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Mr. Sparks by SF Johnston
(Installment ONE of FOUR)
The folks in Carmine had a name for the electric chair in the state prison down the road. They called it Mr. Sparks. Now, the good State of New York arranged for Robert Drake to meet Mr. Sparks on September 21st, 1937, and the resulting scandal turned Carmine inside out.
But this isn't a history lesson. This is about Robert's son Bobby, who was only 11 and never should have been there.
***
Well, a lot of things should never have been. Four years earlier, Bobby's father had been down on one knee at the door to their apartment, his hands on Bobby's shaking shoulders.
"Don't cry, son." Bobby forced a choking sob back down into his throat, and his father looked past him to his mother. Bobby looked back too, and there she was, all hard and smoky, standing dry-eyed by a sink full of dirty dishes with her cigarette.
She glared at them both.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" said his father.
His mother picked a shred of tobacco from the tip of her tongue, examined it briefly and then flicked it onto the floor. "Get out."
His father looked at the floor for a minute, then brought his face up to Bobby's. His normally piercing eyes were wet with confusion, and this made Bobby want to cry all the harder.
"Please. Don't cry, son. Big boys don't do that. You know I love you. But a boy should be with his mother."
These were that last words Bobby heard Robert Drake say before the door closed, his cheek still tingling from his father's kiss.
***
Ralph––who worked at the bowling alley under their apartment and rained down random violence like a cancerous God––moved in with them that very night. Ralph's anger was a bonfire of hate, and mostly what Bobby remembered about the following five years were the rumble of bowling balls from below and Ralph's towering rages from above.
Ralph left Atlantic City the next day, stealing most of the contents of the apartment in his truck and heading south, nobody knew exactly where. The neighbors from apartment 3A made some frantic calls from the post office and sent Bobby to a series of one-night stays with friends-of-friends in Philadelphia, Scranton and Syracuse. Bobby finally found himself on a Greyhound Yellow Coach rumbling through a thunderstorm on Route 20 in upstate New York. To Carmine, where Mr. Sparks was running the show.
***
The bus pulled into Carmine station at exactly 7:45 pm, and Bobby ran out into the storm before the doors had fully opened, toting a small cloth bag that contained one change of clothes and a police academy graduation picture of his father. He looked around quickly, but his father was nowhere to be seen. Then a noise made Bobby turn around.
A mother and her two small girls were getting off the bus, and the littlest girl had slipped on the steps. She was sitting, wailing, in a large puddle by the door of the bus while her mother was struggling to keep control of her other daughter, who was straining to get away after sitting for so long. Bobby ran over, lifted the girl from the puddle, and brushed the muddy water off her coat.
"What's your name?" he asked, and smiled at her.
"Theresa," she said. Her wails had subsided to sniffling, and she managed a small smile herself.
"Well, Theresa, I'm Bobby." He brushed a lock of wet hair out of her face, and held his bag over her head to stop the worst of the rain. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm three."
"Really?" said Bobby with enthusiasm. "Me too!"
"Theresa looked at him seriously for a moment, then grinned brightly. "No…you're not three!" she said, and giggled. "I'm three! You're not three!"
They both laughed as Theresa's mother appeared beside them. She crouched down in front of Theresa, still holding on to the other girl, who had calmed down and was now smiling shyly at Bobby. "Are you alright, honey?"
"Yes, can Bobby come home with us?"
"No, dear, and we have to get out of this rain." She stood, holding her daughters' hands. "Thank you so much," she said to Bobby. "You are very kind."
"It was no trouble, ma'am."
"These two are so wild––oh…look girls, there's your father."
The older girl began straining at her mother's hand again, and the three of them made their way quickly towards a waiting sedan. The mother threw a grateful look behind her and to his surprise, Bobby's chest heaved, followed by a sudden, strong urge to break into tears. Nobody would see in all this rain.
He pushed the feeling down, took another look around for his father and then turned up his coat collar and walked through the rain to the door of the station.
The station was smaller and smelled mustier than the one in Atlantic City. Iron-backed benches lined both walls, and at the back was an old ticket counter at which an even older looking woman was leaning on a cane and complaining about the price of a ticket to Rochester. The ticket agent was dressed in a dark blue suit and cap, with hangdog eyes that made his face look drawn and tired.
The only other person in the place was an obese man in a green suit who was sitting on one of the benches, rolling a cigarette. His enormous stomach protruded grotesquely and his spindly legs were splayed apart, so that he looked like a giant frog. He lit his cigarette, took two gasping draws, and then unfurled a newspaper in front of his face. He held his cigarette between the first and second fingers of his right hand, the glowing tip hovering perilously close to the paper.
Bobby shook the rain off his coat, slicked back his hair and sat down on a bench across from Mr. Frog. The iron backing was uncomfortable, and he leaned forward to place his small bag on the floor. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and he should have been hungry, but the thought of finally seeing his father again had given him butterflies, and he was too nervous to think about food. He looked over at Mr. Frog in time to see the paper jump as the door to the station crashed open and slammed against the wall.
A wild-haired man burst in, his long, dirty coat sweeping behind him trailing water. He had a thick, matted beard and his large, bloodshot eyes searched the room frantically. He stormed up to Mr. Frog and snatched the newspaper out of his hands.
Mr. Frog looked up in fright and blinked once. Bobby saw that the cigarette in his hand was shaking. The wild-haired man looked at the front page of the paper for a moment, and then threw it down in disgust at Mr. Frog's feet.
"Christ!" he shouted, and then pointed to the ticket agent. "Telephone!"
The ticket agent took a step backwards. "Uh…you should…that is to say…the restaurant down the road is where you can…er…it's called Fay's. Fay's Restaurant." His voice was thin, like he didn't have enough breath in his lungs. He took another step back, and bumped into a small table that had been pushed against the back wall. "There's a phone there in the back."
"No!" said the man, rushing over to the ticket agent. He slammed a meaty fist on the counter, and the old lady scuttled out of the way, her cane clacking on the tile floor. "Your phone." He pointed to a large black telephone on the table beside the ticket agent.
"Look," said the ticket agent, swallowing hard. "I'm not…I mean…we're not supposed to…you see…Fay's is just down the road and…"
"Christ on a stick!" yelled the man. He started to climb up over the counter but then stopped up short as a loud voice cut through the room.
"Hey!"
A policeman was standing in the doorway, his gleaming nightstick half drawn, and a gun in a belt worn high on his waist. He was thin, with an air of confident, wiry strength and Bobby's eyes widened. He quickly reached down and pulled the photograph out of his bag. The man looking out from the picture was slim, with a noble face accented by an aquiline nose, a high brow and the piercing eyes that Bobby remembered so well. Bobby looked back at the policeman.
My father.
"There a problem here, Chester?" said the policeman, speaking to the ticket agent but looking at the wild-haired man.
"Nothing we need you for," replied Chester, more confidence in his voice now. "This gentleman was just heading out to use the phone at Fay's."
"That right, mister?" said the policeman.
The wild-haired man seemed to weigh his options for a moment, then placed his fists on his hips.
"Yeah," he said. His voice was acid with contempt. "Sure it is. And how do I get to the prison, cop?"
"There's lots of ways, mister," said the policeman. He drew his nightstick completely out of its holster and started walking towards the man. "And talking to me like that is one of them."
The wild-haired man's eyes darted to the open doorway and then back to the policeman, who had stopped inches in front of him.
"Prison's up the road, past Fay's," said the policeman carefully. "You come in on the last bus?" The man nodded slowly.
"Then you passed it on the way in." He stepped aside slowly, allowing the man clear access to the door. "Go on now."
The man held the policeman's gaze for a moment, then walked to the door. Bobby felt a surge of pride. Robert Drake was taking care of business.
"And I don't want to hear about any trouble over at Fay's, you hear?"
The wild-haired man turned on his heels and spat a glob of green mucous onto the floor. "Carmine," he said. "You can all go straight to hell."
He stalked out, leaving the door wide open, and rain spattered in from the street but nobody crossed the room to shut it.
The policeman holstered his nightstick and turned back to the others in the room. "Anybody want to say anything?"
Nobody said anything.
"Chester?" The ticket agent shook his head.
"Cora?" The old woman glared at him and then looked at the floor.
"Earl?" Mr. Frog turned his head away. The room remained strangely quiet. "Okay, then," he said, and turned to look at Bobby.
"Hi," he said, walking over. "You're Bobby."
"Yes sir."
"You've got the Drake eyes," he said, pointing at his own face. I'd recognize them anywhere. Welcome back to the family, son."
Bobby beamed and stood up, his heart pounding. His father––Robert Drake Sr.––had just saved them from a crazy man, and Bobby had never felt prouder in his life.
"I'm Joe," said the policeman.
Bobby's eyebrows furrowed, and he sat down quickly, unsure of what to do.
"Your father's brother."
Bobby looked at him blankly.
"Your Uncle Joe?"
"Oh. Yes sir." Bobby had never heard of an Uncle Joe in his entire life. Joe glanced at the picture in Bobby's hand and ran a hand over his face. He reached into his right front trouser pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of lined paper. "Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Sayles. They were your neighbors in Atlantic City, right?" he said.
Bobby nodded.
"Didn't they tell you what was going on here, Bobby?"
"No sir."
Joe sat down on the bench. Bobby, out of the corner of his eye, saw Earl pick up his newspaper, then lift his massive frame to a standing position and walk over to Cora and Chester.
"Bobby, it's like this," said Joe. "Robert really wanted to be here. But he couldn't. He––"
"He's a traitor, that's what he is," roared Earl. He threw his cigarette to the floor and stepped on the butt. "And you're talking a load of bunk if you say any different."
Joe closed his eyes and Bobby heard him swear under his breath before speaking. "Easy now, Earl. I'm still on duty here. If––"
"Duty!" Earl yelled. "You boys and your duty. You might be a cop to people like that idiot stranger," he said, shaking his rolled up newspaper at the door. "But to us…?" He looked at Cora and Chester, who shook their heads in derision. "To us you're nothing. Like that damn brother of yours."
Bobby felt a surge of anger course through him. "What did you say?" He jumped to his feet. "What did you say about my father?" He started to move towards the counter.
Joe grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Let's leave Robert out of this." Bobby shook off Joe's arm, but stayed where he was.
"Well, well," said Earl, sweeping his open palm in a wide arc, presenting Joe and Bobby as objects on display. "Joe here would like us to leave Robert out of this."
Then Cora spoke, her voice stronger and meaner than Bobby had expected. "Joe, you just may be a bigger fool than that brother of yours." She slammed the bottom of her cane onto the floor with such force that the hanging folds of wrinkled skin under her arm were still undulating as she continued.
"Don't you get it yet? Robert is this. He's––"
She paused, apparently too angry to speak. Then she regained her composure. "Personally, I can't believe you're still in Carmine. I'm surprised the Chief hasn't pulled your badge already."
"You got that right, Cora," said Chester from behind the counter, gathering steam from the others. "And as for him…" He jabbed an ink-stained index finger at Bobby. "Bad apples aren't likely to fall far from the tree, now, are they?" There wasn't a trace of a smile on his face, but his eyes were shining, and Bobby knew that the man was enjoying himself. He'd seen Ralph's eyes look like that.
Bobby took a step forward. "That man who came in here was crazy," he said. "Joe just––"
"No, sir," said Earl, interrupting him. "Them bad apples don't fall far. No, they do not." He chuckled, and his huge stomach shook. "Why don't you run along home to your Mama, little man, and––"
"Earl!" shouted Joe. "That's enough!"
Bobby became very quiet and he took two deliberate steps forward, fixing onto Earl's eyes with his own. A line had been crossed, and something about Bobby had changed. Everybody saw it, and Earl managed about five seconds before starting to look uncomfortable. He glanced over at Cora and Chester, but they weren't saying anything now, so he had no choice but to turn back to Bobby, whose eyes were burning into him.
"Kid," he said with an uneasy laugh. "Do you––"
"Joe?" said Bobby, still staring at Earl. "I want to see my father."
"I know," said Joe. He took Bobby's arm and led him away. Bobby kept his eyes on Earl, and backed across the room to the still-open door until the worn, rain-soaked mat just inside the room squelched as he stepped on it. He took a final look at Earl, Cora and Chester, and then spat on the ground, his spider web spittle looking fragile beside the wild-haired man's green glob.
"Bobby," said Joe. "Don't do that." Bobby saw a trace of a smile on the corners of his mouth. "Lets go see your father."
Joe closed the door to the station behind them.
TO BE CONTINUED... (Installment TWO appearing in Fall 2007 Issue) SF Johnston © 2007 |
