Tuesday, February 1, 1983

        Allegra Pasquale sat upright in her seat, her hands folded tightly on her lap.  Her companion, Hank Farley, private investigator from the McMillan-Slainte agency grinned at her and quipped, “Loosen up Allie.  I promise I won’t bite.”

        “It’s not you I’m worried about.”  Allegra admitted relaxing a little. “It’s this William Regan fellow.  He wasn’t very polite on the telephone, and he’s obviously reluctant to meet with us.  Why else would he insist on meeting in White Plains when he lives in Sleepyside?”

        “It might be more important to ask why he’s ignored fourteen requests to contact the agency.”  Hank stated, “Your kid might have avoided all of this unpleasantness if his uncle had answered his mail two years ago.”

        “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”  Allegra shook her short brown curls. “Is he just illiterate, or an uncaring, self absorbed s.o.b?”

        “Be nice Allie,” Hank cautioned, “Don’t alienate the man before you meet him.”  He turned the car into the coffee shop parking lot.  “Try and keep an open mind.  And it might not hurt to bat those big brown eyes a little too.”

        Bill Regan was wringing his hands.  It wasn’t a conscious movement, but the result of the nervous dread which sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach.  He sat in the booth of Mom’s Diner in White Plains, his long legs folded uncomfortably close to his body, and waited for the ax to fall.  Any minute now and his whole life could be ruined. 

        He liked his job with the Wheelers:  The cozy apartment over the garage; free rein with the horses; choice stock.  Even those crazy kids, the Bob-Whites, were more of a joy than a burden.  Regan smiled, thinking about their upcoming antique show.  They were a troublesome, busy group, but in a good way.  He should be home, griping at them to exercise the horses, and helping them with their project.  Instead he was here, waiting for his past coming back to bite him.  For the first time in his nearly 24 years of life, he was feeling secure.  He wanted the life he was carving out for himself.

        Watching the door, he saw the man and woman entering.  He rose to his feet, pushing one large freckled hand through his red hair while offering the other to the approaching duo.

        “Liam Regan?  Hank Farley and this is Allegra Pasquale.  Thanks for meeting with us.”  He shook Regan’s hand and gestured to the booth.

        “It’s Bill. Or just Regan. What exactly is this about?” Regan asked.

        “Your nephew.” said Allegra, as Hank asked, “Did you get any of the letters my company sent to you?”

        Regan held up his hand.  “Wait.” he said, “One at a time please.”

        Allegra deferred to Hank.  He started again, “Mr. Regan, the company for which I work has been searching for you on behalf of your sister, Saraid Mangan, for over two years.  Have you not received any of our communication?”

        Regan looked straight into Farley’s eyes.  “After the first one, I didn’t open them.  My sister Sarah walked out on me when I was a little boy.  Empty hopes and broken promises, that’s what I remember about Sarah.  I saw, and see, no reason to reestablish contact with her.”

        “Mr. Regan,”  Hank stated bluntly, “your sister is dead.  She spent the last years of her life trying desperately to find you.  Saraid did not ‘walk away’ from you.  Whoever told you that was highly misinformed.”  He opened his briefcase and reached inside.  Pulling out a packet of letters, he handed them across the table.  “These are the letters she had written you over the years.   Notice the postmark dates, and the Return-to-Sender stamps.   Saraid wanted you to have these, so you would know she had tried to contact you.  She also left you with the guardianship of her son, Daniel.”

        Regan stared at the letters, but made no attempt to take them.  His emotions were roiling.  A memory hit him square between the eyes.  He flashed back to the last time he had seen Sarah.  She had come to the Children’s Home in late September the year he had turned eight.  Tim had been with her, tall and handsome in his Army uniform, and she had carried a laughing, chubby-cheeked toddler with dark curly hair and navy blue eyes.

        “Your nephew, Liam.”  Regan heard the words echo in his mind, “His name is Danny, and I hope that you’ll be more like a big brother to him than an uncle.   We’re working on taking you with us this time, Liam.  Tim is being stationed in Germany in a few weeks.  We’ve petitioned to have you come with us.  We can be a real family again.  Isn’t that wonderful?”

        But it hadn’t been wonderful.  It had been the last time until today that anyone had called him Liam.  That very night he had been shuttled off to the Boy’s Home in Nutley, where he was called Billy.  He hadn’t seen his sister or her family since.  He told himself he hadn’t wanted to.

        “Mr. Regan?”  It was Allegra Pasquale’s voice that brought him back to the present.  He looked at her, questioning.  “Your nephew, Daniel, needs you.  You’re his only living relative, and if you can’t take him, he’s bound for juvenile detention.”

        “Reform school?”  Regan asked, “What did he do?”

        Allegra sighed, “What he did was lose his parents and his home.  What he is accused of doing is Aggravated Assault and Grand Theft Auto.”

        “Let me get this straight.”  Regan was incredulous.  “You want me to take  a teenager that I don’t know, one who is apparently a violent thug and a thief to boot?  You want me to bring him to my home, which I might add, my employer owns, and introduce him to my boss’ very sheltered children and their equally protected friends?  Lady, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t think you’re crazy?”

        “I understand your concerns, Mr. Regan.”  Allegra’s calm tone belied her frustration and desperation.  She’d been searching for this man for nearly two weeks, and this wasn’t going as she had hoped.  “You’re right to be cautious.  I’m Dan’s case worker, and I can assure you that there were extenuating circumstances.  Dan’s not a bad kid, he’s just had some tough breaks.  I’ll explain what I can, if you’re willing to listen.”

        Regan nodded, reluctantly, and said, “Go ahead, but we’ve all had bad breaks.  Not all of us end up in jail.” His freckled face flushed a little, but he spoke no more.

        “I hope you’ll listen with an open mind and an open heart, Mr. Regan,” Allegra told him, “because you’re most likely Dan’s last chance.  From what I understand, it all started...”

Thursday, February 3, 1983

        Regan moved through the next few days on automatic pilot.  At half past six on Thursday morning, Tom Delanoy drove him to the train station.  Tom was a friend, but Regan couldn’t bring himself to talk about his situation.  He was on the way to New York City to visit his nephew...in jail.  A nephew he wasn’t sure he even wanted to acknowledge, yet who was legally his ward.  Regan knew that while Tom was sure to be sympathetic, he would never understand Regan’s reluctance to get involved.  Tom came from a large and very loving family.  He would never turn his back on one of his nieces or nephews, and he wouldn’t understand Regan’s lack of family feelings.

        Instead, Regan told Tom about Thor’s Thunderer, the Arabian who would soon be visiting the Manor House Stables for a few days.  Matthew Wheeler was interested in breeding both Susie and Lady, and Thunderer, as he was called, was a high quality stud.  Tom joked with Regan, calling him a horse pimp.  The camaraderie helped ease the knot in Regan’s stomach.

        The knot returned on the train.  All too soon, it seemed, Regan was at his destination.  His appointment was for 9:30.  He signed the guest log, showed proof of his identity, emptied his pockets of his keys and pocket knife, and was escorted down a long narrow hallway to a small room with a table and three chairs.  There were no windows; the only light came from the flickering fluorescent fixture overhead.  Fighting down a wave of claustrophobia, he sat down and waited.

Thursday, February 3, 1983

Spofford House

        Tomorrow would be day thirteen.  Dan marked another tally stroke on his school pad.  His hearing would be seven days after that-- if his uncle agreed to take guardianship.  If Uncle Liam refused, Dan would go to trial twelve days later.  Chewing on the end of his pencil, Dan contemplated the problems of having his fate dependent on the decision of a man he’d never met.

        The days in juvie had a regimental sameness to them.  The lights came on at 5:30 am.  Within the hour, a guard escorted him to the shower.  Breakfast at 7:00 am.  Classes began at 8:00 am sharp.  Lunch at noon.  Exercise period from 1:00 to 2:00.  Counseling from 2:00 to 4:00.  “Free” time until 5:00.  Dinner.  Then back to his “room”.  Lights out at 9:30 pm.  Dan had found out quickly that Spofford was in transition.  After years of complaints about abuses, facilities and escapes, a new regime was in place.  Not all of the employees liked the new regulations, and Dan himself wasn’t sure he appreciated having to be handcuffed to walk down any of the long dark hallways between destinations.  At least having classes offered some diversion and focus other than on his problems.

        “Mangan!”  The guard’s voice startled Dan from his reverie.  He looked up.  “Visitor,” the guard said.  “Says he’s your uncle.” Dan closed his pad, set his pencil in the proper place and walked to the door.  He held out his hands and tried not to flinch as the cold metal rings closed around them.  Then he was off, down another dark hallway, to meet his fate.

        This was taking way too long.  Regan looked at his watch and shifted in his chair.  Fifteen minutes, he’d been waiting.  What could be taking so long?  He shifted again, resisting the urge to get up and pace.  Maybe the boy was resistant too.  Maybe he felt the same way Regan did, that family was more trouble than it was worth.  Maybe the ungrateful little punk didn’t even want to meet his uncle, didn’t realize that he had responsibilities he was neglecting to come to this Godforsaken...

        The door opened.  A slightly built boy was pushed through.  He looked briefly at Regan, and turned back toward the door.  Regan thought he was going to leave--until he held out his hands. That’s when Regan realized that the boy’s wrists were handcuffed.  His movements were to facilitate the removal of the shackles.  Hands free, he turned and moved into the room.  He looked hesitantly at Regan and asked, “Uncle Liam?”

        “It’s Bill.”  Regan spoke without thinking, his voice cold.  “Liam was a stupid, trusting little boy.  He’s been gone a long time.  I’m Bill.”

        The boy looked somewhat taken aback.  “But...you are my uncle.  Right?”

        “That’s what they tell me.”  Regan took a step toward the boy, who pulled himself up straight and held out his hand.  Regan looked at the hand, “And you’re Danny.  Sarah’s son.”  He shook hands briefly and stepped back.  “Have a seat.”

        Dan sat.  Regan looked at the boy.  He was thin and pale; hair long and eyes dark in his sharp featured face.  The chubby, laughing baby was gone, but Regan still could see traces of him in the wary teen.  This was definitely Sarah’s Danny.

        Regan sat down across from the boy.  “What am I going to do with you?” he asked.

        Dan replied, “I don’t know.  What do you want to do with me?”

        “I want to forget I ever knew you existed.”  Regan spoke again without thinking, flinching at the pain that flashed briefly in the boy’s eyes.  He continued, “But I can’t, can I?   Not when I see you sitting there, looking at me with my sister’s eyes.”

        “I have my father’s eyes.” was the sullen response.

        “The color, maybe, but the way you use them, that is all Sarah.”

        “Why do you call my mum Sarah?  Her name is...was...Saraid.”  Dan spoke the words bitterly, stressing the Gaelic pronunciation, Sah-red.

        “Because that’s who she was to me.” came the reply,  “Sarah.  My big sister Sarah.  Pretty, ly...”   Regan caught himself before he could finish the sentence.  He knew he shouldn’t bad mouth the boy’s mother.  “But I’m here to talk about you.  So let’s talk.”

        “I don’t know what to say.”  Dan’s face was closed again.

        Regan shrugged, “Then I’ll talk and you listen.”  He stood up and started pacing.  “I have a job upstate.  I’m the groom and property manager of a fairly large estate.  I live in a small apartment above the garage, and I spend most of my time with horses.  I really don’t have room for you, and I’m pretty sure my boss isn’t going to want me moving a car thief who beat his stepfather half to death next door to his kids.”  Regan tried not notice the effect his harsh words had on Dan.  The boy’s face tightened and his glare hardened as his uncle continued, “I have an idea; a place nearby.  You’d be close enough that we’d get to know each other a little better.  You could have a job, to keep you out of trouble, and go to a good school, with decent kids.  I just have to work out a few things first.”  He paused.

        “Why?”  Dan asked.

        “Why what?”

        “Why, if you don’t have room for me, if you wish you’d never known about me, why don’t you just walk away and leave me here?  You can just pretend I’m another letter you never opened.” Dan’s sarcastic tone cut Regan to the quick.

        “Look, Danny,” he said, backtracking, “I haven’t had family for a long time.  I never needed any.  I don’t know how to deal with family.  I haven’t slept for days worrying about this. You see, now I know about you.  You are my family.  I can’t walk away and leave you to rot in jail without at least giving this a try.” 

        The door opened and the guard said, “Time’s up.”

        Dan rose.  Regan stopped him.  He put out his hand.  “Look.  I know we didn’t get off on the best start here, but I’ll try if you will.  Deal?”

        The boy stared at the hand for a long moment before taking it with his own.  “I suppose.” he muttered, turning and extending his arms to the guard.

        “I’ll be back...after I talk to your lawyer.” Regan spoke to the back of the dark head.  A nod was his only answer as the guard led the boy away.

        Tom picked Regan up at the Sleepyside train station in the late afternoon.  Seeing the worry lines on the big groom’s forehead, Tom made small talk about their role in the Bob-Whites' Saturday antique show, and didn’t even hesitate when the redhead asked to be let off at the road to Maypenny’s.  Tom figured that Regan would talk when he was ready.

        Regan rehearsed his speech all the way up the road to Maypenny’s cabin.  In the hours between his less-than-pleasant meeting with his nephew and the arrival of his train, Regan had met with his boss in the NYC offices of Wheeler, Inc.  Matthew Wheeler had been sympathetic with Regan’s plight; more so than Regan had expected.  In the end, Matt had left the decision up to his groom:  If Regan was willing to vouch for his nephew’s character, Matt was willing to let him live in the garage apartment.  If not, he was still willing to give the boy a job working with Maypenny, but Regan would have to find other housing.  Unfortunately, Regan wasn’t sure he could vouch for the boy’s character.  For that reason, he found himself trudging up a dirt road in the dark chill of winter, preparing to ask a casual friend for a tremendous favor.

        He left the cabin an hour later, and started for home with a somewhat lighter heart.  Thomas Maypenny had listened to his story with little comment.  Regan had been sure, as he sat before the hearth cradling a mug of spiced hot chocolate, that the older man’s silence and lack of expression were leading up to a refusal.  Again, he was surprised. 

        Maypenny considered his tale thoughtfully, asked a few questions that Regan was able to answer with little confidence, then rubbed his chin and nodded. “Yes.  I’m willing to give the boy a chance.  I could use a little help around the preserve.  You think he’s teachable?”

        “According to what I’ve seen, he’s very bright,” Regan replied. “His teachers always gave him high marks in conduct, and his grades were very good.  Of course, he missed a lot of school this year because of his gang involvement, but he seems pretty sharp.”  Regan laughed bitterly, “He certainly saw through me.  I should warn you though, the boy’s got a smart mouth and a bit of a temper.”

        “My father taught me a sure cure for that.”  Maypenny grinned at the memory.  “He always figured the best way to deal with orneriness was to give me an ax and a pile of wood to chop.   Either that, or a fence to build, or an outhouse to paint. Keep ‘em busy, Dad always said.  It’s a great way to burn off a temper.”

        “I might have to try that for myself.”  Regan mused, “This whole thing has brought back a lot of...stuff...for me.  Now I need to go home and write up a proposal for the Judge.  I just hope it works.  I’d hate to see the boy get sent off to some hellhole reform school, not if he has half a chance to be a decent human being. I...I just hope I’m doing the right thing.”

        “Giving him a chance is for the best, I think.” Maypenny told him, “If it works, then you’ve done a great thing.  If it doesn’t...well, at least you tried.” He squeezed Regan’s shoulder, “Don’t forget that you have plenty of friends willing to help you.  Now stop playing with your cup and drink that hot chocolate.  You’ll need its warmth before you head home.”

Regan smiled in spite of himself and raised the mug to his lips.

Lost & Found 2

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