Buddy

By Robert Kline

When a young boy's life is turned upside down by events beyond his control, where does he turn for guidance? Or will their advice only serve to dig an even deeper hole? A dying father, a grieving mother, an irresponsible uncle, an understanding policeman, a stern social worker. These folks and others create a chain of events that will make you laugh and make you cry and, eventually, will restore your faith in the basic goodness of people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Kline
• Release date: Dec 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465904034

Robert Kline

Raised in Philadelphia, transferred to Minnesota by 3M, had 2 successful novels published in early 90s, retired from 3M in '93, started Valley Forge Wood Products upon retirement, it is an online mfg and retailer of engraved items, embarking on extended writing career selling ebooks.

Book preview

Chapter One

Poppa was a man of uncommon good will. He was kind, handsome, courageous, generous to a fault and he had an enduring faith in the power of good fortune. The burnished silver dollar that wore circles in the pocket of his jeans attested to this regrettable conviction.

Momma was a woman of exceptional good will. She was pretty as a May Queen, soft as a spring shower and possessed of a gentle spirit that settled on everyone she touched like a soft mist of angel dust.

I am, for better or for worse, a living testimony to their powerful love and one could rightly expect that the confluence of their qualities would have fostered more remarkable results. But it's a fact that there's more to character than a rich mixture of genetic goo. Ancestry is but a single card in the hand we're dealt at birth and, as often occurs, it can be easily trumped by overwhelming circumstances.

I don't mean to present the impression that I was a delinquent child. I was not. In fact, I would probably be considered quite normal for the period of time in question. My point is that Momma and Poppa unwittingly created an incredibly high standard of virtue and it would be a sin of pride for me to presume that I had attained it. And now, so many years later, it saddens me to realize that only our tight, little circle of family, friends and neighbors was aware of their uncompromising goodness while others, folks outside that circle, considered us, at best, with indifference, at worst, in mild contempt. Yet, even in the face of such thoughtlessness, Momma and Poppa never directed an unkind word at their detractors. Nor did they ever commit a thoughtless act in their own defense. And, in spite of a lifetime of selfless kindness, they were never celebrated for their contribution to the general good.

Such was the legacy of poverty.

I don’t know if it was through innate wisdom or benevolent neglect that Momma never complained of how poorly other folks regarded our family. By other folks I mean those people deemed to be not our kind’a folks as Momma used to say. She made the judgment with a dismissive wave of her delicate hand that was both a warning to avoid such people and a suppressed desire that we might one day have the good fortune to join their world. And those kind of people were hard to avoid because not our kind’a folks cut a rangy swath across the growing population of Upper Darby Township.

It should be pointed out that this tally of citizens to be avoided meandered aimlessly, like Darby Creek after a hard Spring rain, because folks could easily drift back and forth across the fault line when either good or bad fortune befell them. Folks are good by nature, Momma firmly believed. But, generally speaking, not our kind’a folks included almost everybody who resided in the big stone houses in Drexel Park Gardens, ate at fancy restaurants with bottled wine, lighted candles and real cloth table covers, wore three-button suits or fine hats and dresses to their place of business, had a private telephone line, had no coal bin in the cellar, had traded in their icebox for an electric refrigerator, bought cars straight off the showroom floor and just about anybody else who cast a wary eye at the Dalton family in passing. And, let me tell you, there was no shortage of those kind'a folks.

I don’t mean to give the impression that we were eccentric or disheveled or unusually weird in our personal appearance. We were none of those things. We simply presented to the world the image that Momma desired of us. We weren't plain folk like those who wore big round hats and rode horse and buggy up in Lancaster County but we were far from fancy. Respectable is a word that comes to mind when describing the Dalton clan. Dirt poor but respectable. And respectability, in the face of the barriers we confronted, was not a simple mission. But then, what was?

On the other side of the same coin, I was pleased that those people who Momma considered to be our kind’a folks generally held us in high favor. We were among the first at their doorstep when we could be of assistance with either moral or physical support. Financial support was, unfortunately, out of the question. Otherwise, we tended to our own business. We were encouraged to 'do unto others' and, in that endeavor, we were mostly successful. Momma saw to that with a smidgeon of support from Poppa.

Buddy, Momma would say in that same buttery voice that warbled sweet country tunes while Poppa frailed his banjo with soft strokes, You shouldn't ought'a do that. Whatever that was. Or Poppa will be unhappy.

And Poppa rarely was unhappy, at least not so you'd notice, and if he was feeling blue, he'd keep his melancholy mood to himself so as not to ruin someone else's day. And that's a wonder because the good Lord knows that Poppa had plenty of reasons to be forlorn.

On top of the list was the house we lived in. It was little more than a leaky old shack, truth be told, though its many frailties weren't apparent to me at the time. It perched precariously on a rocky hillside overlooking Darby Creek along with about a dozen similar shanties built two generations earlier by bold newcomers eager to find the good life in America. Somewhere during its sleepy history, the forgotten parcel of geography became known to its residents as 'the patch' although maps of the era called it Addingham.

Poppa rented the place from a city fellow named McClatchy who owned more than a fair share of the local real estate, tithed in his church it was rumored, but conserved his resources cravingly when it came to upkeep and maintenance of the properties he rented. Why won’t Mister McClatchy fix the roof? Molly once asked. Maybe he’s already given all of his extra money to his church, Momma suggested without a hint of sarcasm.

Our house in the patch was a creaky wooden square about thirty feet on a side boasting four plank walls lined with a meaningless film of insulation to ward off the frosty Pennsylvania winters. It had five tiny rooms, an oft-patched tar paper roof and a redolent outhouse that was called to service when the indoor plumbing rebelled which occurred with unpredictable regularity. It was fronted by a gravel lane, separated from its side yard neighbors by spindly jack pines and scratchy weeds and it backed up to a rolling woodland that hatched more boyhood memories than all the rec rooms and swimming pools in Drexel Park Gardens put together. It was held together by chicken wire, hefty nails, uncommon grit and Dalton love but, in spite of the challenges, it was always neat and spanking clean inside and out. We all saw to that.

There's nobody so poor they can't keep their yard picked up, Momma would tell us in that whisper that managed to carry a weighty measure of wisdom and authority.

And Poppa would just smile and nod his handsome head in silent assent and he would certainly think more than twice before flicking a cigarette butt onto our hard-scrabble patch of lawn.

I thought it strange that Poppa never spoke about the house and the neighborhood where he grew up but his respect for our house led me to believe that our place in the patch was a step up. That sure gives one cause to wonder.

And, of course, chief among the many problems was the money -- always the money. Neither Momma nor Poppa especially craved for it. They just wanted enough of it to keep the rent paid, the family fed and wearing warm enough clothes that wouldn't draw mean snickers or sorrowful frowns from strangers. And they managed to do that most of the time.

Luxuries were not even a distant consideration. Molly and I shared a toothbrush until I started school and we shared warm bath water on Saturday nights for more years than modern modesty would sanction. My clothes, as I already mentioned, were always clean, as clean as Momma or Aunt Melody could get them after I spent the day chasing Beauty through the brambles by Darby Creek or exploring the old caves up at Indian Springs. Style took a far back seat to function and the wardrobe of kids from the patch was passed from kid to kid and from house to house as size and season dictated. It wasn't unheard of for a warm, winter coat to leave a house one year and return the next.

Don't even ask about our furniture.

Poppa worked hard, I know that, though I couldn't name either a specific skill or trade at which he was formally trained. He learned his skills by doing and he learned them well because he was good and steady at providing for his kin. He did whatever was necessary to keep the family warm and fed. He carried hod, drove truck, dug trench or moved furniture with the best of them. And on those jobs that he always managed to find even when other husbands and fathers were standing in a soup line, he always was the best. He was the promptest. The hardest working. The most conscientious.

Definitely he was the most handsome.

You're such a handsome man, Cletus Dalton, I heard one night through the wall of Momma and Poppa's bedroom. It was hard to not eavesdrop in our house in the patch and there were few secrets among us. And I heard Poppa chuckle deeply after Momma's compliment then all was quiet save for the rustle of sheets and the squeak of bed springs.

And Momma was right, Poppa was a handsome man. I like to stare at his picture even now. It sits framed in dark oak on the nightstand by my bed and often, before retiring, I'll just gaze at that faded photo and thank him for being the father that he was and for giving me a very high bar to leap at. In the photo, he wears a dark felt hat with a snap down brim, the kind I now associate with Sicilian movie gangsters, and he has a firm hand around Momma's tiny waist and she’s gazing up at him with adoring eyes. They were younger in that faded photo, younger than I'd known them in my own lifetime, and Momma hadn't yet earned the worry lines around her eyes that she'd come to wear years later with pride.

Poppa had the good looks and the rangy body of a Hollywood movie star, not the leading man profile but the rugged face of goodness and determination. His jaw is strong but not aggressive, his nose straight. His eyes are his most compelling feature, large and brown and reflecting native intelligence.

Momma had the face of an angel and the body of a ballerina. Her eyes were a soft blue and without guile, her skin as soft and pure as newly churned butter and I'm sure that she turned the heads of many young men who looked at Poppa with envy. It didn't occur to me at the time but I realized in later years that they could have cut a dashing path together, turning heads at fancy dance halls, had they the means --- or the inclination. They had, of course, neither.

Getting back to the money. There was never any extra but there always seemed to be just the right amount to cover our necessities.

Well, almost always.

Of course, we didn't spend Poppa's hard earned dollars on frivolous things. I had my Flexible Flier sled and my Huffy two-wheeler, both bought at secondhand shops with rough mileage on them. Poppa once sprung for 'fresh out'a the box' roller skates for both Molly and me but this occurred at an uncommonly high point in our lives, a Christmas when Poppa's spirits were mellow and his wallet was full after four weeks of steady work with a house painter in Yeadon.

But, through it all, I never felt deprived. Well, that's not quite true. There was the time when I was invited to James Morgan's tenth birthday party and I saw, for the first time, the treasures to be found inside a luxurious home in the Gardens. They had a boxy device on the wall that allowed Mr. Morgan to turn the heat up or down with the flip of a switch and they had a regulation pool table in their cellar but they don’t call them cellars in the Gardens. They call them Family Rooms or sometimes Rec Rooms. James' father even had a bar by the pool table. It had a polished oak surface and a brass foot rail and it contained such a variety of spirits that I didn't even know existed. It made me think of Uncle Teddy.

But I didn't envy James Morgan nor did I covet his extravagant possessions. Instead, I was sad that Poppa might feel shamed that he couldn't give the same kind of needless luxuries to Momma but he needn’t feel that way because she wouldn't want them anyway.

I like to recall one telling memory of Poppa's generosity in the face of near poverty. It concerned money, of course, but, even more than money, it touched upon the very essence of Poppa's goodness. It happened on the occasion of Molly's tenth birthday, a very special day in her life, and Poppa made the grave mistake of asking the wistful child what she would like to do in celebration. For obvious reasons, we Daltons tended to observe our birthdays by pursuing family activities rather than by giving costly gifts. For my own tenth birthday, I chose a picnic outing at Smedley Park where Poppa acquired, at a very reasonable cost, a small wooden rowboat with RENTAL emblazoned in bright orange on its weathered side. In this functional though unimposing craft, we paddled idly from shore to shore while watching grazing geese and nibbling bologna and cheese sandwiches that Momma had packed in a wicker basket. I'm sure that I also received a gift of some sort but its memory is dwarfed by recollections of the family boat ride.

Molly, when her turn came, decided that she wanted the family to go out for breakfast at a real restaurant. I emphasize real restaurant because restaurant without the modifier was a family game that we often played at mealtime. In restaurant, Momma would excite simple food items such as rice and cornmeal mush with imagination and spices then, after saying Grace for His beneficence, she would challenge each of us to guess the ingredients. And that was always difficult because Momma had a spice shelf on the kitchen wall that would turn the head cook in the most sprawling kitchen in Drexel Park Gardens green with envy. She did something magical with sage, oregano and cabbage that Poppa loved best.

Bridey, Poppa would say while patting his lean stomach after one of Momma's treats, You could make swamp weed taste like salad .

But getting back to Molly's birthday outing, I don't want you to think that she was a greedy little elf. Not in the slightest. It's just that, in the rapture of the moment, she simply failed to make the connection between a real restaurant and Poppa's anemic wallet. To his credit, Poppa didn't flinch when she made the suggestion but he did wrinkle his brow and burrow deep into his trouser pocket to finger his change.

Do you have a favorite restaurant where you would like to dine? Poppa asked, stifling a grin.

I prefer the Drexel Diner, Molly replied with bored indifference, as if she was accustomed to such weighty decisions.

And so it was decided.

We dressed in our Sunday finest as befitted the occasion, creased pants, dress shirts and ties for the men, proper hats for the ladies, then we piled into the rumpled Ford for the ride to the diner. I don't recall the vintage of our car but I know that it was built long before the recent war that Poppa was able to sit out thanks to his siring of Molly and me though I know that he would have gladly served his country under different circumstances.

The Drexel Diner perched importantly atop a tarmac knoll, next to a car wash and across the street from the Upper Darby High School and was renowned for its hearty meals during daylight hours and the sobering effect of its steamy coffee after dark. I had been there on a few other occasions but none so special.

Molly beamed as we stepped inside, eyeing with delight the red plastic covered stools, the array of baked goods behind the Formica counter, the whirring milk shake machine, the juke boxes at the end of each booth.

I’d like to sit over there, Molly said, indicating with a wagging finger an empty booth by the window. It was Molly's day so her wish was our command. We walked over and slid in, Momma and Molly on one side, Poppa and me across from them. Aunt Melody, about whom I'll talk later, chose to stay at home for no specific reason and we were all secretly pleased by her decision although none of us would say so outright.

It's Molly's birthday breakfast, Poppa told the young waitress who materialized by our booth, poised with pad and pencil as we deliberated the endless array of breakfast options. She's ten years old today.

The waitress looked at Molly and smiled with a warmth suggesting that she recalled her own tenth birthday and she waited patiently.

It's a special day, Momma added, though the waitress couldn't have missed the excitement in Molly's eyes and she pondered for a moment then she scribbled something on her pad. She ripped off a sheet and, winking secretly, placed it on the table next to Molly's fork.

Happy Birthday, Molly, the note read. This ticket is good for one free tenth birthday cinnamon bun.

Molly glanced wide-eyed at the note then at the waitress then at Momma for permission then back at the waitress. Th -- thank you, she stammered, bewildered by the sudden kindness.

Such thoughtfulness, though commonplace within family circles, was uncommon in dealings with strangers. At least it was for us Daltons.

But I understood perfectly. The waitress was one of our kind'a folks and she recognized a special day when one presented itself. Well, of course her thoughtful recognition only further delayed the decision-making process but, after careful deliberation and weighing of options, we all finally placed our orders. Momma and Poppa ordered the same, the Thrifty Breakfast Special, featuring one country fresh egg, one slice of whole grain toast, one crispy strip of bacon and a healthy heap'a home fried potatoes. It was a royal feast by our simple standards. I opted for a thick, buttery waffle and a simmering slab of scrapple. Molly ordered hot cakes and ham steak and, of course, her free cinnamon bun which she offered to share with the rest of us but was secretly pleased when we all declined. It was, after all, her cinnamon bun and her special day.

When the food arrived, I made a move with my fork toward the slab of scrapple but was stopped in mid-stroke by Momma's fingers tapping on the table top. Aren't we in a hungry hurry, she said with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

Poppa folded his hands and bowed his head then he made the sign of the cross and we all followed his lead. Bless this food we're eating, the farmers who grow it, the people who cook it, the ladies who serve it and those who clean up afterward, he prayed, then he continued,and, bless our family, especially Molly because, as You know, today is her tenth birthday.

We waited to be certain that he was finished. Poppa took great pride in his Grace saying and he could rattle on for quite a spell when he got wound up and it wasn't because he was particularly religious. Plain and simple, he was just truly grateful for things that most folks take for granted.

Amen, he finally said and we all echoed, Amen and blessed ourselves again and we paid no mind to the snoopy family at a nearby booth who regarded us with narrowed eyes .

Conversation, as you can imagine, was at a minimum while we all plowed through our grand treat. Momma said, Oh, my eyes are bigger than my stomach, and offered me half of her potatoes and, having been taught that waste is sinful, I obliged her.

Well, wasn't this a grand idea that Molly had, Momma praised while dabbing her lips with a napkin. We all agreed and Molly beamed appreciatively.

When the check arrived, Poppa picked it up and gave it a casual glance, emulating Molly's earlier show of indifference. But Poppa couldn't quite pull it off. He pursed his lips and blew a silent whistle, grinning crookedly as he pulled a pair of wrinkled dollar bills from his wallet. He placed the bills on the table with geometric precision then he dug out the change from his front pocket, counting it carefully in his calloused palm. From my vantage point, I could read the amount of the bill and was relieved to see that Poppa had it covered, though barely.

Though unsophisticated in restaurant etiquette, Poppa was well schooled in the heartbreak of financial shortfall and, in the goodhearted waitress, he sensed a kindred soul and knew intuitively that her thoughtfulness to Molly was not contrived. He also knew that she paid her rent and bought her groceries from the tips she received from delivering people’s food at the diner. But, to his chagrin, he had already spent both of his bills and most of his˜ coins.

Except --- !

With a furtive dip into his other front pocket, Poppa palmed something then he exclaimed much too heartily, This was a nice idea, Molly. Thank you for sharing your birthday with us.

Molly beamed again.

Poppa uncoiled from the booth and the rest of us followed him to the cash register by the door where he laid his two bills and his coins and the check on the glass topped counter.

Oops, forgot my jacket, he told us and he scurried back to our booth, returning moments later, grinning sheepishly and empty handed. Must be gettin' a little tetched in the head, he said, tapping his temple. I forgot that I didn't wear a jacket.

Oh, Poppa, Molly said, shaking her head in ten-year old exasperation.

It was a fine birthday celebration, thanks, in part, to the kind young waitress.

And, except for Poppa, I was the only one of the family to know that Poppa couldn't count on the providence of his lucky silver dollar anymore.

And how sad that turned out to be.

~ ~ ~

Chapter Two

There were the five of us sharing our small house in the patch, Momma, Poppa, Molly, Aunt Melody and me. Oh, and our dog, Beauty. We were the Dalton family. The Dalton name alone, in the wrong hands, could be a black stain against its owner. One boy in my school, otherwise a nice enough kid, thought it was funny and clever to call Molly and me the Dalton Gang. Ha, ha! His kidding was good-natured and not all that bothersome but some others, not so well-meaning, picked up on it and tried to needle me but I brushed it off and they soon tired of the sport. Questionable ancestry notwithstanding, there were far bigger issues to occupy my mind. My little sister Molly for example.

As much as Momma was thoughtful and deliberate, Molly was the flip side, a dust devil of a child who left in her swirling wake things misplaced or ever so slightly bent. But I loved her fiercely and I know that she returned the compliment even though our mutual love was always assumed and rarely spoken. However, in stark contrast to her pre-teen girlishness, Molly could instantly assume the role of mother or mentor with intimidating effectiveness. She had the uncanny ability to turn off the childlike chunk of her brain in a heart beat and tune into a seasoned resource of grey matter that belied her tender years. Had I but a smidgeon of her common sense during those formative years, this story most likely wouldn't have to be told. The silly errors that I committed would never have occurred and that would have been a blessing many times over but, by the same token, those lapses of judgment proved to be the catalyst for so many of the good events that ultimately shaped my life. Still, I did, by any definition, some incredibly stupid things in the course of growing up.

But now, looking back with hindsight and weighing the ups and downs, there's not an awful lot that I'd change. Oh, I would've done a better job picking my friends and, in the process, I sure would have given Lenny Callahan a wider berth. And I'd try to cut Aunt Melody a little more slack for her lovable strangeness. Most of all, I would have tried to spend more time with Poppa, hard as that would have been given his long and unpredictable work hours. But what's done is done and there's not much sense regretting those ancient decisions now, going on fifty years too late. Anyway, nothing that I did or didn't do would have kept Poppa from getting himself badly hurt. And from that day on, things were never the same for the Daltons.

We had no phone in our little house in the patch which today is hard to imagine but was standard procedure for our kind'a folks in nineteen forty-nine so we first learned of Poppa's accident by way of Sergeant Robert Loftus of the Upper Darby Police Department. He rolled his blue and white police cruiser into the patch without ceremony. There were no flashing lights or whooping sirens, just an ominous crunch of gravel, a nervous tic under his left eye and a ration of frightful news.

Missus Dalton? he wondered, shifting from foot to foot on our front stoop to cushion his own discomfort. He removed his peaked hat and tucked it under his arm. I viewed him over Momma’s shoulder and felt a chill that roiled my stomach. A policeman on the Dalton’s porch had never before happened and could not be good. He was a fortiesh man, thick in the middle with slicked back hair on his balding head and a puffy face that hinted at both wisdom and sympathy. He wasn't handsome by any stretch but his jaw was tight and his face was strong and I can imagine it filling lawbreakers with fear and victims with hope. His police uniform was weathered from experience but crisp with pride and the blue jacket was buttoned snugly over a bulge that didn't detract from his confident bearing.

Yes, Momma said, her own fear ratcheted up a notch by the officer's leaden tone and the dome topped squad car parked half on the gravel and half on the grass.

Your husband's name is Cletus Dalton? he inquired, glancing at a scribbled note on a spiral pad.

It is, she replied, her tiny voice already trembling.

I'm afraid there's been an accident, Missus Dalton.

He glanced over Momma's shoulder and noticed Molly and me lined up in a row behind her. I have a haunting memory of the moment. The policeman's face registered sadness and sympathy and, in spite of the panic that squeezed my own heart, I recall feeling pity for the poor man. The bearer of sad news, even the most toughened professional, also suffers from the sad fallout of tragedy. But, of course, the fears of we three Daltons overshadowed Sergeant Loftus' own discomfort.

It brings to mind how a man must feel at his trial during those agonizing moments after the judge asks, Has the jury reached a verdict? and the juror replies, We have, your honor, then the judge asks, How do you find?

The accused stops breathing. His heart races perilously. Then the jury person says We find the defendant ---

There follows an exquisite moment of doubt where an uncertain preview of the future floods the poor man's tortured mind. I know that for a fact because I saw, in that instant of uncertainty, a pair of images, one of our current coziness and the other a dismal frame of life without Poppa.

Momma's image must have been even more frightful because her reaction was remarkably more emphatic. I only blinked and swallowed a rocklike lump that had risen in my throat. Momma sighed softly and collapsed in a boneless heap right there at the policeman's feet.

Oh, Jeez, was the extent of the sympathy that Sergeant Loftus could muster at that critical moment.

Molly squeaked like a scared mouse, rushed forward and dropped to her knees next to Momma.

Fear and confusion paralyzed me to a state of absolute uselessness. My mind spun out of control with concern for Molly's fear, Momma's health and Poppa's life.

Sergeant Loftus, in stark contrast, shook off his initial surprise and sprung into action, dropping to one knee, feeling Momma's pulse, consoling Molly with a gentle touch, finally lumbering to his squad car to radio for an ambulance which arrived within minutes with much more fanfare than had the sergeant only minutes earlier.

All of this activity took place since Sergeant Loftus uttered the chilling, I'm afraid there's been an accident, Missus Dalton.

But now, amid the din of whooping sirens, spinning beacons, earnest paramedics and efficient police, Poppa's accident had been shuffled to the sidelines and no one seemed to notice the bewildered children of Cletus and Bridget Dalton. Molly stood transfixed as Momma's pulse was read. Her usually lively eyes were flat and glazed, her thin arms held woodenly at her sides, her small hands fisted like rocks. Her lower lip trembled and only I seemed to notice her despair. I put an arm over her thin shoulder which vibrated in time with her lip.

Everything will be okay, I told her though we both suspected that I was imparting