Gary Glauber
A Hard Place
You ask about the afterlife? The stone-cold reality is just that: I've returned to this earthly plane as soul resident of a large rock. Native Americans contend rocks have souls; how my soul got here is the mystery.
I now reside within the huge gray rock that adorns what previously was my suburban front yard. The builder moved it to break the dull expanse of landscape. It's a nice-looking rock, if such a thing can be said. And better than being a pebble in the gravel driveway. I'm sizeable. Besides, I get a good look at things.
Today I'm silent spectator to an impromptu ballgame. It's a family gathering, something relatively rare back when I was around. I suppose I was cold and hard and immovable even then. Not that this is an easy transition. The kids possess a spirit of fun: laughing, running and playing. I'd cry out if I could, try to express how I thrill to their antics, how I wish to be a part of them. But rocks have no verbal capacity, even in the afterlife.
There's Sofia pitching, the middle child. She alone used to understand my being too busy to help with homework or attend after-school activities. The tallest in her class, she was quiet and awkward then, “daddy’s little string-bean.” Now the gawky mannerisms are gone. Instead I see comfort and grace with the body she's grown into. She'll be breaking hearts soon, if she hasn't already. Her long brown hair flies free in the wind as she lobs the tennis ball to her brother.
Young Ben, our "special" child, stands a little too stiffly with the aluminum bat in his hands. He sticks out his tongue as he eagerly swings at every pitch. I remember all those teacher reports of how he disrupted class and couldn't sit still. Rita and I wondered whether he might have ADD. No, we decided, and we wouldn't hear of any drug treatments. We maintained he was normal, merely rambunctious, an energetic kid. They suggested private school might offer more personal attention. We didn't have money for that, and Ben hung in, often at the expense of his own embarrassment.
I watch him, the sweetest expression of concentration on that freckled face. He doesn't keep his back foot planted, as I used to constantly instruct. Still, he's having fun. He hits a high pop-up that is fielded by Hallie, our oldest.
What she is doing here is anybody's guess. Ms. Teen Popularity roving the yard like some Willie Mays in sunglasses. I guess her date of the day hasn't arrived yet. Though she has my nose, she's beautiful, and is almost the picture of her Mom at that same age. I know she's just as popular. She makes an easy one-handed grab of it, a natural athlete. Once she found boys though, her interest in sports waned.
Behind the makeshift plate is where the problem lies. Or more accurately, crouches. He's there catching what Ben misses. His name is Peter, or so I've heard him called. He's the latest and longest lasting of many that have dated my widow, Rita. I haven't liked any of them, and I certainly don't like him. He's younger than Rita, drives a red pickup and is a muscular outdoorsy kind of guy. I'm rock-hard too now, but not in a way my wife could appreciate. Not like Mr. Hunk.
He's good-looking and knows it. Yet he preens in the car mirror before coming ‘round to ring the doorbell. I see a lot from the yard. Makes me wish I could choose my own replacement.
Here comes Rita, taking a break from whatever's keeping her inside. She looks at this game, her smile just exuding pride. They're a swell trio. Capture the scene and you've got a Norman Rockwell painting -- "Sunday in the Yard" or something.
Rita wears her hair short, a new look. The years are kind; she looks better than ever. I miss her. Peter jumps up and runs over like the pup that he is. He hugs her close with big beefy arms. I've noticed lately he's been spending nights. This shouldn't bother me, but it does.
He gets along well with her, and the girls have a real fondness for him too. The lone holdout is Ben, who, as Peter kisses his mom, turns around and gestures as if to gag himself. That's my boy. He dislikes this affection. His loyalty is heartwarming, though perhaps it's more a function of his age.
Ben and I were never fully at ease together. I wanted him to be everything I wasn't as a boy. He wanted to be himself. The worst was every time I asked for a hug. I’d bend down, arms extended...he’d walk away. I came to realize Ben just wasn't the hugging kind.
"C'mon Peter," Sofia shouts, itching to get back to the task at hand.
He returns to his stance behind "home," though Ben and Hallie have exchanged places. Hallie waves the bat around, taunting her sister to throw it in. “Show us what you’ve got,” she says.
Sofia is serious. She wants to strike out her older, prettier sister. No more underhand tosses. Ben is also eager to prove himself, to show everyone he can catch the ball. He jumps around expectantly, closer to where I am, pounding his mitt with his fist.
The first pitch sizzles by Hallie, who decides to watch it. “Strike,” Peter calls, getting the ball back to Sofia. She smiles just a little, winds up and throws again. This time Hallie swings and catches a piece of it. The ball caroms foul off the driveway's Belgian block edging.
“That’s strike two,” Sofia reminds her. She wants this strikeout badly. “Ready?”
Hallie nods and waits.
Sofia throws all of herself into the next pitch. It's hard, fast, and high, but Hallie is a natural. She gets the bat around. She’s gotten under it; the ball explodes off her bat.
Ben starts running as soon as the ball is hit, knowing he'll need to cover some ground to catch it. Luckily, it is hit high and not terribly far. He backpedals a few steps when his ankle catches in some hidden hole in the lawn. One second he is upright, the next he is airborne, reeling toward me.
It is a parent's nightmare, made worse by my odd predicament. We all watch in horror as he careens headfirst into my hard surface, then tumbles back onto the grass. He lies there, still. Never have I felt so helpless.
To his credit, Peter is first on the scene, running swiftly. Ben is bleeding badly from the gash on his forehead, and Peter does what he can to staunch the flow with his T-shirt. I can't see if he is conscious. Peter grabs Ben up in his arms, and Rita comes over, to assess the situation and act decisively. She always was great in an emergency. She instructs Peter to take Ben and the girls to her car, while she runs to get the keys. The two girls follow Peter quietly, unsure what to do. It’s as if the air's gone out of the day.
As I hear the mocking caws of crows atop the neighbor’s maple, I think of how I love Ben, how much I love the whole family, how things take their own course regardless. In life and beyond it, I hurt Ben inadvertently, inexplicably.
Rita races out the driveway to the nearest emergency room.
Why him? Why this? I reflect on his fall and my helplessness.
I pray and wait and curse the crows. The sun falls slowly in the sky as this night’s moonless shadow prevails. An eternity later, familiar taillights flash red up the dark driveway. Never has the sound of tires crunching gravel been so welcome. The car stops, the back doors open and I see Ben get out by himself.
A big bandage covers his gash, with stitches beneath it, I'm sure. The girls gather ‘round him. He licks the remains of his ice cream cone, enjoying his hero status. I see Peter emerge from the passenger side.
He bends down to young Ben, arms extended. Good luck to you; I’ve been there, done that. Only I see Ben turn, wipe his mouth on his sleeve, and run into Peter's arms. He grabs him up and twirls him ‘round. There is the hug that eluded me -- right before me, yet beyond me.
I’m sad to learn this family is no longer mine; still, I love them, wish them well. My absence is not only confirmed, it is filled with a presence that negates me. It hurts, but I see it -- I’m just part of the landscape now.
©2004 by Gary Glauber
