Bird Boy

 

    Chapter 5


   
    The woman looked young enough, but she came off cold and detached, like some bad actress playing a civil servant in a movie made for TV.

    “…At any rate…Owing to the seriousness of your injuries, the Juvenile Court agreed with the Probation Department’s recommendation to put this whole thing on a less formalized footing.”

    She passed a wad of official looking papers across the bed to Michael.

    On top of the pile was a sheet that spelled out the rules of Michael’s less than formal probation. He could choose to either follow them or spend the next few years in a group home -- under basic training-like rules and supervision -- with a half dozen other violent screw-ups.

    Or, he might even wind up in CYA, the California Youth Authority—kid prison—until he turned eighteen.

    The choice was his.

    “Don’t think of this as punishment, Michael,” she said, looking right through him. “We want you to see this as an intervention. Obviously, we all care about you and want you to be successful in life.”

    They care about him? Them? Michael scowled for a moment, concentrating hard on trying to remember just who the hell these people were.

    With the exception of Coach Gubbins and his dad, he had never laid eyes on any of them until an hour or so ago, when they all crowded into his hospital room.

    Up to then, it hadn’t really been a bad day. Actually, it was the first in about five or so, that his balls didn’t feel like they were a couple of feet wide, and on fire.

    There were five of them in the room--his dad and the football coach, and these three strangers. The Doc was easy enough to pick out; he was the one in the white lab coat, with all the pens and crap sticking out of one of the pockets. But the other two?

    Like that cold and official looking bitch from Children’s Services, Sheila something. Every time she repeated that this was all for his own good, she only made him angrier.

    The other one was a chubby, middle aged guy with bad breath, a receding hairline and a wrinkled suit, who introduced himself by holding out his hand and saying, “Hi, Michael. George Whiting. I’m gonna be your new best friend.”

    Whiting dug into his shirt pocket and pressed a business card into Michael’s hand. “BUTTE COUNTY PROBATION DEPARTMENT, JUVENILE DIVISION, GEORGE WHITING, SENIOR PROBATION OFFICER”.

    “You understand the conditions of your probation?” His new best friend suddenly sounded extremely un-friend like.

    Michael took a quick glance at the papers in his hand, hoping against hope that somehow, the wording had magically changed from the first time he read them over.

    Because in order to remain free, the conditions he would have to live under would make for a life that was pretty damn close to not worth living.

    First, there’d be no more steroids; he would be urine tested every week to make sure, and out of sports until he tested clean.

    Which could cost him his senior year football season; not mention a full-ride PAC 10 scholarship and a possible run at the pros. And the high school’s athletic department was going to be administering the weekly tests and forwarding the results on to Probation, so there would be no chance to screw around.

    Second, he was not to have any physical contact of any kind with his younger brother.

    Third, he was going to have to participate in weekly anger management counseling sessions. There was a teen group that met two evenings a week at the high school.

    Fourth, he was to report to George Whiting - his new best friend - every week. And, he could expect the man to surprise him with unscheduled visits from time to time, either at home or at school. Or wherever.

    Michael weakly nodded his assent to the conditions. All he could think of, was the chorus to some old country western song, about having to know when to hold ‘em, and when to fold ‘em.

    There was no point in fighting. 

    And no cards worth holding.

    Time to just fold his hand and get with the program.

    “This ain’t gonna be a lot of fun.” He mused out loud.

    “This isn’t about fun, Michael,” Sheila, the cold looking bitch from Children’s Services officiously snapped. “It’s about getting your life back on the right track.”

    She opened her brief case, extracted a pen and held it out to him.  “Now, if you agree to follow the terms of your behavior contract, please sign at the bottom.”

    Agree?

    Like he had a choice?

    Michael exhaled a long sigh, took the pen and signed the document.

    Handing the papers back, he took a moment to look at each face in the room. If it was time to get with the program, he might as well get started now.

    “Y’know, this probably won’t make a lot of difference,” he spoke in the best, most humble and contrite voice he could dredge up. “But…I really am sorry about everything that happpened.”

    To give his words a little added credibility, he quickly shifted his glance downward.

    The bureaucrat from Children’s Services softened slightly, even smiled a bit with her eyes. “That’s an excellent first step, Michael.”

 

                                                   *                              *                              *

 


    Tomasz eased his battered old pickup truck into its usual parking place under the Oak tree that stood about fifty yards from the house. The old Ford had been a gift to him from his father some twenty years earlier to celebrate his having received his first driver’s license.

    He shut off the headlights and cut the engine, then settled back into his seat, taking a few moments to draw a little serenity from his view. From this spot he could see across the top of the levee to the river and the moon reflecting off the water’s surface.

    According to his watch, it was coming up on a quarter to four in the morning; he was just getting home from work, and in another hour or so dawn would start gradually lightening the skies to the East. But for now, it was nice to just sit there enjoying the pre-dawn cool and stillness in the air, watching the river, listening for the screech of an occasional owl and the mile-long Southern Pacific freight train as it sounded its whistle during its long and slow early morning pull through the outskirts of town.

    God damn, but it had been one very long, very scary day.

    That meeting at the hospital between himself, Michael and those assholes from Probation and Children’s Services… Jeez, talk about using a sledgehammer to take out a little fly.

    He felt so bad for Michael, so powerless to help his oldest son. Sure, the kid had some serious problems. Hell, who among us didn’t?

    But with one swift and impersonal stroke of the pen, one rap of some unseeing, unfeeling judge’s gavel, they all but guaranteed that Michael’s life would never be the same. That his kid’s fantasy of a college football scholarship and maybe even a few years of playing in the pro’s would probably always remain just an unfulfilled dream.

    OK, he had to admit that some good actually came out of the whole thing. Like ensuring that Michael would finally stop tormenting his little brother.

    Tomasz bent forward, reaching under the front seat for the brown paper bag and the fresh, quart bottle of Gallo Tokay he had purchased at the 7-11 on his way to work that afternoon.

    Once again, he had been left to feel emasculated by the people and events swirling around him.

    Powerless to run his family and raise his boys the way he saw fit.

    He raised the paper bag to his lips and took a long pull on the bottle of fortified sweet wine wrapped inside, enjoying the warm feeling of the liquid working its way down his throat and into his stomach.

    Hell, he’d been feeling like this for a long time, at least since the day Dov was born.

    He took another drink from the bottle of cheap wine.

    And as usual, his thoughts headed right where they always went when the burdens, the guilt, the self-pity and the wine got to him.

    For just a second, he found himself angry with Francine.

    For not wanting to stop at just one child.

    For dying trying to give birth to their second.
 
    For leaving him to face it all -- Dov, Michael and the trials and problems of life in general – by himself.

    Christ, he never signed on for any of this, none of it.

    All he had ever wanted out of life was someone to grow old with; a partner; a lover and best friend; a mother to their kids; a source of strength he could draw upon when the going got tough; a willing accomplice to laugh and share with when things were good. There wasn’t a day that went by, not a single hour -- that he didn’t think about her. And mourn, both for her and for what could have been. God, but he missed Francine.

    And God, he felt so freakin’ alone.

    He paused long enough to take another long swig from the bottle.

    And now this whole thing with Michael?

    Tom upended the bottle, preparing to finish off the remaining third in one last series of swallows. As he tilted his head toward the ceiling of the truck, he could feel the tears running down both sides of his face.

    Just how much more, God?

    How much more fucking pain, sorrow and anguish was he supposed to take?

    He fell asleep resting his head on his hands, on top of the steering wheel.

    Sobbing.

 

                                                   *                              *                              *

 

    “Sure, I’ll give him the message.” Dov picked up the notepad from the kitchen counter and read back what he had just written down.

    “OK, Sheila Bowen called. You’re from Children’s Services and you need to speak to my dad and it’s important.” He repeated back the phone number, then listened to the caller’s question for a moment.

    “Don’t know. He’s usually home by now.” He glanced over to the clock on the kitchen wall. Nine fifteen in the morning. “Maybe he worked overtime, or something.”

    Glancing out the kitchen window, he noticed his father’s aging pickup truck, parked under the old Oak tree. Hmm, that’s strange--

    “OK, I will,” he answered. “You’re welcome.”

    Dov was a little puzzled as he placed the phone back in its cradle on the kitchen wall. Taking another look into the yard, he could see his dad’s truck was sitting under the tree, right where he always parked it.

    So, where was the old man?

    He cocked his head, listening. By now, his dad was usually deep asleep and snoring up a storm.

    Nothing. No snoring sounds coming from anywhere inside the place. Which meant his father was probably not asleep. Or not at home. Maybe both.  

    Either way, this was out of character for the man. After getting off work at three, it just wasn’t like him to be anywhere but in bed and sound asleep this time every morning.

    Dov took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, then stopped when he got to the door to his father’s bedroom. Knocking softly on the closed door, he waited a beat and then quietly pushed the door open.

    “Pop--?”

    The room looked the way it almost always did; dirty t-shirts, work shirts and jeans were piled high on an upholstered chair in the corner; the sheets on the double bed were rumpled, as usual; and throughout the rest of the room the dust and disarray that greeted him confirmed that everything seemed to be in its rightful place.

    Except his father.

    For a second Dov thought maybe the man was out tending to his bees, then quickly dismissed the idea. The temperature outside had to already be above a hundred. Which meant the bees would already be awake, alert, warmed up and doing all the things bees do. And in this heat, they’d probably be a little too touchy to want to mess with.

    He returned to the kitchen, and looking at the truck again through the window over the sink, spotted something he hadn’t noticed before, some papers scattered around the ground beneath the door on the driver’s side.

    “Dad..?” He called out softly as he approached the truck. If his father was asleep inside the vehicle, the man didn’t need to be startled awake.

    Still more than a dozen feet away, Dov could hear the snoring coming from inside the truck. Through the rolled down driver’s side window, he saw that Tomasz was, sure enough, asleep in side the truck, squeezed into a cramped fetal position across the seat. And from the empty Tokay bottle on the floor of the vehicle, he could also see that his father wasn’t just asleep. It was more like he was sleeping it off.

    Dov breathed a small sigh of relief. At least he knew where the man was, and that he was OK.

    But in this heat, it probably wasn’t a good idea to let him stay in the truck. He opened the driver’s side door, and began shaking his father’s shoulder, trying to wake him.

    “C’mon, Pop. Let’s go…Let’s get you inside.”

    As he waited for the man to come around, he picked up the papers lying near the door, official looking forms, some from the hospital, some from the Probation Department and the rest were from Children’s Services.