"Relativity," a short story by G.D. Peters, was published in River Oak Review, Issue No. 17, a Special Issue commemorating Sept. 11th, edited by Marylee MacDonald. Also included is a feature called "Writers Talk About September 11th," about writing in the aftermath of the attacks. G.D.'s contribution, published in the feature, is available upon request. The magazine was released in March, 2002. The cover art is by john rininger, and he may be reached at www dot prdf dot com slash art.

About 4,000 words

© 2002 G.D. Peters

RELATIVITY

by

G.D. PETERS

In what might be called the prologue of my life, during its first decade, I saw something which startled me beyond my ability then to comprehend its meaning. I was sitting alone on the front steps of the house into which I was born, in a gray and raucous working-class neighborhood, when there arose from the street the unmistakable clatter of a tin can turning in random revolutions as it was propelled, by some manner, toward our home at the end of the block. I thought at first that someone was playing kick-the-can, one of the boys from the block, perhaps several of them having turns at it as they came. I was little prepared, however, for the sight which came presently into view, for it was a small dog, white of fur with patches of brown and black, and a thin tail that hooked back toward its ragged head like a sickle. To its hind leg was attached, by a length of thick cord, a large tin can, the kind which my stepfather, in those days, used on his workbench to store nuts and bolts, and pennyweight nails.

I was curious and bewildered both in an instant. My first thought was that its owner had done this to the poor beast, though for what reason I could not possibly attest. I remember thinking that, in any event, this was just as it was supposed to be, another slice from the extraordinary pie of life, a minor (albeit perplexing) exhibit in the endless parade of curiosities I had been witnessing the full length of my short tenure in this world. Life truly was a carnival, a traveling circus of the bleak and merry, and here was a bearded lady of the four-legged variety, come to perform tricks in the center ring of my small universe.

The animal walked several halting strides and stopped, craning its neck to chew on the cord near where it was fastened above the knobby joint at the end of its foot. I wondered for what length of time the poor thing had been thus burdened, its natural mobility so crudely hampered? The subject of this earnest attention came several more hesitating strides toward our house, its can clanging loudly behind, when suddenly it occurred to me that the adjoined noise maker was perhaps a clarion, signaling with its warning a dangerously vicious or, worse, rabid animal. When it reached the front of my house and saw me, however, it stood quite still, wagging it’s curved tail and looking in my direction with seeming affability. I did not know whether to sit still, withdraw, or even approach the beast, so I stayed put. My front door was two steps to the rear, a hasty retreat simply a long stride away. Then it sat once more and began gnawing at the cord, and I felt a tremendous pity for the hapless brute. It ceased its unavailing efforts, raised its sad eyes once more in my direction, then rose again and ambled off ‘round the corner, returning, perhaps, from whence it came.

I wanted to go inside and ask the meaning behind this bizarre visitation, but was not permitted inside the house (upon penalty of a severe beating at the hands of my humorless and unsympathetic stepfather) unless it was to use the bathroom, or for some other necessary function. I therefore remained where I was and considered the matter privately, all the while hearing the intermittent clanking of that hellish can as its reluctant possessor stopped every few strides trying, I imagined, to chew away its tether.

I pictured myself as that dog, and was unable to sound within the music of my imagination any chord whose sad voicing did not strike a stark dissonance within the hollow of my soul. Whilst I was thus engaged in this idle contemplation the front door burst open with a kick from Luther’s boot heel and out onto the porch strode my stern stepfather, carrying in his arms a bundle of wood to be returned out of doors now that spring’s thaw had chopped a crevice through winter’s icy freeze. I rose to clear the way but not quickly enough, for Luther’s next step was a short kick to the small of my back which propelled me headlong to the dirt.

“I told you don’t come inside,” he snapped, “and it also includes don’t sit around, neither, and be underfoot all the friggin’ time.” He continued past me and around the corner of the garage toward the wood shed at the side of the house and I gathered myself, quickly as I might, and ran in the opposite direction until I had reached the little schoolyard across the avenue and was well out of Luther’s sight, and the range of his demonstrative foot.

The schoolyard was eerily quiet, its grass-less baseball diamonds and muddy cinder track strangely bereft of the usual throng of excited, merry children running, playing, and raising a familiar yellow dust to be carried to distant stations on the swirling breeze of middle-March. Seeing a movement, however, from the corner of my eye I turned to discover that I was not entirely alone, for at the middle of the field sat the dog (with his can) watching me quietly and perhaps wondering, if dog’s do wonder, whether I had followed him to this safe haven. Of course I had not done so, but felt now as if I were intruding upon the sanctity of his singular misery. He seemed, however, not to mind my company, and continued in his sincere but futile efforts to disengage from his leg the offensive refuse. I wanted to approach him, to help in some way, but was unsure whether my intervention was sound of judgment or merely well-intended. Certainly the beast posed me no immediate threat, nor seemed the least bit dangerous so far as I could tell. There was about him, nevertheless, the stigma of guilt by association, for he had been singled out, whatever the reason, and set apart by this frivolous act of cruelty. This alone gave me pause enough to remain at a safe distance, and this I did for the remainder of our shared convalescence there on the deserted schoolyard. Thus did we remain, guarded but agreeable, each of us curious as to the other, but too wary to approach one another.

After several failed attempts to sever the unwanted appendage my distressed companion finally rose to its feet and walked away, taking six or seven short strides, stopping to look back at its miserable leg, several more strides, and continuing in this peg-legged fashion until I could no longer discern its movements as it blended with the horizon and left me alone to contemplate the perplexing nature of our lives. I wanted to rise from the dust and run after the plagued creature, remove its shackle and set it free, hold it in my arms and feel its tongue licking my face. I wanted to lead it back to my own house and give it a new home, one where love and affection might replace the savagery and oppression which had heretofore, I concluded, been its domain.

But this I could not do, for I could not offer what was not mine to give, and such a home was a very different place from the one where I lived. I could not, in fact, be certain of offering the creature a better fate than the one it now dragged behind it on a string. That particular damage, after all, had already been done; all that remained was to deal with it one way or another. He might, sooner or later, succeed in chewing away the ball and chain. I envisioned the poor thing in my home, however, getting once too often underfoot of Luther and receiving, in the stead of my adoring hands, the bottom of a cross man’s boot.

A short while later I returned home and was accosted by Luther the moment I stepped foot into the house.

“Where’d you run off to,” he snapped.

“I…”

“Didn’t you see me working? You gonna run off the first sign of work around here, is that it?”

“You…”

He lifted his arm and swiped me across the cheek with the back of his burly hand, knocking me to the floor.

“Get up!” he growled. “Get out of my sight, you’re no good for nothin.”

“But I…”

“Get out!” he shouted, “before I give you more of the same.”

I was humiliated and resentful; after all, it was Luther who’d told me to get lost in the first place. I was now being reprimanded for following the letter of his law. I wanted to protest, to vent my frustration and rage, to tell Luther I had done only what he had commanded; instead I retreated meekly to my room, for what more, really, could I do? On prior occasions I had stood my square inch of ground only to find my meager protests fallen on deafened ears, the might of Luther’s intemperate rage unconquerable. And intemperate that rage was, for Luther was nothing if not a seasoned alcoholic. It was a rare moment when one did not see within his arms reach a cold can of beer, no matter the time of day or night. And once the sun had set that beer was faithfully augmented by a bottle: be it bourbon, scotch or rye, the subtle differences between these blends mattered little to Luther, so long as it was whiskey he was drinking.

I slept uneasily that night, the little dog weighing heavily on my mind, and was unable, upon waking in the morning, to distinguish between whether I had been dreaming of his dilemma or simply brooding sleeplessly. I emerged from my room to a cheerless, pallid breakfast table. My mother sat silently, eating buttered toast and sipping coffee which had long, I knew, grown cold. She absently turned the pages of the Sunday paper. Crone, my older brother, was also at the table. He had been gone all the previous day and, in all probability, the night as well. Most likely he’d been roaming the borders of the night with his gang of friends, a loose and lusty assortment of cut-throats, car thieves, and gamblers, and their like-minded girlfriends. They were a wild and savage bunch, given to drunken sorties and lawless celebrations. All of them, including some of the girlfriends, rode motorcycles. Crone’s bike was a Harley-Davidson, fully chopped, and if he was not the leader of their gang it was an omission in title only, for there was none among them who would question him or challenge his authority. In fact there was no one I knew of, anywhere, who would cross him.

Excepting Luther.

Crone was seated (if his slovenly, leg-sprawled crouch might be so termed) in his usual place, at the side of the long dining table closest the front door. I always sat opposite him, hemmed in between the table and the large bay window which overlooked the dirt and wooded detritus which was our back yard.

Luther looked up when I emerged at the edge of the hallway.

“Happy you could join us,” he said, “sure we can’t send you something in?” He looked out the window again, as he had been doing when I first appeared.

I took my seat, directly in his line of vision, and began, gingerly, to gather my breakfast before me. There were toast and Kaiser rolls with poppy seeds, a platter of eggs scrambled with scallions, a plate of bacon rashers too raw for either my palate or my stomach, and a pan of hashed browns burnt well, to my satisfaction. There were small waxen tubs of butter, both sweet and salted, with cream cheese and jars of jams and jellies. The muffin tin, which had been filled with Mama’s freshly baked muffins (three each of corn, cinnamon with raisin, and wheat with raisin) now held only four. I served myself two spoonfuls of eggs and three of hashed browns, and pulled a corn muffin and Kaiser roll onto my plate, slicing them open with my knife to better slather them with sweet butter. Luther abandoned his distant stare long enough to cast a spiteful look in my direction, our eyes meeting for one chilling moment before I wisely averted my gaze.

“Just eat your goddamn food and don’t look at me,” he snapped.

I neither looked up nor responded, but from the corner of my eye caught a movement across the table: Crone had raised his head at this. But Luther, if he noticed, did not take up the gauntlet; he continued gazing out that window, as he had done every morning at breakfast for as long as I could remember.

Our small, unhappy family loitered at the table long after the eating had finished; it was only after Crone, and then Luther, finally took their leave that I helped Mama to clear the dishes and wipe the table clean. I next spent fifteen minutes gathering what personal items I would need for the day (given the strict sanction against my returning indoors), and then took flight, hoping to avoid Luther on the way out. Crone was in the driveway tinkering with his Harley, a leather tool pouch splayed open beside him on the oil-stained concrete. He looked up as I came down the walk.

“Booster,” he called to me, using the nickname he’d given me when I was an infant and which had come to replace my given name, which is Arthur. My worried head was on a swivel as I approached, wary of Luther. Crone was lying on his back, his head between the front forks. “Don’t let the old man rattle you,” he said, lifting his head from the pavement to address me. I offered acknowledgment by way of a half-smile. “He used to bully me that way,” Crone said, “only ‘til I grew a few inches and put on a couple pounds. Hang in there, you’ll do the same.”

I wanted to share with Crone a truth which, even at that young age, I had been privy to for some time, which was that no matter how many inches I grew or pounds I added to my small frame, I would never stand up to Luther the way Crone did, for I would never be the man, even in adulthood, that Crone was as a rebellious youth of nineteen. That was true then and it is still true now, more than fifty years hence, and I am neither loath nor reluctant to admit it for there have been few men I have known who were the measure of Crone as he was all those years ago. And too, all men have different sensibilities; Crone was sensible with his mettle and I, perhaps, with my heart. At that moment my heart managed a meager smile, whereupon Crone returned to his work, and I to my play.

As it was a Sunday I knew the other boys on the block would be unavailable just now; their families being observant (if not devout) Christians, they would be in church all morning, then busy with meals until well after midday. This was of little consequence to me, I had long been accustomed to providing my own recreation of a Sunday afternoon. I crossed the avenue and cut across the front lawn of the school, through the playground and past Joanne Stahl’s house at the corner. Unable to catch a glimpse of her through any window, I turned the corner and walked the rest of the way into town, a half-mile stretch of store fronts and open lots. I ambled past the supermarket, bakery, and pizzeria, and the news stand with its open racks of candies, every candy conceivable, in every shape possible. I had money in my pocket, a crinkled dollar bill and perhaps another half-dollar in loose change, but wanted to conserve it for lunch at the Big Bow Wow. Still, the little wax bottles of sweet, colored syrup beckoned to me from the rack. As they were eminently affordable I decided to add them to my possessions and ration them over the course of the day. I paid the counter-man a nickel and slid the little cardboard container into the breast pocket of my flannel shirt, extracting the yellow bottle for immediate consumption. Biting off the thick wax nub was a special treat, and I sucked the sweet nectar until I had collapsed the belly of the soft container, unwilling to squander even a single droplet of the alluring elixir. Ah, instant gratification, the most pleasant diversion I could have wished for at that moment.

On the next corner was the Chinese restaurant from which, every Tuesday night, Luther brought home Chicken Chow Mein and Chicken Chop Suey, Wonton and Egg Drop soups, and fried noodles. Two blocks to the left along the railroad tracks was the construction site which would offer up the first five-and-dime in our town. A commuter train was just pulling out of the station, its departed passengers emerging, like penguins from the sea, with random bearings.

I crossed the avenue and climbed the gradient, issuing a short, spiteful chortle of a laugh as my feet passed over the recessed tracks. This was, for me, less sinful pleasure than pleasurable sin, for an afternoon’s recreation was equally available this side of the tracks. Luther was as likely to beat me, however, for perceived transgressions as for those that were real; I had already hardened to the beatings, but was learning, now, to get my licks’ worth.

As I crossed the busy highway I felt truly free. A crosswind blew against my face, tossing my hair wildly as a blinding sun sent bright beams glancing off the windshields of passing cars. I turned right and walked along the highway, headed for the bowling alley. I had no intention of renting shoes and a lane for myself; rather, it was the Sunday Father-and-Son league to which I was drawn. It had lately been my practice to loiter behind the action, watching the camaraderie and adoration from up close. Here I could observe fathers rolling strikes and spares, their sons learning nuances of the game, the four-step approach, the five-, and receiving for their efforts congratulations and tousled hair.

Two teen-agers eyed me nervously when I entered the building, then hurriedly dropped coins into a cigarette machine and pulled one of the ratchet-sounding handles. The clunk of a pack dropping to the metal tray was drowned, as I opened the inner door and entered the alleys, in a cacophony of graphite balls hitting polished wood with english, finding their grain with a telltale music of scattered pins. No one noticed as I made my way past the busy lanes, for all appearances just another boy out for a Sunday of bowling with Dad. Each week I derived my greatest enjoyment from picking one father and son to watch; that is to say, it was the selection process itself which was satisfying. What followed, while providing, undeniably, something that I desired, could hardly be called enjoyable and might more accurately be classified with various forms of psychological torture (and self-inflicted at that). But what can a ten year old boy know of these things? It was as if I was free-falling through a cavernous void; I reached blindly and clamped onto the first thing of substance my outstretched fingers felt, finding there a lifeline too thick for my small hands to grasp.

I would normally take a seat on the spectators’ bench behind a chosen lane, and simply observe. Many of the faces were, by now, familiar to me, and on this particular morning I decided to watch Alan and his father once more. I had watched them several weeks earlier and found them to be a quite likeable pair. Alan was a quiet, brown-haired boy with a pleasant demeanor and broad, gap-toothed smile. His father (I referred to him as Mr. Alan) was an affable man with wire-rimmed glasses and a lanky frame. He had a generous smile and had not once, in all the time I had been watching, raised his voice or sounded a cross note at his son. I watched their interaction as they bowled against another father and son team, and time has whittled so resolutely at my memory that there is very little regarding the aspect or manner of their opponents I can today recall. I do remember that the men sipped from tall bottles of Reingold beer, the boys from ribbed, green-tinted bottles of Coca-Cola. And this: the other boy complained that the holes in the ball he had selected (from those among the racks along the back wall) were too large for his hand. The resulting loss of control and premature release were ruining his game. Mr. Alan suggested that he try Alan’s ball, to which Alan registered a mild objection.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Alan asked, but the boy just shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Alan stood from the scorer’s table and sat on the curved bench beside his son. He placed his arm lovingly around Alan’s shoulders and bent low to speak confidentially to him. For his part, the other boy sat on the other side of Alan, waiting and (I presumed) feeling somewhat awkward about the whole to-do. Alan seemed to be taking in all of what his father was saying, and after a short interlude he went to the ball-return at the foot of the lane and took up his ball in both hands.

“Here Jeffrey, try mine,” he said rather good-naturedly. Jeffrey did indeed try Alan’s ball, with seeming success, and the two fathers shared knowing smiles as a single droplet left a track along the line of my cheek, catching at the corner of my mouth. I had been privy (albeit surreptitiously) to a private and very tender moment between a father and his son. While it was only one of what must have been dozens of such moments between these two, it was the first such experience for me (even if it was not my own). I left them then, two boys who now shared something common wrought from parental wisdom and understanding, and was quite uncertain as to which of the three boys present had learned the greater lesson from Mr. Alan’s compassionate bearing.

I had planned on spending the remainder of the afternoon playing miniature golf at the Putt-Putt course beside the Big Bow Wow, a hot dog joint just up the highway. The incisive and heart-wrenching clarity of that moment had undermined my playful spirit, however, leaving me blind as a mole too long in daylight. I returned across the tracks and wandered slowly toward home, thinking all the while about Alan and his father, unable to inhibit the envy and jealousy beginning to grow like a cancer within me.

I walked along the sidewalk on Lake Shore Drive, and then down Euclid Avenue toward the schoolyard when I heard it again, the sound of the tumbling can. It seemed to be coming toward me so I stood where I was and waited, listening to the familiar sound. Something in the tenor of his song had changed, though I could not put my finger on what it was. I focused my attention in the direction of the sound and before long the little scamp of a dog appeared, trotting briskly up the sidewalk across the street. He did not notice me this time, and neither stopped nor slowed as he turned the corner and continued happily on his way, oblivious by now to the tin can which rolled and tumbled awkwardly behind him, behaving for all the world as though it had been there all his life.

THE END