The Lost Boy (22 page)

Almost an hour later I burst through Alice Turnbough’s screen door. After a quick hug she pushed me away. “This is the last time, ” she warned. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

I nodded before replying, “I know where I belong: 555-2647!”

During the middle of my sophomore year in high school, I grew frustrated and bored. Because I had moved so much and never stayed in one school for more than a few months at a time, I was placed in a class for slow learners. I fought the idea at first, until I discovered that very little was expected of me. By then I abandoned all of my academic studies, for
I
knew my future lay outside the school walls. I was putting in over 48 hours of work a week through a string of jobs, and I believed that nothing I learned from high school could be used in the real world.

My hunger for work was fueled by the fact that I was 17 and had less than a year to go in foster care. During sixth period, I’d race from school to Alice’s home, change clothes, then speed off again to one of my jobs at a fast-food restaurant or the plastic factory, where I worked until one or two in the morning. I knew that the odd hours and lack of sleep were taking their toll on me. In school, teachers had to prod me awake as I snored in their classes. I resented the kids who laughed at me. Some of these same kids acted high and mighty whenever they saw me labor at the restaurants, strutting in to show off their dates or flashy clothes, knowing they would never have to work like I did in order to survive.

Sometimes during my free period, I’d stroll over to visit my English teacher, Mr Tapley. Since he didn’t have class that period, Mr Tapley used his time to correct papers. I’d plant my elbows on his desk and bug him with an endless stream of questions about my future. He knew how hard I struggled, but I was too embarrassed to tell him why I would always fall asleep. Mr Tapley would look up from his pile of work, run a hand through his thinning hair and feed me just enough advice to get me through the weekend – to bury myself in my homework assignments.

As much as I labored through the week, I tried to schedule every other weekend off, on the off chance of visiting Father in San Francisco. Over the years, I had left hundreds of messages to all the fire stations throughout the city. Father never called back. One afternoon I lost it when a hesitant fireman tried to put me off. “Is this the right station?” I pleaded. “Just tell me, what shift does he work?” I begged, raising my voice.

“Uhh … Stephen works at different stations at different times. We’ll get the message to him, ” the fireman said before the line went dead.

I knew something was horribly wrong. Alice tried to stop me from fleeing her home. “My dad’s in trouble, ” I shouted, my chest heaving.

“David, you don’t know that!” Alice blasted back.

“That’s exactly what I mean, ” I said, pointing a finger at her. “I’m tired of living in the dark … of hiding secrets … of living a lie. What can be so bad? If my dad’s in trouble …” I stopped for a moment as my imagination began to take hold. “I just have to know, ” I said, kissing Alice on the forehead.

I hopped on my motorcycle and sped off to the heart of San Francisco. On the freeway I dodged and swerved through the traffic, and I didn’t slow down until my motorcycle rumbled into the alley next to 1067 Post Street – the same fire station Father had been assigned to since I was a baby.

I parked my motorcycle by the back entrance of the station. As I walked up the steep incline, I noticed an old familiar face. At first I thought the face belonged to Father, but I knew it wasn’t him when the face smiled. Father never smiled. “My Lord, son! How long has it been? I haven’t seen you boys in … I don’t know how long.”

I shook hands with Uncle Lee, my father’s long-time partner and best friend. “Where’s Dad?” I asked in a stern voice.

Uncle Lee turned away. “Well … he just left. He just went off shift.”

“No, sir!” I demanded. I knew Uncle Lee was lying -firemen changed shifts in the morning, not in the middle of the afternoon. I lowered my defenses. “Uncle Lee, I haven’t seen Dad in years. I have to know.”

Lee seemed choked up. He rubbed a tear from the corner of his eye. “Your father and I started out together, ya know. I got to tell ya, your old man was one hell of a fireman … There were times when I thought we wouldn’t make it …”

I could feel it coming. My insides became unglued. My eyes searched for something to grab onto, to keep me from falling. I bit my lip. I nodded my head as if telling Uncle Lee to just let it out and tell me.

Lee’s eyes blinked, showing that he understood. “Your father … doesn’t work for the department anymore. Stephen – your father – was … asked to retire early.”

I let out a sigh of relief as I fought to control my feelings. “So he’s alive! He’s okay! Where is he?” I shrieked.

Uncle Lee laid it all down, telling me that Father had not had work for over a year. So when his money ran out, he moved from place to place, and at times Lee feared that Father slept on the street. “David, it’s the booze. It’s killing him, ” he said in a soft but firm tone.

“So where is he now?” I begged.

“I don’t know, son. I only see him when he needs a few bucks.” Uncle Lee stopped for a moment to clear his throat. He looked at me in a way he never had before. “David, don’t be too hard on your old man. He never really had a family. He was a young man when he first came here to the city. He loved you kids, but the marriage destroyed him. His job wasn’t easy on him, either. It’s all that kept him going. He lived for the station. But his drinking … it’s all that he knows.”

“Thanks, Uncle Lee, ” I said, as I shook his hand. “Thanks for not putting me off. At least now I know.”

Uncle Lee walked me down to my motorcycle. “I should see your dad in a few days. Hell, maybe you can help him out of this mess.”

“Yeah, ” I replied, “maybe.”

Two weekends later, I rode on a Greyhound bus to the Mission district of San Francisco. At the bus station I waited for Father for over an hour. From outside I spotted a rundown bar. I took a chance, walked across the street and found Father slumped over on top of a table. My head swiveled around, searching for help. I couldn’t believe how people strolled by Father’s table without the slightest concern, or sat by the bar nursing their drinks as if my father were invisible.

I gently shook my childhood superhero from his slumber. Father’s coughing seemed to awaken him. His stench was so bad that I held my breath until I could help him stumble from the bar. The outside air seemed to clear his head. In the sunlight Father looked worse than I ever imagined. I deliberately did not look at his face. I wanted to remember my father for the man he once was – the tall, rugged, strong firefighter with gleaming white teeth, who placed himself in danger to help a fellow fireman or rescue a child from a burning building.

Father and I walked for several blocks without saying a word. I knew better than to question him on his drinking or his lifestyle. But Uncle Lee’s warning about doing something, anything, to help Father echoed in my mind. Without thinking, I closed my eyes, spun around and held out my hand, stopping him. “What happened, Dad?”

Father stopped and let out a hacking cough. His hands trembled as he struggled to light a cigarette. “You’d be better off forgetting all about it, the whole thing – your mother, the house, everything. It never happened.” Father took a deep drag. I tried to look into his eyes, but he kept dodging my glance. “It’s your mother. She’s crazy … You’d be better off forgetting the whole thing, ” he ordered with a wave of his hand, as if sweeping the
family secret
under the carpet for the final time.

“No, Dad, it’s you! I’m worried about you!” A chill blew across my face. My body shuddered, and I clamped my eyes shut. I wanted to cry out to Father, and yet I didn’t have the guts to tell him how much I was scared for him. My brain struggled with what was right and what was proper. I knew by Father’s look that his life was his business and that no one ever questioned a father’s authority, but he was a walking death. His hands rattled every few seconds and his eyelids were dropped so low that he could barely see. I felt so awkward. I didn’t want to make Father mad, but I soon found myself becoming upset.
Why weren’t you there for me? Couldn’t you have at least called me? Can t you be like a regular dad, with a job and a family, so I could be with you and play catch or go fishing? Why can’t you be normal?
my brain screamed.

I sucked in a deep breath before I opened my eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re my dad … and I love you.”

Father wheezed as he turned away. I knew he had heard me but he couldn’t bring himself to reply. The river of alcohol and the destroyed family life had stripped him of his innermost feelings. I realized that inside, my father was truly dead. Moments later he and I continued our journey to nowhere, with our heads bent down, looking at no one -especially not ourselves.

Hours later, before Father loaded me onto the bus, he pulled me aside. “I want to show you something, ” he said with pride, as he reached behind him and plucked out a black leather covering with the emblem of the fireman’s shield on it. Father smiled as he opened the casing, revealing a bright, shiny silver fireman’s badge. “Here, hold it, ” he said, as he gently placed the badge in my open palms.

“R-1522, ” I read aloud, knowing that the R signified that Father was indeed retired and not fired as I had feared, while the numbers were those assigned to Father when he first joined.

“That’s all I have now. That’s one of the only things in my life that I didn’t screw up too badly. No one can ever take that away from me, ” he stated with conviction, pointing to his prize. “Someday you’ll understand.”

I nodded my head. I understood. I always had. In the past I had imagined Father dressed in his crisp, dark blue fireman’s uniform, as he strolled to a podium to receive his badge of honor in front of a frenzied crowd shouting his name, with his beautiful wife and family standing by his side. As a child, I had dreamed of Father’s big day.

I now looked into his eyes as I gave him his lifetime achievement. “I’m really proud of you, Dad, ” I said, gazing down at the badge. “I truly am.” For a split second Father’s eyes gleamed. And for a moment in time his pain disappeared.

A few minutes later Father stopped me on the steps of the bus. He hesitated. His eyes looked down. “Get out of here, ” he mumbled. “David, get as far away from here as you can. Your brother Ronald joined the service, and you’re almost at that age. Get out, ” Father said as he patted my shoulder. As he turned away, his final words were, “Do what you have to. Don’t end up like me.”

I pressed my face to the window of the bus and strained my eyes as I watched Father disappear into the crowd. I wanted to jump off and hug him, to hold his hand or sit by his side the way I did as a child whenever he read his evening paper – like the dad I knew so many years ago. I wanted him to be a part of my life. I wanted a dad. As the bus lumbered out of San Francisco, I lost control of my emotions and cried inside. I clenched my fist, as the tremendous pressure I had stored for years burst inside my soul. I realized the horribly lonely life that Father lived. I prayed with all my heart that God would watch over him and keep him warm at night and free from any harm. A mountain of guilt weighed on my shoulders. I felt so bad for everything in my father’s life.

After visiting Uncle Lee, I had fantasized that maybe I could buy a home in Guerneville and have Father move in. Only then could I help ease his pain or could we spend some time together as father and son. But I knew, as always, that fantasies were dreams and reality was life. I cried throughout the bus ride to Alice’s home. I knew that Father was dying, and I became terrified that I would never see him again.

Months afterward, during the summer of 1978, after dozens of interviews, I landed a job selling cars. Selling cars was mentally exhausting. The upper managers would threaten the sales staff one day, then bait us with money incentives the next. The competition was fierce, but I somehow managed to keep my head above water. If I had a weekend off, I’d race off to Duinsmoore and forget about having to be an adult, as Paul, Dave and I searched for new adventure on four wheels -loaned to me by the car dealer. Once, after seeing a movie on Hollywood stuntmen, the three of us sat facing forward as I drove backward in a perfectly straight line, without looking behind my back. Our stunt caused a few wrecks with confused drivers, and the three of us had a few minor scrapes with the law. But I knew my adventurous times would be coming to an end when Paul and Dave matured and began to look for jobs, too.

More than ever, I sought guidance from Duinsmoore Drive. One time Dan drove to Alice’s home so he could talk me out of my pipe dream of becoming a Hollywood stuntman. With his son Paul by his side, Mr Brazell spent hours of his time telling me how foolish I was. I had always been fond of Dan, and as I walked him and Paul outside after abandoning my lame idea. I realized that I was closer to Dan than to my own father.

The Marshes were just as caring. Many times I’d help Sandra with her housework, as I learned other ways to become self-sufficient. Mr Marsh recommended that I join the service. Immediately I’d think of the Air Force, but as a freshman in high school I had taken the aptitude test and failed miserably. I had convinced myself that I could make it in the outside world without any schooling.

Summer passed, and I decided – because I was almost 18 and had to make money in order to survive – to drop out of high school. Alice was livid, but my career as a salesman was on the rise. Out of a sales staff of over 40, I was consistently one of the top five salesmen. But months after my i8th birthday, the recession hit, gas prices shot up, my savings withered and the reality of going nowhere fast hit me in the face.

To escape my troubles, one Sunday I rode off in my beat-up, orange ‘65 Mustang and headed north to find the Russian River. I didn’t know exactly how to get there, but I drove by instinct, relying on my memories as a child. When I sensed the correct exit, I turned off. I knew I was close when the towering redwood trees filled my windshield. My heart seemed to skip a beat when I parked my car at the old Safeway supermarket. My eyes gaped at the same aisles I had strolled through as a child. At the checkout counter, I dug through my pant pockets and spent the last of my splurge money on a stick of salami and a loaf of French bread. I sat on a deserted sandbar of Johnson’s Beach and slowly gnawed on my lunch, listening to the rippling sounds of the Russian River and the scraping metal of an oversized motor home that rumbled its way across the narrow evergreen bridge. I found myself at peace.