An ADD’s Delight: Tantalizing Tales of Courage, Curiosity, and Closure
A Tiny Tale (January 25, 1998)
1 INT. A DARKENED ROOM
The trio quietly stood beside an old poster bed. An old woman lay in bed, sick and dying. At her feet rested her “babies,” her pets—a jet black Persian cat and a sable merle Collie dog. One of the people, the family doctor, leaned over the old woman and listened to heart with his stethoscope. The old woman's grandson, Charlie, and her granddaughter, Elizabeth, looked on intensely, not hugging but leaning into each other.
“Nanna's going to buy it soon,” Charlie whispered to his sister.
“Shhhhhh!” she urgently whispered back. “Don't say that! Nanna can hear you.”
“Right,” he responded, sardonically. “The old lady hasn't heard anything I've said for years.”
Hands on her hips, Elizabeth turned to face him and said, “You still shouldn't say it. It’s so mean.”
“Actually, what's mean and nasty is to make us wait for her to. . . .” Pausing for a moment to find the right words, Charle gave his younger sister a “Pan Am” smile and replied, “. . . to pass on to another plane of existence.”
With a “hrmph,” Elizabeth spun around, and leaned closer to her Nanna’s face. Stroking her long, white hair with her hand, Elizabeth “Well, I want to be here. Nanna shouldn't be alone now.”
Gazing
CHARLIE
She's not alone. She's not alone. She's got her beloved children beside her.
The dog looks up at Charlie and Elizabeth, wags its tail, and begins to scratch behind its ear. The cat only looks at them with indifference. Standing up, the doctor motions for them to come over.
DOCTOR
It won't be long now. You better go talk to her. She has something she wants to tell you.
As the grandchildren approach, their eyes grow large with fear. Nanna has a blue-gray tint to her skin. They stop short of the bed.
NANNA
Elizabeth. Charlie. Come closer.
She pats the area beside her on the bed. Elizabeth rushes to her side, hugs her, and begins to cry.
ELIZABETH
Oh Nanna...
(1)
Nanna pats her on the shoulder as she cries.
NANNA
Hush child. It's okay.. It' It's okay. It's almost time for me to go but I have something to ask of you both.
CHARLIE
What is it, Nanna?
NANNA
Well, if you’d quit interrupting me, I'd tell you. I need you both to promise me you'll take good care of Chloe and Chester. I don't want them ending up at some animal shelter or worse. They deserve better than that.
CHARLIE
“Oh, great. We get to take care of the . . .”
ELIZABETH
“Charlie and I will be happy to take them for you, Nanna.”
Charlie pats R^^jjvvÇÇééöö¶¶≤≤ææ ÷ them better than that. You ave to.... (cough, cough). They need love... (cough, cough) and...
She begins to cough harder and harder until she starts to wheeze. The doctor rushes to help her. Nanna layThe doctor rushes to help her. Nanna lays her head back down and her pets move to each side of her, under her arms. The dog licks her nose and whimpers. The cat, purring loudly, rubsto each side of her, under her arms. The dog licks her nose and whimpers. The cat, purring loudly, rubsy, rubs its forehead against her shoulder. Nanna smiles and takes in a deep breath. It is her last. The doctor checks for breathing and a pulse but there’s none. Elizabeth begins to wail as Charlie feebly attempts to console her. The doctor pulls the sheet t the grandchildren. She jumps off the bed and up onto the vanity table and begins rubbing her head against Nanna's hairbrush. Charlie and Elizabeth move around the bed to watch her. Chester just stays on the bed head cocked, tail wagging. Chloe then jover Nanna's face, grabs his bag, and quietly leaves the room. Charlie and Elizabeth stay there for a few moments in shock until they are interrupted by a unusual sound coming from the cat. Chloe is twitching and shaking, meowing mournfully, and staring umps off the vanity table and onto the bedside table. A book rests on it and using her paws, Chloe pushes it open and appears to be reading. ble. A book rests on it and using her paws, Chloe pushes it open and appears to be reading. be reading. ng. at Nanna.
CHARLIE
What the hell?
ELIZABETH
Something's happening to Chloe.
Suddenly, Chloe stops her erratic behavior and looks aWhat the hell?
ELIIZABETH
Something's happening to Chloe.
Suddenly, Chloe stops her erratic be and looks ating up like this. Animals sense death and it makes them behave strangely.
Chloe jumps down to the floor and walks over to where Nanna's slippers are placed and puts both of her front paws into them. The grandchildren stare with their mouths opeNanna on the head and gives her a condescending smile.
CHARLIE
Don't you worry, Nanna, I'll treat them like they were my own kids.
Nanna rises up in bed. Her face changes from gray to purple.
NANNA
You will not, Charlie. You'll treatCharlie walks over to her and picks up the book.
CHARLIE
It's “All Creatures Great and Small.”
(2)
ELIZABETH
You don't think...
CHARLIE
No, I don't. There's a perfectly good explanation for her acsense death and it nakes them behavn. Chloe meows questioningly. Charlie immediately turns and heads for the door.
CHARLIE
I'll go get the carrying cages for them.
h leans close to Chloe and strokes her head.
ELIZABETH
Hi, Nanna.
Chester jumps off the bed and sits next to
Bending down, Elizabeth leans close to Chloe and strokes her head.
ELIZABETH
Hi, Nanna.
Chester jumps off the bed and sits next to Chloe.
CHESTER
You shouldn't have tricked them like that.
CHLOE
I told you it would work. Humans are so gullible. What perfect timing.
CHESTER
Apparently you've been reading too much Machiavelli. What did Kant write? Out of timing.
CHESTER
Apparently you've been reading too much Machiavelli. What did Kant write? Out of the crooked timber of felines, no straight thing can ever be made?
CHLOE
Don't be such a snob. Didn't Blake tell us to drive our carts and plows over the bones of the dead? You have to take care of number one. Nanna's dead. Nothing can change that. I just made sure we wouldn't be going to the “Big House.”
CHESTER
Watch out for bad Karma, Chloe. It'll bite you on the butt every time.
CHLOE
I'll keep that in mind, dog, as I’m resting in the sun.
, dog,
Charlie walks in with one carrying cage. He picks up Chloe and puts her inside.
CHARLIE
Tell you what, Sis. You take Chester and I'll take care of Chloe. I’ll take excellent care of her. In fact, I’ll treat her just like she was old Nanna. Sweet old Nanna.
Charlie smiles at Chloe wickedly and shakes the cage a couple of times. Chloe begins to hiss and scratch at the cage door. Chester just wags his tail as Elizabeth scratches his head.
The Inn
The Inn was busy that night. The many travelers in Bethlehem pleased Alphaeus; with all their rooms taken, they’d definitely have enough to pay the local Publican--that mamzer, that crook!--for the whole year. Times were tough; the Roman presence made it worse. Why Yahweh allowed those pagan dogs to take over his Promised Land and subjugate his People was incomprehensible. Alphaeus just knew that the whole land cried out from their souls for a deliverer. They needed someone like Moses to rescue them, but it seemed that Yahweh had forgot them.
Tonight, though, Yahweh had provided them Manna and quail, through the kindly (or, more truthfully, desperate) lodgers and their money. His wife, Johanna, happily went from table to table attending to the needs of their guests. “Would you care for some more chicken? Are you cold?—I can bring you a shawl. How far did you travel from?—Amazing! Eat some more dried fish with the delicious figs.”
Both lodgers and lodge-owners were content and comfortable despite the tension surrounding the Roman census--those gonifs! Everyone in the Inn just wanted to tuck away in this bastion of consolation. Alphaeus had begun refilling his guests’ wine cups when a sharp knocking at their door disturbed the peace. Johanna’s face conveyed the same fear that Alphaeus had—Could it be a squad of Roman soldiers ready to take over their house for the good of the Empire? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Alphaeus initially worried that his lodgers would be kicked out into the cold night and they’d have to return their money, but then it occurred to him that he and Johanna were just as likely to be kicked out, too, if the Romans commandeered their lodge. The former bliss of the dining room blew away like smoke in a violent windstorm; everyone held their breaths as Alphaeus walked to the front door and slowly opened it.
The fear in his face was replaced with relief and then vexation when Alphaeus saw the dusty couple hanging onto each other on the porch. “Yes?” he said, uninvitingly. The husband (he presumed), asked, “Please, sir. We need a room for the night. My wife is—“ but Alphaeus cut him off. “Sorry, no room,” and he began to shut the door, when the young woman groaned and slunk to the ground.
It was then that he noticed how big with child she was, and then, even more than ever, he wanted them gone. A child birthing in the Inn—all that moaning and mess—would ruin his and the lodgers’ plans.
The husband desperately pleaded, “Please. She’s so close. I don’t want my son born in an alley. He deserves better.” Alphaeus coldly replied, “No. We have no midwife here. You’ll have to go elsewhere.”
Another wave of cramps swept over the young woman, and she began to weep, and pulled her husband closer, burying her face in his cloak. It was then that Johanna pushed Alphaeus aside and said, “What’s wrong with you? El Roi’s watching. You think He’ll reward you for this?”
Alphaeus replied, “Where are we going to put them? All the rooms are full, and I doubt anyone will share their quarters to deliver a baby.” Hearing this, all the lodgers looked away and pretended to be deep in conversation.
Johanna bent down beside the woman and wiped her brow with a scarf. “There, there, yakiri. It’ll be all right. Ignore my idiot husband; we’ll find a place for you.” The young woman held Johanna’s hand, and whimpered, “Bless you for your kindness.” But Alphaeus crossed his arms and said, sternly, “Not…in…my…Inn.”
Johanna stood up and said, “But she…” Alphaeus shook his head to accentuate his resolve. “There’s no room.” But then Johanna reached out and gently touched his crossed arm. “Motek, you know they cannot stay outside. Remember our own child--remember James.”
Alphaeus stood silent for a moment and then sighed and pointed to the barn. “There. You can stay in there. Lots of room. The well is just outside.” The husband said, “Thank you, sir. Your generosity will be remembered throughout history.” Alphaeus didn’t know if the man was mocking him or not, but he replied, “It is the best that I can do.” With that capitulation, he pulled Johanna inside and pushed the door close.
The two stood inside and heard the husband speak comfort to his wife as he helped her rise. Alphaeus didn’t look at his wife; he knew she was upset. He felt a twinge of guilt, but he stifled it with thoughts of nasty Roman soldiers. He walked back into the dining room, and made a joke about laboring for their luxury. The lodgers all laughed in appreciation of his protecting them from the bothersome couple.
As the evening wore on, the lodgers made it back to their warm rooms and comfortable beds. Alphaeus congratulated himself on preserving the evening, despite the uninvited intrusion, which could have been disastrous. He even felt a sense of pride for letting them stay; another person would probably have just shut the door. He was feeling smug until he saw Johanna, towels and a basket of food in her arms.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Where?” Alphaeus responded, already knowing the answer. Johanna held out the basket to him. “Time to be good hosts, my lysh. You never know, we might be entertaining angels.” Alphaeus rolled his eyes, but he knew she was right. He felt ashamed, but eager to make it right. He took the basket and opened the door.
Outside, the stars were shining brighter than he ever remembered; the whole countryside had a heavenly glow about it, and all luminescence seemed concentrated on their their barn. Alphaeus and Johanna looked at each other, inquisitively, and smiled, their hearts inexplicably pounding with joy and excitement with each step toward the stable and the tiny baby born that day in Bethlehem. ~ (Copyright 2013)
Christmas in the Gulag
The two men stood beside Gavriil’s bunk bed in the gulag barrack, staring down upon the sleeping man. Vasily, the barrack manager, dreaded waking him, knowing that in Kolyma, sleep was the only escape from the bone-chilling misery smothering this godforsaken mining camp in northeastern Siberia.
The younger man, Savvich, swatted Gavriil on the shoulder, barking, “Get up, old man. Time to see the Commandant.”
Eyes closed, Gavriil spoke with a smile on his lips. “I dreamt I was home. Elizaveta was making her beef and beet Borscht. Little Vera and Irina were playing with their toys by the fire. Ah, yes . . . home!”
Savvich yanked the thin blanket off of the elder and chided, “You are not in Estonia anymore, old fool. You are in Kolyma and we need supplies. Get up.” Gavriil stared into Savvich’s angry eyes; the young man slowly backed away.
Vasily leaned over and helped Gavriil sit up. The elder patted Vasily and asked, “Is it summer, yet?” Helping the elder put his boots on, Vasily replied, “Only twelve months of winter, Pater, and then the summer.” Gavriil chuckled, “Oh, good. I have time to celebrate Christmas.” Savvich held out a thread-worn coat to Gavriil and said, “St. Nikolai doesn’t stop at the gulags.”
Staying close together, the three men dashed across the courtyard, the howling artic wind and driving snow battering their emaciated bodies. Through chattering teeth, Gavriil jested, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, friends, only wrong clothing,” but Vasily could not remember a winter as merciless as this one in his seven years in Siberia.
Once inside the central office, they stood before Commandant Pershin--a short, unpleasant, single-minded officer from Armenia--their toes touching a yellow painted line three feet from his desk. His assistant, a young man from Leningrad, handed over some documentation. For several minutes, Pershin said nothing, inspecting the reports. Finally, he looked at Gavriil and said, “So, what do you want, Prisoner 77?”
Stepping closer, Gavriil removed his hat, and replied, “Commandant, it is Christmas Eve. Vasily and I were hoping to get some extra supplies for the weekend. In celebration, if possible.”
Pershin shook his head and said, “Step back, Prisoner 77.” Gavriil complied.
Standing up and putting on his thick, wool coat, Pershin handed the report to his assistant, and asked him, “Petrov, does the report indicate that all barracks have been provided their share of provisions for the month?”
Snapping his heels together, his assistant responded, “Yes, Commandant.”
“Petrov, does the People’s Republic recognize old Tsarist trappings of religion, anymore?”
His assistant forcefully responded, “Not anymore, Commandant.”
Placing a plush sable hat upon his head, Commandant Pershin looked at Gavriil and said, “Well, Prisoner 77, your barrack has been given your allotment for the month. Request denied.” Turning to his assistant, Pershin commanded, “We need to get ready for tonight’s feast, Petrov. Prepare my car.” The assistant marched out, shouldering Savvich as he left the room.
The Commandant walked to the door and turned back for a moment. A smug look on his face, he mused, “Tonight, I am dining with the Head Commissar at his estate north of the mine. I wonder if it will be goose or venison tonight? Eh, whatever.” Leaving, he tipped his hat and said, “Thank you for supporting the collective. You are dismissed.” His assistant shut the door.
Walking back to their barracks, Savvich cast curses into the wind, but Vasily heard Gavriil singing an old Christmas song--“Give to my wife…a word of farewell…and tell her that I died…here in the freezing steppe…and that I have taken her love…away with me.” Both men had it right; how could they survive the Siberian night without food or fuel?
At dinnertime, the barrack workers lined up to receive their “Christmas Soup,” supplemented with “mystery” meat illegally bought from local villagers. The wood supply would only last a few hours, and some might not survive the difficult night. This was not the Christmas anyone had hoped for, sadly.
Yet, despite the austere circumstances, Gavriil joyfully poured soup for each worker, singing out an old Estonian proverb: “Shared joy is twice the joy, shared sorrow is half the sorrow.” At the back of the line, Savvich hissed, “Shut up, old man! No one cares…” but his words were cut off by banging on the barrack door.
Vasily opened the door; the Commandant’s assistant, Petrov, staggered inside and collapsed onto the floor. He was bloodied, and his uniform was burnt and smoldering. “Help…” he pleaded. “Car accident . . . Commandant killed . . .”
Savvich marched over to Petrov, laughed, and replied, “Sorry. We’ve run out of mercy this month.” He picked up a piece of firewood to bludgeon Petrov, but Savvich’s blow was stopped by Gavriil’s steel grip.
“No, son,” Gavriil commanded.
Savvich cried, “He deserves no mercy…”
Gavriil squeezed harder until Savvich dropped the log.
“No. Take him to my bed,” Gavriil instructed. “And get Dr. Aleksandrovich.”
The men attended to Petrov’s wounds while they waited for the gulag doctor. Grabbing Gavriil’s lapel, Petrov gasped, “Why? . . .”
Gavriil gently took his hand and said, “No land is too dark for the light of Christ, my friend. Rest—You’re welcome here.” When Petrov lapsed into unconsciousness, Savvich confronted Gavriil, angrily.
“You fool!”
Gavriil put his hand on Savvich’s heart and said, “If God did not withhold His kindness 2,000 years ago, how can we on this night?”
The young man tried to object, but Gavriil pleaded, “Mercy, friend. It’s Christmas Eve.” Savvich cynically replied, “Mercy . . . Christmas,” and sulked back to sleep through the frigid night.
Morning came and the men awoke to a loud banging on the barrack door. Shivering from cold and curiosity, Savvich slowly opened it and gasped. Piled high across the porch was enough of the Commandant’s food and fuel to melt any frozen heart in Kolyma that wonderful Christmas morning.
Old Man Tethers (2012)
Red fallen leaves blew across my shoes as I walked between the rain puddles on the path. I was visiting my hometown for the holidays and thought a brisk walk through the park might relax me, so I chose a familiar hangout of my childhood play. Across the way, I saw a solitary figure sitting on the park bench, shivering and coughing, surrounded by a flock of pigeons. As I walked by him, he said nothing, but kept his eyes to the ground as he slowly fed the birds. The sight of him sitting there on that park bench, with his bag of bread in his hands, brought back vivid memories of past days and particularly of one spring's encounter with Old Man Tethers.
Old Man Tethers was considered the town joke when I was a boy. He wasn't a bum or a drunk, but he kept to himself most of the time and only came out to feed the squirrels. My parents referred to him as "poor," "sad," and "hopeless," and all I had ever heard about his past was that he was an old and faded baseball star who had left New York many years ago at the peak of his career, much to the amazement of his friends and fans. No reason had been given. He just packed his things and moved out. Buying a one-room house in our small town, he buried himself in a shroud of mystery and solitude.
I remember how the kids often teased him in the park, coming up behind him and kicking him in the seat of his yellow checkered pants. He would turn and shake his fist at them, yelling through rotting teeth. His strange behavior scared me and though I never saw him hurt anyone, I still did my best to avoid him.
One Saturday morning, when my friends and I were practicing baseball in the park, Old Man Tethers was out resting on his usual bench, eyes closed, when one of the balls I had pitched went flying toward him. I yelled at him to duck, but he must not have heard; the ball struck him soundly on the chest. He jumped up with a start, looking around to see what kid had hit him.
His eyes fell upon the baseball lying by his feet and I cringed in pain as he bent down and picked up our only ball. I figured that was that and we were done for the day. I also expected yelling and cursing from Old Man Tethers, but all he did was sit back down on the bench and stare intently at the ball in his hands. The other kids gathered around me, and we decided that Tethers must not be angry and that we might get our ball back. Unfortunately, seeing how I was the one who had thrown the ball, I was "volunteered" to get it back from him.
I took ten deep breaths to brace myself and slowly walked toward him. As I drew near, my heart beat faster and I promised myself that I would never play baseball again if I survived this. When I came within five feet of him, I stopped and said in a small, timid voice, "Sir?"
He did not respond.
"Sir? Can I have my ball back? I'm sorry I hit you."
Jerking his head up, he replied in a husky voice, "You should be more careful. You could really hurt someone."
Stepping closer to him, I swallowed the lump in my throat and sickly smiled, mentioning that I was just practicing for Monday's game.
"You play? What position?"
"Pitcher, Sir."
"You need more practice. You know, I used to play baseball once. I wasn't half bad."
At this point in our conversation, I was caught in the middle of two emotions—confusion that he was not mad at us, and a strong desire to return to the safety of my friends. I had no stomach for talking with notorious, nefarious hermits. I just wanted to get out of there. A flash of what I considered brilliance entered my mind.
"Would you like to play with us? We could always use another player," I asked him (knowing he'd refuse, giving me reason to leave with the ball). A cold chill went down my back as he replied, "Okay, but I want to bat first." Walking back together to my friends, I saw their astonishment and shrugged my shoulders in response.
"Old . . . I mean, Mr. Tethers is going to play with us for a while." I tried to ignore my friends' confused and irritated faces.
Old Man Tethers moved up to the batter's box, swinging the bat in his hands, stretching out his arms.
"Okay Kid, but not so fast at first," he grumbled.
I decided it would be a smart move if I weren't so hard on him. I had already hurt him once, and I didn't want to press my luck. My first pitch was a slow one, straight and true, into the catcher's mitt. His bat went by with a swish and a grunt.
"Give me another!" he demanded.
I sent the ball flying at him, only this time, his bat struck the ball soundly and it went whistling over our outfielder's head. The boy ran and returned with the ball, throwing it to me when he came within speaking distance. He whispered, "Strike him out! You're being too nice to the Old coot."
I turned to face Old Man Tethers and he smiled at me with his yellow-corned grin and said, "See? I told you I was good. Throw me another."
I pitched a faster ball the next time, but his bat connected with it and again, it went over another outfielder's head.
"What's the matter with you?" my friends yelled. "Strike him out!"
I decided to get serious, so I wound up with an even more powerful pitch and let it go.
"Bam!" The ball went soaring high once again. As I watched the ball sail to the outfield, I heard him chuckle behind me. I decided that I had been nice enough. I concentrated intensely on my next pitch. This time I let him have an inside fastball, and a smile came to my lips as I heard the “Whoosh!” as he swung unsuccessfully at the ball.
A startled, scared look was in his eyes, but it soon passed as he knelt to the ground and began to grind the end of the bat into the dirt. As his knuckles grew whiter and whiter with his effort, I wondered if I had that same startled, scared look in my eyes then. Wasn't this just a game? He was no longer just having fun. He was trying to intimidate and beat me. I was hurt and confused that a grown man would treat me that way.
I stood there, trembling, waiting for him to give me some sign to begin. His eyes were cold and determined, but I noticed a twitch in the corner of his mouth. After so many years of being out of practice, did Old Man Tethers have the "stuff" to even play against a twelve-year-old kid?
I changed up my pitch and paused just before I threw the ball, trying to throw off his timing. When the ball finally left my hand, I put all my strength behind it, trying for a curve ball. He swung wildly, clumsily tripping over his own feet, and fell to the ground. The air around us was filled with the laughter and jeering of the kids on the field.
"Dammit!" he roared. "No kid is going to strike me out!"
Old Man Tethers rose like a mountain of fury, ripped the ball from the catcher's hand, and ran off the field and out of the park. We all gathered around the home plate and watched as his checkered pants scurried out of sight.
"What a weirdo!" someone muttered.
After short discussion (and with missing equipment), the kids decided to meet the next day to finish our practice. This time, though, we would bring more than just one ball. One by one they all left, until I was the only one standing on the field.
Pondering what had happened, my anger for Old Man Tethers was replaced with that same pity I heard my parents express when referring to him. I felt an overwhelming urge to go to Old Man Tethers house and apologize for the way we had treated him. Tucking my mitt under my arm, I started in the direction of his home. Along the path, I found my baseball lying in the gutter, apparently tossed aside by Old Man Tethers.
When I reached his home, it was nearly twilight and shadows were looming in the corners of the timeworn houses nearby. I snuck up to his side window and peered inside. Tethers was sitting on an old, beat-up couch, staring at the five O'clock news on a small, black-and-white television set on a chair in front of him as he polished a trophy in his lap. On the walls surrounding him were yellowed newspaper clippings, pennants, photographs of his former baseball team, and a giant trophy case that covered one entire wall in his living room.
After he had buffed his trophy to his liking, he lovingly kissed it, and then got up, returning it to its apparent rightful place inside the dusty, cobweb-filled trophy case. The heartfelt pity I felt for him quickly turned into a queasy stomach. I quietly slipped away and went home, vowing to move my baseball trophies down from the top shelf down to the middle one that night, to brush my teeth better—and to never own checkered pants.
During the baseball game on the following Monday, I ended up “walking” five opponents during the first three innings. Subsequently (but not surprisingly), we lost big (according to my annoyed teammates), but it didn’t bother me much. After all, it was just a game. Later, when they ridiculed me for my carefree attitude, I simply replied, "Sorry, but you’re welcome to have any of my old trophies if that makes you feel better."