"Why didn't you send my Christmas checks?" The message arrived before Ed could even send his reply.
'What does she mean by "my" checks', he wondered. He send off an additional message reminding Emily that she had complained about the bother of forwarding his Christmas cards to the kids. "Send me contact information for Meghan and Danny. You won't have to be bothered again."
Emily's next response took almost ten minutes to arrive.
"You're impossible!"
Ed didn't think that required a response. And thankfully, Emily didn't appear to think it required any follow-up.
'That was interesting,' Ed thought. 'At least for thirty minutes, it was just like being married to her again.' What he had never been able to figure out was why they had married in the first place.
In the days that followed, Ed began to regret opening Emily's message. He didn't hear from her again, or her lawyers. But inconsistencies that appeared as he reread their exchange, and thought back over the past twenty years, preyed on his mind and left him too distracted to return to his writing.
That frustrated Ed. He and Emily hadn't lived together for more than twenty-four years. She had helped to drive the children that they had in common out of his life. Those children were both adults now and there was no reason for Ed and Emily to have any contact about them. But she still managed to disrupt his life occasionally.
He considered trying to get back in touch with Meghan, if only to renew his offer to pay for a grandchild's healthcare— assuming the child even existed. But he really felt the need to gather some information to prepare himself before their next exchange.
That presented a problem. He knew that he couldn't count on Emily for information about Meghan's situation— and certainly not for accurate information. Besides, he rationalized, why would he want to poke the bear while she was apparently hibernating?
Ed thought about using the internet to investigate Meghan's situation, before he realized that he didn't even know what name she was currently using. There were apparently children in the picture. That suggested a marriage. He doubted that a search for "Meghan Russell" would yield useful results.
Next he wondered if it would help to get in touch with Danny. He had no way of knowing whether Danny and Meghan were still in contact with each other. But it might at least be worth a shot. It sounded like both still had some contact with their mother. Perhaps they stayed in contact with each other, too.
Ed googled "Daniel Russell", then "Danny Russell", then "Daniel M. Russell". Each search left him more frustrated than the one before. There were hundreds of hits. Ironically, there was even a man by that same name who had written a book called "The Joy of Search". His search left Ed feeling anything but joyful.
It was only when Ed refined his search parameters a bit that the volume of information became somewhat manageable. Searching for "Daniel M. Russell, born 1995" narrowed the search considerably. But it still didn't provide any reliable results.
Rather than contact every "Daniel M. Russell, born 1995" on the internet, Ed tried to refine his search further. He added "Nevada" to the search parameters, then "Vermont". Eventually he decided to add every state on the West Coast, one by one.
Ed was shocked, then distressed when he ran across an obituary for a Daniel M. Russell, age 23, who had died in San Francisco five years earlier. He clicked on the link to the "San Francisco Bay Times" website and stared at the page in utter disbelief.
The details about the life of the young man were sparse. Friends described a caring and loving person. He had lived in the San Francisco area for six years at the time of his death. Little was known of his past before arriving in the Bay Area, but there were hints that he may have previously lived in Nevada. Donations in his name could be made to an area shelter for homeless LGBT youth.
Ed stared at the computer monitor until the power saver kicked in and the screen went dark. He kept staring. But the news hadn't changed when he accidentally brushed the mouse and the monitor came back to life.
' Maybe it's another Danny,' Ed reasoned with himself. 'Some other parents' lively little boy.' The pain started when memories began slowly to emerge from the few short years that he had lived with his son.
Ed really didn't want to know. But he understood that he needed to know. He just had to find out without any unnecessary emotional trauma. That meant that he wouldn't contact Emily.
He considered calling the "Bay Times" offices to find out what they might be able to tell him. But five years had passed. It was a huge imposition. He probably wouldn't find anyone that could help him anyway. And even if he did, eventually it would result in Ed himself having to reach out to speak with more people to find the answers he sought. That, he rationalized, was not a personal strength.
Ed pondered the problem for a few minutes before reaching for an old-fashioned rolodex that sat next to his desk. He scrolled through the cards.
" Francis X. Kane, Esq." That felt like the right solution. Ed had known Frank for years, had even done some business with him when Frank was working for a law firm in Brattleboro. When Frank had hung out his own shingle in neighboring Covenant the previous year, Ed started turning to him with most of his legal business.
He trusted Frank as a competent lawyer with a solid reputation, whose ethics were above reproach. More important in this case, Frank had three young sons of his own. Ed picked up the telephone.
Once Ed had described his situation and what he needed, and an agreement had been struck about the sort of investigator that Frank would hire and the terms of that employment, Ed went back to staring at the story on his computer screen. Eventually he saved the link to the obituary in his browser.
He made a note of the name of the homeless shelter and added it to his rolodex. Even if the young man in the obituary didn't prove to be his Danny, Ed decided that he knew where the money he usually spent on his kids' Christmas presents would be going now.
Ed didn't get much work done over the next few weeks. He spent most of his time raking dead leaves out of his lawn and gardens, then spreading fertilizer to prepare them for when the weather would welcome green grass and young plants.
He wrestled with the idea of contacting Emily. He understood that nothing productive could come of that, but he was feeling helpless doing nothing and waiting to hear Frank's news.
Every time Ed tried to sit down and write, memories flooded his head to torment him, rather than a flow of creative ideas. He spent long minutes every day just staring out the window of his study at the back yard, wanting nothing more than to see Danny emerge from the woods at the back of his property, home from some fresh childish adventure in the surrounding woods.
When the telephone rang, it startled Ed from his meditations. He turned away from the back yard and returned to his desk.
"Are you free this afternoon?" Frank asked when Ed picked up the phone.
But when Frank offered to visit to deliver his investigator's report, Ed demurred.
"I think it might be easier for me to read the report alone," he explained. "Could you just give me a summary over the phone and send the full report in the mail?"
The news was everything that Ed had feared. The young Daniel M. Russell that had died was his son. The cause of death was even more tragic: complications from AIDS.
Frank didn't sugarcoat any of his investigator's findings, but he did try to keep the report concise to avoid adding to Ed's pain.
Danny had left home at seventeen, without finishing high school. Details were sparse, but it appeared there had been a falling out with his mother. The investigator couldn't confirm it, but in similar cases it wasn't unusual for news of the child's sexuality to lead to an estrangement.
From Las Vegas, Danny had ended up in San Francisco within a matter of weeks. During his first year there, he had lived mainly on the streets, crashing occasionally at shelters or with acquaintances.
Frank didn't evade the question when Ed asked. Danny had engaged in prostitution to survive. And that was likely how he contracted HIV. A little too innocent about the risks. A little too desperate to survive. And in the end. . . There was no need for Frank to finish the thought.
It puzzled Ed that Danny hadn't been able to treat the infection. He left home in 2012. Help for those with HIV was pretty widely available by that time.
Frank didn't have any answers. The investigator had reported a rather extended period of life on the street. Perhaps Danny had just been unlucky enough not to connect with the resources he needed. And by the time he was able to access help, it was too late. The virus had started to attack his body and weaken him. Frank left the rest unsaid.
Frank assured Ed that the investigator's report would include contact information for those who had been involved in Danny's life; friends, those who helped him, and those whose life he had touched. There wasn't much for Ed to say. He would make those contacts once he was through grieving.
Ed thanked Frank for the report. "I guess I had better let Emily know," he decided.
"She knows," Frank said. "According to the investigator, the medical examiner released Danny to her."
Ed was grateful to be spared that conversation.
"Well, at least Danny got a decent burial then."
There was an uncomfortable silence at the other end of the line.
"I'm sorry, Ed. She left those arrangements to the county." Frank hurried to finish. "Please don't dwell on that right now. All the information is in the report. You can decide later if you want to do something more. . ."
There was wisdom in that suggestion, Ed realized. Doing anything now, feeling as he did, could lead to complications that he might regret later.
"The investigator did a little more digging while she was on the case, Ed." Frank sounded uncertain about how he should proceed. "That other situation you mentioned to me? There's no grandchild. There never was. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Ed decided. "Considering everyone involved, that's probably for the best."
Frank chuckled dryly.
"Your daughter is living in Colorado now. The investigator did some additional work. Completely gratis," Frank assured him. "I think she got a feeling for your ex-wife and daughter and decided to tie up any loose ends for you now.
"She included Meghan's address and phone number in her report. Meghan is apparently living with friends. Employed occasionally. No boyfriend. And no strong likelihood of any grandchild any time soon."
Ed didn't try to hide his relief.
"Thank you, Frank. I really owe you for this. Please don't skimp on your hours when you bill me."
There was another awkward silence at the end of the line.
"I can't bill you for this," Frank decided. "My reasons are complicated, but a few months ago I found out that one of my own boys has something in common with your Danny."
Frank paused uncomfortably. "I'm deeply sorry for your loss. I can't say how much I am. But it's reminded me of what's really important in life. I could never bill you for helping me see that.
"I'm going to make sure that my Ronan never has to go through what Danny did, Ed. I know it's no comfort to you now, but it's something that Danny's life did for me and my family. And I thank you both for that."
Two days later, the investigator's report arrived in the mail. It gave Ed the answers that he sought. But it left him with a hole in his heart. It was a hole in a place that he never even knew existed until he began to feel the pain.
Ed didn't even bother to turn on his computer for the next several weeks. Instead he threw himself into preparing his lawn and gardens for the arrival of warmer weather.
Danny had only lived in the home for the first four years of his life, visiting occasionally for several years after that, but Ed struggled to renew his recollections of that time they had spent together. Memories returned slowly, in whispers of sound and flickers of color and shadows. Faint childish laughter wafted through the air as Ed turned over the soil in his vegetable garden. A rustle of tiny feet disturbed leaves somewhere behind the tree line. The flash of a boyish grin appearing suddenly within some shrubbery.
In time, fragments of memory morphed into fantasy. Two pairs of moccasin-covered feet dashing about in the nearby woods. One pale face peering cautiously through the shrubs, the other darker-skinned face keeping careful watch for Mohawk warriors on the prowl. Some days Ed could almost hear the rush of water over Sokoki Falls and the cheerful cries as two young braves frolicked in the small river beneath the falls.
In time, Ed remembered something very important. The final installment of his two-spirits story must almost be due for publication. And it wasn't complete yet.
For the first time in weeks, Ed fired up the computer after breakfast. He readied a quick e-mail for his publisher, grateful that he could always rely on Tim to go above and beyond to make the stories he published perfect to the best of his authors' abilities.
"Please add this dedication to the final chapter of 'Two Spirits Together in the Wilderness'," he requested. "For Danny, my own little two-spirits. Roaming free forever in my heart. In loving memory."
Ed hit 'send' and sat back in his chair. He considered turning off the computer. But something persuaded him that he was ready to get back to work.
For months, Ed resisted the temptation to confront Emily. Fortunately, he was able to submerge his feelings in an extremely dynamic period of creativity as he worked through his grief and the episodes of self-blame. Trenton Dyce saved him from dwelling too deeply on despair that bordered on nihilism, with long bursts of energy that were channeled into several stories exploring themes of neglect and abandonment redeemed before they ended in tragedy.
Dyce even scribed a brief sequel to "Two Spirits" that saw the hopeful conclusion to the first adventures of Scawesco and Micah turned into a happily-ever-after story that almost bordered on a fairy tale ending. Fortunately, Ed had the good sense to recognize that wish fulfillment didn't necessarily result in scintillating fiction— but he did file the story away as fodder for future dreams.
Finally, when he felt that his emotions were in a more secure and stable place, he bit the bullet and contacted Emily. He sent an e-mail briefly advising her that he had learned of Danny's death and asking why she hadn't contacted him with the news.
Ed was tempted to include a lot more in his note, but a sadistic impulse dictated that it would be more satisfactory to simply hand her a small amount of rope, then sit back and wait to see how she chose to hang herself. What he hadn't really considered was that she might use his own evasive communication tactics against him.
Ed sent the e-mail. Then he waited.
He never heard back from Emily. As the summer progressed, Ed was tempted several times to contact her again. But he sensed that doing so wouldn't be productive. It was better to wait patiently until she had some reason to contact him.
The only personal contact Ed had all summer was a short message from his correspondent, EduK8R. As he skimmed the note, Ed realized that even she hadn't been in touch with him since the previous autumn. But it seemed that her life had been busy.
EduK8R was reaching out briefly to tell Ed how much she had enjoyed reading "Two Spirits Together in the Wilderness" and how much she had been personally affected by the story. Thankfully, she didn't go into details, beyond mention of concern for a former student that the story had evoked. She also revealed that she had agreed to take over the legal guardianship of her young nephew to get him away from his homophobic father.
The boy would now be living with her. She was worried both about getting ready for her new school year and about helping her young charge transition to his new community.
Ed was sorely tempted to respond to EduK8R. He didn't understand why, but he was starting to feel some responsibility for her situation and a desire to help with her nephew. He concluded that Danny probably had something to do with the way he was feeling, so he decided to wait until he could react dispassionately before offering to insert himself into anyone else's life.
As summer began to fade gradually toward early fall, Ed spent more time in his garden again. He had neglected it more than he intended during his summer-long burst of creativity. The flowers had bloomed anyway, the vegetable garden had been productive, but he realized that he had missed the time he spent there during the spring, seeking echoes from his past.
Ed cut back foliage in the flower beds and harvested late summer vegetables, but there was no faint childish laughter or flashes of boyish grins peering from the shrubbery. The ghosts, however, were still lurking.
Several times, usually in late afternoon, Ed was startled to hear the sound of small feet pounding along dirt trails behind the tree line. The first time he caught a brief glimpse of a little bronzed body, long dark hair flowing out behind him as he ran, Ed was dumbfounded.
He almost called after the apparition. Scawesco. The name was on the tip of his tongue.
Replaying the vision in his mind later, Ed was puzzled. He was pretty sure that the lithe, bronzed body he had seen running hadn't been wearing deerskin breechclout or moccasins. He was certain that his memory must be playing tricks on him, but the vision that he recalled was wearing a pair of wine-colored shorts and mud-stained trainers.
Ed spent the following week working steadily at his computer every morning. But he felt a growing compulsion to be out working in his yard when the afternoons arrived.
He was making steady progress on a few pieces he hoped to publish in local journals the following year. In between that work, Trenton Dyce was feeling inspired and often simply took over for long stretches of hours. But as busy as he was, Ed still felt like he was simply passing time while he waited for something important to happen.
Every afternoon, he found himself at work in the yard, ears tuned instinctively for the sound of running feet, or the splashing water of Sokoki Falls, followed by boyish laughter.
Ed was pulling out the remains of cucumber plants that had already provided all the fruit they would that season, thinking about harvesting the few ripe tomatoes remaining on their trellis. He almost failed to notice the approach of feet pounding along the trail beyond the trees. The sound captured his subconscious more than his attention.
Ed trotted toward the boundary of his property, the hope rising in his chest. He reached the tree line just as the footbeats arrived. Breasting through the low pines, he was startled to come face-to-face with the boy.
He might not have recognized the boy if his hair hadn't already grown halfway down his back again. Dressed in shorts and trainers, rather than his usual attire, he more closely resembled Ed's internal vision of Scawesco than the tiny vagrant hanging around outside Chet's store. He even appeared to be a couple inches taller than he had been the last time Ed encountered him.
But Ed did recognize him. He wasn't who Ed had been hoping to see. And, he suspected later, that disappointment must have shown clearly on his face.
The boy pulled up abruptly and stood facing Ed. He had trouble meeting the man's eyes. And that hangdog appearance triggered a familiar reaction in Ed.
"You want to make sure you aren't trespassing on private property when you run, boy," Ed warned him.
The boy continued to stare at his feet. "I'm sorry, mister. I didn't know this was your property."
"This isn't," Ed clarified. "But it would be a good idea for you to keep that in mind. Some people around here will shoot first and ask questions later."
The boy shifted uncomfortably. "Do you own a gun, mister?"
"I don't," Ed informed him. "But lately, I've been thinking about getting one. It could be a good investment."
Ed winced when he saw the boy flinch. 'Why did I say that?' he wondered. Apparently old habits died hard. He turned brusquely away from the boy, pushing through the pine brush to return to his own yard.
Ed's primary response, as he later replayed the encounter in his mind, was disappointment with himself. He might have been able to justify the rudeness in his encounters with the boy at Chet's store, where the boy, whatever his intentions, had accosted him. But the rudeness of his behavior on this occasion had been completely unjustified. He had accosted the boy, then treated him poorly with absolutely no provocation.
The more Ed considered his behavior, the more his reaction changed from disappointment in himself to shame. Even in town, when the boy had approached him, he had just been a young kid reaching out in the hope of getting a little positive attention from someone. It was something that every child needed. It was something that his own child must have desperately wanted, he realized. He found that hard to think about.
Later that evening, Ed pulled out an old college yearbook that he hadn't glanced at in years. It wasn't that the memories within were bitter. He had just moved on from that stage of his life. Other things had become more important; like work, a wife, and children.
But every now and again, Ed found that it was helpful to reconnect with the past. He wished that he could make that connection in person. But at least there were still memories. Ed flipped open the cover of the yearbook and scrolled through the pages until he found the one he wanted.
Victor Mowry. As he studied that old black and white image in front of him, Ed wondered what advice Vic might have to offer him. What meaning could he help find in the tragedy of Danny's life? Would he see any value at all in Ed's fabrication of Scawesco's tale? And what possibilities, if any, might he envision for young Eric Bowman's future?
That last question emerged unbidden as Ed consulted with his memories of Vic. But as he considered it, he realized that it really was the most important question of the three.
Ed had spent most of the day working in his yard. Two days of futile effort to reconnect with his creative flow had been enough to convince Ed that physical activity would be more productive than creative endeavor.
The first thing he heard was a voice.
"Hey, mister?"
Ed looked around, but couldn't see anyone.
"Mister?"
He was pretty sure that it wasn't Danny… or Scawesco, for that matter.
The sound appeared to be coming from the tree line at the back of his property. Ed strolled cautiously in that direction, to investigate.
"Mister?"
Through the trees, Ed could make out flashes of shape and color that might have been a boy. He pushed pine branches out of the way.
"I'm sorry, mister. I really don't want to bother you. I know that you hate me."
Of course it was that boy. But Ed actually felt relieved to see him there. He ordered his thoughts carefully.
"I don't hate you. Eric." He decided that he really should call the boy by name. "I don't. I just find it difficult to be around people. It's easier for me to avoid them."
Ed wondered at that admission to a small boy. But the boy nodded like it made perfect sense to him.
"Um, I'm not on your property here, am I, mister?" He seemed anxious.
"No. You're not," Ed assured him. "But you can come onto my property. I give you permission." He held tree branches out of the way.
The boy considered the possibility. He appeared quite unsure of himself.
"Um. I just wanted to say something to you, mister. Then I won't bother you anymore." He waited for permission to go on.
"I read your story, mister. You know, the "Two Spirits Together" story."
Ed felt some alarm. He wondered how this boy even knew that he was the author.
" I really liked it. That's all I wanted to say. I really liked it." He screwed up his face as he realized that he needed to say more. "It felt so real to me! Like it was really important!"
Ed wasn't sure how to respond. But there was no doubt that this mattered to the boy. He rooted around in his memory to recall forgotten social skills.
"Thank you, Eric." It felt like the right way to begin. "I'm glad you liked it. And that it meant something to you," he added. "It meant a lot to me, too."
It passed through Ed's mind that he had been inspired to write the story after his last encounter with this boy. He wondered at that.
"I saw the dedication. Was Danny your friend?"
Ed noted the curious combination of compassion and anxiety on the boy's face. He couldn't quite figure it out, but the boy appeared to understand that he might be crossing a boundary. Ed tried to forget that boundaries mattered to him.
"He was more than my friend, Eric. He was my son."
"Oh," then realization dawned. "Oh." His face screwed up again and he watched Ed uncertainly. "Do you pray for him?"
Ed considered that. It had been years since he had been inside a church, or had prayed deliberately. Did he pray for Danny?
"I don't know if Danny needs my prayers anymore," he decided. "But I remember him. I remember him all the time. And I write for him."
The boy nodded like this make perfect sense to him. But he had his own ideas, as well.
"Would it be alright if I pray for him?" he asked.
Ed couldn't bring himself to respond. He just nodded and fought to restrain his emotions.
"Thanks for talking to me, mister," the boy wrapped up their conversation diplomatically. "And thanks for writing that story. I hope you'll write a lot more. Maybe even more about Scawesco and Micah," he suggested.
Ed held tree branches out of the way for him.
"Uh, Eric?" For a moment, Ed struggled with the advisability of what he was about to suggest. "I do like to be alone a lot of the time. But if you want to come back and visit me. . . occasionally," he took a deep breath, "that would be okay." He decided that more was necessary. "I'd like that."
It was a measure that his trust hadn't been misplaced that they boy didn't overreact. A shy smile spread slowly across his face before he waved good-bye and turned back onto the running trail. Ed thought that he might have detected a little additional enthusiasm in the boy's stride as he bounded away.
He was touched. But in a cynical way. 'I hope that old son-of-a-bitch Chet Jordan is happy!' he thought to himself. But when he thought about it again, he realized that he really did hope that it would make Chet happy.
Ed thought it was even possible that it might make him happy, too.
It actually pleased Ed when the boy did return. It pleased him more that he also didn't abuse the privilege.
Ed continued to hear Eric pound by on the trail most afternoons. Sometimes he thought he heard the footfalls slow as they drew near his property, but the boy was careful to let a week pass between each visit. Somehow, this consideration just made Ed more eager for Eric's return.
The boy wanted to discuss local history and Trenton Dyce's stories. Ed made it a point to turn at least half of each conversation toward the rest of Eric's life. He was developing some curiosity about the boy.
He learned that Eric had taken up running because of a new classmate that had arrived at the start of the school year.
"He's a really good runner," Eric enthused. "And I wanted to be his friend," he admitted shyly, "so I decided to join the cross country team, too."
Ed was amused— unusually so for an old cynic, he reflected. He suspected that Eric had no idea how transparent his motives were. But it didn't prevent Ed from appreciating the window into the boy's mind and heart. He felt some real remorse that he had never been able to share these confidences with Danny.
Ed learned that this new boy, in addition to being a runner, had red hair. Eric seemed to place a lot of stock in red hair. He also told Ed that the boy's name was Micah.
" I'm pretty sure that his last name is Baldwin, too," Eric shared in an awed tone. "I haven't asked him yet. But I saw that name on the seating chart for one of our classes."
That startled Ed, too. It seemed a remarkable coincidence. Certainly, the Baldwin family had been living in the Connecticut River valley for centuries now. But the odds against Eric's new classmate sharing a name with Scawesco's friend. . . Well, it seemed extremely unlikely. Ed hoped that the boy hadn't moved to Antioch from Rockingham. That would have been entirely too much coincidence!
Ed was becoming impatient waiting for Emily's next move. He was certain that she wasn't done with him yet. But she was taking an awfully long time to reveal what she had in store for him next.
As he waited, Ed had been reflecting on how much he had enjoyed Danny's return during the summer. Even if it was entirely in his mind, the brief sights and sounds of his son reveling in being a young boy in the Vermont countryside had done his soul good. That turned his mind toward eternity.
" I don't know what it would take," he told Frank Kane during a telephone conversation in mid-October, "but I want to have my boy back home with me."
Frank waited for more details.
"Your report says that Emily didn't have a funeral for Danny. That she left him to be buried in a pauper's grave by the local authorities. What would I have to do to disinter his remains and bring Danny back for burial here in Antioch?"
Frank listened patiently. He took extensive notes. A lot of research would be required before he could provide sound advice, but he pointed out some of the basic challenges that could thwart Ed's intent.
" Cost isn't a problem, Frank. Hire California lawyers to help, if you have to. Hire that investigator you used last spring. You and I have never discussed money in great detail before, but I'm financially comfortable."
Frank named more complications and potential costs.
"Comfortable, Frank," Ed assured him. "I helped make a number of people wealthy when I was an investment advisor. Then I followed my own advice and made myself quite comfortable. Eight-figure comfortable. And a fair part of the way toward nine-figure comfortable."
Frank whistled softly. He still asked Ed to set an upper limit on what he would be willing to spend. Then he promised to get back in touch as soon as he had some concrete information to share.
Ed was beginning to wonder how Eric would continue his visits— and even somewhat hopeful that he would— as October was drawing toward a close. The boy had said that his school's cross country season was already over, although he was still running almost every day.
There had been a state championship race for middle school boys already. Eric reported that the Silver River team had done well. His friend Micah had finished among the top five runners in the state and Eric had finished twenty-first.
Ed detected some disappointment in the boy over that news. He suspected that Eric had entertained fantasies of him and Micah winning the race together. So he made it a point to praise twenty-first as an exceptional result for a first-year runner and tell Eric that he was certain he could improve with even more practice. That Eric continued to run daily, with the cross country season over, suggested that he had taken that advice to heart.
During their conversation, Eric had admired the handful of pumpkins that Ed had grown that year. Since he had no particular plan in mind for them, Ed suggested that the boy pick one or two for himself and bring them home for Halloween.
"I can't do that," Eric seemed quite disappointed. "My father will think that I stole them."
Ed was shocked. "You don't steal things, do you?" He hadn't seen or heard anything to suggest that was likely.
"No!" the boy insisted. "I don't steal! I don't cheat! And I don't lie. . . well, mostly," he added with some embarrassment.
"Then just tell your father that I gave them to you. I can even give you a receipt that says I did."
Eric looked hopeful for a moment. Then his expression fell. "He won't believe me," he mumbled. "He doesn't think that I ever do anything right."
Ed decided not to argue with the boy. But he made a note to check with Chet to see if things were really that bad for Eric at home. As he thought about it, he realized that he hadn't stopped in to see Chet since the previous Christmas.
Ed waited for the Saturday after Halloween to drive into town. There was some new nonsense afoot in the country to turn the first Friday of November into an early Black Friday, that he was pretty sure hadn't arrived in Antioch yet. But just to be certain, he waited until Saturday to do his shopping.
Chet reacted like Ed hadn't been absent for more than ten months. He offered his customary nod when the door opened. He gave Ed a faint grin, too, jerking his head in the direction of where Eric was cleaning and organizing books on their shelves. Then he went back to his own business.
Ed wasn't sure how to interpret the gesture, but he assumed that it meant Chet knew that Eric had been spending time with him. Since Chet didn't make a big deal over it, that didn't bother Ed at all.
On his way to the periodical racks, he passed Eric. The boy gave him a slight nod, too.
"Let me know if you need help finding anything, mister," he offered. Then he went back to his own work.
Ed sighed. It didn't look like Chet had Eric perfectly trained yet. But he didn't really mind.
He browsed the periodical racks without any further interference. To Ed, it felt like nothing had changed. But he knew that, in some ways, much had changed. It just hadn't turned out as badly as he had feared it might. He had expanded his human connections, but he still felt comfortable in his own space.
Ed didn't mind that Chet was in the mood for some conversation when he brought his purchases to the check-out counter. They had been ten months without contact, after all.
He was surprised, but pleased, that Eric continued working. He knew the boy well enough to understand that he was itching to be part of the conversation. But his job took precedence over his preference. Ed appreciated that.
He considered making a crack about a protection racket, and the local gangsters protecting Chet's store. But Ed decided that it might be better to say nothing. Chet was happy. Eric was doing well and seemed happy. There was no need to say anything that could rock the boat in any way.
From the proud glances Chet cast toward Eric occasionally, Ed suspected that he wanted to talk about the boy. Instead, Chet caught him up on other local news.
"Judy Mitchell hasn't been around as much," Chet informed him. "She's got more than her students to worry about this year. Took in a relative that was having some trouble at home."
Ed nodded like he might be interested. He was sure that Judy was a nice enough person. But he remembered that she might not think quite as highly of him.
"Young Micah's father was making his life miserable," Chet imparted. He kept his tone low, casting a careful eye in Eric's direction. "But I think the lad is fitting in pretty well here in Antioch. He's already made a favorable impression running for the middle school team."
That rang a bell for Ed. He glanced toward Eric, too.
"Might have made a friend or two, as well?" he asked, with a subtle gesture toward Eric.
"I think you may be right," Chet agreed. "Getting there, at least. He's been good for some people around here."
Ed finished paying for his purchases and turned to leave.
"I'll be back before Christmas," he promised.
"I'll be here," Chet acknowledged. "Any periodicals you want me to hold onto for you?"
"Probably not," Ed decided. "I've been keeping pretty busy with the projects I'm already working on. But if I think of anything, I'll tell your young helper and he can bring the request to you."
Ed was satisfied to note that, despite the slight smile that crossed Eric's face, his eyes never looked up from his work.
Frank Kane called a few weeks later. The news was mixed. The people he hired in California reported some potential complications and Frank needed to know how Ed wanted to proceed.
Frank and his people had worked out a plan to return Danny's remains to Vermont. It wouldn't be impossible. But there was an obstacle.
"Your ex-wife may have to approve any plan to exhume Danny's remains, Ed," the lawyer advised. "She did turn him over to the county for burial, but the medical examiner released him to Emily as next-of-kin."
Ed groaned. Once Emily heard that he wanted something, and understood that she could control the outcome, there was bound to be a price attached.
He and Frank discussed the possibility of attempting to bypass Emily, but the fatalist in Ed acknowledged that he would probably have to beard the dragon in her den before he got the outcome that he wanted.
Ed resented having to appease Emily, especially since she was most responsible for Ed's estrangement from his son, and then for Danny's death. Money wasn't the obstacle. He was certain that Emily had no idea how much she could ask of him. Her demand would likely be inconsequential to him. But he did hate the idea of giving her any satisfaction after what she had done.
"I'll get in touch with her, Frank," he sighed. "I just want my boy home with me"
A week later, Ed was starting to regret that he hadn't simply asked Frank to attempt to go around any necessity for Emily's consent. She hadn't responded to his e-mail and he was loath to send her another, revealing to her how much the request mattered to him.
Ed was even entertaining fantasies that perhaps Emily was permanently out of the picture and that any requirement for her consent to disinter Danny was now moot. But, he reflected, he couldn't possibly be that lucky.
And he wasn't, of course. She had probably been trying to play him. But with Christmas little more than a month away, she wasn't patient enough to keep stringing him along.
Her message was predictably irritating. If it wasn't so irritating, it might have been amusing. Ed could read her eagerness right through her insults and attempts to convey indifference.
The gist of Emily's message was that she didn't see any need to move Danny's remains. He had chosen to live in San Francisco "with the rest of the fruits". She didn't see any reason why he shouldn't "rot there for eternity", and couldn't imagine why Ed would want to infect Vermont with "that nasty disease".
Ed's first reaction was outrage. He had no idea that Emily had become— or perhaps always had been?— so homophobic. But worse, that her reaction to Danny's sexuality trumped her feelings for him as his mother.
Her personal insults were less offensive to him. Emily's accusations that Danny's sexuality was due to Ed's influence, including his friendship with Vic Mowry— "you lived with that faggot for more than ten years of your life. It must have rubbed off on you and your son!"— didn't find their intended target.
But Ed was impressed that Emily had bothered to keep track. 'Rooming together two years in college. Then living with me here for nine years after his partner's death. And then she even got the math right!' The surprise almost distracted him from his irritation with her.
Emily's bottom line was that she didn't care where Ed wanted to lay Danny's remains to rest. She wouldn't have anything to do with it!
And that's when the real negotiations started.
" That woman is insufferable!" Ed complained.
Frank waited patiently at the other end of the telephone.
"I'm ready to give up. She has a price. But she's still being coy. I'm almost at the point where I don't care what she asks, she isn't going to get it." Ed was tempted to slam his fist on the computer desk.
"We could try to go around her, Ed. That's still an option," Frank suggested. "But if that doesn't work, she could be even more difficult later."
"I don't think it's a matter of 'could'. She will be," Ed agreed. "But right now she won't even tell me what she wants. All I want is to have my boy home. I'd like it to happen soon. I just can't see how to do it."
Frank waited. When Ed didn't say any more, he cleared his throat.
"I have a thought, Ed. It's just a thought. We'll do whatever you want. But I'm sending you some photos that Maxie took.
"She's continuing her investigation, looking for anything that might help you get what you want. But I think these are worth seeing. They should be in your e-mail now."
Ed opened the message and viewed the attached .jpg files while Frank listened patiently. It took a while for Ed to get his emotions under control.
"This is nice, Frank. I thought they buried him in a pauper's grave."
" They did. His friends have been taking care of it," Frank explained. "They didn't have the money to bury him when he died. But they were able to scrape together enough to purchase a marker. And they've been doing what they can ever since to maintain the site."
"More than six years," Ed whispered. Then in wonder, "They really care. He had good friends."
"Has good friends," Frank amended. "It could be the best solution, Ed."
"It could be," Ed agreed. "I need to think about it."
Ed spent the next few days in thought. It felt like he had an enormous decision to make. For months he had been mourning Danny, then worrying about how to bring him back home to Vermont. The decision he had to make would bring some form of closure to it all.
There was no undoing what had happened. Whether it was all Emily's fault, or if he shared some of the blame, Danny was gone. There was no future remaining, only memories.
It seemed to Ed that the memories weren't his alone, either. Emily could rot in whatever hell she had constructed for herself. He wanted no role in her memories. But Danny's West Coast friends still had their memories. And they had built a shrine to serve as a touchstone for those memories.
Ed wasn't sure, but he was starting to feel that it would be selfish to take that away from people who had been there for Danny when he needed people the most. His family had done little for him during his life. But the family he chose for himself had done the best that they could. And they still cared.
He was immersed in his thoughts when he heard a knock on his front door. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see the boy standing there.
It was a bit of an uncomfortable moment for Ed. He was used to visiting with Eric in his back yard; the boy casually dropping in as he ran along the wooded trails behind the property.
With a wet early December snow falling, and distracted by his own thoughts, Ed had simply assumed that Eric wouldn't be out running in such conditions. But the boy stood there, in trainers, shorts and a lightweight top, shivering expectantly.
"I'm sorry, mister. You weren't in your garden. But I didn't want you to think that I hadn't stopped."
He couldn't quite identify is, but that struck a chord with Ed. It felt awkward, but he invited the boy inside. At the very least, he reasoned, for a cup of hot cocoa. Definitely cocoa, he decided. This little guy really shouldn't be drinking coffee.
It was an unfamiliar feeling for Ed, but in a good way, to be bustling about finding a fleece to wrap around the boy, making cocoa, and throwing logs into a fireplace that he hadn't used in years.
One Eric was seated comfortably, and looking considerably warmer, Ed had to know why he had been out running in such poor weather.
"I have to keep training," the boy insisted. "Micah trains all the time. I have to, too, if I want to get better."
"Micah trains in this weather?" Ed was astonished.
Eric nodded. "I think he's running in the school gym today. But he runs every day."
"You could run in the gym, too," Ed suggested.
"I live out here," Eric explained. "Micah lives in town. With Ms. Mitchell."
Ed wasn't sure what to make of that. He knew that Eric liked the teacher, that she had mentored him for years. And he knew that Eric seemed to like the other boy.
"Couldn't you still run with Micah?" he wondered. "Ms. Mitchell wouldn't mind. . ." Ed couldn't find a tactful way to finish the thought without volunteering the teacher's time for her.
"I can't," the boy insisted. "Mr. Jordan says that Micah and Ms. Mitchell need space to become their own family. And he says I can be too enthusiastic sometimes." He blushed.
Ed decided that he could see Chet's point. But he hoped that Eric wouldn't be out running in the snow all winter long.
"What were you doing inside today?" Eric asked. "Are you writing?"
"Oh, no." Ed was distracted. "I was just thinking about my family."
Eric took a moment to consider that.
"Danny?" he whispered.
Ed was surprised to discover that he didn't resent the intrusion.
"Danny," he agreed. "I have to make a decision about him. I want to bring him back home." Ed really wasn't sure how to explain that situation to a child. "But he had some really good friends where he was living. I think they'd miss him if I brought him here."
Ed could see the uncertainty play out on the boy's face.
"But won't you miss him if he isn't here?"
"It's complicated, Eric," Ed explained. "Danny's mother. . . and I," he added reluctantly, "didn't really take care of him properly. We didn't give him what he needed from us. I think he got some of that from his friends."
The boy nodded like that explanation made perfect sense to him.
"They were his family," he decided. "Like Ms. Mitchell. Like Mr. Jordan. Like. . ." his words didn't complete the thought.
Eric seemed reluctant to leave. He folded the fleece carefully and rinsed his cocoa mug in the sink.
" Thanks for talking to me, mister," he said. "It's really nice to talk and have someone listen to me. It gives me. . . what I need," he trailed off and turned toward the door.
"Eric," Ed called after him, "You really shouldn't be running in such cold weather. But if you ever need to get warmed up. . ." he hoped that he wouldn't regret it, "You can knock on my door. It doesn't have to be on our usual day."
The light that illuminated Eric's face both warmed Ed's heart and alarmed him. He really hoped that he wouldn't regret the offer.
Ed didn't dwell on his concern. The mention of Micah and Ms. Mitchell reminded him that his reply to EduK8R's e-mail was months overdue.
Ed decided to wait until after Christmas before making a final decision about Danny. He was fairly certain about what he would do. He just wanted a few weeks to let the decision settle to make sure that he was comfortable with it.
He turned back to work to help center himself and his thoughts.
It was both satisfying and a bit frustrating that Eric continued to visit weekly. The weather continued to turn colder. There were even a few days of snow flurries and a light snowstorm, but no knock on his door. Ed eventually was motivated to investigate and found small footprints in the snow along the wooded trail behind his house. The boy was out there. But he was being deliberately respectful of Ed's boundaries.
Ed started to become concerned about all the things that could go wrong for a small boy out running through the woods in winter weather. It wasn't that bears often visited his neighborhood, and that became less likely as the weather grew colder. But a slip and fall, injury and immobility, then hypothermia setting in, would be even more dangerous to someone Eric's size.
Ed worried.
Between work and worrying, Ed had another idea. He was still certain that Trenton Dyce's "Two Spirits" sequel wasn't going to appeal to a wide audience. But he could see it appealing to a limited audience. He opened the document in his word processor and began to review it.
Ed decided to wait until Eric's last scheduled visit before Christmas. He visited town and stocked up on supplies to see himself through the new year.
He was almost excited when he heard the soft knock on his front door. The boy stood there, his skin red and looking almost frozen through— 'why doesn't this boy have decent cold weather running gear?' he thought to himself— and shivering. But his eyes looked bright.
Ed bundled Eric into the house. He had a fire going in the fireplace and a kettle already warming on the cook top. He wrapped the boy in fleece and parked him on the couch in front of the fireplace.
Ed resisted the urge to remonstrate with the boy about running in such cold weather. He knew that it wouldn't change anything. But he did resolve to make sure that next time he had a thermometer, oximeter, and maybe a cuff to check his blood pressure and pulse, just to make certain the boy wasn't putting his health at risk. Then he wondered why he hadn't thought of the idea before.
Rather than ease into their customary conversation about Eric's interest in Ed's work, and what was currently going on in Eric's life, Ed directed them straight to his agenda for the visit.
"Merry Christmas!" He handed Eric a large manila envelope with a red bow taped to it.
It was a pleasure to watch the boy's eyes light up. Ed realized that it had been more than twenty years since he last witnessed that sort of holiday excitement.
"Open it!" he encouraged.
Too late, Ed had realized that a gift of warm clothing for Eric's runs might have been more practical. But from the boy's reaction, he decided that he couldn't have made a better choice.
"Two Spirits Together Forever" was probably too schmaltzy for a broad audience. But from the look on the boy's face, Ed knew that it definitely had an audience.
Ed didn't get a lot of feedback from his stories, although he knew they had found a fairly loyal— albeit niche— audience. He received the occasional e-mail applauding his work. But for the first time, he had the opportunity to see the impact of his writing in person.
Eric curled up at the end of the couch— remembered to glance at Ed for permission— wrapped the fleece around himself, and started reading.
Ed actually missed their conversation. But the quiet assortment of giggles, soft sobs, and sighs of satisfaction were more gratifying to him than dozens of laudatory e-mails.
He refilled Eric's cocoa for him twice while the boy read. It was already fully dark outside when the last page dropped onto the couch beside him.
Eric's eyes were glinting faintly in the firelight as he looked up at Ed.
"That was wonderful," he sighed contentedly. "Thank you."
Then, as if thanks weren't entirely enough, he added softly, "I'm two-spirits, too." He met Ed's eyes again hopefully.
"I thought you might be," Ed told him. "Just like my Danny."
He wasn't sure what prompted him to say that, but it only deepened the look of contentment on Eric's face.
Christmas day felt anti-climactic to Ed. He drove into town to visit Chet. He understood that being alone on Christmas wasn't easy for his friend. Why he didn't spend the day with one of his children was a mystery. But Chet always said that the travel involved, having to shut down his store for a few days, just made it impractical.
And for the first time that Ed could recall, Chet wasn't alone for Christmas. His assistant was helping to straighten up around the store while Chet worked behind the counter.
When Ed came through the door, Eric ran over to greet him. 'Chet still doesn't have the boy well-trained,' Ed observed. But he really didn't mind. He actually wanted to enjoy the boy's enthusiasm. It helped to remind him of Christmases past.
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