Thumbwars

Nortey Jr., Sam - Thumbwars [Avidbook, MF, Contemporary, New/Young Adult, Urban Fiction] Chapter One Dear Richard, “You must see things my way. Some things must be. They simply can’t be any other way.” I told you I loved you with all my heart. But that wouldn’t have been enough to make things work out between us. Your heart alone couldn’t keep on feeling for both of us. Today, I want you to pray for me. One day, I’ll listen to your voice and finally hear my own. Then, like you, I’ll be able to smile freely, without thinking twice. And, at last, I’ll be able to feel what you’ve been feeling in your heart all along. And it’ll be because I’ve let go of the way I’ve come to see things. Love Always, * * * * My head throbbed in disbelief as I read the signature of the woman who’d written me this letter. I quickly placed it on top of another lying on the mantle in my New York apartment. Moving my right hand along the length of the mantle, I saw the gold glint. The ring contrasted my other four fingers as the white plastic phone receiver contrasted my entire hand. Quickly releasing the receiver without dialing a number, I rubbed my tear-sore eyes. My pupils moved back and forth under the weight of my agitated hands. I remember that night many years ago under the weight of a heavy bed comforter as I shifted agitatedly when my father walked in and moved toward the light switch on my bedroom wall. “Dad, don’t!” I yelled. “Why? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark. There’s nothing to be afraid of, chap. Let me show you a little something to prove it to you,” he said. My father turned around and came to my bed. Doing his best to mask his improvisation, he said, “Put your hand on your heart and tell me what you feel.” “I dunno,” I said. “Beats,” my father said with staged confidence. “Beats?” “Yes, beats, like a drum. Son, you know where your heart beats?” “Where?” I queried. “In the dark where everything’s black. You can’t see it, but it beats and gives you life.” “How?” I asked. “Well, with every beat, you can breathe, get up, walk, and run,” he said. “I’m still afraid.” “Well, being afraid of the dark is like being afraid of living. You aren’t afraid of living, are you?” “I don’t believe you,” I said brazenly. “What are you saying, you don’t believe me? It’s the plain and simple truth,” my dad said. “But Dad…” I said whiningly. “No buts. This is foolish. Richard, men aren’t afraid of the dark. Now it’s time to go to sleep,” my father said sternly. In my six-year-old squeamish voice, I bid my father good night. He turned off the light and stood at the door just long enough to see me close my eyes. He then left, closing the door gently behind him on that night so long ago. Immediately, I removed my grown-up hands from my eyes and looked overhead. The blades of the ceiling fan in my apartment circled to a slow, mesmerizing whirl. I looked at my watch. Faster and faster, I longed for the clock hands to turn. I didn’t have to do anything. The cabby said he’d honk three times. I looked down at my suitcases and then up at the mirror directly above the mantle. I couldn’t focus on what I saw, because I continued to hear the alarming tone of my mother’s voice as she told me of distressing news. My hand moved right passed Veritas, the bronze mythological goddess of Truth statuette beside the radio on the mantle. My finger quickly adjusted the tuner. I didn’t know what I wanted to hear, but I needed to stop hearing her voice. “Da, da, da, da…,” I loudly sang out upon finding the classics station. Moving my feet back and forth to the second movement of Igor Stravinsky’s , I closed my eyes and began to waltz with the partners of my past. Spinning with carefree ease under the hotel’s crystal-lit chandeliers, Sheila, my ex-girlfriend, and I waltzed at our senior year college spring ball. As we turned on the dance floor that night, I looked directly into Sheila’s eyes. “Feel it,” Sheila said as the intensity of her grip on my hand lessened. “What, hon?” I asked, moving my eyes away from hers. “The wind. You feel it?” “No. Guess I missed it.” “No, you didn’t miss it. It’s been there all along, just like the feeling we’ve had between us since the very beginning. Sug, look at me and tell me you see things exactly as I do,” she said beseechingly. Before I could say anything, Sheila grasped hold of my face with her two hands as she’d done before in ceramics class. Smiling and gazing in my probing eyes, Sheila began, “Can’t you see? It’s you. All this time, it’s been you. It’s you I love. You, babe, I’ll never leave you ‘cause I love you. I love you with all my heart.” I smiled automatically and immediately kissed her to avoid hearing her say anything further. I quickly took Sheila’s hand and guided her through a turn. Of all the women with whom I’d ever been involved, Sheila was the second to tell me she loved me. But for the first time, I believed with a greater sense of certainty the words, “I love you,” were directed towards me. As I turned, I had the opportunity to say the lyrics my father’s stereo system had blasted nonstop. Countless actors on the television in the family living room had said them. Many of the books lining the shelves of my father’s study contained them. Still turning under the rotating silver ball hanging from the ceiling, I had the opportunity to finally say the words I imagined my parents would only say to each other at night behind their locked bedroom door. It was my opportunity to say what only one other person in my life had ever told me before. Up until that point, I’d never said them to anyone before. However, before the turn on the dance floor was complete, I self-consciously looked away from Sheila’s eyes towards my feet. Looking up, I hoped to recover Sheila’s eyes, once more. However, the eyes that now stared back at me belonged to another woman. Sheila had vanished completely, and in her place stood Ms. Opal, my high school senior English teacher. It was the weekend following my high school graduation. Of the many Saturday night graduation parties, I attended Ms. Opal’s. No longer in the presence of the other students who’d long since gone home, I was under the dimly lit sconces of Ms. Opal’s sitting room. Awkwardly, I moved not to the rhythm of the music but to the stern direction of her voice and the steady grip of her hand as she guided me through my first waltz. As always, the song came to an end and I was left standing alone. The silence frightened me. Still alone in my apartment, I searched furiously for a new radio station. Beginning to bob my head back and forth, I listened to the inspiring sounds of Desiree as she sang, “You gotta’ be bad. You gotta’ be bold…” This song was so popular it was used as the theme song for a morning talk show. “You gotta be.” What a strange string of words. The concept of being and existence has been under debate by philosophical pundits throughout the ages. I’d always wanted to believe that I couldn’t want to be; I just was. I could only be myself. How could I say that I’ve gotta be this way or that way if I was already one way? On the subject of “being,” Sheila had said one thing, and Ms. Opal had said another. The words to the songs on the radio seem to fade as I tried finally to come to terms with what my mother had told me today. On the wall behind me, next to the bathroom, were two of my most favorite posters. One was of James Dean and Natalie Wood, the two lead actors featured in the other poster was a Picasso. I don’t recall its title, but it was of an individual with disfigured, nondescript facial features. Fixating on the Picasso piece, I noticed the intensely perplexed eyes of the individual Picasso had attempted to capture. I grew up to believe that the eyes were the portal and gateway to one’s soul. If one looked long enough, one could see a person’s soul. Perhaps this was the stuff of dreams and romantic fantasy. My eyes moved quickly yet furtively to the James Dean poster. The serenity hovering over James Dean and Natalie Wood in this picture looked real. I don’t know if it was the simplicity of their gestures or the honesty of their intentions, but there was something about his smile. James flashed a smile that created a feeling in me. James and Natalie’s eyes were interlocked in the same way a magician would link two separate and complete circles. “Circles,” my mom would always say, “are our lives, and your life is finished only when you know you....” Sensing the phrase incomplete, I’d ask my mother to finish it. However, she’d always responded by saying that her aunt Qualey, the original author of the phrase, never bothered to complete it. My mother would then nostalgically recount how her aunt taught her to prepare dishes no one in my elementary school had ever heard of or tasted. Coming to an empty home after school one afternoon, I was immediately greeted by the aroma of fried plantains and palm nut soup. I walked to the kitchen and placed my house key in the inside pocket of my backpack. I then propped a foot ladder against the lower cabinets and climbed up to reach the Oreo cookies. Oreos were my favorite. The combination was provocative: two dark bittersweet black-like wafers surrounding a sweet white sugary filling. Mama said we could only eat Oreos for dessert after dinner, but I took an immense satisfaction in defying her rules. No one would ever know. Perhaps, it was as Mama always said, “You will pay for your sins, either today or tomorrow.” I didn’t care and defied yet another rule. I went into the living room taking off my shoes and sat in my father’s recliner. I grabbed the television remote control as my father would do when he saw my brother and me arguing over which television program to watch. Finding no program to fill the silence, I turned off the television and picked up the phone. I began to dial a series of numbers. Someone answered. “Hello,” I said. “Earnest?” this woman screamed. “Oh my God! It can’t be you. Is that you? Oh my God. I can’t believe this. How are you? Are you all right? We thought you were dead. Oh my God! We didn’t hear from you since you disappeared like that.” “Ma, don’t go yet. I’m fine. I’m feeling good,” I said, ad-libbing and beginning to smile. “Oh my God, where are you? When are you coming home? Hold on and let me get your dad. I can’t believe it’s you. I’m talking to you. Oh my God!” the woman said anxiously and somewhat doubtfully of the possibility of hearing her long-lost son again. “Ma, don’t go! I’ve got to go soon. I’ll...be home real soon,” I said. “Don’t go! Earnest, we should’ve listened to you. We were wrong to think we could tell you how to live your life. We can make things return back to normal. Oh God, thank you for bringing us our son. Hold on, while I get your father.” She began to yell out, “Jooooooooe” in such a loud voice that I had to move the receiver away from my ear. I interrupted her and said, “Well, Ma, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you soon.” “Earnest, what’s your phone number? Where are you? When are you coming home?” she queried once again. However, more frantically than before. At the mention of ‘home,’ I slammed the phone down. I couldn’t believe this woman believed that I was Earnest, whoever he was. I looked around to see if anyone had heard me and then laughed the most hollow and heartiest laugh I’d ever laughed at my age of twelve years. Laughing loudly and mildly out of breath, I ran up the stairs and into the bathroom. There, I ran into myself and immediately stopped running. I saw my braces reflected from the bathroom mirror. The most uncomplicated and simple smile stretched from one side of my face to the other. That smile was the last one I remember to be genuinely innocent and sincere. Something happened to me in that instant. Coinciding with the rapid beating of my heart was a feeling. Rising from the depths of my stomach, this sensation soon tumbled like a tall tower of children’s building blocks. The collapse of this feeling took place immediately after I’d become aware of its presence and of my mother’s voice loudly calling me to dinner. Diabolically, I laughed boisterously. Now at twenty-one years of age, I’ve rarely thought of that nameless woman on the phone who believed me to be Earnest. Even if I wanted to find out if she’d ever found her son, I had no way of contacting her or seeing her. It was the same case with my aunt Qualey. I’d never see her because she’d recently died. My aunt took to her grave the remaining words that would’ve helped me understand my life and more importantly, who I am. On the other hand, that nameless woman on the phone left me with the feeling that I could, with a little practice, be whoever I wanted to be. For so long, I believed this inexplicable feeling to be a feeling that I could feel for only myself. Lately, however, I’ve begun to wonder otherwise. Waiting for the cab to honk, I looked at the wall behind me. Nothing in particular led my eyes to focus on what seemed a big blank white patch of nothing. Till today, I have never understood why, after staring at nothing for some time, our eyes would eventually find something. They often strained themselves, unsuccessfully, in justifying exactly what rendered importance to this something. It was only in our minds that this something grew and magnified, both in size and significance; to our eyes, however, this something continued to remain nothing more than what it was before being noticed. Today, right now, the something that consumed my attention was a tiny crack of peeling paint on the wall; many years ago, in my father’s house, that something was a big blue endless patch of sky outside the window. “Richard, Richard, Richard! What are you looking at? What are you doing? Get your head out of the clouds and get to work. You’re always daydreaming. I tell you there’s nothing up there. You keep on looking up there, and life down here will pass you by. Hey, I told you to clean the floor with a mop, not a broom,” my father said. I picked up the mop and continued to look at the window in defiance of my father. I marveled at the majestic azure-blue sky strewn with disparate amorphous clouds. Those nebulous clouds magically then gave form and distinction to the faces of the people I wanted to become. The people I tried to imitate were from television or books I’d read. There was Rich Schroeder from the TV show, , Atreyu from the film, , s David Hasselhoff, Don Johnson from the TV show, , and the list goes on. A new actor replaced the last only when I felt I could imitate the way they walked, moved, and most importantly, talked. In the beginning, my acting was all a game of make-believe to me; I believed it was for me and no one else. “Richard! Richard! Start cleaning! I’ve never seen a person daydream like you do. You’ve got to learn to concentrate on what you’re doing; otherwise, when you get older, you won’t be able to follow through with your goals. At thirteen, you’re not too young to understand,” my father said. “Goals?” I said. “Haven’t I told you over and over that your life is just one big preparation? Preparation for a goal every day of your life you work towards that goal. The preparation starts here with cleaning.” “Dad, it’s just cleaning,” I grumbled. “The cleaning isn’t so important. It’s the discipline that will help you in your studies and getting a job. And with the right job, you’ll have money to do whatever you want. Got it? You’ve got to start planning your future today and work towards that goal. One plan, one future. One life to make it work. No room for screw-ups,” my father said. The authoritative tone my father assumed made all of what he said sound clear. It was all too clear, but only to someone who knew, what he was meant to be and what he was meant to do with his life. Some days I knew the answer. On other days, I questioned myself, relentlessly. Tired and frustrated, I simply stopped with the self-interrogation and tried to take on the life that would lead to what my father called ‘the big goal.’ I defiantly reasoned I’d do anything to comply with my father’s wishes. At that moment in my life, the simple was no longer simple. I couldn’t and didn’t allow my life to follow its course; what began as a simple fascination with the fabrication of truths malignantly metamorphosed itself into a complex creation of smiles, faces, and of course, stories to convince my father my life was in accord with that goal. How easy things would’ve been if becoming a mechanical engineer were the only reason I played with being someone else. …Perhaps, the other reason was a growing emptiness within me. However, where that seemingly dark and bottomless emptiness found its source, I don’t know. I mean, I think I know. I don’t know. I only know I remodeled myself to avoid dealing with problems that others associated with me being myself. Was it an escape mechanism or still a childish game that I, as an adult, had never stopped playing? It really can’t be as bad as it sounds. I mean, there could be some good in doing what had now become almost second nature to me. After all, there was a strong imaginative aspect to what I was doing. I mean, Ms. Opal, my senior year high school English teacher, told me that my writing was marked with a feverish imagination, unlike any other she’d encountered before and that my future as a writer was bright. See, there was some good to be found in what I was doing, wasn’t there? An overactive imagination. What better way to exercise the brain? As I turned around to change the radio station, Ms. Opal said, “I’m going to turn off the music. When I come back, I want to hear the end of your story.” It was later that same evening of her farewell graduation party. I searched my knapsack and found a copy of a story I’d been writing and rewriting since the first day of her English class. Ms. Opal returned to the living room and sat opposite from where I was sitting. Falling now under my attention was the barely perceptible heave of her chest. Under the faint flicker of the candles, I cleared my throat, looked down at the papers in my hand, and began to read. “I know. I know. I know,” Ms. Opal said with the surprise of a detective who finally discovers his most helpful witness during a long, drawn-out murder investigation is the murderer himself. Betraying the stern, upright posture she usually assumed at her school desk, Ms. Opal reclined comfortably on her red plush settee. The manner in which she sprawled herself over the sofa reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Cleopatra sitting on an Egyptian palanquin. Still, despite Ms. Opal’s air of serenity, it was her that drove men to war. With her blue eyes, she now looked intently into my own as the subtle tick of her grandfather clock continued to signal the passing of what seemed a timeless moment. Now staring at the overturned, empty bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape red wine beside her, I asked inquisitively, “What do you know?” “I know who she is. The woman in your story the boy falls in love with. The woman he calls beautiful, even though her smile’s fake. I was wrong to say she was made up. She’s real, and I know her name,” Ms. Opal said with satisfaction. “How can you be so sure?” I asked, shifting my eyes toward the mahogany bookcase. There seemed to be a zillion books. I could tell she’d read all of them because of the bookmarks jutting out from virtually each one. Opposite the bookcase was a huge window with off-white silk drapes. Against the wall, perpendicular to the bookcase and the window was the beautiful ruby-red plush-cushioned settee upon which Ms. Opal sat. Above the settee was a large mirror; flanking each side of the mirror was a sparkling crystal sconce from which a candle burned. To the left of the settee were a huge grandfather clock and a Turkish tapestry with red-and-gold ornamentation set off by the darkly stained oak walls. Opposite the settee was a Biedermeier Austrian walnut chair upon which I sat. Each article of furniture, with the exception of one, seemed to have been carefully selected and contributed to create an almost perfect replica of an eighteen-century neoclassical drawing room. Beside the walnut chair was a silver-colored, metal-framed chair fitted with simple singular strips of brown leather for the seat and backrest. “Stop. You don’t have to play games anymore. You’re no longer my student. Since last Friday, I’m no longer your teacher. I now know the name of the woman you’re in love with. To be honest, I think it’s charming.” “You’re wrong. This isn’t about me,” I retorted with slight alarm. “Oh, who’re you kidding? This story has been about you since the beginning,” she said with a smug smile. “Well, how can you be so sure if I haven’t finished the story yet? Let me at least finish,” I said, looking at the grandfather clock. In the nearly complete darkness, I could see it was eleven o’clock. “Oh, don’t worry, my child. Night’s young. After all, got all the time in the world. Now, be a dear and make me a drink,” Ms. Opal said with an unusual air of familiarity. “What kind?” I said upon seeing her shapely legs dangle over the edge of the settee and wrinkle her black, sleeveless, satin, A-line, Jackie O dinner dress. “Oh, I’m not too particular this evening. Richard, make whatever you’re feeling at the moment,” she said nonchalantly. “Uh. All right,” I said half-assuredly. I moved to the liquor cabinet, withdrew several bottles, and poured her a little shot of gin with tonic and a slice of lime. However, adding a third ice cube to her glass did hardly anything to cool the one part –fear, one part-desire currently stirring within me. Still with my back towards her, I made one for myself, still apprehensive that she’d disapprove of the drink I’d made her. I resumed my position just opposite her. However, unlike before, our gazes were so perfectly aligned that one could draw a straight line connecting our eyes. “Love, thanks for the drink. Just how I like it. Now tell me. Why did you choose that chair instead of the other one you were just in?” “I don’t know. Is there a problem?” “No, child. It’s fine. I never really liked the chair you’re sitting in. All the leather and metal.” “Looks pretty modern,” I said. “It’s a Wassily chair by Marcel Breuer. All part of that Bauhaus movement. You know, where an object’s function rather than its form makes it beautiful. “Well, as you can see, it doesn’t fit in with the classical look I was aiming for. Disrupts the overall harmony created by the other pieces. Funny though, with you sitting there, love, you help to bring back that lost unity and harmony,” Ms. Opal said. “How?” I said, genuinely interested. “Silly, when you’re sitting in the chair, it’s almost like it doesn’t exist. Even though I know it’s there, I can’t see it. You and the chair become inseparable. Always wanted to get rid of it, but could never get myself to part with it. Oh, if you could’ve seen the fit I went into when Charlie gave it to me.” “Because it didn’t fit the décor?” I asked somewhat confusedly. “Well, yes. Charlie said with all of my classical tastes, I was trying to avoid dealing with, well, how should I say this? My savage needs and primitive desires. There, I said it. Can’t take it back. “Charlie said I wanted beauty at the expense of how it made me feel. To him, even though the chair wasn’t ‘beautiful,’ it felt good and was comfortable. Much more than the ‘beautiful chairs’ in my apartment. He said the way the chair made him feel was more important than its beauty. You know what?” “What?” “I’d never on my father’s grave ever admit this to him, but there was some truth to what he was saying. All this talk about him makes me remember how he was with me. I shouldn’t say what I’m about to say, but with all that’s happened this year... What a year… You’ll see after you turn twenty, the years come and go so quickly. Hope they move more slowly in my forties than in my thirties. “Already we’ve come to the end of the school year, and I feel as though I could tell you anything. You’re like a friend I’ve known my entire life. Listening to you this year. Listening to you read your story. Haven’t even let you finish it. But I see the person you’ve become, the person you’re becoming. And you know what? I just know I could ask you anything. ” “Ms. Opal, you trust me that much?” “Of course, child. You trust me, don’t you? What a silly question. Richard, I want you to feel you can ask or tell me anything. Anything. Okay?” “Okay,” I said. “Where was I?” Ms. Opal questioned. “You were telling me how he was with you.” “Yeah, well what he did with me was barbaric, passionate, and unimaginable, all at the same time. Even though what we did was never described in the novels I’d read or soap operas I’d watched, he knew how to fulfill one of my desires. It was the very thing I needed, perhaps the most important of all. He knew how to make me feel good. Since my childhood, it was a feeling I needed to have again.” “Anyone who can make you feel that way is someone you should never let go of. You must still be with him,” I asserted. “Long gone and short-lived. He and that feeling.” She sighed. “Hell,” she said with a renewed animation, “this drink is strong. Making me forget to tell you what initially attracted me to him. It was his looks. How good a looker he was. As cute as they come. Looked like a Kennedy. Hell, he probably was. Certainly was a real beauty.” “There must’ve been others,” I said jealously. “Of course, there were. Let’s see. There was my favorite, Austin. He was from Tennessee. Reminded me of Hemingway; his stoicism on life. There was Philip. He reminded me of Louis XV. I was his Madame de Pompadour. How Philip loved life. You see this ring on my finger? No diamonds or anything, but just look at how she shines in the dark. Nothing beats eighteen-carat gold from Cartier. Ever since he gave me this, I’ve never taken it off. That day, thought he was going to marry me. Philip loved to lavish me with expensive things, but in the end, he loved his wife more. One day, I saw it’d always be that way. “Oh, there was also this guy who reminded me of Robert Redford. I’ll tell you about him sometime. He was quite a character.” “Ms. Opal,” I said, “all these men remind you of someone other than who they are. Can you tell me who they are without comparing them?” “Before I answer that,” she said, “pour me another drink, love.” I went to make her another drink and then resumed my place. “Well, Richard, that’s a tough question. Dunno if I could do that. Hell, in the sack, don’t think I ever saw any of their faces or heard their voices clearly. Their faces were people I wanted them to be. Their voices were the ones I wanted to hear. Looking at her closely, I began, “Well, how then do you see yourself?” Guzzling down her sixth shot of gin, she drawled, “Depends on the day of the week. On Mondays, I’m Marlene Dietrich. Tuesdays, Grace Kelly. Wednesdays Madonna. Thursdays, Marilyn Monroe. You get the picture.” “Well, when are you ever yourself?” “Hell, haven’t you been listening to me?” she quickly fired back. Instantly becoming calm again, she continued, “Child, dunno what it’s like to be myself. Ever since I was born, people always told me I looked or sounded like this or that person. Hell, my own father would come into my room, climb into my bed, and fall on top of me in the dark. Always said I wasn’t as beautiful as my mom, but that I reminded him of some nameless blonde in a porno magazine. “See why I can’t tell you who I am. Given up on that question. Leave it to someone who claims to know me better than myself.” “Who?” “The three-hundred dollar-a-week shrink I’ve been seeing every week for as long as you’ve probably been alive. Damn, with this last-minute graduation party, I can’t remember if I took my pills or not. Wouldn’t be the only thing I forgot today. I mean, it’s no wonder all the kids were looking at me so strangely tonight. Remembered my lipstick,” she said smacking her lips for validation, “but forgot to powder my face. Good thing it’s dark so you can’t see me up close.” “Ms. Opal, can I ask you something?” “Don’t know. Can you? It’s not ‘can I’ but ‘ I ask you something?’ Force of habit. Grammar rules I know by heart. Beginning to think they’re all this old maid English teacher will ever have to fill her empty heart. Oh my God. What am I saying, child? You were going to ask me something, right?” “Is everything all right?” I asked. “Sure,” Ms. Opal said with an unusually calm expressionless look on her face. “Ms. Opal, may I ask you something?” I began. “That’s better, child,” she said with a smile that cracked the solemn and cold concrete expression on her face. “Go ahead,” Ms. Opal continued. “Anything. As long as it’s not about me. I can see all this talk about me and my dark past is scaring you.” “No, not at all. Uhh. What I have to ask isn’t about you.” “Then, I’m all ears,” she said, having served herself another shot of gin. “You just said, a couple of minutes ago you couldn’t tell me who you were, but that someone who knew you well enough could.” “Who knows what I just said, but if you say I said that, then I did.” “Well, like you were saying, with all that’s happened this year, I’d say you know me pretty well.” Giggling unexpectedly and then raising her hand to clear the drool, she said, “Yeah, I’d say so. What’s your question?” “Never mind,” I said despondently with an undertone of anger. “What? I’m sorry. What’s your question?” she said, showing concern in her eyes. “Ms. Opal, I need you to be honest with me,” I said with slight annoyance. “Haven’t I always been? Believe it or not, tonight I’m obliged to be honest.” “Obliged?” “Yes, don’t you know that old Latin saying, With wine comes truth. As you can see, the wine’s flowing. Go ahead. I promise to be honest. Scout’s honor,” she said, raising her left hand as though she were swearing before a court of law. Somehow authenticated by reciting that old Latin phrase, Ms. Opal regained my belief in her. Less nervous than before, I began, “Like I was saying before, with all I’ve written for you, with all the stories I’ve told you, I’d say you probably know me better than most people. Who knows? Even better than I know myself. The last time you said you couldn’t do it, but I need you to do it this time.” “Will you just ask me what’s on your mind?” she said, becoming more irritated. “Ms. Opal, who do you see when you look at me?” I noticed how pale Ms. Opal had become. I could see beads of sweat beginning to form on the arch of her brow. Distant and withdrawn, she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Well, it’s hard to say exactly. Hmm… child, you were so natural when you let out that little laugh… And your face now, so serious with that innocent school-boyish smile. It’s a face you couldn’t put on and take off. It’s like James Dean’s been sitting here talking to me this whole evening. “. It all becomes so clear then. Your life now, the future, all of it, so bright and then poof. Dark. Suddenly, it all goes dark. Everything’s faded to black. I can’t see you anymore Dunno why, but I can’t picture the face I saw just a second ago “What a shame. Child, you could’ve been so great. Your life could’ve been great. But hell that’s life.” I looked at her and didn’t know what expression she saw upon my face. She’d just told me what those boys in the hall had told me several days before. Did Ms. Opal really believe what those boys said to be true? Could she have meant something else? If only I flip a light switch and escape my fear of the answers to these questions. With a confused look, Ms. Opal hurriedly placed her hand to her mouth as she turned away from me. Immediately breaking the silence, Ms. Opal began, “Daddy, were you just talking to me? Was I talking to myself? Oh my God, Richard, was I just talking to you? I’m sorry…Robert…Redford… sorry…. Daddy, I’m sorry...Richard, I’m sorry….” In a faltering voice, she continued, “ Now facing me directly, Ms. Opal quickly flashed a smile. I felt it was the first genuine one I’d ever seen from her. She then said, “I love you. From the beginning, it was you I loved with all my heart.” “” chimed Ms. Opal’s grandfather clock.