when tomorrow never comes - scribd submission chap2_a family portrait

7/31/2019 WHEN TOMORROW NEVER COMES - Scribd Submission Chap2_A Family Portrait

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When Tomorrow Never Comes

Chapter 2

Our Family Portrait.

I was raised in the heart and soul of Boston, within the middle ofa section called Charlestown. Our clapboard house stood on ElmStreet; a long and narrow way just a few blocks down from theMonument Square. Our particular setting was a simple, gray, woodstructure home with white-framed windows. The lamplights rose fromthe sidewalks and lit about the evening at six every night. The housebeside ours was of a darker gray tint. What always stuck out in mymind was the rather unusually large bay window that protruded soindecently from the main structure and the gated flower garden which

surrounded it.We lived on an incline that bent higher and further up for blocks

on end, past Tremont and Bunker Hill Street. The foliage of treessparsed about; the magnolias and lilacs in bloom always brought greatrebirth during the month of March. The dogwoods also were cutting outtheir white tusky blooms about the same time.

The residents here always parked their cars on the street in frontof their homes, being that so very little space was available to parkones car. Everyone scheduled their days in the winter months aboutforty-five minutes earlier due to the harsh weather; and the car

windows would need constant cleaning off from the ice and snow. Icould often hear my father scrapping the windshield of our car,chatting about with a neighbor of ours doing the same thing. Kind oflike the early morning water cooler discussions, except with ice and ascrapper instead.

Life was considered as normal for me as anyone I suppose. I wasthe oldest of four children, though we were born tightly together intime. I had been no more than eleven months older than the next inline, my sister Lorie. Soon thereafter, no more than a year later,Amanda came to be. Then four years after which the youngest, Adam,

was born. My parents always jokingly said they wanted their family andquickly; all in attempt to get the birthing process over with as soon asthey could.

I was the leader and the more curious of the brew. Everythingfound its way into my mouth. I had such a sensation to see, touch andfeel, then eat everything in my path. So much so, I nearly choked to

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death on a nickel when I was barely one. But for the sake andexpertise of my mother in reviving me, I would have been lost. I had anintrinsic fascination with pictures and books. My parents would oftenfind me silently in a sit in one corner. An assortment of bookssurrounded me, fully open and on display, and so I would go from book

to book searching out those things that would stimulate me the most.My mother always told me how quiet a child I was; rarely fussy,

even when I was teething and had colic as bad as I did; though mytraining to the full functional potty was a difficult chore for both myparents. It nearly took me into the age of three to finally master thatindividual feat. They said, fondly, that when I used the portable pottyand I took an attempt to do the number two as they put it, I gatheredmyself from my seat. I looked down horrified at the mess I made and Iwould not return again for some time. It seemed I preferred to sit inmy mess rather than look at it.

I was broad, blue-eyed, and tussled with silvery white hair. Irumbled about the room with a glib and a smile on my face and I neverappeared to be unhappy. I thought each thing was unique in its ownright and I held such a will to investigate and inspect all that wasaround me, sometimes to the point of being a nuisance. I did not like tobe carried or held, but wanted so much to go about my own way at myown pleasure, as soon as I took to walking.

Lorie was an adversely shy child in her own right, but she alwayswas curious from a distance. Caution kept her step in that distance andit seemed to always accompany her. She was prone to accidents from

the outset, so I suppose this being the reason for her continual,hesitant nature. She hardly ever reached for anything but waited for itto be brought to her, unless she knew it would bring no harm to her. Ifit didnt move in her direction, she never cared for it nor bothered toinspect it. Lorie doted over being held by her mother and she was quiteaffectionate to this. She enjoyed running, yet was never really verygood at it in the beginning. We seemed to find her face first intoeverything for a time. It was not uncommon to discover Loriebandaged, cut, or bruised about her face before the age of four.

When she smiled, her humorous gab filled up her face with that

expression. She always held her tongue fully out when she giggled; alaughter which repeated so rapidly in succession, you thought she hadbeen filled up with laughing gas. Her eyes sparkled brown and hidbehind her smile as her lips rolled upward and spread from ear to ear.Her black locks of hair hung straight down to her neck, and shepossessed such an insatiable habit to sucking and pulling her hair into

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her mouth that my mother had to put vinegar on the ends of her locksand braids to prevent it.

As Lorie grew older she was a primper with her clothes andmothers makeup. Whenever the opportunity arose she would sneakinto our parents bedroom, parade about, find eyelash, rouge, liner,

lipstick, blush, and whatever other materials were at her disposal; sitabout the mirror and paint herself so silly with lipstick running over halfher face, one would think she had more than her fair share of drinkbefore she set out to making herself appear as the artsy, modern,flashy, deco-type of woman she wanted to become.

On one occasion, while mother was involved with her gardenwork, Lorie made her way into mothers wardrobe, sat in front of thevanity for a good thirty minutes before being discovered, went about topaint her face all shades of blue, yellow, green, ruby red, and brown;fixate seven beads of necklace around her neck and shoulders; take

grandmothers ancient and tired hat from the lower regions of thecloset, and wear it tilted on her head, with a brim which was sorounded and worn, it drooped in front of her face; loop four separatepairs of earrings and place them on either ear, and even a ring or twoin her nose. And when all was said and done she took mothers highestheels, plopped them on her feet. And she came from that backbedroom, down the long corridor as if she were the most gracefulmodel ever to step on a runway.

It took mother an hour or two to clean Lorie clear off, yet littleLorie was not a small girl for mischief, just gregarious play.

Amanda was the most studious of the brew. Her golden hairalways strung simple and straight right into her face. Her eyes werepearl gray and her dimpled smile brought light even into the darkestrooms. She was a regular to pull up her dress in the front whenevershe got so excited. Even at the labored attempts my parents used tokeep her from doing so. Still it was such a spontaneous act on her part.She simply could not help herself. My mother had to lock the bathroomdoor from the inside when she gave Amanda a bath, for fear she woulddart out skin-naked into the other rooms and out the front door. Therewere times when mother turned her attention just for a moment and

out went Amanda full head of steam, through the front foyer and dooronto the cold pavement. We caught her one time circling the frontsidewalk with her hands fully stretched into the air while she soaked inthe evening sun rays on her giggling face.

Allen! my mother would direct feverishly, Pull her in before theneighbors see and call social services on us!

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And without pause my father would slide down the front chill-covered stairs and make a play to grab Amanda. How she would dartabout as if it were a game of tag.

You cant catch me! she would laugh, You cant catch me!All the while flopping down the sidewalk a few doors down,

looking back, and seeing her father half-dressed himself; he also wasslipping and stumbling from the curb to the street.

You better hope I dont, young lady! my father sternlyproposed. He bumped about the sidewalk and neighbors bushes.

Sorry Mrs. Goldstein! He pulled himself out of our neighborsprized bush once when he landed square to the base of it and tore itslimps to shreds. Mrs. Goldstein looked out her lower window, caught allthe commotion in her snoopy, prying ways, frowned out on my fatherwith such clear disdain, huffed a measure or two, then drummed herfingers continuously on the open window ceil while raising her

eyebrows; left, right, then left again.Amanda was never one to seem to take after either of our

parents, though my aunt on my mothers side had hair as golden asAmandas was. She always held a fascination with birds, the outdoors;deer in general, and of all things, roosters. Each month, at varioustimes, she would ask mother and father for a rooster; either onChristmas or her next birthday. Our father eventually gave into herdesire for one. He purchased it without my mothers consent, and inthe same stroke he acquired her fury for doing so.

What? mother shouted; dad asked her in the kitchen, Shes

been asking for one since she could speak rooster! rooster! But a rooster Allen? my mother held a knife out in a menacing

fashion. You could feel the heat rising in the kitchen from more on theirconversation than the stove itself.

That thing will cackle all hours of the morning; our neighborsAllen!

Just wait, he proposed, Youll see; all is well.Particularly myself, I was deathly frightened of the thing. It nearly

attacked my friends and me as we came and went from the house.That contagion rooster always stood guard as if our home was a

chicken coup, and we were the foxes who planned to carve out a mealfrom a chicken or two. He roused his feathers, stood erect in a soldierstance at the base of the front door; one leg pinned up underneath itsbelly feathers, and so ready to strike at the least movement he saw.

The neighborhood dogs took to badgering it incessantly, barkingwith such fierce anguish that the rooster would cackle, bob its head,

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I drew into a freeze at that moment. I had no clear thinking onwhat I must do. My eldest sister was stammering about while Amandawas sitting on the floor, staring aimlessly with a pacifier in her mouth.My father quickly placed us all in a room together, shut the door, askedme to make sure none of us left, but remain until he came to retrieve

us. My fear traumatized me there as I inched to the door. Quiet as Iwas, I placed my ear to the door and I heard the muffle sounds of myparents as they struggled through that crisis. My eyes grew to a bulgeas I turned about, checked on my sisters who were in play, sat in alonely chair by one corner, and so stared out into nothing. I waitedanxiously for the roof to fall in on us. Time had no meaning there, but itseemed to play out into eternity.

I waited; my sisters grew tired and Amanda cried when thepacifier popped from her mouth, though no one came. I made my bestattempts to console her through her own trauma, not knowing fully

what to do.There, Amanda, I held her as best as I could.Eventually the door pried open and my aunt came forward. She

told us that we would all be staying with her for a few days. Shegathered our things, what she could quickly shuffle about with, and sowe went to ride home with her. I remember that seclusion so vividly;the foreign manner of the cot I slept on; those misty windows from thecold; her german shepherds which never seemed to take any liking tous; the cold sandwiches she fed us for dinner and supper. It seemedsuch a long time before father came to retrieve us.

I could often see myself peeking through the one bedroomkeyhole. I looked about directly into the den. His expression was wornand tired, as if it had sat on his face for days, and near to a week thatwe had been apart. His eyes drooped and were despondent, near totears; grief lingered constantly in his face. My aunt swiftly came to hisaid and placed about him a hug.

Im so sorry Allen, she wept in my fathers shoulder, though myfathers glassy stare remained in his look. The moment stood still for awhile as neither moved from the spot. And I so feared, even at such anearly age, something terrible had happened to mother and my soon-to-

be-born sibling.As it were, father gathered us all into the station wagon for a

most silent ride home. He said very little as I watched him. He paid nomind to my sisters while they sat in the back seat. He took to glaringout onto that dark road ahead, never flinching nor seeming to blink, asthough it were a passageway onto nowhere. His soul apparently either

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escaped him or appeared to sleep inside. His usual, youthful, gay selfwas somehow in a pause. I looked about my window there, watchedthe stars above flicker in their light; it was an odd thing to see themtwist and turn casually as our car went from south to east. The moonseemed to pop out from its hiding place with a quarter stare, as so the

clouds drifted by. I was eager to see my mother.I found her softly tucked in her bed. I captured a smile from her

as soon as she saw me. Mother held her arms about for me to comeforward. I ran to her, felt her grip entrap me with the warmth and lovea mother gives to her child. The smell of her raven hair engulfed myface as it lay across her shoulders. I felt all was well at that moment.

My sisters soon followed and we all crawled into bed with mother.I felt her stroke out our hair, one by one, as we lay beside her. Amandaquickly took to sleep with that same pacifier dripping from her mouth.Lorie pretended to be reading her book until she, much the same, fell

asleep. I leaned up on my mother as I watched her contently show careto my sisters, then to me. The hours drew deep into night; my fatheraway again for an overnight shift at the firehouse.

Mother.. I asked, Are you alright?She leaned down on me, gave to me a comforting kiss, I am son.

The Lord takes care of you.The baby? I questioned.It will be here soon, she smiled down on me, The Lord will take

care of that too.Adam was born a month later; a strapping, hardy, bouncing boy

which took to delight both my parents on his arrival. Balloons, partyhats, cake, confetti all were strung about our home when my motherrose from the back seat of our familys station wagon the afternoon ofher return. The air was brisk and sprightly cold; the flowers yet tobloom; the timber trees still yet to cast out its green foliage for thespring. But I do believe, by the happy occasion which ensued, springhad already come. There was a full entourage to greet her and thebaby. We all were standing just outside on the porch, and freezing inthat bitter air while we were still heavily clad in thick coats. Though, asodd as it may have seemed then, I could not recall such a celebration

when either of my sisters first came home. I would eventually learn thethundering and consequential reasons for this.

It was my promise and my joy to finally have a brother in which Icould play with. No dolls, but sports; no tea parties, but army men; nomake-up dresses and slumber parties, but wrestling and bicycle races.Adam was to be the brother I endeared myself to have. And I was to be

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the older brother he would always admire on and say, hes the bestolder brother a guy could ever have!

I knew from nearly the beginning however, Adam was not to besuch a brother. He was a most quiet child, as I was but in a differentway. Absent of any social bearing, he rather enjoyed keeping to

himself but for the attention mother mainly provided his way. Thereseemed to be a wall there; a distance of travel between Adam and I.Others observed his behavior, and though he appeared a darling boywith a cute smile, a twinkle stare, and a loveable giggle, his skills forengaging others were never realized.

Even in sleep Adam would often hide behind the couch to bealone; or if placed in his bed at night, you could find him settled nicelyunderneath his bed. There indeed was something quite different aboutAdam. My mother encouraged him to garner friends and to attendgatherings from church and school. But he took a better liking to

wandering out in his mind to a place he would neither speak of, nortell. It seemed to be such a mystery; in particular when we had suppertogether. Often solemn and somewhat aloof, he could not bring himselfto show interest in the goings on of the other family members. Andwhen asked of his day, he said the least that he could, to skirt out ofbeing the center of any attention.

Now mind you, Adam was extraordinarily gifted in many respects.From the very early stages of his life, he would initially sketch outimages roughly so, then quickly progress to depth, colors, measures ofdimension, then at last adding spirit to the watercolors, sketches, and

eventually full portrait and drawings he would characterize. Coloredpencils and empty blank pages were more to his liking than picturebooks and childrens stories. He was found stirring often in his room;alone, by the dim light of a desk lamp, and even a candle or two;quietly, almost religiously poking along on his configurations. His giftfor concentration and careful study to sights were a marvel to me. Iwished I had such the gift as he possessed. It was as if God had takenthe pricking of his own finger and touched Adam with it.

But most rare than this, Adam had the great ability to write. Hestudied the finest masters of word and literature. He began around the

age of twelve or so. Dickens, Shakespeare, Twain, Faust, Homer, Poe,Whitman, Lord Byron, and Austen were some of his favorites. I knewwhere to find him during the school hours when he had available time;down in the dungeon, sitting alone in the corner of the library, as heread contently away at a pound-thick novel or gazing through a DiVinci or Rembrandt collection of paintings.

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It seemed vastly odd at how intelligent Adam seemed to be inthese two arts; nearly mastering the unmasterful methods of itsimagination. He did quite horribly in school; almost to the point offailing on every level. I made my best efforts to be a good brother tohim throughout our growing years and I am sure he appreciated this in

his own aloof and distant ways.Stop, I remember him saying once to me, Sit still.He looked at me as we sat out on a bench during a spring day.

There, he proceeded to pull out his sketch book, eye me in a deep-thinking grimace, continue to eye me further, step his mind into hissketch and lose me in the process.

No, no Adam, I refuted, Youre not sketching me.Yes I am, he was assured.I said no, Adam, I was not one to enjoy my picture taken, let

alone to have myself under the pen of an artist; even if he were my

own brother.Ive already started he went quickly to work, eyeing me

through his right eye, and charting the sketch with his left.But why Adam, I wondered.Because, his jaws locked, there is a thought in your look;

something reflective in your expression. Your look has a story to tellright nownow hold please.

I said nothing further; Adam was more determined than anyone Iknew and he had the talent to back it up.

Done, he proclaimed twenty minutes later. He spun the pad

around. My eyes locked on it as my heart stopped. I had never knownthe perception of his ability till then. Not only to capture myappearance in such a real life form as he did, but to also snag the verycore of what I was thinking when he drew me. As if my soul sat in theshadow of his drawing and he conveniently painted it for me.

My father was a long-term and highly-decorated fireman; nearly alegend amongst his peers within Bostons inner city. Station 112 waswhere he began his tenure as a fireman and that is where he wouldstay his entire career. It was something his blood was built from; apassion; an undying submission to; a part of his culture and entire

character. There were times when I would feel the faint tingle of a kisson my cheek around four in the morning when either he was going onduty or coming off. He carried his dedication like armor; his dutyaround like a badge of honor. He believed credit was earned and notfreely given. That to walk into a firehouse, become assembled into agroup of individuals whose design and purpose was to help others and

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Next was Hank two-time Hinkle. Why two-time you may ask?He always repeated himself. But he could make the best waffles inCharlestown, being a marketable chef in his former life, and sodeciding he would try being a fireman in his second. His salt andpepper hair, slicked straight back, stood out with me; along with his

constant, habitual nature of primping in the mirror when he could gethalf the chance.

Then there was Captain Buck Wilson; the eldest of the groupand the one who held onto an old mans wisdom, worldly travel, andthe acute ability to tell a great tale. He always found the best ineverything and he drew on his vast ability to spin a thought-provokingyarn. A yarn that was pulled from the reserve of experiences he hadduring his life. I felt him to be more of a grandfather figure to me thananything.

Joey lippers Habershack was another; lippers because of all the

girlfriends he had calling the firehouse. A dead on look-a-like of Elvis;even sang as well. Lamar caps Singleton forever had a hat on hishead due to the flaming red hair he was born with; which he preferredto hide as much as possible until he went to dyeing it a silver tint. Hisbody-tattooed freckles were a different story, for there was not a placeon his body he did not have a freckle bulging from. Kelly baby Fosterworked the small and cramped office just inside the main corridorleading to the restrooms. She drew the most attention with her goldenblonde hair, dimple smile, city-girl approach, and her classic dressstyle. Kelly always exuded confidence and knew how to keep all the

guys at the fire station in place; including me.There were nearly thirty men and two women working at fire

station 112, with two full-sized fire trucks in active duty around theclock. And of course, not to be the least, was Skip, the black-spottedDalmatian the entire fire station adopted.

I have been told Dalmatians are not very akin to children. Butwhenever I walked into that firehouse he would gravitate to me, and Ito him. It was an instant and long-lasting friendship. I would be sittingin the eatery and I could hear the shuffle sound of his food bowl. A fewmoments later, after turning around, out crept that bowl around the

corner and he just behind it; all the while he was pushing it by hisnose. Once I saw him I smiled. He would bring himself to a full stance,drop his lower chin, flip out his tongue, and wag his tail so violentlythat he would nearly flop his Behind to the cement floor. There wasnever a doubt when Skip was hungry.

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This was my fathers home away from home. I could see why hefelt such the attraction to it. There were times he would cast my tinybody into the back of the fire truck like a father placing his son in aswing set. I felt the overgrown firemans hardhat droop down below myeyes. And no matter how hard I pushed it upwards, it would drop down

again until I settled my hand to hold it back. This always brought arustic laugh from my father.

That heavy, overbearing, twice-as-large-as-me firemans jacketwas soon flung over my shoulders. I felt the axe in my hand that Inearly dropped the head of it to the hard floor below. They made aclank-tee-clank sound when I walked in those buckled boots of his.Before long I could hear the flash bulbs going off and my father at theother end of the camera as he took a large array of pictures to show tofamily and friends later on.

We would often find ourselves watching the sunset dip between

the two arched and tall buildings behind the fire station there; lawnseats all stretched out as some of the men took to washing andcleaning up the fire trucks. Skip would play in the soapy water, make adash between the fire hoses, lick up the excess flood running down thewide driveway, and then come to a sit by my lawn chair and take aquick nap.

I believe father wanted me to someday walk in his shoes. Tobecome a fireman like him; to find triumph in tragedy; to buildfriendships that were life-long and beyond any measure, and live in theworld he had become accustomed to. He wanted for me to have the

same joys he held so to himself. This was his dream and I was glad toexperience this time with him.

As for my mother, she was a rather articulate woman. She held ateaching degree from Agnes Scott College in Georgia. Her father was aprominent businessman in the local town she grew up in, and at onetime, stood against the president of the United States in disfavor on hispolicies about labor issues. It was not a popular stance but he stood forit, and so remained with his convictions throughout. This very trait, thetrait for duty and diligence, was the very backbone to my mothersown personality. She never wavered; not once in her ardent belief

system.She was affectionately referred to as Annie throughout her life,

even though her name was Lauren. I never knew the purpose for thisbut it always seemed to fit her so well when that name sounded out.

There was love behind it when she was addressed this way; and suchdeserving love at this.

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Son? Do two things todayReady? GoodGive joy to others,and always show yourself to be humble

I knew what she meant by it.

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when tomorrow never comes - scribd submission chap2_a family portrait

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