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Chapter 4 |
*** That was October. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he goes to the library and waits at the table in the back. At the end of two hours, he sighs and packs up his stuff to head back to his loud, crowded dorm. I know this because every Tuesday and Thursday, I go to the library and watch from the mezzanine. I can't bring myself to resume our tutoring sessions, but neither can I stay away from Sandburg. If I pass him on campus, I get that big Sandburg smile, hear a delighted 'Jim!' and ignore the hurt as I brush past him. I don't trust myself and he doesn't deserve another large helping of freak. By mid-November, all my grades are on the border and heading south fast. Coach screams at me daily, professors warn me, my old man chimes in by phone. There is no relief, until one mid-term is postponed until after Thanksgiving. I know the coach engineered that so I could play in the Turkey Bowl. That's all anyone cares about. We win, of course. They don't call me Eagle Eye Ellison for nothing. Lots of back-slapping and cheers in the locker room. Team, press, alumni, Dad. They're all there. Get Ellison to do his thing, make us look good, then he can go back to his miserable existence. Football is king in our house, so Thanksgiving is postponed until Friday. Makes Sally grumble about priorities, but what it's what William Ellison decrees, so everyone concedes. That gives him all evening after the game to point out what I did wrong, where I could have made different plays, to ask why I didn't play up to my potential. Hard to be thankful for anything. Friday morning I slip out for a quick run to the university. I meant only to leave a note for Sandburg. Not an apology, of course, Ellisons don't do that, but just a request to resume tutoring. I have to pass the mid-term and bring up my GPA in all my classes. The critical New Year's Day games are just weeks away. The dorm's peaceful, clean, quiet. Sandburg opens his door just as I tape the note there. Shocks the hell out of me. 'Sandburg, what are you doing here?' A tentative smile wavers, then blooms into a full-fledged Sandburg grin. 'Jim! Hey, man, how are you? How's it going?' A chunk of ice falls away from my heart. God, I had forgotten how good it feels to be with the little geek. He likes me. Still. 'I missed you, man. Really. How are your classes going? Are you in an Ellison zone? Is that helping? Cause I thought of a couple of other things we could try and I know you have a mid-term coming up, right? And those papers to write in History and Soc, so maybe I could help there, too. And I want to ask you something.' A second iceberg breaks away and melts under the onslaught of Motormouth Sandburg. 'Anyway, what are you doing here? Do you need something? I could help now. I'm done studying and the library's closed for the holiday, so I can't work on my project, but it's almost done, and I was thinking that I could…' 'Sandburg,' I interrupt, 'Sandburg! Stop talking. I came to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner at my house.' I'm not sure which of us is more surprised. And, as it turns out, neither of us were as surprised as was my old man. ~*~ In the warm and welcoming way of the Ellisons, we are sitting in front of the TV, watching a procession of games, analyses, replays. My father takes one look at Sandburg, makes the barest of polite acknowledgements and returns to the game. Stephen takes his cue from Dad. When Sally comes in with another bowl of dip, Sandburg gets up and follows her back into the kitchen. Dad watches him go, then turns to me. 'Christ, where'd you find that?' 'He's my tutor, Dad, you know, the guy who's getting me through my senior year so that I can concentrate on important things like football.' 'Don't be a wiseass, Jim.' He takes another long swallow of beer and belches. 'Why couldn't you find some smart little co-ed to help you?' 'Yeah, Jim,' Stephen chimes in. 'What about Carolyn? She's smart. And pretty. And a girl. A real one, not a wannabe like Sandburg.' What could I say to that? That Sandburg doesn't assess me with an eye toward what I can do for him? That he doesn't care if I have an episode? That he never asks for anything and is pathetically grateful for the pittance I pay for his tutoring? That I've done something awful to him and he's forgiven me? That he likes me, genuinely and without ulterior motives, likes me? If I was ever going to be able to have a best friend, it would be him? I say nothing. Get up to get another beer. Sally's kitchen is a different world. She has some sappy big band music playing and a half-dozen pots and pans on the stove. She and Sandburg are laughing over something when I come in. Sandburg gives me his usual grin, which I don't return. I lean against the refrigerator and watch them pick over, wash and chop vegetables for salad. Sandburg has an apron tied around his slender waist and looks pretty proficient with a cleaver. It could almost make me smile. Sally is probably one of the few people who could rival Sandburg in the non-stop talking Olympics. She sails in and out of the swinging doors, bringing napkins and serving platters and silverware to the big formal dining room table. It takes her a few trips to realize that Sandburg is no longer talking back. His head hangs down, his hands are still. Even if I knew what to do, which I don't, I'm frozen in place. I wait for Sally to notice, to do something, to fix it. Sure enough, on her next pass through, she stops dead, takes one look at Sandburg, then turns him around and hugs him hard. Been a lot of years since I've been hugged; I can barely remember how it feels, but Sandburg seems to like it. She tips Sandburg's face up. 'Whatever is the matter, Blair?' Not a word from Sandburg for a moment. He swallows a couple of times and his chin trembles. I remember that feeling, too, when you're trying not to cry because you're a boy, because you're too old, because you're an Ellison, for crissakes. With some effort to control his voice, Sandburg blurts out, 'I miss my mom.' If there was one thing that Sally doesn't take kindly to, it's neglectful mothers who run out on their sons. She hugs Sandburg even closer, rocks him gently side to side. I can't decide if I'd rather be in her place or his. After a minute or two, I watch Sandburg pull himself together. He straightens his shoulders and gives that patented Sandburg smile. 'Sorry,' he says lightly. 'Don't know where that came from.' One deep breath and he's back chopping vegetables. Sally knows where that came from, I am sure of it. I am going to ask her tomorrow what she had found out about Sandburg. The delayed Thanksgiving celebration was as you might expect at chez Ellison: perfect, abundant, fit for a Norman Rockwell portrait. Perfect, that is, if you didn't mind the chilly atmosphere and the lack of conversation. Sandburg tried, I gave him credit. He got Stephen to talk about his college plans a bit, but got nowhere with the old man. I could see him sinking down further and further every time my dad either grunted in a non-reply or made some cutting remark. Sandburg makes no objection when I offer to drive him back to campus. We wait for the campus security to unlock the dorm, then he thanks me politely and gets out. I wait until I see a solitary light illuminate the lonely room on the sixth floor, then I drive home to my warm, loving family. 'He doesn't know about you, does he?' my old man asks. 'Wouldn't do to give him that kind of ammunition.' He turns back to the TV. 'Freak.' I don't know which one of us he's referring to, so I go to bed.
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