One and One Is One: The Beginning

By S. T. Byra

Grady Pearson has always been different. He’s an outsider, not really belonging anywhere. With an English father and American mother, he feels in-between, not sure of his place around other children. In their new home, Grady does eventually make friends, but things go terribly wrong as bullying escalates to an event that almost kills him.

The childhood trauma of his pre-teen years permanently and fundamentally changes him. He begins to see enemies all around—but Grady’s pain has only just begun as he soon loses his parents, his home, and the life he knew. He is forced to leave England. He travels halfway around the world to a strange, new life in Chicago surrounded by strangers.

Grady now navigates an unfamiliar and sometimes hostile world. Through triumphs and trials, he journeys into adulthood. He grows and matures until he is ready to take his first step toward a bright, new life, while still haunted by past pain. Grady’s is an extraordinary adventure, built on deep, abiding love—but to find that love, he must first learn to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532063626

S. T. Byra

S. T. Byra is a retired Public Library System Director, a constant reader, and an avid knitter and crafter. She has always had creative ideas in her head, and now, she writes them down.

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Copyright © 2018 S. T. Byra.

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.

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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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6363-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6362-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019900387

iUniverse rev. date:    01/17/2019

Contents

Acknowledgment

Part 1

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part 2

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Acknowledgment

Many thanks to Donald Terry, the best beta reader an author can have, in that he’ll not only tell you when you’ve got it right but also when you’ve got it wrong, keeping you true to your characters within the story. Also, for explaining the Man Code to me.

Part 1

CHAPTER

One

As a child of different and, some would say conflicting worlds, Grady Pearson had always been different – an ‘other,’ an outsider, not belonging anywhere. The only child of an English father and American mother, he still remembered the train trip to London after he was old enough to sign his name properly. The trip had taken him to the English registry office and the American Embassy to get the two passports that corresponded with his dual citizenship.

While his father was not military but an engineer working on classified research, they lived on a sprawling RAF base in the officer housing section. It was two stories with a yard that allowed him room to play outside without running into someone else’s stuff and with the constant background noise of aircraft engines.

Not that it mattered for the first eight and ¾ years of his life. Raised in a loving family, he was a happy child, spontaneous, joyful and curious, always ready to explore and try new things that his classmates would suggest. He was the only civilian child in the base school, and as such sometimes felt that there was another world he could never be a part of, some secret society that was forbidden to him. But he didn’t brood on it; there was too much to do. And when it was time to come home at night after playing there were too many books to read that were filled with so much knowledge to absorb. He was observant and analytical about things, a trait he got from his father. He was also intuitive and good at reading other people’s feelings and body language, a trait he got from his mother. He had gotten his smarts and good instincts from both sides. His hair was an untamable mop of black, and his eyes were a deep brown with a continuous look of lively curiosity in them, framed by long lashes. And while he had the usual pudginess and softness of most kids his age, there were already hints of the leanness he would inherit from both his parents.

In other words, not a typical kid, but one able to float freely between the company of children or adults, learning from and enjoying both groups.

It was the Friday before the Christmas holidays and school had been let out at noon. He was to go home for the afternoon with his friend Nigel, who was two forms ahead of him. They had made a connection on the playground and had been trading play times and overnights for quite a while. It had been an unusually warm winter, and both were dressed in the customary short pants and shirts. Grady’s mother had insisted he take a jumper she had knitted him in case the weather changed. In typical eight and ¾-year-old fashion, he had sighed and made a face, but still carried the jumper with him. His father would be picking him up after work and Grady was looking forward to the afternoon.

They had been playing outside for a couple of hours, and the temperature was starting to drop when Nigel abruptly announced that it was time for a program he wanted to listen to on the radio. They ran back into the house, cutting through the kitchen and racing through the living room to the stairs to Nigel’s room. Being rambunctious and overenthusiastic, they both tripped on the edge of a rug and knocked into a side table, causing a vase to come crashing to the floor. It didn’t break, which Grady thought was lucky, but that didn’t seem to matter to Nigel as he turned ashen and hurriedly picked it up and was placing it back on the table when a loud voice cut through the air.

What the bloody hell is going on here?

Grady looked up and saw Nigel’s father, a colonel, standing in the doorway leading from his office.

It’s awright Dad nothing got broken, see? I’m putting it back where it belongs. We didn’t mean it did we, Grady? Nigel nervously babbled.

The colonel came into the room towering over the two boys, Nigel scared and nervous, Grady a bit bewildered by Nigel’s reaction, though saying nothing as he watched.

Come here the colonel ordered Nigel who obediently approached his father. His father began to pat Nigel’s check. Well, I guess you’re simply going to have to be more careful from now on, aren’t you? he asked. Then with the suddenness of a snake strike, he drew back his hand and hit Nigel so hard he crashed into the wall next to the table and fell to the floor.

Grady was horrified and stood there with his mouth open in shock as Nigel began to get up slowly. Grady had never seen anything approaching that and, while his parents had punished him, it had never been with any physical force that came close to being brutal, and the reason he was being punished was always explained to him.

Suddenly he realized that the colonel was standing over him, staring down with undisguised anger. With another quick motion, the colonel grabbed his arm so hard Grady had to bite back a cry. The colonel half marched half dragged him to the front door which he opened and shoved Grady through. Go home, now! the colonel ordered and slammed the door.

Grady stood on the front steps breathing rapidly as various thoughts ran through his head. It was at least two hours before his father would be coming to pick him up, the temperature was falling fast, and the jumper his mother had insisted he take with him was upstairs on the bed in Nigel’s room. Instinctively he knew he needed that jumper as he had never needed one before. And how to get a message to his father?

Grady took in a deep breath and turned around and began to knock on the door. He waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time, but the door eventually opened.

What? the colonel barked at him.

I need my jumper, Grady said, bravely staring him in the face, and I need to call my mum so she can get a message to my father to come to get me.

The colonel drew back his lips in what Grady supposed was his version of a smile and said, So where’s this bloody jumper, then?

It’s upstairs on Nigel’s bed.

The door slammed in his face. It was beginning to rain, cold and soaking. After a few minutes Grady heard the sound of a window opening and, as he moved away from the door to see what was happening, his jumper suddenly appeared before him, floating through the air and landing in a newly formed puddle. He turned to look up and saw the colonel standing behind the window with what he was sure was a beer bottle in his hand.

I need to call my mum now, Grady insisted.

No, you don’t. Walk home. Now. the colonel said and slammed the window shut while staying behind it looking down at Grady.

Grady rapidly considered his options. If he stayed at Nigel’s would the colonel leave him alone, or come out and hit him too? It was two miles to Grady’s house: he had walked it before but never under those conditions. He picked up his jumper from the puddle and squeezed water out of it. At least it was wool and could still keep him relatively warm even if wet. As he struggled to put it on - wet wool being rather heavy - he looked back up at the window. The colonel was still there and, with a sinking heart, Grady knew that he could not stay there seeking shelter under the overhang over the front steps. The colonel would see to that. Being careful not to let his feelings show he turned and began walking home.

At first, he kept up a steady pace thinking that at least he was moving and generating body heat which should help keep him warm. But after about ten minutes, with the cold seeping into him, he knew he was in trouble. It had begun to sleet, and there was no protection, even with the wool jumper. The sleet stung his cheeks and his legs in his short pants. His jumper began to stretch from the weight of the water soaking into it, and he pulled it up to cover his head in a vain attempt to ward off the worsening bad weather, squeezing water from it as he continued his path home.

After twenty minutes he was slowing down, could barely feel his feet, and was beginning to shiver. How bad would it have been without his jumper? he thought, trying to look for something, anything to hold on to. All the houses he passed were empty, the occupants either still at work, or already gone for the holidays. Likewise, the streets were empty. There was no one to come to the aid of an increasingly desperate child doggedly focusing on trying to get home.

After thirty minutes he no longer could feel his legs below the knees, and he began to trip over the slightest thing. Still, he kept going, drawing his hands up into the sleeves of his jumper. He began to beat his arms against his torso trying to get the blood circulating. They were going numb too, and his vision was getting narrower as he struggled to focus on where he was going. Am I going to die out here? he thought, and that idea drove him to go faster, stomping his feet to get the blood circulating there as well.

After that, he barely registered the passing of time. Teeth chattering, shivering almost constantly now, his vision had darkened and narrowed to a tunnel straight in front of him. Still, he kept walking on autopilot, instinctively knowing that if he stopped to rest, he’d never get going again. His fingers curled into claws, and he wondered if they would ever hold a pencil again. That led him to think about how warm the schoolroom was that time of year with the steam heat, and how good it would feel to be that warm again. With a start, he realized he had almost run headfirst into a lamppost. Concentrate!! he ordered himself, but almost immediately his mind began to wander again, thinking of strong, hot tea with honey and crawling under a warm blanket and going to sleep. Yes, sleep, that would fix everything. Just go to sleep, and he would be warm again. He inhaled deeply, dreaming of a fire, and was roused by the frigid air. Focus, keep moving, he whispered to himself fiercely and was startled to realize he was only a block from home.

As his vision concentrated on the sidewalk in front of him, he roused himself enough to figure out where in the house his mum would be and how best to get her attention. The kitchen, he decided and stumbled into the backyard and to the back steps only to find that he couldn’t get his fingers around the doorknob to open it they were so cold. In frustration, he began to beat his head against the door hoping against hope that he was doing it loudly enough for his mum to hear. The door opened suddenly, and he felt himself falling to the floor of the kitchen. He heard his mum cry out his name and, with a sigh, he closed his eyes and let the darkness overtake him.

Molly Flowers grew up tall and thin - but with curves in the right places – with black hair, hazel eyes, and a ready smile. She was born a rebel and ever curious, always asking why things were the way they were. And in a fundamentalist religious family, where there was a strict interpretation of the Bible, where children were to be seen and not heard, and where women had no voice in anything, things did not bode well for either side in the conflict. If her parents had hoped for another quiet, obedient child identical to her older sister they were doomed to a lifetime of disappointment.

Corporal punishment was doled out in increasing amounts as Molly grew up, her older sister always held out as a perfect example of how she should behave. The ordeal of having to share a room was hard to bear for both of them. As time went by Molly grew to hate Agnes as much as Agnes hated her. Agnes hated all the disruption Molly brought, and Molly hated not being able ever to be alone anywhere in the house. She longed for the day she could escape and resented the time away from her school work that her father demanded so the family could hold lengthy prayer sessions. These more and more turned into diatribes about her behavior, angry rants about how she was not subservient enough, and how she would never find a husband if she didn’t learn to be quiet and submissive. She learned to read her father’s body language at an early age, more as an attempt at self-preservation than anything else, and used it to try to avoid him as much as she could. She believed that education would be her way out and hated the fact that her father considered it a waste of time for a female.

But a different way out presented itself when she was just past her seventeenth birthday. The war was raging in Europe, and the call went out for people to join the USO and go to England to help with troop morale and other work. She presented her plan as an appeal to her father’s constant harangues about doing good works. He signed the papers to allow her to go with a certain amount of relief on both sides. Finally, there would be peace in his house, and after all, it was in service of their country in a time of crisis.

Molly got a trial by fire on the way over to Liverpool. One of the few females on a boat otherwise full of troops heading to the front, she was also one of the few on board who did not get seasick. She spent her time tending to the sick and cleaning up around the bunks of those who hadn’t made it to the head in time. She kept her spirits up by reminding herself that she was out from under her father’s tyrannical control. And really, a sunset viewed from the stern of the boat as it crossed the waters of the Atlantic was a wonderful sight, one she’d treasure her entire life.

Landing in England, she presented her papers to the USO officer there and was immediately assigned to London to help run the canteen that had been set up as a place for soldiers on leave to come and dance, eat, and socialize. It was challenging work, a juggling act really, between being a shoulder to cry on and trying not to become a one-night stand. She usually stayed behind the punch bowl handing out what started as non-alcoholic drinks to all soldiers and war workers that came in. Her ready smile and cheerful disposition got her many propositions, but she always turned them down with that self-same smile and a laugh that made them glad they had tried, but not resentful that they hadn’t succeeded.

On her days off she would scour the city for new wonders to see. A lot of things were in a bad way from the Blitz but the people were always glad to answer her questions about things, and the day she discovered the local library was sweet beyond words. She began to devour books she would never have been allowed to read at home. As there were no restrictions on her now, she read to answer her curiosity and grew more confident in her mind that she was on the right track.

Molly’s life went on this way for about a year. Dutifully, though she didn’t know why she bothered, Molly sent a short note home every month to let her family know she was ok and doing well. She shared a flat with three other girls and had one of her cherished dreams: a room of her own. The stipend from the USO, while not generous was enough to cover expenses, and the four girls would combine their ration coupons during the month so they could have several good meals which they cooked in their small kitchen, laughing and giggling over anything that struck their fancy.

One Saturday night she was behind the punch bowl in her usual spot handing out cups of pink libation. She noticed a tall, well built, dark-haired older man in line and kept an eye on him as the men passed in front of her. He was not in uniform, which she found strange, but seemed to be on good terms with the British soldiers who also regularly attended the USO events. When it was his turn, she handed him a cup of punch, and their hands touched briefly. To her shock, it was as if an electric current went through her, so much so that she gasped and looked up at him. He too looked shocked and was looking at her with big brown eyes that seemed puzzled and astonished at the same time.

Don’t hog the lady’s attention, mate one of the people behind him in line groused, and he moved on but turned after a few steps to look at her again. With a flash of blinding clarity, she thought to herself I’m going to marry him one day. Then she shook her head and laughed to herself at such a silly notion. But she too often looked in his direction that night and always caught him looking back at her. And when the venue closed for the night and she came out of the back door into the alley after helping to clean up he was there, waiting, under the dim light that was allowed to burn under an awning.

May I walk you home? he asked gently. I promise I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.

And while she had had many a request similar to this before, she somehow knew that he was different and would keep his word. And besides, she very much wanted him to walk her home. So, she took the arm he offered her, and they turned into the street towards her flat.

Horace Pearson came from a family of thinkers, doers, and intellectuals who believed in service and knowledge. They named him after his paternal grandfather who had been killed during WWI while trying to plant explosives to blow up a bridge. His maternal grandfather had also died in that war, slogging through the mud of the trenches while trying to save dying soldiers as a Medic. Their respective wives didn’t live much longer after their deaths. Broken hearts was the general diagnosis. His father had been a respected barrister while his mother had been a nursing sister. He had lost both of them in the first year of the Blitz when the air raid shelter they were in had taken a direct hit. And it was no surprise to anyone left in the family (only a couple of elderly maiden aunts at that point) that he had decided to be an engineer. He was in his fourth and last year at Cambridge when the war started. He was such an outstanding student that all his teachers arrived en masse at the War Office where he was to be inducted into the infantry. They told the powers that be, in no uncertain terms, that if they took Horace away from his studies the country would be losing one of the best future engineers and thinkers it had ever produced. Surprisingly, the War Office listened, and Horace was given a deferment providing he would work for at least a year for the War Office after graduation. He agreed readily and ended up working for them his entire life.

His boyhood was one of exploration and constant learning. The motto of the house was If you didn’t know what people were talking about, go research it. Several editions of the Encyclopedia Britannica were gone through during his formative years, and more than one volume’s binding cracked under the constant usage.

By the time he met Molly at the USO canteen, he had helped to co-established one of the first engineering research labs in the nation and was contributing to advanced research in what would become radar and bomb delivery systems. He was also working on his Ph.D., though that was slow going what with all his military work.

The walk home that night turned into a daily routine, one they both looked forward to eagerly and happily. On her days off Horace would show Molly places she would never have explored alone. The conversation was lively as she asked intelligent questions and he reveled in showing her more things to see and learn. The British Museum ended up being one of their favorite haunts. There was some grumbling amongst the uniformed soldiers about her going with a civvy, but Horace was well enough known to the troops as a good enough bloke who knew his stuff and was helping the war effort in his way, so the talk didn’t last long.

What started as a friendship, slowly deepened into respect and love. When, after about six months, in the midst of a particularly bad air raid they consummated that love in his tiny flat, they both knew their commitment to each other was real and lasting. Plans were made to marry when the war was over. Thus, it was with great trepidation, as well as plenty of tears and unease when, two months later, Molly informed Horace that she was pregnant. And when he tenderly took her face between his hands, smiled at her and said he would apply for a marriage license the next day, she knew she had been right to give her trust and love to this man.

They were married at the registry office three weeks later and seven months after that - Healthiest bloody preemie I’VE ever seen one nurse sniffed to another - Molly gave birth to a strong, healthy boy. They named him Grady after Horace’s mother’s maiden name.

Molly had been regularly sending off her monthly notes home and had dutifully sent one when she and Horace had gotten married, and sent another when Grady was born. So, it should have come as no surprise - though it was - when a thick letter came back from her family calling her a whore for having sex and getting pregnant before marriage. They had looked at the calendar and counted the days, and they did not admit the possibility of premature birth, not with a child that weighed over eight pounds upon arrival. The full wrath of their religious rigidity descended on her in that missive. Some tears were shed, some deep conversation ensued, and as a consequence, no more notes were sent over the pond to America.

Only one thing ever came to her from America after that, and it was from her sister Agnes bluntly informing her that their parents had died. Their religious fanaticism had deepened after she left home and they had been on a sort of pilgrimage to a church of snake handlers deep in the mountains of Kentucky. Both of them had been bitten several times while handling the rattlers, and their religion had been no protection from the reality of snake venom.

Horace tenderly held her while she cried over the news. Yes, they had been cruel and had never understood her, but they were her parents after all was said and done. She would never have had the wonderful life she had now without them giving birth to her. They deserved a few tears at the very least.

When Grady was about six months old, Horace was offered a prestigious posting at an RAF base to head up classified research. It came with free housing and a good salary and, for one so young, was a real feather in his cap. They decided that this was too good an opportunity to pass up, and the base school was one of the best in England. Consequently, what little they had was packed and bundled into a friend’s van and their rattletrap little car, and they headed off.

Grady grew to be a star pupil at the school which was of no little pride to his loving parents. The motto of their house also became If you don’t know what it is, research it, and Grady, with his natural curiosity, had no problem in living up to it. Once again, the Encyclopedia Britannica became a go-to essential.

One time he unearthed an old photo album and asked Molly to tell him about all the pictures. She dutifully went through it, naming off relatives long gone and buried that he would never know until he pulled out a picture from under the back binding. Who’s in this picture, then? he asked.

That’s my sister and me when we were little, Molly said sadly.

You have a sister?

Yes, she’s older than me.

How come you’ve never talked about her?

Molly sighed. We never got along, was all she would say and gently took the picture from his hands and placed it back under the binding.

There was hardly any need to discipline Grady as he grew up. The first time it was necessary, and as Horace was preparing to paddle him, Molly firmly stepped in. I’ll not have what was done to me be done to him she stated and told Horace how it had been with her growing up. He was appropriately upset, so they started the practice of sitting Grady down and explaining to him what he had done wrong and why he was being punished. All three would agree on a suitable punishment. Fortunately for all concerned, it was rare this had to happen.

And so, they settled into their life on the base: Horace with his work, Molly with the house, her child and her volunteer work at the base library (another dream come true for her), and Grady with his studies, until that fateful holiday afternoon.

Grady stirred sluggishly as his mother carried him racing up the stairs to the bath where she immediately began to fill the tub with warm water. Get those wet clothes off honey, she said as she tested the temperature of the water. As she reached into the medicine cabinet for the thermometer, she saw that Grady was sitting there, huddled on the floor, shaking, his hands sitting loosely in his lap. Grady! I said get those wet things off now.

Tears began to seep from his eyes. I c-c-c-c-can’t feel my h-h-hands, he whispered.

With mounting panic, she touched his hands and felt how icy they were. She began to undress him with growing urgency, as his teeth were still chattering and his body continued to shiver uncontrollably. She hissed in anger as she spotted the bruises that were already blossoming on his arm. As she lowered him into the water, he cried out in pain from the contrast.

Listen, honey! I need you to be brave for me, ok? she began talking to him, realizing that he needed to stay awake at all costs. I’m going to take your temperature now, that’s my brave boy. And she held him against her as she placed the thermometer in his mouth. Despite the shaking, she managed to get a good reading, and it scared her half to death. 92. 92???? Didn’t people die if their temperature fell that low?!? She realized that this was more than she could handle alone. Listen to me Grady this is very important. DO NOT FALL ASLEEP!!! Do you hear me? You’ve got to stay awake! I’m going to call the base hospital and have them send an ambulance, and I need you to stay awake and not slip under the water. Do you hear me?!? She was practically begging now but saw him nod his head and decided she could risk running to the phone.

Taking deep breaths to calm herself as she dialed the numbers she managed to get through to the person who answered the utmost urgency of the situation and a promise that they would be there stat. She slipped back into the bath to check on Grady and saw that he had draped himself over the edge of the tub to keep from sliding down into the water. He was still shivering like a leaf in a wind storm. Grady, I’m going to call your father now, ok? You’re my brave boy I need you to be brave for just a little bit longer while I make that call. I’ll be right back, she told him as she stroked his face, then racing out of the bathroom to dial her husband’s office number. His secretary answered and almost before she had finished her normal greeting Molly broke in. This is Mrs. Pearson, tell my husband to drop everything and get to the base hospital at once! There’s something wrong with Grady, and I’ve called an ambulance! Tell him to bring MPs too, he’s been assaulted, and there are bruises on his arm where he was attacked! She hung up without waiting for an answer and rushed back to the bathroom barely in time to stop Grady from falling back into and under the water. There was a sound of a siren getting