Light and Shadow

By Steven McCann

For all people, life passes through and around us in light and shadow. We enjoy moments of joy and comfort, when no sooner we’re faced with upset, disappointment, sometimes even tragedy. The art we create, our music, literature, painting, theatre and the rest, reflects this. Think of Shakespeare, or Rembrandt, or Beethoven, or your favorite lifetime film. Can we appreciate moments of joy, without having known sadness? We see it in nature. The brilliant colors of birth, the dimmer struggles for survival, the darker shades of decay and dying. A bleak winter’s day, a rainy afternoon in March, a sunny May morning. I always attempt to capture both light and shadow when I write, in my novels, stories, plays, and in my poems. It’s an attempt to show respect, I think, for the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669859819

Steven McCann

Steven McCann is the author of novels, novellas, stories, plays and poems, and a 2021 recipient of a City Artist Corps Grant. He was born in 1948, graduated from Spring Valley High School in New York where he excelled in three sports. He enrolled at the University of Kansas, and later at NYU, majored in English and received a BA. His work experience is varied; nightwatchman at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hotel detective at the Plaza, home renovator and shipping manager. In 2005 he was stricken with paraplegia and has been wheelchair bound since. He lives in New York City and remains passionate about Central Park, the Shakespeare festival, the Met Museum, Lincoln Center, the opera, and the people of New York.

Book preview

A Troubled Teen

There’s a reason why I feel like a hundred, instead of sixteen and a half, my real age. I’m like a political prisoner tormented by the taste of freedom, matched against the impossibility of escape. Maybe if I write it all out, it will help some other young soul caught in a similar predicament. I have to start years ago, to try to etch people out in my memory, so I won’t be unfair. Some are difficult. The first is my father.

From my earliest memories my father and mother were divorced. That left me and my mother to reside in a big four-bedroom house in Pinewoods, New Jersey, an hour’s train ride away from New York City. Our house was bordered by azalea bushes on three sides that bloomed white and orange in the spring, probably the work of my father. He came to visit me, parking his large new Buick in our driveway and bringing me presents of dolls, tea sets, and miniature cookware. He hugged and kissed me and called me sugar and darlin in his Louisiana accent, and then he drove away to Washington, D.C., or Chicago, or Los Angeles where he worked as an engineer on large buildings.

You be good for Mommy, Sugar. Dad will come back to you soon. Okay, Sweetie? He’d pick me up and carry me out to his shiny car, then put me down, wink, and kiss me again, and drive slowly out of the driveway, waving to me until I could see him no more. He was the handsomest man in the world, with curly brown hair, blue eyes that twinkled, and rugged tanned skin. A man’s man and an outdoor man. My mother had been a fashion model, but was no longer in her prime. I guess that’s why he left her.

The only other people who came to our house were my mother’s friends from the fashion industry. My mother had little time for me, and her friends differed only slightly. When I was playing by myself in the front room, I heard them laughing in the kitchen and my mother say in a low voice:

I don’t know where she comes from. She has nothing of me in her. That tiny little thing, towhead, with those dark blue eyes.

I knew she was talking about me and I knew I was nothing but a nuisance to her. It only made me withdraw from her more, to a corner of my room with my father’s presents, or somewhere in the yard, picking flowers. It was on the side lawn, near the fence, that I discovered our neighbors next door, a rambunctious family of four boys close in age that slammed their front screen door, thumped over their porch and front steps, and yelled to one another in thunderous voices. And they were always playing baseball. I could hear the bats clacking against one another, the hardball hitting the porch steps and into their baseball gloves, and their incessant shouts to determine who was on whose side. Then one day a major event took place that changed my life forever.

I was playing in our driveway on my tricycle. The band of boys next door were walking past on their way to the ball field that was only down the street and across at the intersection. Inadvertently, one of the Rooney’s—that was their family name—one of them hit the hardball and it went bouncing into our driveway, right past my tricycle. I dismounted, raced after the ball, and then ran to hand it back to them.

Throw it, little girl.

I ran up close, threw it, and the ball went over their heads and into the street.

Good arm! One of them yelled. I couldn’t let this congratulation disappear. When they continued walking down the sidewalk, I followed them.

Holly! Come back here! My mother yelled from our porch where she was talking to an old model friend.

That’s okay, Misses Duhart. We’ll take care of her.

Where are you boys going?

Just down the corner to the town field. We’ll bring her right back.

Well, okay. But make sure she watches from a safe place.

We will, Misses Duhart. Come on, Holly, they said and I walked after them.

They had decided I could be of use to them. They positioned me behind the backstop and told me to retrieve foul tips and other balls that went awry. I ran back breathlessly for each one, then ran up to the side of the backstop, throwing each ball into play again. I did this dutifully for a whole season, until one day about a year later, they were practicing infield hits with a runner trying to beat the throw to first base. Watching me run up to the backstop and throw the ball into play again, Bill, the oldest, had an idea.

Let’s try something. Holly, move up to the batter’s box opposite the hitter. When he hits it, run to first base.

I took orders perfectly and raced to first base when the ball was hit, and suddenly, I became an integral part of their teamwork. Then they tried having me run to second base on fly balls. When the ball was hit, I raced to first, rounded the bag, sped to second as fast as my legs could carry me and slid into the base, beating the throw. I had seen one of them slide and copied it perfectly. They looked at each other in amazement. Then Bill said:

Give her a glove. See if she can play second base.

From that point on I became one of them. Fielding, running, sliding, and hitting, for it was then that they taught me to hit. We played against other bands of kids, the diamond filling up with boys and with one girl, me. Bill was the biggest kid there and always chose me onto his side and no one questioned him. I learned to step on the bag and make the double play throw to first. I learned to cover the hole and backhand ground balls to my right, and spin and make the throw to first. I learned to do everything Derek Jeter of the Yankees could do.

Once, when a pop fly ball was hit over my head, I raced into the outfield, caught the ball running, and collided with a boy twice my size. I lay on the ground unconscious for a moment, until I heard Bill’s voice:

Don’t touch her! He picked me up, carried me to the sidelines and laid me down under a tree.

Don’t go near her! She needs to rest awhile. I finally woke up and took my position again.

All of my life became the Rooney’s. I remained quiet and rarely said a word and followed Bill Rooney’s directives implicitly. I was rarely, if ever, stuck in the house, listening to my mother and her friends. I got away from them as soon as I got home from school, said little at dinner table, except to be polite, and was out of the house again afterwards.

In the fall we played touch football. Bill turned sixteen and bought this old Ford with its flooring rusted through in places so you could actually see the road passing underneath. On Saturdays we played on our field, or drove to other towns to play. We played in the rain, sleet, and the mud. The opposing players looked me over when I got out of the car.

"Is she playing?"

Damn straight, Bill said. You’ll see.

I could run and feint and turn directions quicker than them, because of my size. I remember those games like they were yesterday, and Bill’s excited shouts:

Go, Holly! Go! Go! And scampering through the wet grass and mud, farther, farther into the lead, all the way across the field, ahead of everyone.

I began to go with them everywhere during those Saturday afternoons, sitting in the back seat of Bill’s car, scrunched up against the window with a piece of plywood over the hole in the floor. We went for hamburgers, or hot chocolates, or sometimes to watch high school games. I was quietly passing through the lower grades at school, a good student, but always eager to be next door with the Rooney’s, or down on the playing field.

Somewhere around this time, my seventh or eighth grade, the Rooney’s began to play chess. The games were usually held on a table on their front porch where I could sit on the side on a torn old sofa and quietly watch the four of them play each other. As usual, it was Bill who got me directly involved, insisting one day that I be included and play Marvin, the youngest, before the others. I beat him in four moves. Next, I played Denis, who I beat in seven moves. Stuie and Bill took eight or nine moves. From that point on I had top billing, and always played whoever won in the other games.

I was up in my room reading one day when Bill came to our door, asking to talk to me. I ran down, dropping whatever else I was doing, prepared to play any sport he might be up to.

Would you play in a contest, Holly? Bill asked me.

What kind?

There’s a kid in our school who likes to play chess. I told him you might play him.

Sure, Bill. Now?

Yeah. He brought some friends with him. I don’t want you to be scared. I’m right with you, Holly.

He led me over next door. It was a warm day in March, around St Patrick’s day, and we were all wearing sweatshirts. Bill walked me up onto his porch where five or six strange boys leaned against the railing opposite the Rooney’s who sat on chairs. A chess set had been set up in the middle. Bill introduced me to the newcomers who all nodded, without saying anything. Then he pulled out a chair for me to sit at the chess table. I sat down, looking up at the half dozen strangers. They stared back, still not saying a word. Then suddenly, one of them stepped forward, pulled out the chair and sat down opposite me. He was a dark, curly haired boy with large humorless brown eyes. He reached forward and quickly pushed out one of his pawns, making a clicking sound, then grasped a hand to each side of the table.

Your turn, he said, looking down at me.

I was petrified. With my hands trembling, I pushed forward a pawn of my own, not thinking about the game in front of me. He made another move, capitalizing on my error. In my fright, I looked around until I saw Bill, standing next to the strange boys. I looked back at the table, took a deep breath, and began to concentrate. Ten or twelve moves later, I checkmated him.

I hadn’t known they bet money on the game, until Bill told me about it several days later. One of the parents found out and Bill had to return the winnings. I never found out how much. After that we played for fun again, until the weather got better, the ground drier, and we started playing baseball again.

Something else took place around this time that I deeply regretted. My class at school was given a uniform test one morning that took three hours. A week later I was called to the principal’s office and asked if I would like to take another test.

What kind of test? I asked them.

An intelligence test, Holly. You scored very high on the first one and we would like to give you a second one, with your permission. Your mother knows about it already and gave her okay.

Sure, I said, not sensing that any calamity could be in store just for being smart. I entered another room where I was introduced to a Doctor Bowles, a psychologist who was administering the test. Then I was left alone with him, and after preliminaries, the test started.

It took over four hours, divided by my lunch break in the cafeteria. Most of it was oral, and all of the test was scored by Doctor Bowles after I completed each section. I was asked questions like, What is the first book of the Bible? "Who wrote, Doctor Faust? Math questions and vocabulary questions and geography questions. What is the capitol of Brazil? History questions. When was the battle of Gettysburg fought? Questions for general knowledge. Name the eight planets, starting with the farthest from our earth. "Who wrote Little Women?" Questions, questions, questions. Finally, almost at the end of the school day, I was finished.

Well, Doctor Bowles began, You scored extremely high, Holly. Would you be willing to take special classes one or two days a week? These would be advanced classes and would open new doors for you.

I guess, I said with a shrug, and we left it at that. I didn’t think I was all that smart. My father had bought a leather-bound collection of classics when he first purchased our house. My mother never opened any of them and placed them against one wall of the living room for decoration. My regular schoolwork was a breeze, and whenever I wasn’t playing with the Rooney’s, I was reading a leather bound classic. I had read all of Dickens, Thoreau, Emerson’s Essays, even Shakespeare, simply for enjoyment. Now I was being treated like a genius.

If my mother hadn’t been told, everything would have remained okay. Two days a week, I left school at lunchtime and was driven to a high school to take special classes in English and Math. But my mother wouldn’t leave it at that. She began acting especially nice to me, cooking special dishes, buying me clothes, the things that she would have liked at my age. I tolerated her niceness, not suspecting what she had in store for me. Not even when I saw a realtor visit our house, walking from room to room, doing an appraisal, did I suspect it.

She told me one day that she and I were going to take an exciting vacation together for two weeks. Then she showed me a brochure of a dude ranch in Arizona.

You’ll love horses, Holly, once you learn to ride.

"Can you ride?" I asked her, finding it impossible to imagine my mother near a horse. The smell alone would have kept her away from any creature in the animal kingdom.

When I was young, she replied. But this is mainly for you, Holly. I don’t want you to miss out.

So, I accepted my fate, not challenging her there and then like I should have. We took a flight from Newark Airport to Tucson, Arizona, and hired a station wagon to drive us fifty miles south to the dude ranch. We entered a complex of bungalow houses and a larger motel with an office. There was also a swimming pool and a large barn with stables. The surrounding land was rocky, but flat, studded with cactus and wild flowers, and in the distance, you could see a mountain range with scrub pine. I spent the next two weeks learning to ride and care for horses, which I thoroughly enjoyed. All of this time my mother lounged around the pool gossiping with the other grown-ups. I was allowed to go on an overnight camp-out with ten other riders, four adults and six young people ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen. We built a big fire at night and told stories, all of it was kind of fun. Then we returned to the dude ranch where my mother had all our things packed, impatiently waiting to go back to her fashion friends.

We took a plane back to LaGuardia, instead of Newark. A large Cadillac limousine awaited us with a heavy set, middle-aged driver dressed in a dark suit and cap who kept a solemn expression, only saying yes Ma’am and no Ma’am. He took our two suitcases and led us outside where we seated ourselves in the back seat of the sprawling black limo. I didn’t suspect anything until we took a turn off the highway onto another highway with a sign reading Connecticut above it.

Why are we going this way? I asked. I saw the stolid face of the limo driver make eye contact with my mother in the back seat, but neither of them said a word. About a half-hour later we entered the state of Connecticut, which turned my inquisitiveness to upset.

Where are we going? I demanded.

We have a surprise for you, Holly, said my mother with forced cheeriness. I began to sweat and breath heavily, searching the passing landscape for something recognizable. The land became less citified and more rural. We passed some new suburban developments, and then some farmland, and turned onto a smaller, older highway. After another forty-five minutes, we turned off into a small village with a post office, a grocery store, and a gas station. We sped up a gravel road, drove for another five minutes past farmland on one side and woods on the other, then made a left onto a cinder driveway with fence posts on both sides. At the end of this driveway, we stopped at a large red farmhouse that had a small barn across from it.

What are we doing? Where are we? I asked in feverish upset.

Come on, Holly, coaxed my mother.

She got out of the limo and the driver got out, retrieving our suitcases from the trunk. I stayed in the limo, looking out the window and watching the two of them walk up a paved pathway to the front door. The driver set the things down, took a tip from my mother, and walked back to the limo.

Where is this? I asked the driver, almost in tears.

I think you’d better follow your mother, Miss. Unless you want to go to Hartford, Connecticut, which is where I’m going.

I got out of the limo and slammed the door. I saw a maid come out of the house and help my mother lift the suitcases inside, but I still didn’t follow her. I watched the limo back out of the cinder driveway and pull away on the lonely road in front, raising a cloud of dust. Looking around me, I spied the end of my mother’s car sticking out of the barn. I ran to the barn where the parked car sat on one side and a horse that I could only partially see the flanks of through a doorway, taking up the other with a wall separating them. I opened the car door and jumped in. I looked for a key, and not finding one, opened the glove compartment and grabbed a map of New Jersey and spread it out across the steering wheel. In vain I searched for Pinewoods, New Jersey, and with my eyes filling with tears, I pounded on the steering wheel with my small fists.

Oh, damn! Oh, hell! Oh, damn it! I screamed through my sobs.

The following months were as dismal a time as I can remember. Once again, I was completely alone and friendless. School started and every morning a yellow nine-seater van stopped at the gate to our property to pick me up and later that afternoon, dropped me off at the same spot. The high school was large, new, and sprawling, and filled with wealthy kids from western Connecticut. I was small and quiet and no one noticed me. I took special classes, but they were only part of my new schedule at the high school and didn’t require further busing. So, my life fell into a monotonous routine, from our empty, big farmhouse to school and back again. My mother was now beginning a fashion business with some of her friends who drove out to visit her from New York. I heard them talking in the large living room at the far end of the house as I sat bent over a reading lamp with Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Calculus, both of which bored me.

One day I left my books and wandered out to the barn. I had been out there before on a regular basis to feed and brush the old piebald, but I decided this day to see if I could ride her. I spoke to her softly, patting her withers and her neck.

I need your help, I told her. Then I thought of a name for her.

I need your help, Miss Havisham, naming her after the Dickens’ character in Great Expectations, my favorite novel. Come on, Miss Havisham. Using a wooden box to stand on, I put an old bridle on her and lifted myself up onto her bare back, and turned her around slowly and made my way out of the barn. There was a small paddock and I led her in circles, clicking my tongue and patting her neck, and sweet-talking her.

That’s it, Miss Havisham, That’s it, old gal.

I had been feeding and brushing her, but now my interest was redoubled. As old as she was, swaybacked and gray-haired in places, she could still walk at a steady pace, and if I lifted the bridle, trot ever so slowly. I saw a chance for myself and a chance for Miss Havisham.

I began to walk her along the chain-linked fence that bordered our property, perhaps about one third of a mile. I did this every day when I got home from school, and afterwards fed and brushed her with a currycomb. The winter came, and unless there was heavy snow, I did the same. Then when the spring thaw arrived, I tried something different. One Saturday morning I rode her down our cinder driveway, out the gate, and along the side of that empty, godforsaken country road. In ten minutes, at Miss Havisham’s slow trot, I reached the four corners of the little village named Platville, with its grocery store, post office, and gas station, all older wood structures with white clapboard facades. The grocery store even had a rail, to tie Miss Havisham’s bridle on.

I bought some candy in the grocery store, and when I came out, was greeted with the sudden appearance of a very old, rusty motorcycle, and a young man steering it up to the gas pump, who couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. The motorcycle came to a sputtering, rattling stop, and appeared to barely hold itself together. I had only seen motorcycles a few times in my life, and they were fascinating machines, with brightly polished engines which were as shiny as silverware. It had never occurred to me that a motorcycle could be rusty.

The rider seemed to be out of sync himself. His worn jeans and flannel shirt, as well as his sneakers were covered with dried flecks of paint. His red hair, almost orange in color, was tousled and stuck out over his ears, and his mouth and eyes were screwed up in a squint as he got off the motorcycle and began inspecting and tinkering with its engine. He noticed me out of the corner of his eye and suddenly asked me, as if we knew each other well:

Do you have a needle point pliers with you?

No, I haven’t, I replied, not mounting Miss Havisham right away, but walking over to him.

What’s wrong with your motorcycle? I asked him.

It’s this dat burn cylinder head. It must be, he