Tietam Brown (14 page)

And I stayed there for some time while she stroked my hair, and with my head in her bosom, I unearthed my past, leaving no stone unturned. My mother. Auntie M. My foster dad. Mrs. Delanor. Stolsky and Majors. All the grisly details.

The Rage / 1981

Three for three is a tremendous day at the plate for a major league baseball player. Hell, a guy who averages one hit in every three at bats is considered a superstar. I was three for three. So why didn't I feel good about it?

I had loved three women in my life (prior to Terri)—my mother, Auntie M, and Mrs. Delanor. All three were dead. I guess, more specifically, all three were dead because of me. So I guess it would be safe to say that I carried a considerable amount of guilt around with me as I graced the grounds of the Petersburg Home for Boys on a continuous basis from August of 1977 until October of 1981.

Yeah, following the Delanor incident in '77, I was never placed in foster care again. I sometimes blamed Mr. Delanor, and wondered whatever became of that one-eyed prick, but for the most part I blamed myself. Because, after all, I was Catholic, and that seems to be part of what being Catholic is all about. At least that's how the sisters at the home sometimes made me feel.

The Petersburg Home for Boys was not a place that was conducive to forming deep friendships—at least not for me. Some kids laughed it up and seemed to have a heck of a time there, although if given the choice, they would rather have had parents, I was pretty sure. But as for me, well, I just kind of stayed to myself. Sure, I made the occasional crack that resulted in disciplinary action, but for the most part I just sat around, mired in a sea of guilt, trying to learn about God and making mental lists of what I did and didn't believe when it came to
him.

An orphanage, you see, is not the type of place you want to stay in long. Staying in defeats the purpose, which is, after all, to get out. Get out to foster care, and maybe, if the Fates are smiling on you, even find an adoptive family. But hope for adoption, even under normal circumstances, wanes with each passing year. And my circumstances weren't exactly normal.

So by the time I turned thirteen, in 1981, I had seen a lot of kids come and go. The ones that remained were the ones no one wanted. Like me. And Richie Majors. And Mel Stolsky.

Majors and Stolsky had become something of a dynamic duo over my last two years in Petersburg. Majors was tall, maybe six three, and lean, with a pockmarked face that spoke of previous acne, and a prominent Adam's apple that seemed to have a life of its own whenever he opened his mouth. Which was pretty much all the time. His day didn't seem complete unless he hurt at least one person's feelings, which he did in a manner that made up for in crudeness what it lacked in creativity. He got away with it, too, for while Richie may not have been the toughest guy at Petersburg, Mel Stolsky certainly was.

I rarely saw Stolsky's eyes, as they were in a constant state of subterfuge beneath a shock of long greasy hair. On those rare occasions I did, they seemed dead to the world. Already beyond caring at the age of sixteen. He didn't talk a whole lot, just laughed like hell at Majors's crude put-downs. He backed up Majors's words with his thick arms and short temper, and I sensed by the nuns' reactions around him that even they thought he was beyond hope.

I guess for lack of a better term, I would call them white trash, but I wouldn't want to offend actual white trash by doing so.

But up until I gave my heartfelt lecture on kettles boiling over and the sin of Onan, I did not have much of a history with the two aspiring thugs. I mean they had tripped me when I was walking down a flight of stairs in '77, had given me a world-class wedgie in '78, and occasionally spit on me or punched me in the arm for no reason, but other than that, things were cool between us.

But after getting big laughs on the subject of Onanism, things changed. We become closer. They ate with me one day. Tried to teach me to smoke the next. Asked me how I knew “all that Bible shit.” Cracked up when they got a close-up look at my ear. I guess you could say we bonded. So when they invited me into the bathroom and locked the door, I thought nothing of it. I thought maybe they were going to catch a quick smoke before proceeding to not learn anything in class.

I still suspected nothing when Stolsky pulled down his pants. After all, there were urinals all around us, even if most urinal users weren't in Mel's apparent state of arousal when eliminating urine from their bodies.

I should have caught on when Majors spoke. Yeah, his “Hey Brown, how 'bout suckin' Mel's dick?” should have been a giveaway. But it wasn't. I mean, after all, we were tight, right? And besides, Majors's tone was so uncharacteristically polite that I actually thought this was a simple yes-or-no question. As if I could just say, “Oh no thanks, I don't feel like sucking Mel's dick today,” and that would be the end of it.

Actually, I did say no, but unfortunately, that wasn't the end of it. And about the time Majors hit me in the back of the head with his forearm and Stolsky started pushing down on my head as if he were doing a perfectly executed triceps extension, I suddenly realized that I was in a world of trouble.

Majors was punching me in the ribs from behind as Stolsky continued to practice his unique form of isometrics. A form of isometrics that he was pretty damn good at, as gradually my face got closer and closer to its intended destination.

That's when Majors started in with his talk about making me squeal like a pig, and telling Stolsky about what a pretty mouth I had. Sure, he was just spewing lines straight out of
Deliverance,
but I didn't know that at the time. I actually thought he was being original for a change. Original and terrifying.

Stolsky kept quiet the whole time. He just applied ever-increasing pressure to the back of my head and neck while Majors became ever more specific as to what the duo's plans for me were. Majors was going to treat me like a dog for one thing. I was going to put Mel's balls in my mouth for another. And according to Majors, I was going to like it too.

I guess if I had to go back and figure out exactly where Majors went wrong, it would be in changing his tenses—the way he switched them from future to present. You see, he stopped telling me what was
going
to happen, and began telling me to do it
now.
Which in this case was the difference between saying “You're gonna put Mel's balls in your mouth” and “Put them balls in your mouth now!” The difference might seem negligible. But not to me. No, for me, the difference was between feeling terror, and feeling rage. And make no mistake about it, in that bathroom in 1981, I suddenly felt a whole lot of rage.

So what exactly did I do in this rage? Well, to begin with I put Mel's balls in my mouth. And the moment I felt those nuts in my mouth, I clamped down with my teeth and I started throwing my head from side to side like I'd seen my old pal Shakes the dog do so many times.

At that point Stolsky ended his silence. Ended it with high-pitched screams that still make me shudder from time to time. I guess it's not so easy to be the strong silent type when your scrotum is being treated like an old slipper in the clamped jaws of a golden retriever.

Majors was trying to pull me off his beleaguered buddy, but I could have held on all day if I had so wanted. I did not so want. What I wanted was Majors, whose sick plan this no doubt had been. I released Stolsky's battered balls from my mouth, and as I did so, I was reaching for my quarters. Those same quarters that had spelled the end of Mr. Delanor's left eye. The same quarters I had carried with me every day since then.

I grabbed those quarters tight, wheeled around as fast as I could, and put every ounce of energy into smashing Majors's nose, visualizing it exploding as I did so. But I missed. Miscalculated his height, I guess, and missed his nose completely. Instead the punch caught him square in that Adam's apple of his, and he dropped as if he'd been shot, gurgled once or twice, and then fell silent for good. I had no idea that he was dead. Never could have conceived of the possibility.

Stolsky didn't look all that tough writhing in pain on the soiled blue-and-white tiles of the Petersburg bathroom. He looked kind of pathetic, actually. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't feeling real pathetic myself at the time. Not sympathetic. Not empathetic. Not even apathetic. No, all I felt was rage, and my emotion wasn't quite spent. Even as I heard the banging on the door. Even as I heard voices screaming on the other side. I knew for certain that I wasn't quite done with Mel Stolsky. Not yet.

Amid his moaning and screaming, I heard Stolsky mumbling. Praying. I put my right foot on the inside of his crotch and thought of Stallone in the first
Rocky,
saying “You shoulda planned ahead” to the poor SOB on the docks.

Stolsky made the sign of the cross as I put my other foot on the other side of his crotch.

I heard the jingling of keys on the other side of the door, and I heard Stolsky begin the Lord's prayer as I reached down with my left hand and squeezed those balls as if they were the quarters that had been my sole companions over the last four years. I lowered myself into a squatting position and listened to Stolsky's weak attempt at spiritual consolation. “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us . . .”

The door opened. “Andy Brown, you let that boy go!” I turned to see Sister Fahey, the same nun who had taught me about the kettle boiling over. Over the years I've wondered about whether Sister Fahey thought I was touching Mel Stolsky in an impure way.

“Andy Brown!” the sister yelled. “For God's sake, don't—”

I exploded out of that squatting position and took Stolsky's balls with me. From what I was told, Stolsky would have died had it not been for Sister Fahey, who stopped the blood flow, which I heard was pretty extensive.

It was a historic day for me, and not just because I had put a man's testicles in my mouth. No, it was also the day that I stopped being an orphan, and instead became a criminal in the eyes of the state of Virginia.

November 27, 1985 / Evening

The line of cars extended out onto Elm Street. A line that I saw was turning into our little dead-end street and then snaked its way back out onto Elm.

My thoughts first turned to disaster. Maybe someone had died. No, that couldn't be it. Sure, motorists slowed down and rubber-necked at casualties, but as far as I knew, they didn't turn into dead-end streets specifically to check them out.

But wait a second, my dad had said that people drove by the Suglings' house just to see their Christmas display, didn't he? That had to be it. I explained the situation to Terri, who had done a pretty impressive job of holding my hand throughout the many gear changes.

But as we got closer, it became apparent that the Suglings' house, despite its considerable holiday illumination, was not the attraction. My house was.

“Andy,” Terri said, “there are camels on your lawn.”

Indeed there were. Three of them to be exact. But of course there had to be three, one for each of the wise men, who were also on my front lawn. Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. Yeah, they were there.

But I guess they had to be. To visit the kid in the crib, who was being fawned over by Mary and Joseph in the manger that had been erected in my front yard. Actually, the newborn king turned out to be a doll, but Mary and Joseph were very much real, as were the two sheep who munched happily on the hay that made up the floor of the manger.

All of it illuminated by the spotlights I had helped ol' Tietam with, which revealed him and Holly, the mystery woman, rocking contentedly on new rockers on our tiny front porch. Looking very much like an old married couple, instead of two strangers on a first date.

When Terri pulled into the drive, after a good ten-minute crawl, the odd scene turned surreal. Actually it had been surreal to start with, so I guess it turned surrealer. That's probably not even a word, but it's the only way I can describe it.

Because as I looked into the white light of this December night and saw the flakes falling ever faster, I heard my father's voice.

“Okay boys, break time. We've got some hot chocolate and cookies inside.”

And out of the manger and into our little house walked three wise men, a shepherd, and the mother and father of Jesus. The door closed behind them, momentarily leaving a trail of disappointed motorists behind, but before seasonal depression could set in, the door opened back up and three new wise men, a new shepherd, and a new mother and father of Jesus strolled toward the manger, polishing off cookies before taking their posts.

As I reached the porch, Holly stood to embrace us simultaneously with the type of hug usually not meant for ten-minute acquaintances. But Holly wasn't a usual woman, and her hug felt right at home amid this bizarre Winter Wonderland/Town of Bethlehem scene.

“Isn't it wonderful?” Holly said, and her beam seemed a perfect companion to Tietam Brown's shy, little-boy smile.

Tietam got up and gave Terri the politest of handshakes and embraced me warmly. He said, “How was the movie, son?”

“Well how was your movie, Dad?” I asked, walking that tight-rope that separates lying from simply not telling the truth. A tight-rope I didn't feel all that comfortable walking.

“Andy, we didn't make it to the movies.”

“You didn't?” Had my dad taken her back here and gotten his first strike already? Had she told him what he was doing to her? Had she licked—no, I refused to even think it. She was too sweet. Too nice. Had too much going for her. Plus she wasn't drunk or married.

Fortunately, my dad cleared up the situation.

“Nope, when I told Holly about my little plan here, she suggested that we head back right away.”

“That's right,” Holly interjected. “I told your dad that those boys and that girl were going to be cold and hungry when they took their breaks, and that we needed to take care of them.”

Now the interjection belonged to Tietam, who said, “Yeah, so we stopped at the store and headed back to make hot cocoa and bake homemade cookies.”

The cars kept on coming. Until ten o'clock, at which time Tietam shut down the set, paid his performers (including what looked to be a whole lot of money for the camel handlers), thanked all of the remaining cars on a one-by-one basis, and basically looked like how I imagined Walt Disney had at the opening of Disneyland in 1955.

He came rushing back to the house, announced the night a complete success, and decided to celebrate by treating us all to the best restaurant in town, J.R. McClean's.

On this special night, with the season's first snow laying a white carpet across town, we had the steakhouse just to ourselves, save a family of four who talked about “seeing camels in Conestoga” and a man and woman barely visible in the dim light of the bar.

In the plush atmosphere of oak tables and aged beef, Tietam Brown was out of his element but in his glory. “Whatever you want,” he said. Words that seemed strange coming from a notorious cheapskate like my dad, even more so in a place where a bowl of soup cost an Abe, and a burger a Hamilton. You know, as in five dollars and ten. At that rate, he might go through a couple of Benjamins on one meal.

I studied my menu in shock, lifting my gaze only when a somewhat less than macho waiter rattled off a list of specials that I had never heard of. Finally, I said, “Dad, isn't this an awful lot of money to spend?”

My dad put his arm around Holly. “Son, you can't put a price on memories. Or family. A night like this doesn't come around too often in life. And when it does, would it be fair to crush these memories with the foolish grasp of stinginess? No, Andy, I couldn't do that to you, or us, all of us. Besides, son, it's time that you started eating better.”

As if I was the guy who had placed the Brown family on a weekly fifty-dollar food budget that deemed chicken nuggets a luxury item.

But I just nodded my head, and we all ordered huge steaks while Tietam Brown dreamed out loud about big things to come.

“Sure it was great, but we can do better,” he said. “We need some music for atmosphere, and maybe a Santa to collect for the poor. Why he'd clean up on those cars crawling down our street. It would be a pretty cold heart indeed who wouldn't reach into their wallet and give a buck or two in the name of Jesus.”

Terri's eyes lit up at the name of the Savior, the same guy who had cost me my big date with destiny, but whom I still thanked for all the good in my life. I thought she might take offense. Instead she said, “Mr. Brown, I think that is a wonderful idea. Your Nativity scene might touch the heart of people who've forgotten what this season is all about. And to have a Santa Claus there to help out those less fortunate really evokes the spirit of the true St. Nicholas.”

“Wow,” my dad said, “you sure make it sound good. To tell the truth, I was thinking of our Santa as more or less one of those squeegee guys in the city. You know, pressuring people. But please, call me Tietam.”

“Okay, Tietam, but do you mind a little constructive criticism?”

“Let's hear it,” said Tietam.

“Well, it just seems to me that Joseph, the father of Jesus, shouldn't really be smoking cigarettes in the manger.”

Our table exploded in laughter. Holly slammed her fist on the table and said, “Tietam, I told you he was smoking. You just said it was his breath in the air.”

I looked at my father, who looked like he'd just been called out on strikes to lose the World Series. “Damn,” he said, “I'll fire his ass.” Two bad words from Tietam in a single sentence. But I guess it just showed his dedication to producing the most realistic live Nativity scene possible.

Holly admonished her balding new boyfriend, a man who I guessed was at least twenty years older than her, maybe a little more. But damn if they didn't look downright cute together. “Tietam, he's just a college kid, he probably needs that job.”

But Tietam was not so easily swayed. “Do you know how much I'm paying those Cortland kids?” he asked. Holly shrugged her shoulders. Tietam decided to answer his own question. “Twelve dollars. Twelve dollars an hour. Three times more than they make at the local fast food joints and bars. And double what they'll make as gym teachers in the real world. Oh yeah he's fired,” my dad reiterated.

“You'll need to find a new Mary too,” Holly said.

“Why?” Tietam asked.

“Because she said she needs to start studying more. Says she can't spare the time.”

“Damn.”

Holly continued, “Now, as for the wise men, they're supposed to be Middle Eastern, right?”

“I guess,” Tietam said. “But wasn't one a black guy?”

“Well those guys look like they just got off a bus from Long Island.”

“Holly,” Tietam said with a long extended whine, so it came across like HOLL-LEEE, “come on, give me a break, I'm not exactly drawing talent from the University of Karachi here. I mean let's get real, I could search the whole college and not find three wise men. Look, there's a perfect example.”

My father pointed to the window and we all looked out at a large figure walking in the driving snow, about six feet four, maybe 230, dressed only in jeans and a cutoff red flannel. “Look at him,” my dad said. “His parents send him off to college, and he's too stupid to even wear a coat . . . All right, here's what I'm going to do . . . I'll fire Joseph, we'll find a new Mary, but I'll keep the wise men, okay?”

Holly raised her hand.

“Yes,” my father said.

“Uh, Tietam, if you fire Joseph, who's going to take his place on short notice? You can't just stick the same people out there all night.”

Now it was Terri's turn to raise her hand.

“Yes,” my father said.

“Tietam, what about me and Andy?”

“You and Andy what?”

“What about if me and Andy were Mary and Joseph?”

My eyes lit up. So did Holly's. So did my dad's.

I had to admit it was a good idea. I didn't smoke cigarettes, and Terri was a virgin, even though part of me wished she weren't.

Holly spoke first. “That would be wonderful, Tietam. Just imagine, your own son, and his Terri, looking down on the Christ child in your own front yard.”

“Yeah,” Tietam said. “That would be cute. But now we have to get a real kid in that crib, because that doll's just not making it.”

Holly pulled playfully at his ear and said, “Tietam . . . you . . . can't . . . have . . . a . . . baby . . . in that crib. He'll freeze.”

“Not if we shuttle about four or five kids in and out. Maximum exposure time . . . fifteen minutes tops.”

“No real babies,” Holly said.

Just then I got a quick twinge in my stomach and realized the whole Joseph role might be impossible to pull off. “Frank 'n' Mary's,” I said. “Damn, I work two nights a week.”

“Quit,” my dad said.

“I can't, Dad, I have to give two weeks' notice.”

“Not me,” said Tietam. “When I'm not cool with something, I just up and leave.”

I had a quick thought of my father “just up and leaving” when I was three months old, then looked at him holding Holly, who became more beautiful with each passing minute. I wondered how she'd ever seemed average at all.

I said, “I'll work out something, but at least until Thursday, I'll be your new Joseph.”