Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (17 page)

Neil shook his head quickly. “We won’t! We won’t! If you don’t like swimming, that’s OK, too. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

The young boy continued to cower, his face tight with fear. Sara bent down beside him and took both of his hands. “Listen to me, Sam. We’re glad that you’re here. It’s a pleasure to have you with us. We have two sons upstairs. They’re eager to meet you. We want you to feel at home.”

He looked at her defiantly. “My dad beats me at home. Are you going to beat me, too?”

Sara saw through the manipulation and didn’t react. She already understood him better than anyone in the world. “No Sam,” she said softly, “we’re not going to beat you and you know that. That’s not the way this thing works.”

She took his hand and he pulled back again, but she held to him firmly as she led him up the stairs.

Later that night, Sara and Neil stood by the kitchen sink and talked in quiet voices. “He’s a cute kid,” Neil said as he sipped a cup of tea.

Sara merely nodded as she stared out the window, seeing her reflection in the darkness outside. “What did Gene say when he called you?” she asked. Her voice and eyes were far away, absorbed in her thoughts.

Neil grunted. “Not much. Said he needed our help for a day or two. Said the other family was having problems. It didn’t feel right to them, I think was how he put it.”

Sara listened intently. “Isn’t that strange.” She was quiet for a moment.

“Sam didn’t give them problems?” she then asked.

Brighton shook his head. Sara bit her lower lip. “What do you think it means?”

Brighton hunched his shoulders. Truth was, he didn’t think it meant anything, at least not yet.

But Sara saw it differently, that was clear from her face. “He’s supposed to be here,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Brighton sucked a quiet breath. He had heard those very words before. Yet he hadn’t told Sara what Gene had said.

“I feel it,” she continued. “There’s something going on. This is a pivotal event. It will change all our lives and I’m not prepared, but I’m as certain of this as I have been of anything in my life. Samuel was sent here. We have to try and help him. I know that in my heart.”

Neil stared at her a long moment. “Are you certain?” he whispered.

Sara nodded, her eyes clear, her face intent with conviction. “I know it,” she told him. “And you will know it too. Until then, you’ve got to trust me. We
have
to make this work.”

Brighton stared at his mug, slowly shaking his head.

* * *

It wasn’t easy. A kid, even a good kid like Sam, couldn’t have been raised the way that he was and not carry a boatload of baggage on his back. There were long hours in counseling, long hours at school, long hours in the bedroom listening to Sam cry in his sleep along with thousands of dollars in court costs and untold other bills. There was heartbreak, frustration and occasional hate-filled accusations from out of left field. The progress came slowly, but it came, with milestones of progress achieved along the way. No more crying at night. No more tantrums of anger. Better health, better grades, more friends at school. More affection, more laughter, more smiles.

Time proved there were two turning points in Sam’s life.

The first came when he had been with the Brightons for only eight months. He was still small, vulnerable and utterly confused as to who he really was or what he wanted out of life. He knew he didn’t want his mother to shoot drugs or his father to burn him with his cigarettes anymore, but little else was clear in his adolescent mind. He knew that he liked his foster family, but they were so . . .
good
sometimes he felt like he would never fit in.

It all came to a head one day after school. Homework, helping with the chores, showing respect to his foster parents, saving his money and not playing football on Sunday afternoons—it all was too much. Sam decided he had had enough. He up and left, screaming, “I hate you!” as he slammed his way out of the house. He took off without taking anything but the shirt on his back and whatever money he had in his pockets.

Neil and Sara searched frantically for two days, along with the police, but Sam seemed to have melted into the underground of throwaway kids that hung out on the dirty beaches and rundown boardwalks that lined Norfolk and Hampton.

On the third day, Sam showed up, unexpectedly knocking at their front door. Sara stood there, her face pale, her cheeks stained from tears. Ammon and Luke stood behind her, holding their breath, not knowing if she was going to let him in.

“I’m sorry,” Sam told her as he stared at his feet. “I want to stay here.
Will you please let me come home?
”

Sara reached out and he took a slow step toward her, then rushed into her arms. Luke and Ammon ran forward and slapped him on the back. “Hey, Sam,” Ammon said as his foster brother turned toward him. “Leave us again and I’ll hunt you down and drag you kicking and screaming back home. Brothers don’t leave each other. And we are brothers now.”

Sam smiled, his lip trembling, then wiped his hand across his red eyes.

Yes, this
was
his family. He really was home.

* * *

The second pivotal event occurred when Sam was sixteen years old.

He had been living with the Brightons for most of three years. Because his runaway mother had refused to consent to termination of her parental rights (she would lose food stamp money and state subsistence if she let him go), and though his old man didn’t care one way or the other, the juvenile courts had directed that Sam would spend one weekend a month with his parents. His dad, a former high school football star who still hung out at games on Friday nights, a sometimes charter fisherman who rented his cruiser for fifty bucks an hour (forty if the client was willing to furnish the beer), lived in a ramshackle clapboard house near the fishing docks in a small town called Poquoson at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Sam’s mom, an attractive blonde who was just thirty-three, lived where she wanted from one month to the next, wherever the party was or a new friend could be found.

One court appointed weekend, Sam was at the old house. It was a hot fall afternoon with a strong wind blowing through the trees. He and his dad were in the backyard patching the fiberglass hull of the boat, the old man pounding beers. His mom hadn’t been around for four months. Last Sam had heard, she was out in Las Vegas dealing cards at some low-rent casino on the outskirts of town; at least that’s what she claimed she was doing but Sam had his doubts, for the pockmarks on her arms suggested a habit that was much more expensive than minimum wage and drunken tips could sustain.

His old man, Jody (as Sam called him now with very little affection), cursed as he applied the liquid fiberglass sealant, a burning cigarette in his mouth. He rubbed at his left arm, tracing a four-inch scar, the reminder of a vicious knife fight in some unknown bar.

“You had a birthday last week, didn’t you?” the old man said.

Sam looked at him, surprised. It wasn’t like Jody to remember such a thing.

“That makes you what . . . fifteen?” the old man asked.

“Sixteen.”

“Hmm . . . ,” Jody thought, then took a step toward him and grabbed the bare bicep on his arm. “Not much there,” he miffed at Sam’s supple arm.

Sam looked at his bicep and frowned. His dad stood before him and spread his feet wide. He was a tall man, still solid, with thick arms and thick legs. And he was quick with his hands, able to pick a fly out of the air or slap his mother so fast that she never saw it coming. Sam watched his father, a sinking feeling in his chest.

“Can you take care of yourself?” Jody demanded in a sour voice.

Sam looked away before he answered, then quickly recognized his mistake. He turned back to his father and stared him in the eye, trying to hide any fear. “I do OK,” he answered defiantly.

His dad snorted angrily. He knew better.

“I can’t teach you a whole lot, boy, but I can teach you how to fight. And there’s only one way to learn. Just like with swimming, you’ve got to jump into the pool. And not on the kiddie side, you need to jump in over your head. So I’m going to help you, Sammy, and one day you’ll thank me for this.”

Sam looked at his father, his eyes wide. The older man took a short step toward him, a shadow passing over his face. He was six inches taller and weighed at least a hundred pounds more. “You’re going to need to know how to do this!” Jody explained as he lifted his fist. “There’s only one way to learn. It’s time to jump in, Sammy. And I ain’t the kiddie pool.”

Sam stumbled backward. “No, Dad!” he cried.

The old man moved forward. “No son of mine will be a coward!” he sneered.

* * *

Jody beat his son so severely that he knocked him unconscious. Stepping over the crumpled body, he dragged him under a tree, then turned back to the boat and started slapping on the paint.

Sam came to later on. He lay there a long time, trying to clear his head, then forced himself to his feet, washed from the hose and stumbled into the house.

His dad eyed him warily, then slapped him on the back. “You’ll learn,” he said as if they were old friends. “You’ve got to keep your hands up to cover your face. And you’ve got to bulk up, you’ve got the muscles of a fly. I’m not asking that you be a jock like I was, heaven knows there’s no hope of that, but I won’t raise a kid who can’t take care of himself. And I bloody sure won’t have a son who is afraid of a fight.”

Sam only grunted.

“This is for your own good. I’m not raising a woman. I’m raising a man!”

“You’re
not
raising me!” Sam cried as he backed away from his dad.

Jody froze as if he had taken a sucker punch. “Bloody straight I’m raising you,” he sneered, reaching out slap him again. “I am your old man! And don’t you ever forget it! I gave up everything just to have you, without nothin’ in return. This is a tough world, don’t I know it, and I’m gonna teach you to survive.”

Sam stared at him and nodded.

The old man was probably right.

* * *

“What happened!” Sara blurted when he drug himself into the house, her hand shooting to her mouth.

“Fell off the boat,” Samuel lied as he held a rag to his split lip. Neither Sara nor Neil believed him, but he wouldn’t say any more. They considered calling the authorities, but they knew Sam would never forgive them, for he followed a code of silence when it came to the old man.

That night, as Sam lay on his bed, his entire body screaming, he made a decision. His old man wanted him to learn how to fight. Then by hell, that’s what he’d do.

Next day he spent every dime he had on a set of weights and started pumping iron. He started working out with the boxing coach and running five miles a day.

Six weeks later, the old man took notice. “See there, boy, I’m helping you already,” he said as he thumped Sam on the chest. “Feel that,” he mocked. “The kid is building a six-pack of his own. Well, let’s see what he’s got now!” Jody peeled off his shirt and flexed his biceps.

Sam held his ground. His eyes were unafraid. “I don’t want to fight you anymore, Jody. You made your point, OK. I got it. I learned my lesson. Now let’s just let it go at that.”

“Who knows if you’ve learned anything? You ain’t proved nothing yet!”

“No one says we have to do this!”

His old man took a quick step forward and spit on the ground.

The fight only lasted eight seconds. Three hits; a right to the midsection, just above the kidneys, a left to the jaw which broke a back tooth, then a right to the eyebrow that sent his old man’s brain rattling in his skull. It was over and his father went down. He was flat on his back, his eyes open, his jaw gapping up and down like a fish. Sam went to the hose and turned it on to soak the old man.

“You satisfied?” he sneered as his father shook his wet head.

His old man nodded, his eyes unfocused, his breathing coming in grunts.

“Have I passed your stupid little test then?”

The old man grunted again.

Sam leaned down to face him, looking into his bleary eyes. “Then let me tell you something, Jody. You touch me again, and I’ll kill you! You understand that. I don’t want to fight you. Not ever again. But if you come after me, I promise, you won’t wake up in this world. And the same goes for Momma. You touch her, and I’ll find you. So grow up, old man.”

Sam threw the hose down and walked away. He left his dad sputtering and never looked back again.

That night he locked himself in his room, refusing to speak to anyone. He ignored Sara’s gentle knocks on the door as he cried into his pillow.

He knew it was time to start over. Really start over. Screw the old man and old lady. It was time to move on.

He had a chance at another life, a chance to do something more. He had a chance to be
normal.
A chance to make something of his life, a chance to do something besides drink beer, watch football and look for another party or the next sleazy lover who could provide a few thrills.

From that day forward he quit thinking of his biological parents as his mom and dad. Sara and Neil were his parents, the only true parents he would ever have. And he loved them with an emotion that could only be borne from the depths of despair, a depth of loyalty which came from a man who had been thrown a lifesaver in a sea of loneliness and fear. And he knew that they loved him too. Why they did, he didn’t know. It was a great mystery, something he would never understand. But they really did love him, they weren’t just saying the words. And they had saved him from a life of constant bitterness and self-inflicted wounds.

So despite the court’s directions, it was almost a year before he saw Jody or his mom again.

* * *

Sam continued to work out every day. He grew strong and fast. And he also grew smart. His senior year of high school, he went from a struggling C and B student to making almost straight As. He tried out for football and became a star running back.

“I’m too much like my real dad,” he once said to Sara as they sat at the kitchen counter after one of his football games.