The Evil Within

By R.J Intindola

When Darren's mother is stricken with a mysterious illness, his world begins to unravel around him. His visions point to his Aunt Kay or is he being misled? A whirlwind of events threatens the lives of various family members and friends. In his dreams, he sees words constructed into a poem that reveals clues of future events. Can the clues be interpreted before everyone around him is destroyed?

R.J. Intindola's mystery thriller, The Evil Within, chronicles the lives of a young boy and his sister repelling the evil forces that has entered their family and disrupted their lives.

"Don't plan to sleep once you begin R.J. Intindola's The Evil Within. From page one to The End, Mr. Intindola twists his readers through a maze of suspense, surprises, and unsuppressed evil. Action hits every page and his characters appear as real as the people around you. So cancel appointments, burrow under the covers and quickly turn the pages. And don't forget the flashlight."

Sandy Tritt, Editor and Writer

"Mr. Intindola writes page turning action and vivid dialogue. His characters will engulf you in their world of passion and greed from cover to cover."

Carol Givner, Editor, Bestselling Author

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 24, 2007
• ISBN: 9781452078496

R.J Intindola

       R.J. Intindola retired in 2002 after a thirty-year career in the profession of city management.  He served as City Manager for Hallandale Beach Florida, for nearly thirty years.  He was noted as an innovator and a fiscal conservative.        He has written numerous articles and publications on various topics related to government administration and personal time management.  R.J. has written over one hundred poems, more than twenty musical compositions and recorded several songs.  He is an outspoken figure, supporting professional management in local government.  During a referendum to change to a strong mayor form of government in Broward County, Florida, he participated in numerous debates.  Many credit Mr. Intindola as a major catalyst for the defeat of the referendum.        His time is split between Hallandale Beach, Florida, and Woodstock, Georgia.  Look for other books by Mr. Intindola, including, "Rising from the Bottom," and soon to be released, "The Manager, Part I." "The Manager, Part I," provides an inside view of city government, often hidden from the public.  You can reach R.J. Intindola at [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sunday Afternoon

T he sweet scent of the sea swells with the gentle breeze. The letter wedged between my fingers bends with each gust. I take another step toward the Biscayne Bay Post Office. I should be elated--I passed the Florida bar on my first attempt. My heart does not feel joy, however. Aunt Fran, the one person who would share my triumph, lies on her deathbed.

I swallow. At least once each day my thoughts wander back to the day in April when I was nine years old. The breeze glides off the bay and chills my arms despite the Miami afternoon heat. What happened that Sunday afternoon changed the course of my life more than any other single event. I didn’t know that evil lurked around every corner and lay masked within the soul of everyone present . . . except for Mother and my sister, Paula. Without my eyes closed, I relive it all again.

I leaned against the corner rails of our back deck and watched my father nervously flip the barbecue spareribs on the grill. It was mid-April and the first time the temperature had eased over seventy since last September. The winter had been unusually cold, and everyone welcomed the sun’s warming glow and the flight from hibernation.

Twenty people milled around, including Uncle Matthew, his wife Aunt Kay, my three cousins, and neighbors. The door swung open and my mother stepped through with a fresh pitcher of strawberry daiquiris. She smiled, winked at me and kissed my forehead when she passed.

Aunt Kay stood at the other side of the deck, leaning into and whispering to one of my father’s business associates, Scott McGregor. He managed the Roanoke location for my father’s business. Aunt Kay was always hissing in someone’s ear or muttering under her breath. Every few seconds she would glance at my Uncle Matt. My aunt’s black jean skirt was so short that earlier I had seen her red panties while she sat at the deck table drinking a daiquiri. She’d forgotten to fasten the top three buttons of her neon yellow blouse -- her typical modus operandi. Her boobs bulged from the poor overburdened bra.

How are you doing? my mother asked, slipping an arm across my shoulders.

Okay.

Why don’t you go to the basement and play ping-pong with your cousin.

I don’t like Steve. He’s always poking and hitting me.

He’s your cousin. Try to get along with him. That was Mom’s typical answer to alleviate every problem involving my cousin. Her hand gently nudged me toward the door.

Run along, she said in her strong loving tone.

I reluctantly crossed toward the door peeking back at her. She had already turned her attention to Uncle Matt and took his glass to refill. When I opened the door, my sister Paula and cousin Savannah hopped through. Savannah carried a case of cassette tapes.

Hey, little brother, Paula said. She rubbed my hair into a bird’s nest and planted a kiss squarely on my forehead. One of those kisses where the saliva didn’t dry until the appropriate period of evaporation had expired.

Put me down.

She patted the top of my head and motioned Savannah toward the portable cassette player.

My eyes pleaded. Mom?

Okay, you can stay and dance with us.

This was one of my favorite times during our back deck barbecues. My sister played music and everyone danced. I would get to dance with my cousin Adena who would discreetly rub her body all over mine. Adena and I had our own little game where, in private, we would flash our most hidden body parts to each other. At ten years old, Adena was the older woman, considering I was barely nine and a half.

After a few dances, Adena abandoned me for Gordon, my eleven-year old neighbor. I guessed being older, Gordon had an edge on me.

For the next hour I sat pouting at the table, picked at food and studied my aunt, who now whispered to my father. The wide yellow belt and two inch stylish cork heels matched her neon yellow blouse. I moved and stood at the back railing of the deck. My parents had two levels of deck constructed a few months after building the house ten years ago. The top level sprawled fifteen feet off the ground and measured forty-by-thirty feet. From the deck, the hillside gently sloped and leveled into a twenty-foot wide briskly moving stream, that flowed through the middle of our property. The stream’s depth in some locations reached three feet, and at a shallow section my father had large boulders installed close enough to each other so that we could cross to the other side of the property, which consisted of a densely wooded area. My mother would often explain to people that the view was not necessarily breathtaking, but close enough.

Every few songs, Paula or Savannah would jerk me out of the chair to dance with them. My father didn’t like to dance. Uncle Matt referred to him as a strict business person who thought of nothing else. My father looked worried, and as he and my aunt spoke, they glanced every so often at my mother. I guessed they were talking about her. Aunt Kay rubbed my father’s arm and neck, causing my stomach to tighten. Paula compared her to a coral snake. Petite, colorful, smooth, and with a venomous bite.

By eight o’clock most people had left, except one of the neighbors and my mother, who stood at the kitchen sink washing pots and dishes. My father and Uncle Matt sat in the family room discussing expansion of their equipment supply and rental company. The Appalachian Equipment Supply and Rental Company currently had three locations in Southwest Virginia. Mom said Dad had grown tired of living in a small town like Radford, Virginia, nestled in the sparsely populated Appalachian Mountains.

Stanley Godfrey, Lyle Benton, and my father started the company seventeen years earlier. Shortly after they opened the second location, Mr. Benton and his wife died in a three a.m. fire while sleeping. Mr. Benton and his wife had no heirs and, as a result of his death, his portion of the business reverted equally to Mr. Godfrey and my father.

A little more than three years ago, Mr. Godfrey died from an unknown illness. After Godfrey’s death, my father negotiated with his wife to purchase his half of the business. When she refused the offer, my father threatened to close the business temporarily. Mrs. Godfrey would not receive an income, but would actually incur expenses. Rather than remain penniless, she finally accepted my father’s offer. I heard my mother tell Grandma Lazaro that Mrs.Godfrey received only twenty percent of the value of her husband’s portion of the business. Once the deal with Mrs. Godfrey was completed, my father gave my uncle Matt, his brother, who was an expert at repairing the equipment, ten percent of the business.

A year after the deal with Mrs. Godfrey, she filed a lawsuit against my father to retrieve a greater part of her husband’s portion of the business. The lawsuit claimed that she was threatened and coerced and that she feared for her life when she signed the original agreement. Sadly, Mrs. Godfrey committed suicide by jumping off a bridge three months after filing the lawsuit. She left a suicide note indicating she no longer found life meaningful without her husband.

Although my father’s hair was graying, he appeared much younger than his forty-one years. At six-foot, my father stood four inches taller and more slender than Uncle Matt. Uncle Matt was stocky, with a round face that seemed redder than the rest of his pale arms and legs. His nickname was Stump. For the most part, my father and Uncle Matt didn’t even look like brothers. Maybe their Roman noses matched. I learned years later that Uncle Matt was actually my father’s stepbrother.

After the neighbor lady left, my mother ordered me to the shower while she inspected my homework. Each night she reviewed my homework and asked questions. Both Paula and I were A students and took special classes for advanced students. She inspected the bathroom once my shower was finished. She was a stickler for everything being in its place. My father often referred to her as a clean freak. She tucked me into bed, called Paula to my room, and sat in a chair by the bed to continue reading The Good Earth by Pearl Buck. Paula sat in a chair across the room while my mother read ten pages. Upon conclusion, Paula would read two and I would read one. My mother coughed continually and left the room for a moment to get a tissue.

Paula asked if she was okay, and my mother nodded and cleared her throat. Paula,, at sixteen years old, of course, was a much better reader than I and had already been offered several scholarships. She was scheduled to graduate this December at seventeen. My mother critiqued our reading, gave me a final hug and goodnight kiss, and turned off the light as she left the room. I waited several minutes then turned on the nightstand light to read.

Chapter 2

Monday

A little after midnight, I was startled awake by sounds of coughing and gasping for air. I sat up in bed and pivoted my head toward the door. My bedroom door, usually left slightly ajar, had been closed. There were faint footstep and vibrations of people scurrying periodically. After listening for five minutes to my mother cough, I decided to investigate the matter firsthand. I crept toward the door, gently cracked it a few inches and peeked down the hallway. Paula carried towels from the hallway bathroom into my mother and father’s room. When my mother vomited, my teeth and face grew tight. I opened the door sufficiently to slide through, but my seemingly invisible trek toward my mother was abruptly halted, a foot from her door by my father sharp voice.

Get back to bed.

What’s wrong--with.

He turned back into the bedroom with my mouth hung open. I paused, filtering through various options, when Paula popped through the door and braked suddenly when she saw me.

She skirted by and half jogged toward the stairs. Darren, go to bed.

I stepped toward the railing and gazed down. What’s wrong with Mom?

Too many daiquiris.

I watched Paula and her hair bounce down the stairs. I could bend Paula but not my father, so reluctantly returned to my room. Not more than five minutes passed and Paula entered my room carrying a small box that she laid on the nightstand.

Here’s the cassette tapes I recorded of the songs you like.

Thanks.

She picked a tape from the box. Where’s the small cassette player Mom bought you last week?

In the drawer. I pointed at the nightstand.

She placed a tape in the player and pushed the on button. Here, you listen to the tape. Keep it low. She noticed the look of concern on my face. She sat sideways on the edge of my bed and gently rubbed my calf. Don’t worry. Both my mother and Paula were very touchy-feely kind of people. Mom’s just nauseous . . . has a stomach virus, we think. I watched her shuffle to the door. Feeling guilty, my eyes focused on the tight short pajama bottoms. Periodically, I could hear my mother’s cries over the music of the Eagles. I shut my eyes and covered my ears with the palms of my hands.

My eyes flew open from a deep sleep.

Paula shook my shoulders. Get up, little one. Time to get ready for school. I laid your clothes over there, she said, pointing to the chair my mother had sat in the night before. Don’t forget to brush your teeth before you come downstairs. Breakfast is ready. She brushed her midnight hair, and with her hand, bent the ends inward. Come on, get up.

I kicked off the covers and swung my feet sideways onto the floor. She spun around like an ice skater toward the door, still working her hair with the brush.

I quickly brushed my teeth, got dressed and made my way down the hall to my mother’s room. Cautiously, I moved into the doorway and saw my mother sitting up in bed. When she noticed me, a smile covered her face and her arms reached out for an embrace. I scampered to the bed and crawled into her waiting arms. She held my head against her breast and lovingly rocked sideways.

Are you better? I asked, my voice muffled in her chest.

A lot better. My stomach’s still a little upset, but I’ll make it.

I rose to my knees and slid my arms around her neck. Come on now. Don’t want to be late for school. Run along--your sister has breakfast waiting. She kissed my forehead and I backed off the end of the bed and hopped down the stairs in my usual fashion, skipping every other step.

After school, I rode my bike straight to baseball practice where I played shortstop and pitcher for the number one team in the league. The coach was hitting us ground balls for fielding practice when I saw my father drive into the parking lot. My father approached the coach so practice temporarily stopped. He spoke briefly to the coach, then yelled out and waved me off the field. I ran towards them and could see their taut faces.

What’s up, Dad?

Something’s come up. Let’s go. He strode toward the car, leaving me in his wake. I ran to catch him.

If you need anything, Mr. Parker, my coach yelled, Let me know. You take care, Darren . . . see you at the game tomorrow.

Okay Coach, I yelled, still in pursuit of my father.

Chapter 3

Monday Afternoon

My father slipped into the car and shifted into reverse before I could slide into the back seat and shut the door. Tension saturated the air and my heart quickened. Paula turned to greet me.

Sorry we had to pull you from practice, she said, her eyes puffy and red.

Where are we going?

To the hospital. The fire department took Mom there today around one.

What’s wrong with her?

They don’t know. But she’s very ill. Paula forced a smile and pivoted toward the front.

I was afraid to ask her to define very ill.

A question to anyone in the front seat escaped through my lips. Is she going to be okay? My head jutted forward like a turtle, shifting between my father and sister, waiting for the answer. I swallowed hard in the silence.

Finally, my father answered in his low monotone voice. We hope so. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her.

I never did communicate well with my father. Paula, who he coddled and lovingly teased, was his favorite. Paula worked at his equipment rental business during the summer and after school, and he would often brag about her excellent work. Their relationship didn’t consume me with envy, but I often felt left out and hurt. I observed Paula rub her fingertips underneath her eyes, then down her cheeks. She dried the watery fingertips on a tissue.

The hospital appeared ahead on the right and I knew my mother must be somewhere inside the building. We pulled into the parking lot and my father quickly found a space. After exiting the car, I stood by my door tapping my forehead against the window.

Come on Darren. Let’s go. My father impatiently jerked his head toward the hospital. I stood by the door pretending not to hear and glanced sideways at Paula. I could feel him walk around the back of the car and stand next to me. Let’s go. He placed an arm around my shoulders. His rare gesture felt uncomfortable.

I forgot my bike at the field. I pressed my lips together.

We’ll drive by the field on the way home, and if it’s not there, I’ll call your coach. Maybe he took it home with him.

I nodded.

Paula rested her hand behind my neck as we entered the hospital, half skipping to stay close to my father, who was thirty feet ahead of us. We finally caught up with him at the elevators. He stabbed the five several times until the doors finally opened. We stood silently, listening to the struggling elevator move to the top floor. My belly fluttered when I realized this was the first time, not including my birth, that I was ever in a hospital. The elevator door opened and a burst of cold air penetrated my body, sending goosebumps instantly to the surface of my skin.

My father made a left and we followed. He stopped to talk at the nurse’s station while Paula and I waited several feet to the side. The nurse’s eyes bounced my way several times. When they were finished speaking, my father walked towards us and leaned over so his face and mine were level. You cannot go into your mother’s room.

Why?

You have to be twelve. You’ll have to stay in the waiting room. He gazed up at Paula. We can only stay for a short time. They’re going to take her for more tests.

What kind of tests? Paula asked.

My father stood and gently pushed me toward the waiting room. Don’t know. If we see the doctor, I’ll ask.

Paula led me to the waiting room and escorted me to a chair. It’ll be okay. I’ll come back every few minutes to check on you. Watch television.

I nodded.

Paula dropped in twice and brought me a Dr.Pepper. A half an hour passed when Paula and my father finally appeared at the waiting room door. They seemed to be arguing. She wiggled her finger for me to follow. My father waited impatiently for us by the elevator.

You hungry? Paula asked.

I shrugged.

Can’t speak this evening? I stared dizzily at the elevator floor, and she wrapped her arm around my shoulder. Cat must have your tongue tonight. The doors opened and my father, in one step, spread the waiting crowd in the hallway. Paula stepped in close behind him, dragging me by the hand.

My father was a good distance ahead of us when I asked, What’s wrong with Mom?

Doctor doesn’t know. They’re going to perform exploratory surgery.

I was confused by the events involving my mother, but refrained from asking questions. Did I fear the truth?

On the way home, we drove-through Burger King, then stopped by the park to find my bike was missing. Paula and I sat at the dining room table and ate our supper.

Before we’d eaten two bites, Aunt Kay came by to see if we needed anything. She asked us about Mom, made small talk for a few minutes, then casually drifted toward my father’s study. While Dad and Aunt Kay huddled in the dark wooded room, I prodded Paula to have Dad call my coach about the bike and finally she volunteered after we finished eating.

I stood close when Paula dialed the numbers I called out. Hello, Coach Simms, please. Paula hummed an unknown tune waiting for my coach. Hello, Coach. This is Paula Parker--Darren’s sister. He left his bike at the park and I was wondering if anyone saw it or if you might have taken it home? I watched Paula’s eyes close and her head softly nod. Thank you.

She pulled me into her chest. Sorry, he never saw the bike. Even though I fought against them, light tears formed in my eyes. Her hands straddled my cheeks and tilted my head upwards. We’ll get you another bike. Even if I have to pay for it. My arms circled her waist and I hung on tightly. She rubbed the back of my neck. Listen, she took a short step back. I’m going to take a shower then we’ll do our homework together.

I nodded. We cleared the table together and Paula disappeared upstairs.

My sister, at most, was five foot two inches, with short, jet black hair that crawled down her neck four or five inches and was turned under--the same texture and color as my Aunt Kay’s and cousin Savannah’s. Her big brown eyes were always soft and loving. She was a petite cutie, with a perfect bubble butt. At least, that’s the term my mother used to describe Paula’s rear end. The summer before, Paula and I were walking along the beach. She wore her skimpy black and red bikini, which seemed to attract boys like magnetism. When Paula and I walked by, one unfortunate teenager turned his head almost completely around like a girl in the exorcist. He missed the first step to the stairs leading from the street to the sand and skid halfway down on his back.

I stood in the large kitchen-dining room, which, for the first time in my life, had the feel of cold emptiness. The clock ticked loudly and muffled voices emanated from my father’s office. From experience, I knew the best place to eavesdrop on the office was through the vent in the first floor bathroom.

I locked the bathroom door and slowly moved to my hands and knees in front of the vent located underneath the pedestal sink.

I heard sounds but no one spoke. On occasion I would hear faint noises coming from my parents. These sounds were similar to the noises I heard when eavesdropping on my mother and father. My position was awkward and uncomfortable, and after several minutes, I stood to relax my muscles. I opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall, and once again I could hear the distant conversation of my aunt and father. The sounds were coming from the kitchen. I made my way into the room and they both turned, surprised to see me. They sat at the table drinking coffee.

My aunt pushed her chair back with her legs, stood, and called me to her with a finger. Her hair almost touched the back of the dining room chair. She embraced me and patted my back. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’ll be around to help, should your mother have to stay in the hospital for a while.

Darren, go do your homework. My father’s face was stiff.

My aunt turned me by the shoulders and gave me a nudge towards the foyer. Listen to your father.

Her aroma left a sweet taste in my mouth. I reluctantly left the room. Just on the other side of the opening between the kitchen and the foyer, I stood silently to eavesdrop. I wanted to hear their conversation.

I’m more concerned about Darren than Paula, my father said. He’s closer to his mother. We can’t seem to connect.

Things will work themselves out. I better get going, my aunt said. Don’t want Matt thinking anything.

I quickly tiptoed to the stairs and made my way to the bedroom.

Paula took Mom’s place and read ten pages from The Good Earth. I read two pages and Paula critiqued my reading. She told me goodnight and left, pulling the door shut behind her.

No matter how I tried, I couldn’t sleep. I listened to my tape recorder, even tried reading from The Good Earth, and once went to check to see if Paula, by chance, was awake. My life had become disoriented with the absence of my mother and the loss of my bike. There was no one to tuck me in and give me a good night hug and kiss. Finally, I went to Paula’s room and crawled into bed with her. She pulled me close and I quickly dozed into sleep.

Chapter 4

Tuesday Morning

My father dropped me off at school the next morning. It was the first time I could ever remember him taking me. He promised to replace my bike the next weekend, and told me to walk to the baseball field and he would pick me up after the game. I ran to class and felt comfort being with friends and in familiar surroundings. For a few hours I wasn’t concentrating on my mother and my missing bike.

By the time school ended, a late winter cold front moved in along with a light drizzle. The dark-blue gray clouds hung low, and an increasingly dense mist limited my vision. I made the half-mile walk from the school, praying under my breath the game would not be called. A quarter-mile from the field, the drizzle turned into a downpour. My backpack bounced against my lower back as I ran. In the distance, cars, usually parked in a scattered configuration around the fence bordering the field, backed out onto the roadway and left. When I finally reached the safety of the dugout, it was empty.

My mother would have been at the school waiting for me, had she not been sick. She would have brought me a small carton of orange juice and a turkey sandwich with mayonnaise, lettuce and tomatoes. She would have leaned over in the seat, given me a hug, and I would inhale the scent of flowers in her hair. We would have sat on the bottom rung of the bleacher, eaten our sandwiches, and then she would have patted my mouth with a napkin before sending me to the dugout. My father would never be there for me. Even at my age, I knew his priorities were elsewhere.

The gusting wind blew the heavy drops sideways and drowned the clay dugout floor. I turned sideways on the bench and tucked my knees up against my chest into a ball. With my arms wrapped around my ankles, I hid from the world. My crying was like a falling tree in the deep forest. No one knew and no one cared. I shivered in my soaked clothes, aided by the howling wind blowing through the dugout. The chain link fence, attached to the front of the dugout rattled.

An hour passed and I finally heard a car engine drive onto the small grassy area behind the dugout. Peeking between the wood slats of the dugout wall, I saw my mother’s car. She’s out of the hospital I thought. The euphoric feeling erased the cold. I grabbed my book bag from the bench and stepped into the lake that was once the ground and ran to the side opening of the dugout. Paula and I bumped into each other as I stepped through the opening in the fence.

Mom?

She’s still in the hospital. I took her car.

The blue shivering resumed. Paula covered me with a raincoat and opened the passenger door. I slipped in and watched her race around to the driver’s side.

She slid into the seat and wiped her face with a towel.

Did you get a license?

I still have a restricted. Dad promised to take me to get my regular license next week. She smiled, dabbed my forehead with the towel, then lightly pushed my nose with the tip of her finger.

Did you see Mom today?

Went after school. Paula backed out into the street and she turned the car toward home. Mom said Paula was an excellent driver. She couldn’t speak.

Was she awake?

No, they have her sedated.

Sedated?

It makes her sleep. The rain had turned to a slight drizzle. You hungry?

I nodded. A few minutes later, Paula pulled the car into McDonald’s.

Upon arriving home, we quickly changed and sat at the dining room table eating hamburgers as we had the night before. I loved fast food, especially McDonald’s, but wondered if this was a prelude of our eating habits in the future.

The phone rang and Paula answered. From the conversation, I could tell it was Dad. She set the phone roughly onto its cradle and made her way back to the table.

It was Dad. She sucked a French fry into her mouth. He’s at the hospital with Aunt Kay. Asked if we wanted her to make us dinner. Her lips tightened and her eyes blinked. Why is he always with her?

She clinched her teeth and grunted in anger. Mom knows they spend a considerable amount of time together. It must be painful for her. Her eyes, like a marble statue, stared straight ahead into the openness of the family room. It must hurt. I stared at her as she spoke, but her eyes never fixed on mine. I saw it in Mom’s eyes--she kept watching Dad and Aunt Kay.

What’s going on? Doesn’t Aunt Kay like Uncle Matt?

Paula’s head snapped sideways toward me and her eyes opened wide. You’re too smart, little brother. She smiled and chomped down on the last French fry. Her hand reached out and she ran her fingers through my hair.

I refrained from telling Paula all I knew from my eavesdropping. On many occasions I listened to my father and Aunt Kay have sex. Most of the time they went to the basement after my mother had fallen asleep. A heavy burden I should not have carried, but then again, the anguish was self-inflicted.

I kicked off the covers, pulled them back up, hugged one, then two pillows, and finally decided to take Paula up on the offer to sleep in her room again. The second-story of our house had four bedrooms. Paula and I had rooms bordering the side of the house. Mine was the first room off the stairway. The two bedrooms that faced the front of the house were used by my parents. The smaller room had been converted into a sitting area, used mainly by my mother to read, sew, and write.

I tiptoed out my door toward Paula’s room but paused when I heard voices. The whispers emanated from my mother and father’s room. My heart beat faster. However, my inquisitive nature won the battle. Fear always lost in these wars to my hidden prurient nature. I inched forward and froze when my knee cracked. In my peripheral vision, I saw Paula’s door fly open and her arm reached out to jerk me by the collar into her room.

What are you doing?

I swallowed and shrugged. Her face was taut, her eyes narrow. Dad’s in the bedroom with Aunt Kay.

She led me to her bed by the hand, where I quickly slipped under the covers.

Stay here. I’ll check it out. She took a few steps, then spun back around and pointed at me. Her pearly white teeth gleamed. I mean it--don’t move.

She crept slowly into the hallway, and I leaned over to track her until she disappeared. Every fifteen to thirty seconds, I rose up on the bed to find her. Five minutes passed and I sat up to contemplate my next move. As I was about to slip off the bed, Paula flashed through the door, taking her patented quick small steps. She jumped into the bed, yanked the covers to her chin and turned away from me.

I lay perfectly still and closed my eyes to lure the Sandman. I sensed Paula crying. Concentrating on Mr. Sleep’s arrival was difficult. My intuition was soon verified when her head trembled and muffled sobs escaped through the pillow. My hand reached out and grasped her shoulder. Her hand reached back and covered mine.

When I thought she was asleep, I slid to the edge of the bed and stood.

Her body snapped toward me. What are you doing? She asked.

Getting a glass of water. I didn’t turn toward her.

Come right back. She snapped back the other way. My heart pounded with fear and excited anticipation, when I eased into the sitting room. On all fours, I crawled to the door adjoining my father’s bedroom and pressed my ear to the gap at the bottom.

Do you think the kids heard us? my aunt asked.

If they heard anyone, it was you. I’ve told you to be quieter in the house.

My aunt grunted in disgust. Men don’t understand. If women hold back the intensity of the climax is not as strong.

Yell? Do you have to yell?

That’s my way.

When Paula woke me the next morning, she was fully dressed. She placed a small glass of orange juice on the nightstand. Here, drink the juice. Your clothes are laid out over the chair in your room, and I’ll make breakfast when you’re ready.

Her face was drained of color and her eyes were puffy. She crossed the room to her desk, sat down, and began writing in her diary. I slipped out of bed, picked up the orange juice, and made my way to where she sat. My arm encircled her neck and gently hugged her. She leaned back into me. She returned to writing and realized I was standing over her shoulder.

She closed the book, using her hand to mark her place. Go get dressed. I’ll be waiting in the kitchen for you.

My father was in a hurry and I nearly swallowed my egg sandwich. I quickly rinsed my plate, dropped it into the sink and rushed out the door to catch my father already slowly backing out of the driveway. I knew Paula would be angry because I didn’t place my plate in the dishwasher. On the way to school, my father drummed the dashboard to a song I had never heard. He placed his hand on my knee when he stopped the car in front of my school.

Just in case your mother’s in the hospital for awhile, I want you to check on taking the bus to and from school.

I nodded.

Did you hear me?

With who?

Check in the office.

What about the game today?

He turned his head and stared straight ahead. You’ll have to walk. I’ll be there before it’s over.

I stepped from the car and into the street in silence. The car door was barely closed before he sped away, nearly running over my foot. I stood on the curb and watched his car disappear. Mom always let me out at the drop-off site in the parking lot. A mixture of anger and hurt shot from my feet to my clenched teeth.

The warning bell rang at 8:25 a.m. I moved toward the walk leading to the main entrance of the school. I stood thinking on the sidewalk adjacent to the main walkway, splitting glances between the school and the direction of the hospital. The last time I saw my mother was Monday morning before school. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach. To this day, I am perplexed as to how I made the decision. I have no recollection of walking three and a half miles to the hospital. I paused across the street and stared at the building where my mother was sick. A truck honked its horn, jogging me from my reverie.

Just outside the sliding glass door entrance to the hospital, I removed my book bag and withdrew the paper containing my mother’s room number. I had written the number down on Monday evening after returning home from the hospital with my father and sister. With a pen, I wrote the number on the palm of my hand. I threaded through the corridor of the hospital toward the elevator and nonchalantly stepped on, avoiding any eye contact. The elevator door opened to the fifth floor, and maintaining my no eye contact mode, I strolled into the waiting room. Positioning myself in the middle of the room, I could see the nurse’s station situated directly across from the door. I pretended to watch the television. One person, an elderly lady, was the only other occupant of the room, and she seemed to be dozing.

Every few minutes I made my way to the door to check the nurse’s station. On my fourth attempt, no one was at the station and I quietly slipped out of the waiting room and moved cautiously with my head down toward my mother’s room. I only raised my head to verify the room numbers. I checked the room number, 529, written on the palm of my left hand. I noticed the odd numbers on the left. When I came to room 527, I scooted the last ten feet into the next room, nearly bumping smack into a doctor. Frozen, a foot outside the room, my heart ceased to function. My downcast eyes focused on the black speckled tile floor and I tried to act invisible. He said excuse me and walked hurriedly away. For a second, I watched him, then hopped into the room and shuffled my feet sideways against the wall and out of sight of the doorway. I covered my chest with the palm of my hand and knew my heart was fully operational.

A curtain circled three-quarters of the way around the only bed in the room. I peeked down the hallway, waited a few seconds for my racing heart to depress the brake pedal, then moved gradually toward the curtain. A pungent odor filled my head. Paula referred to the odor as the hospital smell.

My hands trembled. I stopped momentarily, afraid of what I might find on the other side of the curtain. Cautiously I crept closer and hesitated at the edge of the curtain. Drawing my eyes closer to the curtain, I could see a figure lying in bed. I licked my dry lips and with feet cemented firmly in place, eased my head around the curtain.

My mother’s eyes were closed. There was an intravenous needle in her arm and a tube inserted in her throat. She looked ashen and her face was swollen. My legs inched closer. Her arms were black and blue. I took another step closer and slowly reached out and touched her arm.

Her eyes blinked opened and my head jerked back. She struggled to open her eyes and squinted to focus. Her face grew into a happy smile.

A river of relief flowed through me. When she tried to speak the sounds were whispered air. Slowly, she moved her arm and grasped my hand. Her grip was weak, but she pulled me toward her. I leaned closer and turned an ear to her lips.

I love you.

I backed away and smiled. I love you, too. I leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

Her hand kept me close. Be strong.

I had no idea what she meant, but nodded.

I told her about my bike and she frowned. I asked several questions, forgetting she couldn’t answer. Twenty minutes passed and I pulled the chair closer to the bed, pressed her hand against my cheek and laid my head on the bed.

Young man, a voice said in a loud whisper. My head popped up and jerked toward the white-clothed lady. You’re not supposed to be in here.

Her eyes were on my mother.

I stood and stared back at the lady.

You okay, dear? The nurse asked my mother, stepping closer to the bed. Mom blinked her narrow eyes.

I came to see my mother.

My mother moved her arm and gently covered my hand.

You have five minutes to say goodbye. The nurse took a step toward the door, stopped and spun on her heel back toward me. I’ll be timing you. She disappeared behind the curtain. A hint of a smile dawned on my mother’s face.

I gently hugged her and pressed my cheek against hers. Tears ran down my face and onto hers.

Don’t, she said in a struggled whisper.

I raised up and held her hand. I love you. I tried to wipe my tears from her face with my thumb.

I love you, too, she mouthed.

For the next few minutes, I sat and watched my mother doze into sleep. When the five minutes passed, I kissed her cheek and slowly backed away beyond the curtain. I strode out the door and pass the angel nurse leaning against the wall in the hallway. My eyes were fixed down and straight ahead. I was embarrassed someone would see me crying. I tried to discreetly wipe the tears with my sleeve. The clock in the hospital waiting room read 10:45 a.m. when I passed.

I arrived back at school a little before noon and went immediately to the principal’s office to confess my crime. In the office, three ladies sat at desks behind a long counter. Another lady was busily working files on the far wall opposite me.

May I help you? one of them asked.

Yes, I need to see the principal.

Do you go to school here?

Yes.

The lady pushed back in her chair and strolled over to the counter. Do you have a pass or just coming in late? She leaned over placing both hands on the counter.

I skipped classes this morning.

Her face became tight and her eyes narrowed. She pulled her graying hair and tucked it neatly behind her ear. Write your name and homeroom number on this card. She slid the card to me and pointed to a container holding several pencils. When I finished, she pulled the card back, never lifting it off the counter. She adjusted her glasses, studying the card momentarily. Her neck lengthened and her eyes flew open upon reading my name. In the background I could hear the other two ladies discussed where they would go for lunch. The gray-haired secretary nibbled on her lip and gazed back to me. At this point, she bit her lip. Darren, please have a seat over there. She pointed to a chair against the wall.

Upon hearing my name, the other three ladies went silent in mid sentence. The silence was deafening. When I turned to take my seat, I felt eight eyes glued to me. I glanced up at the gray-haired lady who stood frozen at the counter. She managed a smile. For a second, she closed her eyes.

I folded my arms across my chest and in my peripheral vision saw the gray-haired lady hurry to the back of the office.

Chapter 5

In a few minutes, I was going to confess to the principal that I skipped school. Cut class . . . played hooky. All of the various derogatory descriptions sifted through my mind. The best approach would be to use none of them but simply provide an explanation that I had to see my mother. Certainly he would understand. On the other hand, there was an unusual calm within me. For some strange reason I was not frightened in the least to approach the principal. While mentally rehearsing my explanation, my thoughts were interrupted by Principal Kaplan’s distinctive voice. His tone typically boomed, was more subdued this day.

Darren. I looked up at him, not knowing how to react. How’s one of my favorite students today?

Fine, I managed to say slightly above a whisper.

Come on back. He waved his hand in a circular motion to the back of the office. I rose from my chair and walked toward the swinging door on the left side of the counter. The door continued swinging for several seconds after someone went through and created a variety of squeaking noises. My mother would hit it with W-D 40.

You know, Darren, he continued, never looking back at me, at nine years old, you’re the youngest and smartest fifth grader we have. I walked by the desk where the lady sat silent, stealing hidden glances of me. I could smell the antiseptic used in the chemicals to wax the tile floors blended with her musty perfume. We entered his office and he offered me a chair. For a moment, I considered reminding him that I was nine and a half, but thought best not to correct him. So, Darren, what do you want to tell me? He avoided making eye contact with me.

Well--when my father dropped me off this morning, I went to the hospital to see my mother instead of going to class. I managed to avoid any of those derogatory descriptions.

He cleared his throat, sat forward and made a steeple with his hands below his chin. Considering you have never done anything like this before and you’re an excellent student, I’m going to let this pass. But just this once.

I don’t mind serving detention. He looked to the side and pressed his lips together.

No need for that. His phone rang, startling both of us.

He lifted the phone and leaned back in his chair. His eyes locked on me for a second, then shot to the ceiling. Through the receiver I could hear the secretary clearly. Mr. Kaplan, Mr. Parker is here.

My stomach became immediately hollow and my head lighter. Why would my father be here? Had Principal Kaplan called him