It’s said that the worst fate for a writer is to be burdened with a happy childhood. In my memories, the sun is always shining. The snow is pure white and the perfect consistency with which to build a snowman. My parents don’t yell or scream. The whole family eats a hot dinner together every night. I win blue ribbons on field day.
There’s not much bad stuff.
But in hindsight there are a couple near misses. Either fate or providence intervened.
Or I just got lucky.
When I was about five or six, it was a big deal to be trusted with the responsibility to fetch the mail. We lived at the end of a long, gravel lane on the quiet Eastern Shore of Maryland. Not much traffic traveled on the main road with the exception of people heading to the marina and small beach a mile away.
The sun was high in the sky and hot on my shoulders. I walked on the edge of the sandy driveway, dry grass pricking my bare feet. As I approached the mailbox, the mailman, in his station wagon, pulled next to me. I’d seen him before.
He smiled. His teeth white glowed in the shadows of the car. He had a dark tan and his long hair poked out from under his baseball cap.
“I have some candy,” he said. “Do you want a piece?”
There wasn’t anybody else around.
My little kid mind knew something wasn’t quite right. He’d never offered me candy when I was with my mom. I froze and my heart pounded. I couldn’t speak.
“Your mom said you could take a drive with me.”
And then I ran.
Forty years later, I am still convinced that my physiological response was correct, and that I was in danger.
Now as a parent, it’s terrifying to imagine with whom my kids brush up against when they are out in the world.
Not everybody is a good guy.
We unwittingly encounter evil, its cool tickle at the nape of our necks the only indicator that something is not quite right.
I tell my kids to trust their guts.
And I pray for their safety.
In my fiction, I sometimes write about what if—the bad stuff. It’s like insurance. If I put it on the page, it can’t happen in real life.
I’m superstitious that way.
In my short story Home Run, I explore a terrible fear I had for my children when they were little. The story is only 750 words and takes about two minutes to read. Here it is:
* * *
Home Run
“And the hooome of the braaave,” blared from the loudspeaker.
Lazy applause followed from the almost empty stands. In the third base tunnel, Brent closed his eyes. The humidity, heavy like fog, filled the small covered passageway. He took a deep breath—popcorn, funnel cake, and urine. The smell triggered good memories. Hot summer afternoons. His first job hauling heavy beer crates up and down these bleachers.
And the secret places.
He didn’t want to sweat. That might make him look nervous. He ran his fingertips over the coarse cement wall and pressed his shoulders deeper into the shadows.
The itch had started five days ago. At night, in bed with his stopwatch, he timed himself. How long could he go without thinking about them? This morning he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d washed the phony security guard uniform and found the Tony Smith baseball card.
“Welcome to George Park.” The announcer’s voice crackled over the PA system. “Let’s play ball!”
Brent turned and walked into the tunnel, the air growing stuffier. He jiggled the lock on the abandoned janitor’s closet door. With his phone’s flashlight, he illuminated the room. It was just as he’d left it. The towels folded neatly in the corner. Latex gloves. And a Polaroid camera. He put on the Security cap and his sunglasses. Leaving the lock unhinged, he closed the door. The flutter in his gut grew.
He stood at the tunnel’s mouth, partly in the shade, watching the heat shimmer off the infield. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. Sometimes he worried that someone might ask for an employee ID. Time slowed as the announcer droned in the background. Then he saw them approaching.
He stepped into the light. “Hi there.” He tapped his cap’s brim. “Good game, isn’t it?”
A young woman smiled close-lipped. The small boy at her side said, “It’s my first game.”
“Well today’s your lucky day.” Brent squatted and pulled out the baseball card. “Want to meet this guy?”
“Yes!”
Brent lifted his sunglasses and met the mother’s gaze. “I can get him in the locker room.”
“Pleeease.” The boy tugged his mother’s shirt.
She hesitated, her face tightening imperceptibly. “Sorry, but Daddy’s waiting.” She reached for her son’s hand.
“Maybe next time.” He readjusted his sunglasses, feeling a prick of unease. “Enjoy the game.”
Back in the tunnel darkness, Brent watched as the batter nailed a fastball.
“It’s going, going, gone!” the announcer said.
T
he ball flew out of the stadium. Kids scurried down the bleachers, racing toward it. Brent slipped through the tunnel, then through the opening in the chain link fence and onto the parking lot. He knew where the ball would land. As if on cue, two boys rounded the corner, one tossing the baseball.
“Hey,” Brent said, his voice stern. “Who found that ball?”
“He did.” The smaller kid socked his friend’s shoulder.
“It’s okay?” The bigger kid said guiltily. “Right?”
“Sure.” Brent chuckled. “You guys Tony Smith fans?” He showed them the card. “I can introduce you to him.”
The boys stilled.
“Only one of you, though. Locker room team rules, ya know?”
The boys looked at each other.
“Gotta ask my dad.” The smaller kid said.
“Me too.” The bigger boy nudged his friend and they bolted toward the stadium.
Brent retraced his steps and paused at the tunnel’s mouth. The bright sunlight shone at the other end, silhouetting a boy and a girl with a ponytail. Quietly, he walked toward the kids, fingering the card in his pocket, the rumble of the stands above him. When he was within a few feet, he cleared his throat.
The kids turned around. They both wore royal blue T Shirts imprinted with the Rolling Hill Playground logo.
“You guys lost?”
“Gotta pee,” the boy said. “I told her I could go by myself.”
The girl elbowed her brother. “Mom said not to let you go anywhere without a playground leader.”
“I’ll take him for you.”
“Um.” The girl studied his security cap. “Okay, I guess.”
“Where’s your group?”
“Up there.” She pointed to the top of the stands where the bleachers met the sky.
“We’ll meet you there in ten minutes.” Brent extended his hand to her brother.
The boy’s touch was warm and full of promise.
As they walked deeper into the tunnel the crowd exploded and the low roof shook.
“Home run!” The announcer bellowed.
The End
* * *
Thanks for taking a walk on the dark side with me. Now hold your children and let your light shine.
We’re on vacation this week and I’m not cooking! But here are three easy recipes. Click to view.
Thought For The Week
In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.
—Francis Bacon
What’s your greatest fear?
Today’s realities are truly scary. But there many good people in the world, too.
A mother’s worst nightmare!!
My daughter, then a first grader, was pushed into a nook in her gated schoolyard, by a boy who then pulled down his pants. He said: “I pulled down mine, now you pull down yours.” My daughter’s reply: “Well, I didn’t ask you to.” She then went to tell her teacher. Yes, my daughter trusted her ‘guts’–something I would call critical thinking!
Take care.
Good for your daughter! I’m glad she had the emotional wherewithal to trust her gut!
Enjoy your vacation! Always trust your gut feelings.
Very scary!
You have a great gut! Terrific cautionary tale.
Very scary story- We will always worry about our kids, even when they have kids! Have a great vacation .