What Ever Happened to the Boy in Blue?

By Joshua Rittenberry

Have you ever wondered what happens to someone who enters the public's consciousness on a day of horror? How do they deal with the lingering effects after the crowds have dispersed and after the cameras have gone? "What Ever Happened to the Boy in Blue?", follows the journey of Luke Dorsey as he reemerges from obscurity to cope with his past and find a way to set his old heart free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Rittenberry
• Release date: Aug 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310113642

Joshua Rittenberry

I grew up in a patch of cotton in the Bootheel of Missouri. Writing was not the lane I thought my life would travel. My childhood home was surrounded with loving parents who taught me the art of responsibility and nourished my ambitions. I dabbled with writing as I grew older, penning the forward to my high school yearbook. After school, I was offered, but turned down a newspaper job for fear of the unknown. I found the love of my life and settled down in my little town. As my wife and I fought through infertility issues, I took to my computer to alleviate my frustrations. Fate would intervene and my first book, Encroachment, was born.

Book preview

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO

THE BOY IN BLUE?

Josh Rittenberry

Copyright

Copyright © 2015 by Josh Rittenberry

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FORWARD

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

FORWARD

April 20, 1999 I sat holding my newborn daughter in my arms. Glued to the television, with tears streaming as I watched the massacre at Columbine High School unfold. I remember holding her tightly, swearing that I would never send her to school. Vowing that I would protect her against the evils of the world, no matter the cost. Wondering how this could have happened and why, just why? This was school and school is a safe place for children, right? For months after, I continued my prayers as highlights and updates flashed across the news.

Then, over time, my senses dull. Life returned to a sense of normalcy until another school shooting would have us all entranced before the news media, counting the lost and shaking our heads in sadness but always holding on to that frail belief that, it could never happen here.

Months flew into years and before I knew it, that newborn baby girl had turned into a teenager and I joined the parade of mom’s dropping off their children in front of the high school, assuming that the day would end as usual with us returning to the pick up line just like any other day. Secure in the safety net I had woven in my mind that they were sheltered from any harm. No longer did the news of another school shooting surprise me, no longer did I give it much more than the cursory how many this time? I, like many others, had become dulled to the potential horror that lurks in every community, thinking that our family, our school, was immune to such a thing.

When Josh approached me about this book, first sending me to links of videos about the shooting and then links to interviews with not only those who had survived but of the families who were left behind, I felt ashamed. How could I so easily have forgotten those who had faced such fear and horrors right here in our own country? These are our children, kids just like my own who were simply going about their typical day. Kids who were robbed of the memories of proms, winning touchdowns and homecoming parades who now, whenever they think back to their time in school, recall only the memory of the terror of that moment. That day, when their security was taken from them, that day they lost family, friends and mentors in a flash of gunfire.

To say the least, this book needed to be written. This story needed to be told. Because we must remember not only those who’s lives were stolen from them, but those who’s lives were so broken beyond repair by the tragedy.

Thank you Josh, for sharing their story in a way that only you could, for stepping up to the plate to do more for those who have been forgotten. For reminding us that we are not invincible and that long after reporters are gone and the newspapers are yellowed...these victims remain.

Christina Williams

Editor

Democrat Argus

PROLOGUE

WHEN THE BEGINNING WAS ALMOST THE END

He could see there was a transparent gleam coming from his left. Although he had never sniffed war before, the room smelled the way he imagined Kosovo might have smelled in those days. The only thing he could hear was the lingering ring in his ear, interrupted intermittently by a simmering stillness. He could taste the salty notes of his own blood as he coughed up spatters of it, projecting it away from himself so as not to ruin his shirt. The carpeted floor felt fuzzy to his touch, however, random patches of it were soaked as his fingers waded through it.

It is said that when you lose contact with one of your senses, or when one is snuffed to a flicker, the other four are heightened, speeding into action to overcompensate for the loss. What our carbon bodies lack in not replicating new limbs when existing ones are lost, is more than made up for when the instinctual commandeering of what we see, smell, hear, taste and touch takes over in a primeval pinch.

Attempting to stand, the boy collapsed in a heap as soon as the pain shot throughout the extremities that weren’t numb with paralysis. Sitting on his rear and resting his frame against the cool metal locker, he desperately thought of the best way to get out as his mind struggled to process the fresh madness. He had to get out; his life likely depended on it, he surmised. This was not a moment for tears or ‘why me?’; this was a survival moment as he pictured his life as a rope tearing at the middle, the braided fibers ripping one by one as the minutes edged toward the unknown.

Although the poetic taunting and maniacal laughter had subsided, he had no idea if it were yet safe to move. Poking through the guttural cramps, his instinct was to head for the light, though he still had no indication whether or not that haze was the heavenly kind, beckoning him home to eternity to touch the face of God, or if it was the sun’s golden rays cordoning off April’s afternoon finale. Either way, he had made up his mind that he would be a gonner if he stayed.

Compressing his middle as he reached for the floor again was like being squeezed by a closing vice; everything beneath the skin felt like it could have wiggled out, expelling from every pore as a way to escape the pain. His insides were surely pissed that he had hemmed and hawed for far too long.

With the pain on his left side too great to bear, he tried a new sport he likened to horizontal rock climbing. It’s funny the asinine things your hemorrhaged brain can dream up while you’re trying to surmount life again. He supposed it was a support mechanism, automatically engaging at the slightest sign of danger so that he would be coaxed into believing that all would not be lost this way.

By pressing his fingertips into the floor and kicking his good leg up, he was able to move across the rough surface at the same pace as a bloated sloth. Along with him, he drug his companion: the lower half of the other leg that dangled from the shard of bone, thin piece of muscle and stretchy sinew that had once made up his athletic knee. He had only his Hilfiger jeans to thank for compartmentalizing the damage.

As he traveled across the floor, using the light as a steady guide, he caught himself fading to black, if only for a moment. He quickly came to after realizing he was resting on someone he knew. He did not feel himself rising up and down with the ebbs and flows of the guy’s breath as his back pressed on the other. Because there was no breath. The guy’s lungs did not expand and contract, his heart did not beat, his brain no longer functioned. That’s a cold and clinical way to say that his friend was dead.

Reaching for the sliver of light that cut across the floor like a knife, he could feel the warmth across his whole hand as the sliver widened at the base to form a glowing triangle of hope. By now, the blood on his fingertips had cured into a second skin of sorts, saving his prints from being wiped away by the gnarled surface, and attempting to erase any trace of him from that wicked place.

Upon hearing the buzz from outside, he figured he was almost home free. The only thing keeping him from riding the loop and watching Friends again, however, was the massive obstruction caught between the doorway. He had only exchanged passing nods to Derrick, but now he was attempting to nudge the boy out of his way. When he wasn’t successful at moving the 300 lb tackle, he slithered across him, hoping Derrick wouldn’t have minded and trying not to aggravate the guy’s bum shoulder, just in case. Though Derrick took quaking hits for him on the field, the two had never spoken a word to one another, not even a tip of the chin to say, ‘hey dude’. Now, they were closer than they had ever been, even though Derrick could no longer know it.

Stay right there kid; we’re coming to get you!

CHAPTER ONE

AVETT, MASSACHUSETTS

Luke gasped awake. It was the same feeling of drifting idly beneath the Atlantic and jutting to the surface at the precise moment before the behemoth took him away forever. One might have concluded a watery reaction judging by the puddle the man found himself in; his pillows were soaked; the one he slept on, as well as the one he hugged at night. A patch of bedding around his midsection was also wet. He had done it again.

While still in his moistened plaid pajama bottoms, Luke hastily stripped the bed of it’s California King fitted and flat sheets. It had been almost a year and a half since he had awoken like that, and the first time since the move to the new house.

We really don’t need this much space, Molly said of the tall house on Robert F. Kennedy Drive as the young couple inspected it. Normally, the controlled Molly would have been able to strike the perspective home off the house hunting list without argument from Luke. However, her husband remained firm in his belief that they should have more breathing room as each argued their case in front of the real estate agent. Molly, taken aback, had never seen her mellow husband like that before; his mild-mannered disposition had been usurped by a brazen drive to make the colonial their home. After settling in, Luke finally had the extra square footage he had searched for so that he could tuck away in every nook and cranny the rogue memories that had already threatened to stifle him in their previous matchbox apartment.

As Luke stuffed the bedding and his wet clothing in a corner of the room, he took up his therapy in front of the jetted shower, allowing the vertical spouts to pound him like a liquid masseuse, paying extra attention to the left leg he raised so the warmth could absorb the ache away. He could get lost in the shower, the driving water providing enough ambient noise to keep the world at bay. At an odd moment when Molly wasn’t home, he’d often find himself sitting in the upstairs master bath on a closed toilet, drifting in and out of the present as water sprayed against the beige tile and seamless glass surround. Remaining adrift in there was better than any prescription that had ever been given to him.

Out of the shower, Luke applied the familiar flexible brace as his armored layer, and then requisite uniform came next: khakis, brown loafers and tie-less dress shirt, in any color but blue. It was the ordinary dress code for the ordinary job at the Commonwealth Bank of Massachusetts. The job was so humdrum, he found it difficult to describe to people what exactly he did there. A description, much less a job title escaped him. Still, he liked the vanilla aspect of it all, having been pained from the perpetual sunburn of the limelight.

Receiving the scent like a loyal basset hound, Luke bounded downstairs as if the brace weren’t even there. That was the only smell that could get him going in the morning. You know how to start the day off just right, he said, wrapping his arms around Molly’s waist from behind like a swarthy lothario as she removed the greaseless bacon from the oven.

I suppose you’re worth it, Molly replied, rolling her eyes.

Don’t make me say it!

Oh God, don’t start!

Don’t make me…

If you say ‘wicked awesome’ one more time, it’ll be a fork to the crotch!

Ever since he came to New England nearly a decade before, Luke had immersed himself in the culture and slang of the region, donning a backward Red Sox hat to the grocery store, but having no interest at all in baseball. He was also fascinated by anything deemed to be ‘wicked awesome’, even if the fascination had nothing to do with his original intention.

I suppose you saw what came in the mail Saturday? Molly asked coyly.

Yeah, Luke admitted.

What do you think?

I think I’m late for work, he said, after giving a passing glance to his watch.

While trying to avoid the conversation altogether, Luke figured he’d have to address it sooner or later, however, Monday mornings weren’t the time to get into anything waist-deep; he never felt fully awake until at least 9:00 a.m., or when he downed his first cup of coffee, whichever came first.

After sandwiching a couple pieces of bacon on some burned toast and carefully taking a shot of orange juice direct from the carton, Luke hustled out the door. As he drove his bland Camry into the office, the satchel in the passenger seat, where ‘that thing’ was hidden, seemed to throb the whole way there. It was as though the envelope stashed inside would remain out of mind as long as it was out of sight. If only he were that lucky. No matter where he put the other reminders just like it; the junk drawer, the coat closet, the desk; he would lay awake at night and think about them the way someone else might worry about an infestation. Ever since the latest parcel had arrived on Saturday, he felt he was going to be pushed closer to the cliff if he did not address it. No amount of ducking was going to change that. He’d address it, but just not on a Monday morning, he thought.

Arriving at work, Luke slipped into his routine mode of conformity, blending in perfectly with the banal office attire his coworkers settled for. His office was one of a dozen cookie cutter blocks that lined two sides of a hallway on the east end of the bank. Windowless and lacking any sort of humanizing charm, he tried to spruce up the place with a wedding photo on the desk and a framed print by Mark Rothko he had favorited while attending an art history class at Brown. The print hung in a prominent place on the wall above a couple of generic professional guest chairs. Except for the few personal touches, it was the only corner of Earth where he felt completely oblivious to the outside world. To the random passerby, he could have been a spoiled mama’s boy bachelor or a hopelessly unfaithful husband. Little did any of them know that this vanilla man had a rather kaleidoscopic double life.

Past Dues meeting, Debra announced, pecking on the door frame.

Really?! Luke gasped.

The first of every month.

Damn, is it April already?

"Yep, for the next 30 days, at least. I would call it April Fool’s, but even I wouldn’t be that cruel", the cynical brunette said.

Although the job at the bank was a safe haven, Luke hated the work. More than that, he hated having to preen in front of superiors, dishing on the financial hardships of people he had personally vouched for. To the higher-ups, they were just marginalized names and numbers on a piece of paper; to Luke, they were people who struggled.

He had barely dropped his things and turned on his computer before Debra delivered the dreary news. He had not had his coffee yet, and therefore, this day of fools was not starting out as a pleasant Monday.

Luke had only just made it outside the confines of his office for the meeting when the commotion sounded from down the hall. The fire alarm buzzed. Some people shouted. Some people ran. Smoke discharged at the opposite end..

Triggered by the moment, Luke dropped the manila file and all it’s papery contents, diving underneath his desk, curling up tight. As he brought the chair closer to him, he remained in a guarded fetal position long before someone finally thought of shutting off the signal. While a couple of employees snuffed out the flames coming from the overused coffee maker that had set itself alight in the break room, Luke remained in his steely position beneath the desk, cowering and dripping in a cold sweat, even as his colleagues investigated his whereabouts. No one could find him. It was as if it were happening all over again.

CHAPTER TWO

CHEMISTRY

Have you ever done this before?

Really?

No, not like that; I mean, at school?

Imagine for yourself the perfect picture of an All-American Boy; athletic, smart, but not to a fault, and a handsome personality to match his looks. Luke Dorsey knew the world was his oyster and he took full advantage of it when the time was right. At this moment, the time was right for him and Lauren Gregson, the sophomore sister of one of his teammates, to engage in what Luke hoped to be a little extra-curricular activity in the chemistry lab. There certainly was chemistry between the two; nothing serious, but enough for Luke to pursue her. He normally set his sights on Ginny Dowd, but she had rebuffed him at every turn since the 7th grade. Once she declined his offer to be his date for the junior prom the previous May, he was done with her, for the time being.

Come on, nobody’s got chemistry after lunch, Luke pressed.

I don’t know about this.

I have a solution.

What?

Storage closet.

Luke led Lauren to the dusty room that was rife with chemical smells and Styrofoam protons and electrons. A timid Lauren froze when she heard the shuffling on the other side of the door soon after Luke closed it, not bothering to warn the would-be Rico Suave. Luke, unaware of it, unbuckled his belt and dropped his Polo jeans to reveal his starched Joe Boxers. With a whiff of breeze created by the opening of the closet door, he tried covering himself with both hands while shuffling against a storage shelf like a penguin. The jig was up. Lauren screamed as she flew past Mrs. Turner, who was aghast at the scene. The diligent chemistry teacher shut the door and ordered the young man to make himself decent at once.

Without being able to offer a believable explanation about why he was half-naked in the chemistry lab, Luke sat in a not-so-comfy chair outside the principal’s office a short time later. The wood paneling made the place look like it had bars growing from the walls. Christie, the office secretary, who had only graduated five years before, had sympathy for the kids that came in and out of the office. She gave them passes for the obviously forged sick notes and only called them down to the office because it was her job. Today, she could do nothing for Luke, who had gotten himself into far more trouble than any other CHS student had been in since school started a few weeks earlier.

Contemplating his punishment, Luke chewed the end of his thumbnail to the nub. How bad could it really be, he reasoned. He was never the troubling type; the most egregious thing he had done to that point was adding a few teaspoons of dish washing liquid to the fountain on the front lawn of the school, and even he hadn’t been fingered for that, personally.

Out of the corner of his daze, he spotted the principal’s office opening with a soft creek. In the sliver of space, Coach Rafferty poked his chiseled jaw through and ordered the senior inside. Principal Knight, a normally jolly man, sat at his desk, his expression terse and troubled.

Luke, I was just speaking with Mr. Knight about what an exemplary student and athlete you are, Rafferty said. I explained what an oddity it is to find you here to be disciplined.

Yes, sir. I wanted to say that ---, Luke began.

What I think Luke would like to point out, Rafferty interjected, "is that you should really consider his career here as a whole; 4.0 GPA, newly-elected president of the senior class, and on his