I couldn’t very well push John home in his chair and handle my bike as well, nor was he able to maneuver my bike from his chair as I pushed him. He called his mother and we arranged that someone eventually would drive me back to school when it was time for me to go home, and I’d either ride my bike from there or they’d take me and my bike home in the car.
John lived in a pleasant neighborhood not far from the school. It was generally downhill from the school to his house and I spent most of my time holding the chair back rather than pushing it. I decided rather quickly it was harder doing this than it would be pushing the chair, probably even harder than pushing it uphill to the school. John was grinning all the way, and I had no idea why. It was only when I knew him better that I found out he had brakes he could apply to the wheels, and that when Terry pushed him home John applied them lightly so Terry had to barely control the chair at all. I didn’t know about John’s devious sense of humor back then, or that he liked to use his infirmity against the rest of us when he could.
John lived in a large house with a freshly mowed lawn. The green expanse was quite impressive. It was large enough that several trees broke up the uniformity and there was enough space that they weren’t crowded. Manicured bushes stood in front of the house and it appeared likely that, in season, flowers would be brightening the entry scene, too, as there were places set aside around the bushes and trees that looked like flower beds.
John had me push him to the front stoop, then stop. He then rose from the chair and after stretching and shaking his legs, walked up the three flagstone steps onto the porch. “Can you bring the chair up here?” he asked.
I turned it around and pulled it up backwards. He had me leave it several feet down from the front door on the porch so it wouldn’t be a bother to anyone coming or going. Then he opened the door and we walked into the house.
It was cool inside, which I appreciated after having worked up a sweat helping him home; I could just make out the low hum of a central air conditioner’s fan. We were in a tiled entryway. To one side a hallway led back into interior rooms of the house. On the right was a large living room with a cut pile carpet in a light beige color. Comfortable chairs were scattered around and an overstuffed couch was placed so anyone sitting there faced a large picture window looking out over the front lawn.
I was looking at the room and thinking how inviting it appeared when John said, “Let’s go back this way,” and led me down the hall. I could see the kitchen at the end of it, but we didn’t go that far. John stopped about halfway along the hall and stepped into a room there.
“This is my room,” John said. “The ’rents didn’t want me having to climb stairs all the time and maybe falling—not a good thing for me—so they converted the den to a bedroom. They even put in a separate bathroom for me. Look around all you want, I’m going to use the john. You want to go first?”
I shook my head, and he walked across the room and through a door on one side, which he closed after him. I took the opportunity to look around.
Instead of carpeting, it had a smooth vinyl tile floor. I thought that might be so he could use his wheelchair in here more easily if he ever needed to do that. I remembered John had dealt with more than one broken leg in his life, and realized this floor would be more convenient in that situation, also. I saw he had a computer desk and chair with casters; a tile floor would make using that much easier.
The room was set up with just about everything he might want, as far as I could see. He had a computer, a large TV set, a video game system, a stereo system, CD and DVD players. He had several bookshelves filled with both paperbacks and hardcover books, another that seemed full of video games, cassettes and the like. One bookcase I noticed had several rather thin books in it that all had matching covers that appeared to be leather. I wondered if these could be the journals he’d told me about. There were enough of them that I realized he must have spent a lot of time writing.
The room was painted in two colors, with three walls in eggshell white and the fourth a bright but an easy-on-the-eyes and brightening shade of blue. I knew a little about color—it was a large part of my dad’s profession—and I realized this room was painted so as to lift the spirits while still providing a sense of calm. Altogether, I thought, this was a happy and comfortable room.
John had a double bed that was positioned with the head against the blue wall. Sitting beside the computer desk so as to be convenient were a couple of work tables the same height as the desk. There were also two chairs which I guess were there in case he had visitors. It was a large room, so even with the furniture, it didn’t appear cluttered. For that matter, it didn’t look like a typical teen’s room, either, because it was conspicuously tidy. There were no clothes on the floor, no sports or band posters on the walls, the bed was made and everything was shipshape. There was one large window that overlooked what appeared to be a side yard with a tall fence running along behind it. Some sort of ivy-like plant was growing on the fence, providing privacy for both the yard and John’s window.
I heard the toilet flush, and in a few minutes John came back into the room. I was so used to seeing him in his chair, it seemed strange to me to see him enter the room walking, even if this wasn’t the only time I’d seen it.
“What would you like to do, Tim? I’ve got a lot of games and movies. But, before we do any of that, I’d suggest a snack. I usually get one first thing after school. Are you hungry?”
Was I hungry? I was a growing teen who hadn’t eaten since lunch, about four hours ago. Of course I was hungry.
We headed to the kitchen. I followed John, watching him. I was looking for something unusual or different about the way he walked but couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary at all. The only thing strange about following him was, usually when I follow people, I can’t see past them. John was actually short enough that I could see over his head. That almost never happened with kids my own age.
In the kitchen, we met John’s mom. She was a large woman wearing an apron and a bright, happy smile. She had curly brown hair that looked soft and was cut fairly short, a large reddish face that was completely open and friendly, and she had a comfortable air about her. She was one of those people you took an immediate liking to. She was genuine, there seemed to be no mystery about her, and she had a warmth that drew you to her.
“Welcome, Tim. I’m so happy to meet you. John has mentioned you, and I just want to say, please come over any time you want. I’m hoping we see a lot more of you. Now, what can I make for you?”
We ended up with some cold fried chicken and apple pie. It was delicious. My dad and I cook for ourselves and while we do all right, neither of us is a fabulous cook. The chicken had some flavoring I couldn’t identify but was cooked perfectly and delicious—still moist and also tender and flavorful and just right. The pie had the perfect sweetness, something I don’t often find with apple pie, and the crust was very flaky and light and had just a slight bite of salt that was wonderful. When I was done, I decided I wouldn’t mind eating there a lot more often.
I told John’s mom how much I’d enjoyed everything and how really good it was, and she actually blushed and smiled and thanked me for being so polite. I wasn’t just being polite; I meant it.
John and I decided to play a video game. We chose one we could play together as partners, one we were both very familiar with so we could talk and play almost unconsciously. It turned out we had similar tastes in popular music, too, and he put on a CD as background, turned low enough so we could hear it but it didn’t intrude on our conversation.
We talked, just chatting, nothing serious, till I made an idle remark that I wouldn’t have made if I hadn’t been feeling so comfortable. I liked spending time with John. He was easy to be with, and I liked sitting playing a game with someone I could now call a friend, something I hadn’t done for a long time. I liked eating really good food that I didn’t have to prepare myself, and I guess I was just feeling good. Too good. So, I let my guard down.
“John, I’m really enjoying this. Thanks for having me over. You probably do this all the time, but I don’t and this is really good. Thanks.”
“No, you’re wrong, Tim.”
“Huh? How am I wrong?”
“I don’t do this all the time. In fact, I rarely do this. Other than Terry, I almost never have anyone over here, and Terry’s really busy. He picks me up in the morning and pushes me to school sometimes, but usually Mom drives me.”
“But don’t you have friends over? Surely you have friends?”
“Not really. I’ve told you, most kids aren’t interested in someone who’s different, especially if he has problems and can’t do what they do. They avoid me. I can’t run around like they can and I have to be careful all the time. Also, my personality doesn’t attract a lot of kids. I can be sharp or sarcastic. A lot of kids can be like that, but when it comes from a kid in a wheelchair, they don’t know how to respond to me. If you, for instance, get sarcastic with someone and they take it wrong, they can take a swing at you. They don’t feel they can do that with me, and they even get uncomfortable saying anything back to me, so most of them just leave me alone.”
He said this looking straight at me, almost challenging me. There was no sense of him feeling sorry for himself at all. I looked back at him, not feeling sympathy, maybe because I had my own problems, maybe because I just didn’t think he needed sympathy. The way he carried himself––he was an independent, strong-willed kid who was just who he was. He didn’t apologize for his personality and didn’t ask an inch from anyone. No, sympathy didn’t seem something he wanted from me, and I didn’t feel it for him, either.
“Well, I don’t know about any of those guys, but you seem okay to me. I think they’re the ones missing out not knowing you, more than you’re missing out not being with them.”
I said this with some heat, some conviction in my voice. I really meant it.
John looked a little surprised. He didn’t respond, just stared at me, and I met his eyes. We held the look, and then both looked down at the same time, maybe to keep from blushing, maybe from something else. My thoughts were sort of jumbled. I realized what I’d said was rather complimentary and personal and not something you usually said to another boy. The silence that ensued was a little uncomfortable.
Watching John feel uncomfortable with my rather emotional outburst, if that’s what was concerning him, it occurred to me again that I liked both John and Terry a lot, but differently. They seemed to fill different roles. Terry seemed like he was going to be a solid friend who would always be trying to see what was inside me, but in a way to be supportive and helpful. He was a figure of strength for me already, someone to rely on, someone I could count on to be there for me.
John, on the other hand, was something else entirely. There was a mystery about him, an unknown quality. He didn’t talk about himself at all, other than to talk reluctantly about his ailment when pressed. He didn’t offer his views of things. Yet he certainly had them. He wrote journals, maybe wrote as much or more than I did by the looks of his bookcase.
To create a journal, you had to write your observations and thoughts. You had to be critical in describing things and discussing how they appeared. It was common to include whether you approved or disapproved and why, and whether you liked what you were critiquing or didn’t. The entry should include how it affected you and others. If you thought something should be changed, no matter whether it was good or bad, you should specify how.
All this took judgment and decision and a strong sense of self. So John certainly had depth in him. But he kept that part of himself private. It suddenly occurred to me, so did I. I wondered why he did that. I knew why I did. I didn’t know his reason.
But I liked that mystery he had. There was a word I’d read recently and looked up—I tend to look up a lot of words; I like using the odd ones, too— that I liked and that seemed to fit John like a glove. The word was ‘enigma’. John was an enigma, and I liked that about him. Thinking about that, I wondered why, because I really didn’t know him. I knew I was attracted to his looks—who could help but be?—but there was more than that. I recognized something in his character that I found really appealing. He had that depth, there was no question about that, but I really wanted to understand it.
With all that, both of us being reserved and in many ways closed off individuals, we still seemed to fit on some unacknowledged and unexplainable level. Maybe this was what was meant when someone talked about two people having chemistry between them.
I felt no threat from him, maybe because he didn’t ask questions of me that required my usual guarded behavior. I was very comfortable talking to him, being with him.
As soon as that occurred to me, John asked a question that made a liar out of my thoughts.
“What about you? Who are your friends?”
He was probably just following up on our conversation, politely playing the question I’d asked him back to me, but my defenses went up immediately.
“Oh, I just moved here and haven’t got to know that many people yet. I will, though. I’m already getting to know you and Terry. Hey, you haven’t given me anything to read of yours yet. Why don’t you pick something out?”
Okay, that might not have been the smoothest segue in the world, but I’d needed to change the subject and that’s how I did it. He did give me an odd glance, but he stood up and walked to his desk, his question apparently forgotten. On the way he casually remarked, “Oh, by the way, Tim, I read your story last night.”
Oops. That certainly caught me off guard. After looking into his eyes and having him look back into mine, I’d become a little nervous because I’d not been able to read what I was seeing. Now we were going to talk about my story, about my writing, a subject I cared deeply about. John was going to tell me what he thought about it, and what he thought would be important to me.
I was already nervous, and knowing that what was coming could be really bad didn’t help that any. I don’t know why, but I just wasn’t ready at the moment to hear a critique of my writing. It was as if I needed a moment to prepare for it. I think it was because I had a feeling John would be not only a much more keen reader than Terry had been, but also that while Terry seemed to go overboard being protective and supportive, John didn’t seem the type to take that into account at all, and I was sure he’d be honest with his appraisal and hold no punches. He wouldn’t merely be honest—he’d be blunt. Still, I wanted to hear John’s reaction. And I didn’t. I wasn’t ready, but I wanted to hear. I felt unprepared, though. I wasn’t sure if I could handle bad news.
But I didn’t want to show that. Who wants to show weakness? “Oh?” I said after a moment, speaking with indifference. I thought I’d pulled it off pretty well.
Then I looked up at John, and he was grinning at me.
“Well, if you’re not interested in what I think about it, I guess I just won’t say anything.”
Son of a bitch! I guessed I was still transparent, and I guessed John was still John. He liked to yank people’s chains, and perhaps he was insightful enough to see this was the perfect way to yank mine. It wasn’t hard for me to guess that he was more than ordinarily perceptive.
“Not to worry,” he said, enjoying my discomfort, maybe seeing it was more than just discomfort I was feeling. “It was great! You’re really good, Tim. I’m very impressed. You’ve done a lot of writing to be able to pull that off the way you did, and I’ll bet you worked hard on that. That wasn’t a first draft I read. That was polished and accomplished writing.”
I was really pleased. In fact, I think I started glowing a little, hearing that. John wasn’t one to throw empty flattery around, and I didn’t think he’d make up something like that just so I’d feel good. In fact, I knew he wouldn’t. I was sure he meant what he said—that he genuinely thought the story was well written—and I was both elated and relieved.
He continued. “I don’t agree with Terry, though. He thought the story was sort of a statement you were making about death. He thought you were thinking about it, maybe even considering it. I didn’t read it that way at all. To me, your main character was using death as a metaphor for emptiness and nothingness in his life, not literal death.”
That hit me like a sledgehammer. How did he see that? How could he? I thought my intentions with the story were so well hidden, no one would see them. I was shocked he’d correctly interpreted what I’d thought was well disguised in the story. Just how smart was this kid?
And, how perceptive? That was the thought that stunned me.
I wondered if that ability, that perception, extended to real life. What could he see in me? He’d already found me transparent when I tried to hide things from him. Now this. I suddenly felt I couldn’t hide anything from him. And that didn’t just scare me, it terrified me. More than I could handle.
I didn’t know what to say. I’m sure my face registered my shock. I’d spent so long being private and keeping myself to myself. The sudden possibility that I might be an open book to someone was like a slap in the face, and like any hard slap, it shook my foundations.
My heart began to race. I’d built that brick wall around me for a purpose. It was vital it remain protectively between me and the perilous world I lived in. Now it seemed ready to be breached, or perhaps it already had been.
I actually felt a little wobbly; it was a good thing I was sitting. It might seem strange that just a comment like that could upset me so much, but upset me it did, and in reality, I now felt a panic attack rushing toward me.
Everything I’d been doing for months seemed about to collapse in on me. I’d worked hard at setting up protective camouflage and well-fortified boundaries. Could they be knocked over this easily? All I was doing was making some new friends. But even then, I’d been fighting an internal, private struggle between the loneliness that was beginning to consume me and the risk I’d be taking by doing something about it. I’d thought I was handling it well. And now, this. Suddenly I was in a precarious situation, and I only knew one way to handle it. The way that had become second nature to me.
“So Tim, which was it? Were you really talking about him being dead, or were you describing his reality?”
I tried, but I don’t know if I pulled off a good answer. I doubt my voice was calm when I said, “You’re supposed to answer that for yourself. I’m not supposed to tell you. That’s what the story’s about.”
I was feeling almost numb. I looked at my watch, back at John and said in a voice that was too high—I knew it was too high; I knew my face was showing too much—and sounded strangled even to me, “Hey John, I’m running late. I really have to get going.”
I jumped up and turned to the door. John, in a very surprised voice, said, “Hey, Tim, what’s the matter? You can’t just go. Your bike! My mother can drive you. Where are you going? What’s wrong?”
By the time he’d finished saying that, I was down the hall, at the front door, and then outside. My breath was coming fast. I was ahead of the panic, but it was close behind. I needed to get home. I needed to be by myself. I needed to think. The world was falling in on me.
I ran. I ran to the school, which thankfully wasn’t far away. I unlocked and grabbed my bike from the rack, jumped on it and pedaled with everything I had. I was going home. Back to my room. The room I wished I’d never left this morning.