For All Time and Eternity
Waters From the Deep
SMASHWORDS Edition
12.03.2011
by
Sean Patrick O'Mordha
SMASHWORDS Edition prepared by Celtic Publications
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Copyright Sean Patrick O'Mordha, 2011
ISBN: 978-0-9829842-5-3
This is a work of fiction. With the exception of familiar geographical locations, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.
Ashton Michael Moore
Number one in our hearts and prayers
For All Time and Eternity
Waters From the Deep
Note:
For All Time and Eternity draws heavily on ancient writings, Hebrew and modern scripture, and commentary from the past 1000 years. In the Book of Deuteronomy 12:3–4 a person is exhorted to destroy idolatry. It adds, "You shall not do such to the LORD your God." The understanding of this verse is that a person should not erase the name of G-d. As a result, scriptural students see the words "God" and "Lord" often written as "G-d" and "L-rd". This is so that individuals will avoid the risk of sinning by erasing or defacing His name. Within Judaism, the general rabbinic opinion is that this admonition only applies to the sacred Hebrew names of G-d, not to the word "God" or “Lord”. Out of respect, and to avoid erasing G-d’s name, even in a non-forbidden way, many religious commentators continue to write the name “G-d” or “L-rd” in this manner. As a product of their teaching, so does the author.
Chapter 1
The wet pillow barely muffled the boy’s sobs as the throb in his head only intensified the searing pain in his heart. Gradually anger replaced tears as he began viciously beating the pillow. Overcome by remorse for harboring such hatred, the tears returned. So the pendulum swung, until exhaustion yielded to the empty, numbing feeling of hopeless despair.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he swung bare feet to the cold, wood floor, and then stiffly walked to the large window to stare through the rain-splattered pane at the glistening asphalt street four stories below. As he slowly opened the window a blast of cold, wet air sprayed his face and chest exposed by a ripped T-shirt.
Staring down at the street, his usually active mind was like a radio tuned between stations—nothing but dull static. He lift his left leg over the sill and out into the chilled night air.
The greatest lesson Dr. Roger Elam learned in youth was community service as reflected in an Eagle Scout project followed by a two year, church mission. Community service was as much a part of life as family, church, and work. That’s why every Tuesday and Thursday he boarded the psychedelically-painted CitiTrans bus headed for the inner city. Twice a week for eight years, he rode that particular bus, but hadn't really looked at the world beyond the badly scratched, Plexiglas window. Instead, he engrossed himself in catching up on professional journals, reviewing reports, or making notes about the direction to guide the martial arts class at the YMCA. Today he looked because of a comment his partner made that afternoon.
Roger and Solomon Friedman began a close friendship in middle school. After high school, Solomon left for Israel while Roger went on a church mission to Chicago before beginning college. The first day of graduate studies nine years later, Roger sat at a long, scratched, and well-worn, wood table across from a heavily bearded student, the payos, side locks of hair, hanging past his shoulders in a tight curl. The yarmulke on the crown of his thick, curly hair was the brilliant blue of the Jewish flag. Other than a white shirt closed at the collar but sans tie, the rest of him was clothed in black. As their eyes met, recognition was instantaneous. The professor was less than elated as the two hugged and practically danced around the room, having to clear his throat several times—loudly—to get class started.
Despite forming a partnership upon completing doctoral studies, the two saw little of one another during hectic, daily schedules. To compensate, they popped into each other’s office at least once a day to share a provoking thought.
Today, Solomon’s message delivered at he stuck a bearded head into the open door was, “Man is G-d’s only creation that can appreciate what has been made for him—if he takes the time to look.”
Standing at the bus stop a block from their office situated on a hill overlooking the city, Roger looked—really looked—at the neighborhood of shaded, well maintained, turn-of-the-century homes converted into offices, like his, or upscale condos with small landscaped and manicured yards. The curbs were packed with shiny, new cars, mostly Bimmer, Lexie, and Jag types. A pimple on the end of this prosperous nose was a battered Jeep Ranger that hadn’t seen the business end of a car wash since apparently tumbling off a Toledo transport. Unlike the professional types dominating the street, its owner was a photojournalist with as much character as his off-road transportation.
From this hillside advantage, he could see over the thousands of trees and checkerboard rooftops to the harbor and a line of grayish-black clouds rolling in from the sea. It made for a beautiful painting, but as the bus traveled into the city, the beauty rapidly faded. Trees thinned until becoming almost non-existent. The rooftops became houses and buildings not so well cared for. Each stop portrayed an incrementally depressing picture of careless deterioration. More “FOR SALE” or “FOR RENT” signs appeared. Single dwellings changed to dilapidated tenements interspersed with grungy storefronts, warehouses, burned out buildings, or weedy lots. A light rain began to splatter the bus' huge, scratched window as the thick, gray clouds darkened the demoralizing picture.
As the bus approached his stop, Roger pulled the frayed chord and moved to the back door, gripping the overhead handrail to prevent an unceremonious toss into someone’s lap. A teeth-grating screech of brakes brought the vehicle to a stop. When the back door opened with a hiss Roger grabbed the vertical, chrome bar and swung down to the sidewalk to the greetings of some boys clad in judo uniforms entering the double, front doors of the Y. That they were unafraid to wear the martial arts garb in public was a testament of how far the program had come. Detractors were few and enviously silent.
In the basement, locker room a high-spirited din ebbed and flowed as other boys quickly exchanged street clothes for the heavy, cotton uniform called a gi. Predictably came the unmistakable crack of a towel, followed by the inevitable yelp, thud of bare feet across the thin carpet, and laughter. When a clip of profanity sliced through the air, Roger coughed loudly.
“Oh, geez! Sorry, Sensei,” an embarrassed, falsetto voice squeaked from somewhere amid the locker jungle.
Profanity was all too inherent in the language of the ghetto streets. It was a way to shed childhood and appear manly before the onset of leg hair and deepening voices. At least when Roger was present the boys refrained from using such language.
Suddenly he caught the glint of a platinum-blond head flash through the door followed by the slam of a metal locker door. An eerie silence cast its shadow over the room as boys scurried to leave. Roger peeked around the edge of his row of lockers. It didn’t look good.
“Hi, Manny.”
A sullen grunt returned Roger’s greeting as the new arrival peeled off his T-shirt and slammed it into the tall, narrow cubicle. Roger watched silently as the boy continued to disrobe revealing more bruises—back, upper arms, thighs. They hadn’t come from his program.
“Trouble again?” Roger asked, sitting on the end of the dressing bench near the young man.
“Yeah,” the boy snapped curtly.
“Are you going to be okay?” Roger’s tone was gentle.
Manny spun around and glared at his teacher. The fire in those penetrating, sky-blue eyes was unsettling, but it had been there before, lately, too often. Over the years, the two had painfully worked on anger control with some success, but over the past few weeks, things had seriously digressed.
“No,” he growled, slamming the door with a loud bang, rushing past his mentor while pulling on his uniform jacket. “We’re going to be late.”
Perched on the windowsill, Manny idly bumped his heels against the brick wall while looking down at the occasional car or truck gliding passed his apartment building that faced the main street to his left. A voice penetrated the static in his mind—the radio station had become tuned in and the announcer’s message was clear.
“What’s the use, kid? This whole life thing has been one, big, meaningless joke . . . on you,” the announcer said. “Things are never going to change. What you did has bound you to a life of pain and torment. You committed a major crime. Yeah, the laws of man exonerated you, but the laws of G-d will not. No, you didn’t kill anyone, but you might as well have. Those guys will never be the same again. How many times have you dreamed of seeing them lying on the ground, crying, bleeding? You will never forget that. G-d makes people remember their sins so they feel the need to beg His forgiveness. Look at all those times you did something and asked to be forgiven. You continued to remember and feel bad. What’s the use of forgiveness if you are going to continue remembering, so why prolong the misery?”
“Go to Hell?” Manny shot back in protest.
The voice remained calm and condescending. “Hell? There is no such place. All that fire and brimstone, and screaming souls was invented thousands of years ago by pathetic Greeks to explain things they didn’t have the mental capacity to understand. Ever since, frightened, niggling men trying to cope with things beyond their grasp have held onto that lie and even embellished upon it as a way to control people. The teachers in your school are right. Man is nothing more than a complicated mass of atoms that came together over millions of years. G-d said it himself. Dust Thou are and unto dust Thou will return. That’s it. You are just so much dirt. Look at the life you exist in right now. That’s hell. Why prolong this agony? Since you are nothing but a pitiful conglomeration of atoms, why not disband them and let the process start over so the next person they form can have a shot at happiness.”
Manny felt the windowsill slide beneath him as his legs inched further out.
Manny and Roger’s friendship began when the 9-year-old first slipped into the Y’s gym looking for something to do. An impish wisp of a kid with fine, long, silver-white hair accentuated by a dark mahogany tan, his bright eyes twinkled with curiosity. It was Roger’s first day to teach martial arts and eleven boys eight to fourteen had just started warm-up exercises. Manny leaned against the wall close to the door.
“Ready for a quick exit if necessary,” Roger guessed.
While issuing warm-up instructions and counting cadence, he backed to where the boy stood.
“Want to join us?” Roger asked, keeping his back to the wary youngster.
“What is it?”
“Judo mostly. A kind of fighting.”
“Why you wearin’ PJ’s?”
“We work pretty hard. Saves time if we get tired and want to take a nap,” Roger quipped, flashing a quick, over-the-shoulder smile.
The kid looked up at Roger and broke into the wide, toothy grin that would be his trademark on better days
Walking back toward the class Roger issued a casual challenge. “Give it a try.”
“I gotta wear PJ’s?”
“Makes it easier to play.”
“Ain’t got none.”
“Got ’em at the front desk for borrowing. No charge.”
The kid bolted through the twin doors soon reappearing with a white bundle tucked under his arm. Unabashedly tossing off street clothes while standing next to the wall, the boy didn’t know how to fasten the extra-long, white belt. Still counting calisthenics Roger trotted over, knelt in front of him, wrapped, and tied it. A fiercely independent ghetto kid, he would normally rebel at such treatment. Roger’s casual manner didn’t trouble him at all. It was in, tie, and back to the group. Nothing special.
Manny joined the line. Two hours later a sweat-drenched urchin with an infectious grin showered. That was the first time Roger saw the bruises. He’d heard all the excuses before so said nothing. Not then.
Two nights a week, two hours a lesson was a lot of work, and Manny was one of the few who showed up consistently and worked, worked, worked. He borrowed one of the Y’s uniforms until Roger quietly arranged for the bony kid to be an “Assistant Sensei” and earn one to keep by conducting warm-up exercises. Afterward they’d go for a soda or ice cream. They became friends. The bruises came and went sporadically and so did the anger. The two grew close. Only then could Roger safely broach the abuse issue. Still it wasn’t easy. The fierce denial and a score of excuses muddied the discussion, but eventually, through trust, the truth came forth.
After his mother’s death, the boy’s father began hitting the bottle and Manny. In the guts of the city that was too common, and Social Services wasn’t interested because it meant taking yet another kid into custody. Then what? There was no place to put them.
Walking the three flights of stairs from the basement to the second floor gym seemed harder than usual this night for Roger. He was disheartened. Every time there was trouble and a new set of bruises appeared, it provoked a setback in Manny’s disposition. Before, his cheerfulness returned in a day or so, but since that unfortunate incident last year Manny’s depression lingered just below the surface despite repeated counseling. His primal demeanor remained morbid, dark, and ominous.
Roger quietly slipped through the double doors into the characteristic bloom of joyful bedlam. Manny stood alone in one corner. Everyone sensed his anger. Most of the kids understood too well. They had their angers, too. While impossible to give him space, they had nothing to fear. Manny never vented on other kids.
“Hey, it’s not their fault. They take enough stuff as it is. They don’t need more junk on their load,” he once explained, not exactly in those words, but that’s the way Roger preferred to remember.
On spotting Roger, the order to line up rang out followed by the mad rush of twenty-three kids scurrying to take their place in one of three horizontal ranks. Roger stepped onto the mat, bowed, and assumed his position in front as chaos evaporated into a respectful, but anxious silence.
Josh Redding, a college social works major, who joined his team last year, took the kneeling position on Roger’s left. Manny sat on Roger’s right. Both Brown belt rank, each was ready for promotion to Black belt. Manny was better, but had grown distant and unmotivated over the last couple of months. The anger grew as well. Tonight it seemed stronger than before and especially worrisome.
That first day in Roger’s class, Manny was a runt next to other boys his age. Height came grudgingly slow. Then one day Manny showed up at Roger’s house. He had visited before, for a couple hours, but this time he stayed. The bruises gradually faded.
Roger’s wife had always been appalled at the boy's condition. Sure, his muscle tone was excellent from all the workouts, but, as she said, “He’s too thin. He needs some meat to go with the muscle.” One month made a difference. By the end of nine, he’d not only filled out, but also gained a couple inches vertically. He also started acting like a normal teenager. That in alone could be disconcerting except for this kid it was such a positive move.
Unfortunately, with the sweet came the bitter. Living with the Meir’s family, he had become another son and an older brother to Roger’s children. Wherever they went or whatever family activity they undertook, Manny was included. Continuing to attend his inner-city school Manny’s grades blossomed as well. He was happier than he’d ever been until trouble unexpectedly reared its head.
As Roger swung the family van into the drive following a Sunday morning at church all the kids rubbernecked out the windows. A police car and Welfare Services van waited at the curb in front of the house. During Manny’s protracted stay with Roger and Elsa, his father had granted permission for them to seek foster home placement for the boy. That meant one less mouth to worry about feeding and more money for booze. The caseworker had been belligerent from the first, her antagonism toward their religious beliefs poorly masked. Roger persevered until she brazenly brought up the polygamy issue and all but accused him of harboring more wives.
Roger was Mormon. The polygamy issue died over 100 years before, but ignorance and bigotry hadn’t. With his face the color of the red stripes on the American flag displayed on the woman’s desk, he pushed his chair back, stood up, and left the room, going straight into the Director’s office without knocking.
The director reprimanded and quietly removed the woman from the case, but relations with Social Services spiraled downhill from there. There were other problems and irregularities, which could not go unchallenged culminating in a formal investigation of the division. That’s when they came to take Manny back. Not that his father cared. Roger had talked to him and received written permission for the boy to live with them. Social Services put pressure on him to “demand” the return of his son to avoid criminal abuse charges.
Tears flowed freely that morning. Roger’s children adored their older brother. Elsa disappeared behind their bedroom door, her sobs barely muted. Seated alone on the patio, Roger’s heart ached as he recalled Manny’s face peering out the van window as it pulled away. It was the first time he’d ever seen the boy cry, too.
That following Tuesday evening, as the regular Judo class began, Manny walked in and silently took his spot next to Roger. Later, after showering, Manny told Roger to drop the foster care plan.
“Maybe they’ll just go away and forget all about me, again. I’ll just stop by . . . to visit . . . if that’s okay?”
Roger stopped, pulled the boy close, and hugged him tightly. He could hide his tears, but not the crack in his voice as he said, “Of course.”
Manny slipped closer to the front edge of the windowsill. Misted rain splashed over his body. It was cool, but couldn’t quench the fire deep within, searing his heart. Bare feet dangling in space, he idly alternated bumping each heel against the rough, brick facade while peering down at the shiny, black street. Would he create a crater or crack the pavement when he hit, like in the cartoons? Probably not. Just a big mess, yet, four stories was a ways up.
“My luck I’d hit feet first and end up a cripple, easy prey for the ol’ man and those guys over on Van Allen Street bent on revenge,” he moaned to himself.
Gazing down at his T-shirt, anger welled up again. The picture of a little boy with the words “I'm somebody, ‘cause G-d don’t make junk,” was ripped. It had been a gift from the Elam children. He loved it as he loved them. Peeling the remnants off and balling it up, he threw it angrily, watching it arch out and down to splatter on the pavement. The movement caused him to slip a bit further. Grabbing the sill, he rooted himself.
“Oh, what the . . .” he stifled the curse word and chuckled. “Well, Mr. Kreutzer and Roger, you two did a good job. I can’t even spit out a good cuss word anymore.”
With a sigh, he pushed off the window ledge, his feet dropping to the iron fire escape platform several feet below the window, the cold ridges digging into the bottom of his bare feet. As they were sufficiently calloused, there was nothing more than a minor discomfort.
Slowly walking down the serpentine steps so as not to create undo noise, he reached the bottom platform. Swinging out onto the vertical ladder his weight would force it to the sidewalk, but the screech of the rusty pulleys would also wake the entire neighborhood, so he leaned over, grabbed a smooth, round bar along the bottom edge and let himself down. Swinging back and forth, he dangled momentarily before dropping the last few feet into a puddle of water that splashed up. It felt cold as it curled around his calves, but good.
Looking up the street toward the alley behind the apartment building, he hoped to see Cherry standing beneath the alley street light, but she wasn’t there. She hadn’t been there for several months now. Some said she’d quit and went home. Others said she’d been arrested. One rumored she’d been killed by a trick and dump in the ocean. Manny wished he knew. She had been a friend, too. A good friend.
∞
Chapter 2
Cherry’s spot was beneath the street lamp, mid-block by the alley running behind the apartment building. Manny’s dad had a fourth floor front while the girl had a second rear. That was convenient to her work. If a trick didn’t have a place to go, they went up the back stairs.
A runaway at fourteen, she looked closer to thirty than twenty, and talked using slow, simple sentences with a limited vocabulary. Drugs, booze, and men had taken their toll, but the prostitute was someone with whom Manny could confide inward feelings he felt uncomfortable sharing with anyone else.
Having an abusive background in common, whenever Manny had trouble sleeping—which lately was often as teenage hormones played their games—he’d slip down the fire escape and the two would talk. If a customer showed up, Manny walked away so they could contract business in private. If the trade was slow, they talked uninterrupted until morning light. Sometimes, local boys came around with a ten spot for a trip up the alley. Something being better than nothing, she accommodated by leading them into the dark, cave-like tunnel splitting the block. There, across from a dingy, bare light on a recessed, concrete receiving dock she’d mollify their lusting itch. Ten bucks, ten minutes, no frills.
One evening Manny tossed and turned repeatedly, his whole body tingling as if charged with electricity. Eventually he slipped quietly down the fire escape almost zombie-like and headed for Cherry’s spot. It was vacant and his heart sank until hearing muffled voices in the alley. A few minutes later, a couple guys emerged. One gave the thumbs up sign and grinned. Both giggled as they hustled away. Cherry appeared, stuffing some bills into her tiny, shoulder purse.
“Hello, Manny,” she greeted in her high, nasal pitch.
“Hi, Cherry,” he replied in a hoarse whisper as beads of sweat formed on his brow.
Manny was a mess. He was sweating, yet shivering. It felt as if something was scratching him deep within the gut while every muscle in his body drew up like a bowstring ready to snap. His mouth was dry and tongue felt swollen. His breath was shallow and rapid to match a heartbeat. Taking a deep breath, he summoned up all the courage possible.
“I got ten dollars,” he sputtered.
Cherry's smile was so slightly to be nearly invisible. “No.”
“No?” he squeaked in protest, “I’m as old as those guys.”
“Manny, you're like a brother,” she replied tenderly, stroking his cheek lightly with her fingers. “I could never do that to my brother.”
Within that tender moment an old Chevy rounded the corner. She kissed the boy on the forehead and stepped to the curb as the rusted sedan pulled up. Leaning into the opened passenger window, she began transacting a business deal as Manny turned away and disappeared into the shadowed alley. Sliding into the car she turned, smiled, and waived. He never saw her again. Sometime later, a kid with a new slingshot put the street light out.
Standing beneath the fire escape as a steady mist continued, Manny looked and hoped with all his heart to see the girl, but she wasn’t there. The street was as dark as his soul. The City didn’t make repairs around here often. “A waste of time,” they postulated sarcastically. And who could possibly make repairs to his broken heart?
Turning to the corner, the young man looked diagonally across the street where a dim light shown above the Corner Deli. At this time of night, Mr. Kreutzer was hunched over his desk, studying Torah. Over the years, Manny often sat beside him at a wooden table learning more than just to read and speak a new language. There was a room there, too, where he often stayed until his old man sobered up and asked him to come home. It had been a safe haven, until tonight.
“And don’t get any ideas of running off to that old fool across the street or I’ll put him out of business—permanently.” The last words his father spewed out before throwing him into the bedroom earlier that evening were not a hollow threat. Sober, Manny's dad was a gentle giant, but in a drunken stupor he’d hurt that beloved, old man.
Drawing up a quick breath to stifle a sob, the boy turned the corner and passed the entrance to his apartment building. As a cold gust of wind sprayed more mist in his face, he burrowed hands deeper into tight, cutoff jean pockets, hunched bare shoulders, and headed north until coming to the end of the long, block directly across from the YMCA. He stopped. The Y was one of only three places which had provided shelter and comfort, and now he was forbidden to go there as well.
As a tear trickled down his cheek he stepped from the curb splashing more water up the legs, crossing against a red light. Traffic was almost non-existent this late.
“Too, bad,” he thought, continuing a slow tour of the neighborhood. Run down by a speeding car would be an easy out, drawing out an amused vision of himself flying through the air to land unceremoniously on the hard pavement.
Roger was truly grateful to have Josh Redding working with him in the Judo class. That allowed him time to give individual attention to students. Tonight he paid special attention to Manny, but the young man’s despondency wasn’t readily apparent as he worked with the younger kids. Finally, with the first hour and a half instruction and practice finished, the time arrived everyone looked forward to most, the traditional one-one-one matches.
As the students knelt around the edge of the mat, Roger shifted his attention between the matches and Manny sitting on the opposite side of the large rice mat. He was looking for some sign of encouragement, but Manny’s eyes remained riveted to the floor at his knees. If anything, his countenance seemed to darken. It had been a while since the boy's father beat him. Obviously it happened again, but this time something seemed to trouble him worse than usual. Roger was beside himself. The authorities were disinterested and impotent. He could see the boy seemed on the edge of breaking. Despite never taking frustrations and anger out of any of the other Judo kids, what would happen when Manny went over the edge? Roger watched and fretted until it came time for his star pupil to compete. Normally a boy selected an opponent of equal or greater ability. Roger chose instead.
Josh Redding placed second in recent regional competitions against a national contender. Manny could score high points when he maintained concentration and focus, but when that didn’t happen he was as vulnerable as a lone sheep on open range. Roger sensed tonight was not going to be good. The boy might as well have shouted out his intentions before attempting execution. For that reason, Josh continually bested Manny, and out of frustrated desperation, Manny badly telegraphed a roundhouse foot sweep. For an instant, Roger thought Josh hadn’t picked up on it until inches from what would have been a terrible blow to his ankle. The college Junior hopped lightly over it while simultaneously shooting a left fist into the boy’s shoulder. This caused Manny to lean backward severely. Josh followed up with a snap of the right foot. Manny had left himself wide-open, left foot high in the air, precariously balanced on the right. Josh’s foot swept away that lone contact with earth. Manny landed on the mat with a devastating impact everyone around the mat felt as well as heard.
The expression of surprise on his face reflected the fight for air. Arching his back several times, Manny gasped before rolling onto his knees. Roger was on the verge of jumping to his side, but fought down the urge. He had a proclivity to “mother” these kids, too much. Besides, in Manny’s state of mind he would spiral completely out of control.
Within a minute Manny began breathing more normally, staggered to his feet, shook off the effects, and went right at Josh again. Roger was always amazed at his resiliency. Now Manny attacked, blindly charging as Josh retreated backward. Reaching out as if to stop the charge by pushing against his opponent’s chest Josh suddenly rolled onto his back pulling Manny down with him. Planting a foot on the hip, Manny was hurdled up and over to crash almost spread eagle on his back above Josh’s head—Tomonagi—the “cowboy throw,” but Josh didn’t follow through. He should have continued rolling backward which would have placed him in a sitting position on Manny’s chest to apply a double chokehold. Instead, Josh hopped up and readied for another stupid mistake while casting a furtive look toward Roger. What to do? Let Manny win? Just defend or beat the pulp out of him? Josh didn’t know. Neither did Roger. This was one of those no win situations he really hated. He halted the match.
“What are you doing?” Manny screamed hysterically. “I can take him.”
“I want some time to play, too, Manny.” Roger replied with tender calmness.
The boy just stood rigid, staring at Roger. Chest convulsing violently, he began to hyperventilate, and then tears welled up, spilling down his cheeks. The anger vaporized as a drop of water in a hot pan as the boy buried his face on Roger’s chest. Clutching the long, tangled, white mop of hair Roger held him close. Every kid in the room watched in silence as Roger escorted the sobbing boy from the mat to a quiet corner as Josh took over and proceeded through the closing ceremony.
Each participant cast a quick, unobtrusive glance toward the pair seated in a remote corner as they left the gym, respecting their space. At one time or another most had been there, too.
The Y really had been a salvation, giving him alternatives to a dead-end, ghetto existence. With head bowed, long, straight strands of hair plastered over his face, Manny continued walking north. The next couple blocks were nothing but a series of stores where weary people attempted to eke out an existence, locking their precious goods behind a folding, iron gate each night to go to what they called home, a more or less dingy apartment not unlike his own. Occasionally the shop windows were permanently boarded up—a sign of futility’s victory.
Suddenly the ramshackle facades gave way to a rusty, badly bent, chain linked fence encircling a vacant, corner lot. It had been a car dealership, or so the old people said, “Burnt up one night. A real sight. Flames as high as the old hotel. All kinds of explosions inside.”
The owners had the debris hauled away and the ground leveled off. That was in the days property was worth something, but no one bought it until lost to back taxes. No one knew who owned it now. No one cared. The kids used its gravely surface as a playground, mostly baseball using a Whiffle Ball because the real thing flew too far and hit things it shouldn’t. Somehow, there was always a ball available. In his early years, Manny spent lots of time watching other kids play. Always too small, they didn’t let him participate much. That was the impetus to become more active in Judo. Size didn’t matter.
Coming to the corner, he stopped short and stared at the building across the street. Behind a new, reinforced, chain linked fence with a razor wire top, the abandoned Excelsior Hotel loomed six stories into the black night. It had almost gotten him. Others weren’t so fortunate. Older residents called it Hell’s Castle. Straining to see the penthouse on top Manny wondered if Benny’s ghost was up there, as some swore. Using a secret entrance, gangs still used it as part of their initiation, and there were those stupid enough to go inside that harbinger of death on their own.
Closed, abandoned, vandalized, and gutted by scavengers it was still dangerous, but Benny had made it home. The penthouse was actually much as it was in the old days, except dingy from age. That’s where he lived, worked, and entertained. Then something evil moved in. Manny was there when it happened. He felt an icy sensation as the malevolent thing passed his hiding place.
Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck bristled a warning. Shoulder brushing the fence in a futile attempt to keep away from the castle, he turned the corner and walked head bent down along the vacant lot. He moved faster toward the next corner, but invisible, icy tentacles stretched out to encircle his soul, trying to ensnare him again. Manny began to run. Despite the cool drizzle, sweat peppered his brow. His legs felt weak and rubbery. Breathing became laborious. Despite being in perfect condition, he could barely move. Rounding the corner, he fought desperately against the invisible force trying to drag him back toward the edifice. It had captured him once, but he escaped. It still wanted him. Suddenly something splattered on the pavement at the foot of the hotel—a brick? He bolted into the shadow of the first building next to the vacant lot and broke free.
Leaning against the metal gate protecting the business, Manny doubled over fighting to regain his breath, as the bump on his temple pound painfully. That’s when he detected the sound. There was something in the alley next to where he stood, something approaching,—a thin, sporadic shuffle—something incorporeal coming toward him. Manny lurched to the center of the wide sidewalk and took a defensive stance just as he had done before. Just as before!
That dreadful memory pounced upon him from deep within where he so painstakingly buried it. He didn’t want trouble. He was minding his own business, returning from an errand for Mr. Kreutzer.
“Not again!” he groaned to himself.
A puff a wind whipped a ball of brown wrapping paper out of the alley. Manny watch it blow into the street, listening to its raspy shuffle, wondering why it wasn't wet. He chuckled, first to himself, then audibly. Again, he bent over gripping his knees for support, slowly shaking his head in relief. Gradually his heartbeat returned to near normal as did his breathing. Gathering himself together, he headed back toward his dad's apartment, trying to push the nightmare back where it belonged, wishing the headache would join it.
Rounding the last corner, he came to the alley behind his apartment building. He glanced toward Mr. Kreutzer’s second story window. The lights were off. It would be after 11:30. Torah study finished, the old gentleman retired until five, ready to greet the first customer at seven with a cheery smile, a hot cup of coffee, and a bagel fresh from the oven. Manny wanted to say goodbye to him, too, but the old man could see into the boy's heart and stop him. He was very persuasive.
Manny’s eyes slowly ascended the fire escape to his own window, debating whether to return there or go to his room down the hall from Mr. Kreutzer as he had so many times before.
“No, that would resolve nothing,” he thought as another wave of depression passed over him. “Besides, I can’t let any harm to come to Mr. Kreutzer.”
His eyes continued upward until gazing at the black hole that had once been a street light. He wondered about Cherry. He really wanted to talk to her. She was a good listener, and just talking out loud afforded Manny the opportunity to hear himself and work out the problem.
Chapter 3
The practice room became strangely silent after Josh hustled the last student out. Seated in a far corner, Roger was startled and concerned at how violently Manny’s whole body quaked as deep-rooted bitterness retched itself to the surface. Once seemingly freed, a silence enveloped and bore down like a heavy weight so that the two made their way down to the dressing room in silence. At the second level, they stopped briefly to peer through the round, glass window in the gym door. Beyond, a dozen kids were engaged in a half court, pickup game of round ball. When a couple of incoming participants acknowledged Manny, there was a delayed response. The anger was gone, but he seemed preoccupied and distant. Roger worried. Once, years earlier Manny began retreating into a make-believe world as an escape. That might be expected in a troubled pre-adolescent, but become real problematic with a sixteen-year-old.
“Wanna shoot some hoops?” one of the boys asked.
“Huh? Oh, no thanks. I need to pump some iron.”
Keeping turned so they could not see the red, swollen eyes, Manny continued down the stairwell with Roger in pursuit to the empty, basement, weight room; empty except for the smell of stale sweat permeating the air. It rankled Roger’s nose. The janitors kept the building clean, but not even a new air vent seemed able to handle the pervasive smell.
“Man, these things hold a lot of water,” Manny said, dropping his heavy, cotton jacket on the floor.
“That will add to the problem,” Roger joked to himself.
As a counselor, Roger instinctively knew when to listen so sat on the end of a weight bench and waited. Manny silently cinched up the heavy leather, lifter’s belt, and lay on one of the narrow benches at the Universal. Reaching over his head, he set the weight pin at 200 pounds. With exaggerated huffs and puffs he began the first set of ten lifts, each press executed effortlessly. Before starting a second set of ten lifts Manny remained sprawled on the bench, allowing appropriate time for his muscles to recuperate and work on breath control.
“How much do you weigh now?”
“One-eighty-seven.”
“Not bad. You’re pressing over your weight.”
“That’s nothing.” Reaching over his head, he pulled the adjustment pin out, reinserting it in the 250-pound hole. Adjusting himself under the bars, he took several deep breaths and began pushing upward. Steadily the weights moved to their apex then down, back up and down, stopping after completing a eighth lift and then using measured breathing to replenish the cells.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time around here.”
“I guess. There’s a lot of stuff a guy can do on the streets. Most aren't exactly uplifting. Beats walking around or wasting time just hangin’ out.”
After completing two more sets of ten at the original two-hundred pounds, he sat up, wiped the sweat from the bench with a small towel, and moved to the incline. Setting it at the steepest angle, he locked toes under the stirrup pads with his head on the bottom end, and began sit-ups.
“How many of these do you usually do?’
“I do fifty at this angle, but tonight’s a twenty-five count.” He did three sets, again resting between each.
Returning to the Universal he toned legs and arms, working different muscle groups, religiously following a routine set up with the Y’s weight trainer. From there Manny moved to the showers to rinse off the sweat prior to 20 laps in the pool, which was more to Roger’s liking. His own modified weight lifting program was boring and ill followed. Afterwards they slipped into the Jacuzzi.
“You’ve come a long, long ways since that skinny, little street kid walked into my class and thought he’d be runt of the century forever.”
“Yeah. Didn’t seem like anything would happen,” he replied before slowly submerging for a long minute.
So, how tall are you now, six foot?”
“Nah. Not quite five-eleven, but like Elsa says, give a plant nourishment and love and it’ll grow.” Manny’s mood suddenly darkened. “It’s getting time to close this place. We better shower.”
“Oh, bother!” Roger chided himself. “You blew that. I’ve got to get him to open up.”