When We Were Young Read online

loneliness; always the loneliness as my constant companion.

  “Oh well, it is Christmas Eve, and I do have to take this money to my kids,” I spoke out loud, though I was alone in my bed in my one-bedroom place that I rented from Mr. Pennington, my old baseball coach. I was the legal owner of the four-bedroom house that I grew up in, but Gale Street held entirely too many memories for me to ever be comfortable there. Mitchell, my child with Sheila, lived there with his wife and four kids. I’d spent a couple of hours with him last night, a lot longer than I normally spent there. Today’s task list was to see Francis and her twins, and Frieda and her two kids.

  “It’s now or never,” I said, again speaking out loud. I chanced a glance at the window. The frosty outline confirmed that indeed it was cold outside. “For once the weatherman may be right. “Cold early morning, with clear skies and sunshine by noon. Highs expected to reach the mid-60s.”

  I took a deep breath, steeled myself, threw the covers back and swung out of bed. I moved quickly in order to avoid changing my mind, which was something I’d been wont to do ever since I was a youngster.

  “Brrr,” I chattered between clenched teeth. The cold, still air knifed through me, making my thermal underwear feel nonexistent, and my bare feet on the cold, naked wooden floor seemed to instantly turn to icicles.

  “Ranger!” I yelled. I knew beforehand that expecting to find my old, dog-bitten and well-used house slippers beside my bed, where I’d last stepped out of them, would be a waste of time. Ranger, my four-year-old miniature shepherd, had taken to using them as a pillow, hesitantly returning them only after being yelled at. But there was not much I could do about it, since he seemed to be the only creature from my past willing to put up with me these days.

  He chose that moment to trot into the bedroom, his head erect, back stiff, carrying one gray slipper; the right slipper, always the right slipper. I knew without even looking. He was proud of himself, as always. After dropping the slipper at my feet, he rubbed up against my leg, looked up at me, and wagged his tail expectantly, apparently unconcerned that the floor was ice cold and my feet were freezing.

  “The other shoe, now, Ranger!” I shouted and clapped my hands to emphasize my point.

  He visited a long-suffering, put-upon expression toward me, hung his head, and slowly slunk out of the room, into and through the kitchen, and out to the service porch where he slept.

  I turned around and slid my right foot into the comfortable old slipper, which at first was colder than the floor. In short order my pet returned and dropped the left slipper unceremoniously at my feet, which I immediately laid claim to. Afterward, I walked out to the front door, opened it just a crack, and Ranger scampered out to do his morning business. In spite of the cold temperature, I left the door ajar so he’d be able to get back inside. The clock on my stove read 7:30.

  Next, I put on a pot of coffee and turned both the central heating and the oven on so I could thaw out the place, and my body. My heating bills were getting so high that I’d taken to using it only when absolutely necessary. It was the same with my air conditioning unit during the summer months. I did all right on the three checks that I received, but still needed to cut corners and save every penny that I could. I also liked to be in a position to help out the kids whenever they needed me.

  I had worked at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard as a coppersmith until June of 1997, when a careless crane operator dropped a load from the upper deck of a cargo ship. Lucky for me, the canister filled with metal rods bound for China only pinned my right leg to the deck. The doctors said that a foot more in either direction and I might’ve lost more than just the use of my lower leg. After accepting a hefty six-figure settlement, I was granted permanent disability and retired after 25 years with a full pension. With my small Social Security check added to that, I never had to touch the principal from the settlement and brought in a little under three grand a month. So, I lived frugally, simply, within my means.

  That also meant that when the lawyers settled the wrongful death suit with the water company, I wanted none of the $3.2 million that everyone thought the kids would end up with. But being the crooks that they are, the lawyers took more than four hundred thousand dollars, leaving the kids $2.8 million to split four ways; seven hundred thousand to my daughters Frieda and Francis, and my son Mitchell. Also included in the distribution would be Darlene, Sheila’s 25-year-old daughter with Benny Calhoun.

  “Aghh…ahh, Benny Calhoun,” I sighed. No, not now, it’s Christmas Eve and I’ve got a full day in front of me. No need to start off on a bad note.

  • 2 •

  At 9:05 a.m. I was walking up the driveway to the front house gate, with Ranger at my heels. I’d taken a hot bath, enjoyed a heavy, hearty breakfast, and gotten dressed. Then I went to my little cash stash. It wasn’t even a real safe, just a Hav-A-Tampa cigar box. After a few seconds’ hesitation, I counted out $4,200 to ensure that I had enough money to take care of the tasks I had slated.

  “Hey, Mr. Pennington!” I yelled out. “Hey Coach, I’m leaving. Ranger’s loose in the yard,” I added. He didn’t respond, nor did Mrs. Doris, his wife of some 50 years. Not that I really expected any answer, though I’m certain that they both heard me. After I closed the gate I stood stark still for a moment waiting, silently ticking off time in my head . . . 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 . . . okay, there he comes.

  After hearing his side entrance door slam, I eased away from the house and set my course for the 2900 block of Fashion Avenue to drop in on Francis, my youngest child.

  Of all my children, she looked the most like me. Her temperament, however, wasn’t anything like mine. She was…well, she was…. Francis’s demeanor and character were very difficult to describe or explain. She was so meek and so giving on the one hand, a real joy to be around. At other times, the child confounded the hell out of me. She had a mean, spiteful streak that sent her into blind rages. During both of her pregnancies, that latter aspect of her nature was most prominent. It was hell just being around her. I pitied her boyfriend Lamont because of how she treated him. It surprised me to no end that he endured all of her crap, not once, but twice, through the births of Bridget and Equetta. To top that off, after he graduated from Cal State Irvine, he married her and supported her through her final year at Cal State Dominguez Hills. And though she ran their home like a drill sergeant, they seemed to be happy and living a good life. Just goes to show that ya never know about such things.

  When I got to their three-bedroom, split-level, ranch-style house, I didn’t see her gray Suburban, and involuntarily heaved a sigh of relief. Not that I didn’t want to see her, because I really did. But it was Christmas Eve, the three-year anniversary of the tragedy. And after the dream I’d just had, I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to deal with my youngest daughter’s accusatory eyes, which so mirrored my own brown orbs.

  I sat with Lamont for a little more than an hour, mostly making small talk and hearing about his most recent promotion at Magnavox Electronics, and getting an update on Francis’s progress in the Executive Training Program at Lockheed Aircraft. All in all, it was a pleasant, though very short, visit.

  • 3 •

  After leaving $1,000 as my holiday gift to them, I left Francis’s house at 10:20, my next destination, 3319-D South Santa Fe, to visit Frieda, six-year-old Frank, and four-year-old Brenda. Frieda’s husband, Darrell, was in the Air Force and was currently deployed to Germany for special training on some new high-tech bomber. The difference in my two daughters ran far deeper than just the surface or their divergent appearances. Had Annette chosen to reproduce herself totally in looks, demeanor, and style, it all added up to Frieda…except where Annette could occasionally be passive, Frieda had a will of iron and a very persuasive way of getting her point across. She handled her sister and half brother, Mitchell, with a loving deftness that we all marveled at.

  In no way was her influence more readily apparent than when it came to Darlene Calhoun, Sheila’s daughter w
ith my lifelong enemy/friend/teammate, Benny. From day one, Frieda ridiculed the criticism from Mitchell and Francis, their dislikes, and torments toward the girl. In that vein, she was very much like her mother. Annette loved Darlene, and made certain that she was invited to and included in all of our family functions. She even stood up to Sheila’s hostility when it came to Darlene. Most people, Sheila included, wrote it off as Annette being simply glad that Sheila had a child with anybody other than me. Others claimed that she only wanted to have a relationship with Darlene to hurt and shame Sheila. I’m not a soothsayer, nor do I possess any magic looking glass, but I knew Annette Reed Paige well. Very well. Perhaps better than anyone else on Earth knew her. I could state unequivocally that her sentiments toward Darlene were genuine, from the heart, regardless of who the child’s parents were.

  At the same time, Annette never made any bones about it. She deeply resented Sheila’s and my long-term, bordering on animal attraction and magnetism toward one another. Especially after Annette and I were married and had children. Perhaps most ironic was the fact that she loved Sheila dearly. They were lifelong friends and Sheila’s daughter was simply that: