Wintertide: A Novel (3 page)

Seth and I were always somewhat in
awe of Eddie. He started school late and was held back a year in high school. He
was two years older than us. At that age, the span between sixteen and eighteen
seemed tremendous. Technically, he was an adult while we remained children. As
it turned out, the opposite was true.

You didn't become friends with
Eddie. Either he let you be around him or he didn't, and being around him
increased your status considerably. He had never even talked to Seth or me before
that afternoon in the parking lot behind the high school. When you're sixteen,
you have to fit into some sort of category, have a specific label. But neither Seth
nor I did. We were somewhere in the middle, just sort of there.

One afternoon before study hall, Seth
pulled me aside and flashed a red and white pack of Marlboros that were hidden
in his shirt pocket. He’d stolen them from his dad. Before that day, I had
never skipped a class or smoked a cigarette. But I was angry at my father about
something, and I was in the mood to be rebellious.

We snuck out back to the parking
lot and ducked into a shadowed corner. It was early spring, and the gravel was
wet with melting snow. We huddled together conspiratorially, throwing furtive
glances at each other. Seth pulled a cigarette out of the half empty pack and
stuck it between his lips. I started laughing. He looked too ridiculous. He
grimaced at me. Then he gave me one. He took out a book of matches with a
familiar green and black convenience store logo. Carefully, he lit first his
and then mine. The burning ends crackled and glowed orange. We glanced at one
another and each took a long, deep drag. Within moments we were bent over
coughing, attempting to stifle the noise with cupped hands over our mouths. My
eyes were watering, and my throat burned. As our hacking began to abate,
someone said something from behind us. "First time, huh?” We wheeled
around, and there was Eddie McKenna, with his long dark hair, red flannel
shirt, ripped jeans, and scuffed black combat boots. He wore a knowing smirk as
he looked us over, the burning cigarettes in our hands.

He walked over to me. I stood there
silently, wiping at my eyes with my sleeve. He took the cigarette from my hand,
put it to his own lips and inhaled deeply. I was mute as he stood there
confidently. A moment later he smoothly exhaled the white smoke through his
nostrils. "See, you've got to breathe it in slowly," he said, his
brown eyes peering at me with amusement through thick dark lashes. He handed it
back and motioned for me to try again. I brought it up to my lips and inhaled a
lesser amount of smoke this time. I only coughed a little, but no white clouds
emerged from my nose, despite my lame attempts.

Eddie laughed. He looked over at Seth.
"Hey, aren't you in my history class?"

"Yeah, third period," Seth
confirmed.

The next day before study hall, Seth
told me that Eddie spoke to him in history and wanted us to meet him in the
parking lot out back again. We stood out there in the cool spring sunshine and
smoked a pack together that Eddie had provided, Seth and I eventually becoming
more adept at it. "A couple of real Marlboro men," Eddie said
jokingly, maybe condescendingly.

Eddie started stopping in the
hallway between classes to say hello to me. A sudden rush of pride swept
through me as the other kids noticed that I was on speaking terms with him. Walking
down the hall with him meant instant celebrity. People who had never talked to
me before were suddenly saying, "Hey, Dan. How's it going?"

We went from a twosome to a
threesome. Eddie knew we idolized him, and I think it made him feel important. The
fact that we both had stable homes and parents who seemed interested in our
lives also intrigued him at first.

He seemed dangerous. A quality that
I certainly did not possess. If my life was pale and dull, Eddie's was
glaringly bright and alive with drama. To say I was naive would be a gross
understatement. Eddie's life was far from something to be envied. When I think
back, I realize that it wasn't his life that I wanted, only the excitement I
imagined it held. My own parents, my house, my town seemed as boring as could
be. Eddie was the only thing that ever piqued my interest at all. Those first
few months, having him like me was the most important thing in the world. It
took a while before I realized that
I
didn't like him.

Dad, looking uncomfortable dressed
in old wool trousers, a white shirt, and a red tie, was just heading out the
door as I came into the kitchen the next morning. He spotted me from the
doorway and seemed somewhat annoyed, as though he had been trying to make a
clean getaway before anyone awoke. "Morning, Daniel," he said with
his hand on the doorknob. "Did you sleep all right in your old bed?"

"Like a baby," I lied
noticing his impatience to leave. Actually, I had tossed and turned all night,
the smell of mothballs causing my nostrils to twitch.

He glanced out at his truck and
then back at me. "Well, what are you planning on doing today?"

I took a new package of bread out
of the refrigerator as I answered. The cool air seeped out over my bare ankles
and feet. "I'm going to be working all day."

"Oh that's right. You're
working for a professor over your vacation. Your mother told me, but I must
have forgotten."

I put two pieces of bread in the
toaster oven. "Is she still asleep?" I asked surprised. My mother was
always up puttering around the house long before I awoke for the day.

"Your mother's not as young as
she used to be. But then who is?” He smiled. "Well, I'm off. You have a
nice day now. Don't work too hard."

 I would have said the same to him,
but I didn't think it was necessary. I settled for "bye" and
"you have a good day, too."

He closed the door and walked out
to his truck. I watched the white cloud that trailed after him from the exhaust
pipe as he disappeared down the road.

I used to imagine that there had
been some ghastly mix up at the hospital, like the ones you sometimes read
about in the newspaper, and I had been given to the wrong parents. Some boring
young boy with mousy hair and dull blue eyes was living somewhere in Boston
with the fortune five hundred businessman and the dazzling socialite hostess
that were my real parents. All the time, this wealthy man and woman wondered
why their son wanted to do nothing but stay in his room all day eating TV
dinners and collecting crystal figurines.

My father was always a mystery to
me. But I believe that I seemed much more mysterious to him. As he’d told me
several times, he was never much of a student. He didn't have any obvious
ambitions. Leaving South Seaport was always my goal. To me, achieving good
grades and going to college was the only way to get out. In a small town like
mine, it didn't take a great amount of effort to rank in the top ten of your
class. I sometimes wondered if South Seaport was home to a secret nuclear waste
dump. That would certainly explain a lot, like why most of the kids in my class
thought getting a degree had something to do with becoming a weatherman. I was
ranked number two in my class. My father couldn't have been more surprised by
that fact. He claimed that he was proud of me, but I believe he was actually
shocked. He assumed that since he had never amounted to very much, neither
would I. He treated me like an oddity, the bearded lady at the circus, not
quite knowing what to say, commenting on how proper my English had become. I
had purposely lost my Boston accent. It seemed that the more I spoke, the less
he did. So we both stopped speaking.    

The bread popped out of the rusty
metal toaster. I glanced down at my watch. It was nearly eight. I never knew
Mom to sleep so late. She had left the car keys on the kitchen table for me,
and I saw no need to wake her. I ate my warm toast, showered and dressed
quickly, and stepped outside into the brisk morning air.  

Professor Sheffield's house sat
atop a hill at the end of a treacherously narrow roadway. It took several
passes to even find the correct street, and now I was a good fifteen minutes
late. I parked the Buick in the driveway of the quaint blue house, next to an
expensive Mercedes. This house was typical of many other upper middle-class
models in the area, roomy, but not ostentatious, with simple landscaping. At
the front door, I rang the bell and waited. I rang it again, hearing the chimes
echoing within...and I waited...and waited.

I knocked loudly on the wooden door
as I checked my watch. Surely he hadn't left because I was a few minutes late. I
began to wonder if I had the correct house. I walked back to the car and
glanced at the small white paper resting on the dashboard upon which I had
scribbled the address, 832 Hillside Terrace. I followed the cement walkway back
to the door. The correct numbers were fastened to the wooden exterior in brass.
I rang the bell again.

Immediately, I heard footsteps
approaching this time. The door opened wide, and there stood Professor
Sheffield. Gone was the familiar tweed jacket and in its place he wore a navy
wool sweater with khakis.

“Hello, Mr. Hiller,” he greeted me
warmly. "Did you find the house okay?”

“Sure,” I smiled, feeling no need
to reveal my inability to follow directions.

He ushered me inside, and I
curiously looked around. The house had high ceilings and hardwood floors with
lots of light wood and flower patterned furniture. I followed him into the airy
living room. There were three large cardboard boxes stacked in one corner. A
long desk piled with books and papers stood against the far wall next to a
large red brick fireplace. More books and notepads were scattered around the
room, resting on the couch as well as every other available chair and table. Several
ashtrays were filled with the familiar round red and white peppermints.

Professor Sheffield stood in the
middle of the room and glanced around in a circle as he rubbed his beard
thoughtfully. "Where to begin," he said.

Just to make conversation I asked
him why he hadn't answered the bell when I first rang it.

He glanced at me and seemed suddenly
worried. "I only heard it ring once. Are you saying you rang it more than
one time?"

"I think I rang it about three
or four times."

"Really? How strange? I have
been in here the entire morning. I should have heard it. Don't you think?"

"I suppose so," I
answered, amused at his reaction. Maybe he had a hearing problem he was
paranoid about.

"Mr. Hiller," he said
walking toward the entryway, "you stay here, and I'll go outside and ring
the bell. Come and open the door when you hear it.”

He walked outside and closed the
door behind him. The high pitched bell sounded a moment later. I opened the
door, and the professor's eyes widened when they saw me.

"Ah-huh. Now you heard it
chime right away, didn't you?"

I nodded that I had.

He came back inside, rubbing each
arm with the opposite hand to ward off the outdoor chill. "It seems to
work fine," he stated with a shrug walking back into the house.

I followed him quietly into the
living room.

"Well," he began, his
tone indicating that the doorbell issue was over, "I must say I was very
pleased when you called me last week. I do remember you from class. In fact, I
thought that your final paper was very creative."

I tried to recall what I had
written about. I knew that the twenty page paper was due only one day after two
grueling finals. Then I remembered. He’d showed us a picture of a homeless man.
Our assignment was to look at this picture of a man sitting on a city sidewalk,
disheveled and dressed in rags, and create an entire life for him which
culminated in his taking up residence in the streets. I hadn't actually put
much thought into it. I’d made the man a stockbroker who couldn't stand the
pressure any longer and disavowed all of his material wealth in order to live a
simpler life. Not very creative at all.

"Your comparison of our
society today to that of the ancient Romans was very nicely done," he
continued. "Your theory about the collapse of civilization as a whole, the
manner in which you juxtaposed it with the fall of the Roman empire, was
impressive to say the least."

I simply stood there and stared at
him. It definitely wasn't my paper he was recalling.

"I knew immediately that you
were the right person for the job."

I smiled and nodded hoping he
wouldn’t ask me any questions about this paper.

"Would you like some
tea?" he asked.

"Sure. If it's not any
trouble," I replied, because diverting his attention seemed wise.

"Oh, none at all. Sit down. I'll
just be a minute."

I looked around for an uncluttered
surface on which to sit. There was none. I neatly pushed some books and papers
aside and carefully lowered myself onto the end of the couch. I could hear
Professor Sheffield in the kitchen, clanking dishes together, opening and
closing drawers. I studied a picture hanging on the wall. It was a copy of that
painting by Seurat that they based a musical on called
Sunday In the Park
With George
. I couldn't remember the real name of the painting.

A moment later, he came back into
the room. He had only one teacup in his hand. He absently lifted some clutter
up off a cushioned chair and threw it to the floor. He sat down, taking a sip
from the only cup he’d brought. Suddenly, it didn't seem at all odd that he had
been sitting right in this room, yet he had not heard the doorbell.

"About the book you’ll be helping
me with," he began, "it's a study of the English language." The
professor leaned back in his chair. "I have spent years studying the
origins of languages, and I intend to map out exactly how every dialect of
English that exists today, in its current form, developed. Doesn't that sound
interesting?"