Twenty-Two

 

 

Flying is out, even though it’s been almost seven years since those infamous hijackers changed the world. Along with worries of dying in a fiery crash, Sebastian’s also terrified airport security or other passengers might see his brown skin as a threat. Chloe has told him time and again he’s warped for thinking racial profiling exists, but since that day in 2001, he’s more certain than ever of its existence.

Being lifted off the ground by artificial means is not Sebastian’s idea of fun, anyway—at least when executing a dance feat such as a grand jeté he’s the controlling force of his own body. Therefore, Port Authority bus terminal and Adirondack Trailways will have to suffice. All the more poetic, he reasons, because that’s the mode of transport that first ushered him into New York City over two decades before.

It’s nine o’clock when the bus chugs down Main Street, a circuitous path toward the drop-off point. Sebastian’s surprised they stay on Highway 28 instead of winding through the village. Maybe the man at the wheel craves the beauty of the scenic route as much as Sebastian does.

And the journey provides a sweet view. Norman Rockwell might’ve painted the village of Margaretville, which proudly displays its Victorian stateliness along the main route. Some structures are taller than others, some older; each, however, has its own character. To Sebastian, it’s as if the founding mothers and fathers carefully selected a rainbow chorus for its village (nontraditional casting?), knowing each house would fight to win the most applause from townsfolk and tourists alike.

Even though Sebastian’s been AWOL for twenty-two years, the street shops maintain their dollhouse charm. In the glow of a half-moon, their candy-colored exteriors still elicit childlike tickles in his now-adult gut. Each shop, in its everlasting, Technicolor splendor, appears like stage scenery, backdrops wedded to one another.

Sebastian widens his eyes. “It’s gone?” He grimaces and sits upright as the bus whisks past the lot on Bridge Street, the spot where one of his favorite places, the Bun ’n’ Cone, once lived. It was—he hates to think of it in the past tense—a local diner and ice cream parlor that, until its death, probably still closed nightly at seven o’clock. The Hart family trio had a standing date here every Thursday at five. Mom and Dad insisted it be their late-week treat: burgers, fries, and a vanilla-strawberry ice cream cone for dessert. Sebastian presses his hand against the glass and sighs. Another piece of my childhood dead, all gone.

Yet the streetlights, blending with the reflection of the East Delaware River along its path, are the ones he remembers from years past. He counts each light, twenty in all, as they charge toward the thoroughfare that finally signifies their entrance into Margaretville’s town limits.

The bus stops in front of the Hess gas station on Highway 28. Its next-door neighbor is Delaware National. To Sebastian’s surprise, the banking institution’s former name escapes him, unlike every other dwelling in his hometown. In any event, whatever it was dubbed at the time of his departure, its representatives had obviously misinformed him about the deed to his family’s property.

Sebastian’s off the bus and onto the crutches in less than five minutes. He heads toward the Margaretville Motel. The evening’s place of rest—or unrest, whatever the case might turn out to be—boasts low ceilings and white walls. It’s a typical ranch-style highway stop, with a dorm room–sized microwave and refrigerator to boot.

The nineteen-inch television, circa Sebastian’s college years (that is, had he actually gone to college), doesn’t appear current, although, to its credit, Fred and Ginger would look stellar on its black-and-white picture. A second take and oops—his perception is off once again. It’s actually a more advanced model than he first thought: TRU-COLOR, so reads the aluminum tag catty-corner to the TV’s channel selector. And bonus points indeed for the establishment: free HBO.

Another smile—the leaf-patterned bedspread and sky-blue shag reminds Sebastian of the Motel 8 he and his parents stayed in when they visited Disney World in 1973. The highlight of that trip wasn’t Mickey Mouse, but the rerelease of The Sound of Music, which they saw at a drive-in theater in Kissimmee. He wanted desperately to be one of those children Julie Andrews nurtured and eventually adopted. He related most to Liesl, especially when she sang and danced in “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.”

He sits on the edge of the firm bed and hoists his cast leg on top of a slatted chair. Ugh! While the papier-mâché vice has seemed lighter the past few days, it obviously still plays the heavy. He calls the front desk: “I need a taxi.”

“Who?” The woman at the front desk squeaks. She sounds as if she could be a relative of Mrs. Woo. “In Margaretville, at this hour, son? Where the ham?”

Sebastian giggles. Where the ham? It sounds like something his mom would say. “Family,” he says. “I have a family visit.”

The taxi driver, who’s somewhere around sixty years old, also registers surprise on his long face when Sebastian slips into the backseat at such an apparently too-late hour. “Area’s changing leaps and bounds up there,” the man says, flashing a gap-toothed grin. His pin-straight hair, raven black and gathered in a rubber band, is reminiscent of a My Pretty Pony figurine.

The taxi reeks of Sebastian’s first eighteen years of life. It’s 2008! He shakes his head at the thought. Isn’t smoking banned in all public places throughout the state? If so, why doesn’t this guy use the opportunity to beat the addiction?

“Rebuilding and such going on up the hill, you know,” Mr. Pony continues. “City people gobbling it up by the square inch, daily. Framing for new homes. McMansions—that’s what they call them thingies—is really what they’re harvesting up in here. Although some people do try to keep refurbishing the old ladies still standing.” He chokes out a phlegmy cough. “For the most part, though,” he adds, clearing his throat, “it’s just land up there for days on end: Land, land, land.”

Sebastian nods. “I know.” He instructs Mr. Pony to take Walnut Street up the hill. And as they proceed, neither says a word for several minutes, which suits the prodigal son in the backseat just fine.

It’s just as Mr. Pony said: many have staked claim to the abundance of earth that Margaretville provides. Pockets of such bare acreage are few and far between each dwelling. While every other home maintains the Victorian style Sebastian recalls from childhood, many others are sprawling, modern monstrosities.

From their starting point in the village, it only takes ten minutes to reach the familiar yet somehow foreign territory of his old neighborhood, the same amount of time it took Sebastian and his parents to drive down the mountain every morning for school. Even though it was (and still appears to be) rough terrain, Sebastian loved to walk into town, joyful he could make the journey just as well on his own two feet.

“Whoa!” Sebastian yelps.

“Ooh,” says Mr. Pony as he brakes hard. His face in the rearview mirror is ashen and raw, like Sebastian’s father’s was at the end of his life. He looks out the window, looks back at Sebastian with pursed, weathered lips.

Sebastian checks his watch. It’s 9:30 p.m. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” he says. He gets out of the car and steadies himself on the crutches; a scarecrow perched in the middle of the now empty lot of his childhood home. The taxi headlights give him a peripheral view of the grass—or are those weeds that dance against his leg? Either way, whatever grows here seems much taller than he remembers. Over half of my entire lifetime, to this point, has gone by since I last stood here.

Whatever foliage the yard whistles with, by way of the warm breeze, its odor is the subtlest hint of licorice. He cranes his neck, inhales. Maybe it’s another acquaintance from way back when: Susan? After all these years she must still be here in the mix. When his parents first mentioned such a flower—black-eyed Susan—a then six-year-old Sebastian was convinced it was some battered woman they knew. He takes in more air though his nostrils.

Namaste. Though he can’t distinguish everything in the darkness, he thinks his other childhood friend, Queen Anne’s lace, her pale hint of gardenia—at least that’s how he catalogued her scent—still sprouts among the wildflowers. He tightens his grip on the crutches and trudges further into the foliage. The half-moon appears to have made a costume change from a luminous white to a grayish suit. He asks the sky why everything here, like everything else he encounters outside the place where he now stands, changes yet stays the same: his biological parents; his first cat, Mister; his parents, who raised him and nurtured his heart and soul; his Frank.

Sebastian closes his eyes. He’s tired of judging whether or not his ruminations, his “warped” perception of things, qualify him as certifiable, or as a drama queen—or, perhaps, all of the above. He knows everyone who left unexpectedly is up there in some kind of heaven, watching over him.

He inhales. Yes, while it may not be as strong as it was in his childhood, the air still smells of licorice mixed with gardenia. He exhales, convinced now that this return visit congregates all his loved ones in the same place and time. His past, present, and future merge in this moment.

He rubs his tummy just above his belly button, where a slight burn asserts itself. At eighteen, he bolted out of Margaretville quickly, perhaps too quickly to deal with the forced abandonment by so many loved ones. Maybe he’s just too chicken to let go of the victim role he’s played all these years. He lowers his chin toward his chest, with cupped hands catches the groan that rises from his gut. He wonders just how much of a straw man he looks, propped up on the crutches.

Sebastian waves toward the taxi. “I’m fine. I just need a bit more time.”

Mr. Pony leans out the window, nods. Sebastian lowers himself onto the ground, a spot where he danced once upon a time, and even made snow angels. He closes his eyes. While the foliage that encases him still induces a tickle, he breathes away the sensation, surrendering to the environment. Whatever surrounds him now claims his childhood landscape as its home. Sebastian, and every other Hart, has long since abandoned this address.

 
. . .
 

 

Aside from the farewell Sebastian obviously doesn’t recall—when his parents left him as a newborn in a hospital ER—his first official goodbye (or was it the second?) occurred when he was ten years old. Mister, his ginger tabby cat, stopped eating. Sebastian’s father held him by the scruff of the neck while his mother gripped Mister’s head and tried to shove kibble into his mouth, but the innocent creature only arched his spine and refused.

Sebastian’s face flooded with tears. But his parents wouldn’t listen to what Mister’s body was saying. These fucking human beings, the poor feline must’ve thought of the two who lorded their arrogant control over him (and Sebastian).

“Stop!” his human brother yelled, the sound coming deep from within his belly, which finally made both parents pull away from the cat. But before Sebastian could recuse him, the poor feline’s entire body convulsed: Mister went limp, his blue eyes fixed on Sebastian. In the terrorist attack, Mister’s heart must’ve seized.

Sebastian looked up and realized his parents were both crying. But neither said a word, Murderers! Even if it wasn’t intentional, even if it was because they thought force-feeding would save his life, his parents had applied capital punishment. And the crime Mister’s selfish, human guardians accused him of committing? Reaching the end of his intended life cycle at only nine years old.

Sebastian scooped up Mister, ran into his room, and wrapped his papoose in an aqua-blue towel. He refused help from either parent as he buried his sweet brother on the front lawn, in the sunniest spot he could find.

That night, in shorts and bare feet, he roosted on the front porch and watched as the Crayola midnight-blue sky above a beastly hot night transformed itself. It rained as hard as his own tears had that entire day on Mister’s makeshift grave.

The next morning, as soon as his parents left for the day (not before each of them reminded him to do something productive instead of pining away for the cat), Sebastian scrounged up all the money he’d collected in his ten years of life: dollars from birthday cards, empty peanut butter jars of change he’d filled by combing through the seams of his father’s moss green recliner, and sometimes spare change his mother allowed him to keep after chore runs to the market.

His beat-up Radio Flyer wagon in tow, he found his way to the nursery two miles away from home. Along the way, in honor of Mister, whom Sebastian often recruited to play Toto to his Dorothy, he threw in a few “we’re off to see the wizard” skips. Once he crossed Agway’s threshold, he spotted the perfect treasure. The tree looked like a baby version of one he’d seen in front of Gasho, the Japanese restaurant where his social studies class dined on a field trip. Yes, with its iridescent reddish leaves, Sebastian knew the Japanese maple was the perfect tribute to his fur brother. He planted it directly over Mister’s sunny spot on the front lawn.

Eight years later, in the middle of Sebastian’s senior year of high school, his mother developed lung cancer. She never smoked, but his father had for decades. Upon diagnosis, the doctor explained it was his father’s hand-me-downs that had finally caught up with his mother.

Within two months’ time, Sebastian was forced to say goodbye to his family’s weekend evenings together. He could no longer fling his body around, kick his legs, or do pseudo tap dances that would provoke gales of laughter from his parents. Gone, at least temporarily, were the movie musical idols his parents had introduced him to: the debonair Fred; the flowing, ball-gowned Ginger; the dapper Gene Kelly; the nimble-footed hoofer Eleanor Powell; the cute yet sassy Debbie Reynolds; the comically endearing Donald O’Connor. Goodbye to all that.

The day after they scattered his mother’s ashes in the mountains, unspoken house rules gradually took effect. Smoking was now forbidden, as was watching musicals on the RCA. Even Sebastian’s solitary pleasure, watching videos on MTV, was no longer allowed.

On top of this, his father’s behavior grew increasingly erratic. While the Harts attended services at the Presbyterian Church every Sunday, they never were what Sebastian would call religious. Yet suddenly, his father turned into a self-proclaimed zealot. He eventually lost his high school teaching job because the parents didn’t appreciate Mr. Hart’s scaring their children with fiery biblical passages and apocalyptic speeches. Homebound, Sebastian’s father read the bible for hours at a time, oftentimes out loud behind his locked bedroom door. Thankfully for Sebastian, he never, ever professed anything derogatory or cited passages that were supposedly against homosexuality.

Over several months, the older man became unrecognizable. He lost at least twenty pounds from skipping meals, and his son began to wonder if lung cancer had finally staked a claim on his other parent. But he couldn’t convince his father to seek medical help. Every so often, Sebastian thought he smelled tobacco on his father’s clothes. But he brushed such thoughts away, convinced it was only his imagination. Delusional or not, his father had surely learned his lesson from his wife’s death, hadn’t he?

The night before his high school graduation, Sebastian was awakened by his father’s voice. The old man was screaming, reprimanding his reflection in the bedroom dresser mirror.

Sebastian hugged his rail-thin father. “Daddy, what is it? Another nightmare?” He guided him to sit on the bed.

The old man simply smiled and said, “Dreams aren’t real, son.”

“I don’t know, Daddy,” Sebastian said.

“Not asking you, boy,” his father continued. “I’m telling you the truth. Your mother sat right at the kitchen table and told me we were all doomed.” He coughed up a glob of mucous and wiped his mouth with his bare, ashen arm. “End of days!”

Sebastian squeezed his father’s bone-dry hand. “Calm down, Daddy. Mom’s gone. She’s in heaven. Remember?”

The old man shook his salt-and-pepper head vigorously. “She’s here. That’s the truth.” He narrowed his hazel eyes at Sebastian. “And she told me to make sure you listen up good. Told me she’s real proud of you and that she wants you to keep dancing. It’s the end of days, yes, but don’t you dare stop dancing until the end.” He shook his fist to punctuate his words. “And she’ll be at graduation tomorrow night. You hear me, son?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Sebastian wrapped his arms around the old man’s bony torso. “I understand.” He kissed his father’s forehead and tucked him back in bed, murmuring assurances that all would be well and that they’d celebrate his graduation the following day in honor of his mother.

But the next evening, his father refused to rise from the bed. Sebastian called for the old man repeatedly but only got a muttered dismissal from behind the bedroom door. Sebastian was left to lie about why he had to traipse in cap and gown across the stage of Margaretville Central School alone. Both Harts were abandoned: a parentless son and a father home alone.

Later, in the aftermath of what happened, Sebastian would be plagued by suppositions. If only he were there, he could’ve awakened to the smell of smoke. If only he were there, he could’ve made it to his father’s bedroom, fighting his way through the purplish-red flames, and pulled the older man out. Hand in hand, they could’ve race toward the front door, toward safety. If only.

But that’s not what happened. The truth is, Sebastian came home twenty minutes after his father’s final curtain call, just in time for the cleanup crew to strip bare the rest of his life. Immediately upon arrival, a fireman handed him the loon treasure box. As Sebastian stood there, the fire-truck wails mingled with the slow crackle of the dying fire. He imagined his father being crushed by the same wall of sound as he allowed the flames to swallow him.

This particular goodbye, which ended in yet another cremation of a parent’s body, led Sebastian over a hundred miles southeast to New York City, a place where he’d later learn the right way to do his movie musical idols’ dance steps (and a few of the ones from the MTV videos he’d watched). But even after he moved to the city, even after he met Frank and lived with him for nearly seven years, a sinking fear he’d turn out to be just as crazy as his father always lurked in the pit of Sebastian’s stomach.

A loud honk comes. “You all right out there?” Mr. Pony calls from the taxi.

Sebastian lifts his head and waves. “Fine, just a few more minutes.” Up and onto the crutches, he trudges through the thick foliage toward the edge of the property. The freshwater pond captures the moon’s reflection. He’s amazed at the sight: steep mountains sprinkled with shiny bulbs of light. He widens his eyes. The scene reminds him of a Lite-Brite pegboard. True, it seems the area really has been built up since he left. He glances at the pond again. Nope, definitely no loons this time of year—maybe never, if they’ve permanently migrated elsewhere. He smiles to himself—he can almost hear his mother, father, and Frank whispering in his ear. He’s certain that if he stares long enough, a trio of loons might glide past.