SeeSaw: Mt. Lake : North Avenue

By Hendrik E. Sadi

A young boy creates an imaginary seesaw he uses to weigh out the good and the bad he experiences as he struggles through his early teenage years in a suburban environment in the 1950s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 16, 2001
• ISBN: 9780595723904

Hendrik E. Sadi

The author was born in Norway, lived in the Middle East as a young teenager, and now presently lives in Westchester Country, New York State. He supports himself as a real estate broker, and writes in his spare time.

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SeeSaw

Mt. Lake : North Avenue

Hendrik E. Sadi

SEESAW

MT. LAKE : NORTH AVENUE

Copyright © 2001 Hendrik E. Sadi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-5952-0861-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5957-2390-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 07/24/2023

Contents

MOUNT LAKE

WAINCROSS

MOUNT LAKE

That day, at thirteen, he came home with his schoolbooks, feeling an anxiety coming over him as he walked down the dirt road from the Arnold Corner on Mt. Lake throwing dead wood sticks for his dog to catch on the road, trying to dispel it. And when he passed his neighbor’s yellow painted garden gate on his left, he felt the anxiety bringing on a trepidation in him, and realized it was something or someone waiting for him as he walked the short distance to his house on the right.

He stopped by the stone wall by the road and felt the trepidation pounding in his ears when he saw who was waiting for him and stood there by the small apple tree growing next to the stonewall, looking at the half-finished addition to his two-room house, feeling tense, wondering why he had come, without noticing the spring flowers on the apple tree he would always look at with joy.

But it wasn’t joy, he felt now, but the disturbing thought of knowing that his life was about to be invaded by his unwelcomed bad memories, as he began his slow walk over the wild orchard grass that surrounded the house with his dog without feeling the hard tufts under the Sears Roebuck boots his mother had ordered for him that winter while he took in the black Cadillac car parked in front of the unfinished house.

They had seen him coming and were already out in the open addition, seen by him to still be ribbed by the two-by-fours that had not yet been closed in with the sheets of plywood by the Jenford brothers his mother had hired to build the addition for them. He would get the upstairs with a full bathroom and a sitting room adjoining his bedroom, while downstairs, they, his mother and baby sister, would sleep in the already built two-room house and have with him the fireplace in the larger living room and another bathroom and kitchen. He moved closer to them and the addition, clutching his schoolbooks, when he saw his stepfather extend the new present down to him and tell him.

Son, your mother tells me you are playing baseball this year, and handed him the new glove he could smell the leather of, even before he had opened the paper it was wrapped in.

Yes, he quietly said, looking up at the two smiling down at him from the open addition he wished would be closed in sooner, and avoided his large, dark eyes.

He said nothing more and stepped up into the addition and went into the two-room house to the back adjoining room he shared with his baby sister and dropped his schoolbooks on his bed and unwrapped his new glove and began pounding it with his fist, to form the pocket, while his back pocket showed the hardball, he was going to practice with on the stonewall. And he walked back out to the front room, where his mother slept, and they ate their meals, and went into the addition and saw his stepfather standing with his mother giving his sister the attention he had wanted to give him earlier.

I’m going out on the road mom, he told her, and heard her quick displeasure at what he wanted to do.

But Ranen, your father is here now. He came all the way up here to see you, she said.

And he saw the large, dark eyes looking again at him, then at her.

It’s all right Jenny. Let him go and practice his baseball. That’s what I bought the glove for, his stepfather said, and turned his large, dark eyes on him again.

Go on son. I know you want to try out that new glove I got you. Go and have fun, he told him.

And he walked out of the addition, hearing him commenting to her about his growing size, clutching his new mitt, and the hardball now in his other hand, and walked across the sea of wild orchard grass to the road, with his dog there beside him, running alongside him.

Jenny, he’s grown so, so much, his stepfather had observed, looking at him while holding his sister in his arms. And he began talking to her now in that small baby voice that had come to him.

See Senta, there’s your brother Ranny going over to be a baseball star, he told her when they heard the first sound of the ball hitting the stonewall, the hundred or so yards away from them.

He had already selected the stone, and now stood cleated to the shoulder on the other side of the dirt road that ran in front of the house, looking intensely at it, while his dog stood in the road watching him, when he suddenly threw the rubber coated hardball at the flat surface. And he saw it come bouncing back to him as he moved towards it and scooped it up with his new mitt, feeling the satisfaction of having caught the ball so well when he found himself standing in the middle of the road pounding the glove again for a deeper pocket. Then he stepped back onto the shoulder and threw the ball again and felt the force of his anxiousness moving him towards its spun away direction, having hit a stone in the road, in that quick reflex motion that caught the ball far off to one side, while the satisfaction moved inside him again, the pride that he had done so well.

He remained on the dirt road then for such a long time, throwing and throwing the rubber coated hardball at the stone wall, that his mother had to call him home to finally visit with his stepfather before he left, he heard.

One more throw mom! he just shouted back, as if he hadn’t heard the good news, and threw the ball again, moving quickly towards the high bounce it had taken in the dirt road, and caught it on the turn as he started the slow jog down towards the entrance in the sagging stonewall, and began his walk through the old apple orchard, pensively, with his dog, towards the black Cadillac car and his stepfather sitting in the backseat.

Well son, take care of your mother and sister and I’ll see if this, he heard, and saw his large, dark eyes sweep over the still unfinished addition. If this can’t be done a little faster, he finished before he motioned to the chauffeur to move on.

He watched the car, then his mother, holding his baby sister now in her arms, waving at the black car rolling out of the uneven sea of wild grass, and saw it turn in the road towards the end he had just walked down from the corners from, hearing his mother telling him when he had lost it to the woods.

Well young man, I think we better think about getting something to eat. Did you have a good day at school? she asked him as she went into the front room of the two-room house with her daughter and sat her down in the highchair at the table while he smelled the dinner she had already prepared, following her in with his dog.

It was okay, he told her as he sat down at the table and gave the meal the attention he felt in his stomach before he lifted his head up from the plate and looked at the woodstove his mother had prepared their dinner on, seeing his dog lying next to it, cuddled up now quietly in the sleeping pad he had arranged for her.

When he brought his eyes back from viewing that side of the sparsely furnished small front room, he looked out the window and swept his eyes over the sea of wild orchard grass unfolding in front of him to the stonewall with the thought that had occupied his thinking ever since he had felt the anxiety coming down from the corners earlier. He asked her, his mother.

Why did he come? as if his visit had been an intrusion.

What? Why Ranen? Why shouldn’t your father come and visit us? she returned, curious, and defensively, he heard.

Well, he just comes and goes when he wants to, he said, and turned away from the intense look of the sharp blue eyes taking him in, in that curious, defensive way.

But your father and I are trying to work things out. You shouldn’t worry about this so much. You have your school and baseball to worry about, she told him, and smiled that last statement at him, he saw.

Yeah, I know, he mumbled back, and swept his eyes out over the sea of wild orchard grass to the stonewall again and kept them on that stone he knew so well, seeing in it that time and place he had avoided now for a long time.

*****

And once more he could see the Cadillac car moving along the stonewall, with the dust swirling up behind it, as he sat in the front room, viewing again the scene of the two of them coming home that night in Cairo. And he, himself, rushing out of his room, wearing his pajamas at ten, when his unwelcomed bad memories made him hear again the crash in the front room, and his mother’s pleading voice beg.

Please don’t. Please don’t hit me again Bill!

He had stood there in the doorway then and had seen his mother cowering in a corner, and his stepfather’s hand raised to strike her again, and had felt the pain tearing into him with its memory, feeling a rush of rage and hatred coming over him. And he had looked at him and told him what he would have told him with his fists, if he was older, he knew, reliving the pain that had been in him ever since then.

Don’t! Don’t! he said loud enough for his stepfather to turn and see him standing there in the doorway, so small and helpless looking, he must have thought that he was moved by the scene of him standing there to lower his hand and come over to hug him. But he said it again and again. Don’t! Don’t! and fled into his room. Where his mother came later and held him in her arms, telling him then what he did not understand about love, she insisted.

But honey, darling, dear, he didn’t mean it. Your father loves us all so much.

And the next morning, he came to him with the new watch and tried to put it on his small wrist, his hands shaking so much from the alcohol he had refused to believe was a problem for him and told him when he finally found the small hole in the leather band.

You should forget what you have seen. Your mother and I are very fond of each other and you, he heard, believing it.

But he had not forgotten it. He had instead kept the scene of that night hidden from them and himself, somewhere deep down inside him. Where it grew and festered in him, along with the other troubles he had put down there for safe keeping. On that seesaw of love and hate he had built for himself.

And when he came to that later incident, he fought to remember the good times he had had with his mother and stepfather, going on trips with them in Europe and the Middle East, where she would insist in taking him to the museums, as part of his education, before he could enjoy himself at the clubhouse they belonged to in Cairo.

As memorable as the morning breakfasts he would have with her on the balcony overlooking the Nile. Where they would sit in the rattan chairs and eat the buns smeared with marmalade and drink their tea together as they watched the boats moving up and down the brown colored water with enjoyment, showing him the river life of a people more open and natural than his own. He was reminded of that the first day when he had walked onto the balcony and had seen the woman breast feeding her baby on the banks of the Nile and had kept that scene of her doing it forever in his memory.

Those were days filled mostly with peace and happiness, he had felt then, storing them along with the unwelcomed bad memories down inside him. Where the two vied for him, it seemed, on that seesaw of love and hate, trying to trip him up.

But he could not hold that other scene back when she said.

We are leaving, and smiled to assure him. Oh, it’s not your father Ranen. There is too much trouble here in Egypt, she told him in ‘52 as she packed their things.

And the rush of that day appeared to him again as he saw himself in the school bus that was stopped under the spread of the Flame Tree branches his mother had taught him how to paint. Because of some rebellion, he was told, saying the word over, and over again to himself, feeling the power of the word.

But even that night they had come home, and he had heard, not her voice begging him to stop, but the breaking of a glass in the living room. And he had rushed out of his room and had stood there in the doorway again, looking at his stepfather passed out on the living room floor. She had seen him and had told him in that uneasy, concerned voice that had come over her again, that he should go back to bed and forget what he had seen.

But he had just stood there, putting that also down inside him with the other things. To be played out later in his life on that seesaw of love and hate. He did not know when he turned and went back to a sleepless night.

He had given him the book of stamps in the morning, when they had left Egypt and gone to Beirut and the garden apartment house, he had found cold and cathedral like in its roomy, stone construction.

And the scene of him sitting at the table, eating his dinner with his mother and stepfather, came to him now when he saw him again gesturing to the man servant for the drink, he already had three of. His hands and mouth beginning to show that loud, drunken display of someone not in control of his drinking, he knew, watching him from the other end of the long dining room table, thinking about Cairo and that word rebellion, he understood now.

He looked at him sitting there, and heard his loud, slurred words directed at him, as if they were meant to be an intelligent conversation he was supposed to be having with his stepfather.

My goddamn son, at’s who you are. My goddamn son, his stepfather said.

And he heard his mother’s quieter words telling him, ever so carefully.

But of course Ranen’s your son Bill dear, before she left the room for her daughter’s room, to see that she was still sleeping with all the noise he was making.

And she left him there with his drunken stepfather, who again insisted, he heard.

My goddamn son, at’s who you are. My goddamn son! as he staggered out of his seat and came over to him and hugged him in that uncomfortable way, he had often felt him hug him out in public, leaving him red and embarrassed at his drunken display of affection.

God, but you’re a cold, cold one Ranen, he would then say, stepping back from him when he did not reciprocate his affection, while he felt the uncomfortable feeling running through him, and wished he was somewhere else.

His stepfather then left him sitting there by himself in that large, cold dining room, with the chandelier hanging precariously above the long wood table, he saw, feeling the unsettling discomfort he had caused running through him when he began to listen to the wild gesturing voice coming to him from the baby’s room.

And he pictured again his stepfather going to the sleeping child in the crib and there look down at his baby sister with his large, dark eyes, expressing to her what he had just expressed to him, he heard.

At’s who you are little girl, your father’s baby, and his mother’s voice trying to quiet him down.

Your daughter’s sleeping now Bill. We must be quiet, she told him.

And she knew even before she had said it, that she shouldn’t have when she saw the sudden change appear in his face and heard that troubled inner voice of his telling her.

At’s my goddamn daughter! My daughter, as he bent over and touched her and woke her up, with all of them now hearing the baby crying throughout the house, and his voice still telling her.

At’s my goddamn daughter! At’s my goddamn daughter! Hush baby. Hush baby, as he tried to reach down inside the crib and hold her.

But his mother had stepped in and prevented him from doing what she knew she could not let him do, drunk as he was, and said so to him.

Not now Bill...Let Senta sleep...Senta has to sleep so she can grow up to be a big girl, she told him as she blocked his way to the crib.

He heard that, and the sudden crash, sitting in the dining room by himself, still feeling the unsettling discomfort of his drunken embrace still clinging to him. And he rushed into the baby’s room and saw again his stepfather’s hand raised to strike his mother cowering in a corner, while her voice relived in him the pain that he had felt at ten, hearing, at thirteen, the baby still crying.

And he shouted this time to him when she pleated with him not to hit her.

Don’t! Don’t you hit her! he told him and found himself moving towards him with his own fist when he saw the arm come down and his stepfather come to him and again try and embrace him. But he stopped where he was, telling him again and again.

Don’t, Don’t! And this time he did not run away.

And the next morning, he came to him with the bow and the arrows and the target, he set up outdoors, against one wall in the garden that came with the house, calling his dog to follow him. When he didn’t need to call the retriever-poodle dog, he had named Loki, because she would have come without him calling her.

But he called her again, as if it had become a habit with him, and walked back from the target, he had just set up, to a distance, he thought challenging enough, and shot his first arrow at it in a wild, aimless way, he saw, with the arrow missing the target completely. Then he put another arrow on the string and concentrated for the bull’s eye, pulling the string back on the bow, and let the arrow fly out from him and followed it towards the balding head of his stepfather, who had suddenly appeared in the bull’s eye of the target, as if he had willed it there, and saw it hit him