Hemingway Tradition (6 page)

As I got deeper into my father's journal, I noticed a change in the writing. The joy of living that had filled most of the earlier entries gave way to a kind of restlessness that caromed from one topic to the next. It was as if my dad was playing tag with himself, and he was always “it.” He complained about the unfair expectations of editors and publishers. He worried that his creativity was drying up. He despaired over
the ecological state of the planet.

But as I read each rant, I had the uneasy feeling that these weren't really the things that were bothering him. Something else — something he
wasn't
saying — was at the bottom of his agitation.

Then I got to that last entry. And though it answered my questions and silenced my doubts, I wish I'd never read it. Even more, I wish my dad had never written it.

It was a declaration of surrender. My father was finished fighting. Overpowered by demons that had plagued him his whole life, he was finally admitting defeat. It was all on those last pages — and I felt his despair as surely as if it was my own.

The immense weight of his burden almost crushed me. And yet my father had carried it around for a lifetime without anyone even suspecting. I hadn't known about his confusion and anger, his feelings of failure, his self-loathing and guilt. I hadn't had any idea of the constant fear he lived with. The worry that his secret would one day be found out,
and when it was — his life, Mom's, mine, and ours as a family would be ruined.

And so he'd killed himself.

I slammed shut the journal and began pacing. I was angry and frustrated, and I needed to hit something. My father's death had been so senseless.
So wrong!

Dylan Sebring had been a wonderful, caring human being. But he'd hated himself because he wasn't normal. Normal.
Normal!
What the heck was
normal
? And who got to decide that? Bigots like Onion Breath?

I thought of Jai. In a way, he was caught in the same trap as my dad. No matter what he did, he couldn't change the color of his skin, and according to some people, that automatically made him less of a person.

It wasn't as if this was the first time I'd ever thought about prejudice. But it
was
the first time that I understood how devastating it was to be on the receiving end of it. Just for being different.

It was Friday and school had just let out. Tess,
Jai and I were heading for the bus stop.

“Are you guys going to the dance next week?” Tess asked.

“They don't call me Twinkle-Toes for nothing,” Jai grinned, breaking into something that looked like a disco-variety highland fling.

“Right.” Tess eyed him warily and then turned to me. “What about you, Shaw?”

Behind her, Jai was grinning and nodding like one of those wobbly-headed dogs people put in the back window of their cars. I tried to ignore him, but it was pretty much impossible, and it wasn't long before Tess swiveled around to see what he was doing. He instantly started dancing again.

“Don't mind me,” he said. “I'm just practicing my moves.”

Tess shook her head. “Whatever.” She turned back to me. “Are
you
going to the dance?”

“I'm not really much of a dancer,” I said.

Behind Tess, Jai grimaced and began shaking his head like crazy. Obviously, he didn't like my answer.

I pretended not to notice. But when Tess didn't say anything, I started to feel guilty.

“Are you going?” I said to fill the silence.

She shrugged. “Maybe. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On who else is going, for one thing. And the newspaper, for another. It comes out next Friday, which means I could be up all Thursday night, making sure it's ready. I might be totally wiped. I guess I'll have to wait and see.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said. I glanced at Jai. He was all smiles.

It was the first free weekend I'd had since school had started — no volleyball and no homework — so I should have felt great. But I didn't. There were a million thoughts tearing around inside my head, and I couldn't seem to sort them out.

“Would you please sit down,” Mom complained, whipping a cushion at me. “You're driving me nuts!”

“I can't.” I chucked the cushion back and
took another lap around the living room. “I'm restless.”

“Who would've guessed?” Mom said sarcastically. “Why don't you go for a run?”

“That won't help.”

Mom headed for the coat cupboard and grabbed her jacket. “I have to pick up a few things at the drugstore. Why don't you come with me? The walk will do you good.”

I shook my head.

“Suit yourself,” she sighed. As she let herself out the door she added, “But try not to wear a hole in the carpet, okay?”

After she'd gone, I paced a bit more and then threw myself down onto the couch. Maybe television would distract me. I flipped through the channels a few times, but nothing held my attention. I turned the set off and picked up the newspaper instead. I must have stared at the same headline for two minutes. My eyes were reading the words, but for some reason they weren't getting to my brain.

Well, maybe they were, but my brain was too busy to notice. Dad, Jai, volleyball,
Tess, Dad, Tess — my thoughts ricocheted back and forth so fast it felt like a racquetball game was being played in my head. What I needed was a way to untangle my thoughts and look at them one at a time.

Write them down
.

Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that before? It had always worked for my dad.

Suddenly I could see him sitting at his desk. Normally he worked at the computer, but whenever he was starting something new, he liked to work directly on paper. For a while he'd just hold his pen and stare into space. Eventually, though, his eyes would glaze over. He'd reach for an old baseball he used as a paperweight, and rolling the ball absently in his free hand, he would begin to write.

I got some paper and set it out on the table. Then I sat down and picked up my pen. But ten minutes later, I still hadn't written anything. I got up again and walked down the hall to my mother's bedroom and opened the chest at the foot of her bed.

I'm not sure how long Mom had been home before I realized she'd come in. Something made me look up from my writing. I saw her standing in the entrance to the dining room. She was staring at the ball in my hand. And she was smiling.

On Friday, Mr. Hudson called a lunchtime volleyball meeting to talk about the playoffs. It suddenly dawned on me that the season was nearly over. For a second I almost panicked. During the last couple of months — while I'd been trying to sort out my life — volleyball had kept me afloat like a life preserver. And though I knew I didn't need it anymore, I also knew that after it was over, I was going to have
a big chunk of time to fill.

The bell rang for afternoon classes, and I took off for the main hall.

“Where's the fire?” Jai demanded. “Or are you just anxious to get to math?”

“I want to pick up a newspaper,” I explained.

“It's not like there's only one copy,” he pointed out as he hurried to keep up.

“I know, but — ”

“Great article, Shaw,” someone said.

“Good one,” somebody else called from down the hall and gave me a thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” I called back, working hard to keep the smile on my face from turning into a Jai-sized grin.

Jai grabbed my arm. “Hold on. Am I hearing right?
You
wrote an article for the paper?”

I nodded.

“Are you serious?” When I nodded again he said, “I didn't know you could write your name — never mind a whole article! You've been holding out on me, man.”

He punched me in the shoulder and tore
off down the hall. By the time I caught up with him, he had his nose buried in a newspaper.

I felt like a celebrity. It seemed as if everyone in the school had read my article, and at each class change they stopped me in the hall to comment on it. My last subject was English, and when I got to the room, Tess was standing outside the door waiting for me.

I waved and started to cut across the traffic, but a tall, blond guy with glasses and a skimpy goatee cut me off. Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed hold of my hand and started shaking the life out of it.

“Excellent article, Shaw,” he said, his rubbery red lips giving way to a mouthful of braces. “If that doesn't wake up the social consciences of people, I don't know what will. I hope you'll be doing more articles for us in the future.” Then he gave me back my hand and continued on his way.

Scratching my head, I walked over to Tess.

I jerked a thumb in the direction of the blond kid's retreating back. “Do more articles for
us
?” I said. “What's that supposed to
mean? I've never seen that guy before in my life. Who is he?”

Tess started to chuckle. “That guy,” she said, “is Roy Ranier.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, the name doesn't ring any bells.”

Tess raised an eyebrow. “Well, it should. He's the one who wrote that article you hated so much. You know — the one about sports versus other school programs?”

“That was him?” I said in disbelief.

“Uh-huh.” Tess nodded and started into the room. “That was him. Obviously not how you expected your boss to look.”

I followed her through the door. “My
boss
? What are you talking about?”

Though I couldn't see Tess's face, I could hear the smile in her voice. “Didn't you know? Roy is the editor of the paper.”

I couldn't wait for Mom to get home from work. I was dying to show her the article.

“Well, what do you think?” I said when
she'd finished it.

She read the headline out loud. “P is for People — not Prejudice.” Then she looked across the table at me, and there was a gleam in her eye. “You don't pull any punches, do you?”

I sat forward in my chair. “Not if I can help it. It's time the subject was brought out into the open.”

“Well, you've certainly done that, all right. This is heavy-duty journalism, Shaw — and powerfully written. It's not the sort of piece that is going to be easy to ignore. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if there are some far-reaching effects from it.”

I couldn't help grinning. “Good. I want to wake people up.” I leaned across the table excitedly. “And I already have an idea for a follow-up article, focusing on the positive side of the issue. You know — so kids will know there
are
things they can do to make a difference. I thought that if I — ”

Mom didn't wait for me to finish. She stood up, came around the table and planted a kiss on the top of my head.

“What's that for?” I said, looking up.

“For being you,” she replied. Then giving my shoulder a squeeze, she headed for the hall. “Wait here,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

When she returned, she had a folder full of papers. She plunked it on the table and sat back down in her chair.

I eyed the folder curiously. “What's that?”

Mom smiled. “It's something your father left. I've just been waiting for the right moment to give it to you.”

“What is it?”

She pushed the folder towards me and smiled. “I think you'll know,” she said. And then she got up and left the room.

For several minutes I just stared at the folder. There was no label or writing on the outside to indicate what was in it, but that was okay. Part of me wasn't ready to know anyway. That folder was a gift from my dad, and staring at it was like shaking a Christmas present. Until I looked inside the cover, it could be anything I wanted it to be.

But even a Christmas gift has to get unwrapped
sometime. I opened the folder. Right away I knew what I was looking at.

It was a manuscript — well, part of one anyway. As I gaped at the title page, my throat became tight and my breathing quickened. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the title.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Dylan and Shaw Sebring
.

It was the beginning of the novel Dad and I had planned to write. I flipped through the pages excitedly. The outline, the summary, bits of narrative, descriptions, notes — random and incomplete for sure, but just like we'd talked about. Dad had made a start on our novel.

I stopped shuffling through the pages and took a deep breath.

And now it was up to me to finish it.

I didn't realize the phone had rung until Mom came into the dining room and handed it to me.

“Hello?” I said into the receiver.

“Hi, Shaw. It's Tess.”

“Oh, hi,” I said, coming back to reality.
“What's up?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was just getting ready to leave for the dance. I was wondering if you were going.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but she rushed on before I had the chance.

“I know you said you weren't a very good dancer, but if you want to learn, I'd be happy to teach you.”

My heart sped up a little. I was glad Tess couldn't see the silly grin on my face.

“When you're finished with me, will I be able to move like Jai?” I said.

She gasped. “God, I hope not!”

I laughed. “In that case, count me in.”

After I got off the phone, I put the pieces of the novel back into the folder. With a satisfying sense of purpose I marched down the hall to my room and plunked it on the headboard. Tomorrow I would write.

Then I opened my closet door and started searching for my blue shirt. Tonight I was going dancing.