Tim

 
Angel Beach, FL March 1963 The blow caught him off guard. One minute he was walking back to the house, and the next thing he knew, his head had exploded with pain. After that, darkness. Tim woke all at once. The first thing that resonated with him was pain. Pain in his head. Pain in his mouth. Pain in his arms and legs—which he quickly realized came from the fact that he was tied hand and foot to the rickety metal frame of his father’s bed, in his former house, some fifteen miles from where he was supposed to be. Evidently, Saul Cavanaugh had decided to ignore the restraining order preventing him from getting within one hundred feet of his estranged son. Familiar, although not pleasant, smells of fried onion, stale coffee, rancid bacon grease, whiskey sweat and cigarette smoke assailed his senses, coupled with the wheeze-snort he identified as his father’s snoring. The man was probably passed out. Taking advantage of this fact, Tim began to carefully wiggle his hands, hoping to loosen the ties binding his wrists to the bed. He didn’t know how much time passed—the rundown shack he’d called home for thirteen of his sixteen plus years wasn’t big on clocks—before finally he managed to slip his right hand free of the canvas belt that held it attached to the metal post. Concentrating, he used his free hand to loosen the other before turning his attention on his feet. He was so focused on his task that he failed to notice that the snoring had ceased until a gravel-laced, voice growled, “Goin’ somewheres, boyo?” Tim tried not to flinch as he met the man’s flinty glare. His tongue flicked over his dry lips as he answered in the calmest tone he could manage. “I’m not supposed to be here, Pa. You know that. I was just going to leave before anyone comes looking for me. I… I don’t want to cause you more trouble.” The man grinned wickedly, showing what was left of his stained and yellowed teeth. “Won’t be no trouble, boy,” he sneered. “I just spent two months in lock-up because of you. That ain’t happenin’ again. I guarantee it. He lunged forward, and Tim shrank back, his eyes darting around the room looking for an escape. “You sniveling little piss-ant,” Cavanaugh continued, his breath fetid and foul in Tim’s face. “Tellin’ the cops you’re ashamed to be my son. The laugh’s on you, you little shit. I ain’t your pa. Your whore of a mama done pulled a fast one while I was in the big house.” “Don’t talk about my mother that way!” The blow that followed his outburst wasn’t unexpected, but the force of it sent his head spinning, and he tasted blood. He barely had time to recover before he found himself dragged from the bed, his father-or not-father-shaking him like a dog with a rag. “She was trash, you stupid punk. Nothin’ but a lying, whorin’ adulteress. Couldn’t wait to run off north when I got into a little fix. Got herself knocked up by some other piece of trash and then tried to pass off her bastard as mine. If it weren’t for those damned eyes of yours, I’d think she’d been doing some stinkin’ Injun. You got the look about you, and you’re damned sneaky.” The backhand struck again, sending Tim reeling into the wall. “I raised you like you was mine,” Cavanaugh ranted, dragging the boy roughly to his feet and giving him a short, sharp jab to the stomach. “I tried to make a man out of you, but you’re too much of a pussy. Must a got that from whoever your pansy-assed daddy was.” “Just let me go,” Tim pleaded, knowing that the half mad look in the man’s eyes promised untold horrors if he couldn’t get away. “I’ll leave. I’ll go up north. I’ll try and find my mama. I won’t ask you for anything. I swear.” “Lily-livered little bitch, ain’t you,” Cavanaugh taunted, mocking in falsetto voice, “Just let me go. Don’t hurt me, I’m just a little pansy.” He grabbed Tim by the front of his shirt and yanked, sending buttons flying across the room. Tim kicked out and tried to wrench himself away, but the large right hand made sharp contact with his face, not once, not twice, but three times in quick succession. “It ends here, pansy boy. You could search the world over twice and not find that whore bitch. You know why?” He pulled Tim closer until they were nose to nose. Saul’s breath, hot and reeking of cigarettes and the sour mash moonshine he brewed in the ‘glades was heavy on Tim’s face as he confessed, “Because she’s dead, that’s why.” Tim tried to recoil, to pull away, but Cavanaugh’s nicotine stained fingers tightened on his shoulders. “She was going to leave me that night,” he said. “Do you remember that night? I was showing her who was boss, and you decided to try and be the big man and stop me.” He cackled evilly. “Didn’t work so well for you did it, sissy boy? Lottie, she came at me, told me she was takin’ you and leavin’. Told me I weren’t your daddy. I told her nobody leaves old Saul. Saul’s the one who does the leavin’.” “You told me she left me,” Tim whispered in horror and disbelief. “You told me she left me with you because…you said she left.” “She never left.” Cavanaugh let loose with another round of heavy slaps. “And you ain’t leavin’ neither. When I’m done with you, you can go in the cellar and be with your precious mommy forever.” “You killed her?” His voice was barely a whisper, spittle and blood spraying slightly with each word. “She didn’t leave me?” Cavanaugh didn’t have a chance to answer. A bullhorn cackled and a deep voice intoned, “Mr. Cavanaugh! This is the police. Come out with your hands up.” “You little shit!” he spat at Tim. “I’m not goin’ back to prison for you.” He spun the boy around, wrapping an arm around his neck as he dragged him to the door. “Go away, officers,” he called out. “This is a personal matter between my son and me.” “Let Timothy go, Mr. Cavanaugh,” the officer with the bullhorn ordered. “There is a protection order in place keeping you away from the boy. Release him and come out with your hands up!” Cavanaugh’s reaction was to spin away from the door, dragging Tim with him. The window shattered and smoke began to fill the room. With a roar of fury-tinged madness, Cavanaugh swung wildly, clipping Tim in the jaw and sending him spiraling into airless, burning blackness.  He woke slowly this time, afraid to open his eyes. Everything hurt, every inch of his body felt pain, and his throat was raw and sore. He let his ears and nose do the preliminary work, but there was nothing but a few whisper soft voices from off in the distance, mixed with an occasional squeak and beep, and a closer-by sound of breathing, slow and deep. The smell of bleach and antiseptic tickled his nose, so Tim decided to chance opening his eyes, but he did it gradually, one lid at a time. It was dim, but he realized immediately that he was in a hospital room of sorts. White walls. White sheets. A plastic tube attached to his left arm. “Good. You’re awake,” a familiar voice said, and Tim turned his head. “Ted?” “None other,” Officer Ted Jarvis said, smiling slightly as he rose and approached the bed. “How’re you feeling?” “On a scale from one to ten?” he joked weakly. “Negative three.” “He knocked you around pretty good,” Ted admitted, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “And the tear gas didn’t help matters much either. Doc says nothing’s broken, but you were barely breathing when we finally got in there, just mumbling nonsense, and you’ve been out for the better part of two days.” “Is that why I rate a private room?” he asked. Ted laughed. “No, that’s based on the fact that you’re both a victim of a crime and a potential witness to a homicide.” “Homicide?” “One of the things you were muttering was about your mother.” Ted was calm, but his voice was tense. “We took a look under the house, in the cellar, and we found a sealed oil drum. There was the body of a woman in there.” “He killed her.” Tim stated it as fact, unable to keep the tears from rolling down his face. “He told me he killed her, and he was going to kill me, too.” Ted’s hand was firm and comforting on his shoulder. “He’s already been arraigned and sent to wait at the state penitentiary. He’s not going to be able to get near you—not ever again.” Tim pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “What am I going to do?” he asked, hating that his voice felt and sounded so weak. “Tomorrow or the next day,” Ted told him, “you’re going to be released to me. Jenny and I have that converted garage room. The couch folds out into a bed, so… We want you to stay with us until…well, until you get things figured out. In the next day or so, another officer will come over and get your statements. We’re going to want to know about what happened the other day, as well as what happened the night your mother disappeared.” “The night he killed her,” Tim said glumly. He looked up at Ted. “He said I’m not his son. He said he wasn’t my father. Is there any way to find out?” “There are some tests, I think,” Ted said. “I’ll see if I can get someone to run them. In the meantime, just rest and do what the nurses tell you. Jenny and I’ll be back to see you in the morning.” “Thanks, Ted.” He rubbed his face. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” “We want to,” the young officer assured him. “You’re one of my brother’s best friends, and you’ve had a rough time. Let us help you, at least for a while.” “My mom has family in New Jersey, I think,” Tim offered. He scrunched his face, trying to remember, “We lived there when…he…was in prison. The first time he was in prison, I mean. I was born there. In New York or New Jersey.” “I’ll look into it,” Ted promised, rising from the bed. “Just rest, Timmy. It’ll all work out.” He gazed into the eyes of his best friend’s brother, wanting to believe, but too traumatized to be sure.  It took two months. Two months of living in the renovated garage and being dropped off at the high school in a police car. Tim’s car and Saul’s motorcycle were being held as evidence. He didn’t pay rent, but he helped out where he could, even babysitting on a few Saturday nights so Ted and Jenny could have a date night. His friend Brian had been very helpful. He had plenty of money and more family connections in New York than Tim could even imagine. Thanks to Brian, Tim had been exchanging letters with his great-aunt Tillie in the little town of Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn. He had a plan in place to head north to see her once school ended in a few weeks. He had questions, and he hoped Aunt Tillie could answer them. On the last day of the second month, Ted stepped into Tim’s room carrying a file folder, his expression both grim and sympathetic. “I’ve got the test results,” he said. “Ted?” Tim asked softly, “Is what he said true? He isn’t really my father?” “Yes.” Ted studied his fingernails. “It’s true. But, Timmy,” he said, “I have more to say, and it’s not going to be easy to hear.” He sank down on the couch, torn between relief that he didn’t share blood with the abusive, murderous bastard, and fear of what Ted had to say. He reached for the Niagara Falls throw pillow lying next to him and clutched it to his chest, waiting for the worst. Ted sat down in the armchair facing him, his face serious. “Saul’s blood type is AB. Yours is O. It’s not scientifically possible for him to be your father.” “Okay.” Tim looked at him, his fingers fiddling with the embroidered waterfall. “The body in the oil drum was Charlotte Mangan Cavanaugh.” Quick tears welled in Tim’s dark eyes, even though the news didn’t surprise him. “Well,” he said shakily, “at least I know she didn’t abandon me with him.” “True, but Timmy,” Ted licked his lips, obviously struggling for words. “Tim, Charlotte’s blood type was AB. That means…” “I know what that means,” he interrupted, shock overcoming his manners. “I got an A in biology. It means that Mama wasn’t my mother. If she was, I’d have A, B or AB blood, not O.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cushions, overwhelmed by the sudden realization that he had no idea who he was. His family history had just been entirely erased.  School ended on May 22, but Tim stuck around to celebrate his friend Anthony’s graduation. It was early Monday morning when he set out on his journey north. He had been uncertain of his path. The morning after the night Ted gave him the news he had sat down and written a letter. Dear Aunt Tillie, I appreciate you offering me a place to stay and start over. I was really looking forward to meeting you and other members of the Mangan family. But last night I found out some news that might change your feelings. I’m not Charlotte’s son. My blood type proved that neither of my parents are really my parents. I don’t know who my family is now, and I don’t want to take advantage of your generous offer. I just thought you should know. Sincerely, Timothy Two weeks later, he received a reply. My dearest Timmy, Darling boy, I had hoped to have this conversation once you arrived at my home. I know that Lottie did not give birth to you. Her child died from crib death when he was barely three months old. You arrived on our doorstep a few days later, under circumstances I would prefer to relate to you in person. Do not doubt that Lottie was your mother, though. She loved you as her own, and your grandmother and I loved you as well. You are still very welcome in my home, dearest nephew. I will gladly share my stories and my name with you, should you wish. I remain your ever hopeful, Aunt Tillie That letter, written in such a precise and spidery hand, had piqued his curiosity and soothed his conscience. And so, a few weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday, he packed his meager belonging into his rucksack and mounted the motorcycle that had belonged to Saul Cavanaugh. Once the vehicles had been released, Tim had sold his car, the money safely stored in the money belt he wore next to his skin. The bike would get him where he needed to go and take up a lot less room than his former ride. “You don’t have to go, you know,” Ted told him, leaning back against the garage door, hands in his trouser pockets. “Jen and I would be more than happy to have you stay with us. The McCarthys too, or the Morrises. You could finish up high school and head north for college.” “I appreciate the offer, Ted. Really, I do.” Tim smiled at the man who had been so kind to him. “But I need to get out of here—away from the memories. Away from anything that ties me to him.” “A fresh start.” Ted nodded. “I get it. But know that you always have a place with us, Timmy.” He pressed his lips together, keeping his emotions in check. “Thanks, Ted. Thanks for everything.” “You got enough money?” Ted asked. “I’m good.” Tim picked up the helmet Mrs. Morris had insisted on buying for him. “I’ll call when I stop tonight, and I’ll let you know how it goes when I get there.” “I’m going to hold you to that, buddy. Be careful.” “I will.” Tim shrugged and held out his hand. He didn’t even protest when Ted shook it firmly and pulled him into a quick, firm hug, saying, “That’s from Jenny.” Biting his lip, Tim secured his helmet and mounted his metal steed. Gunning the motor, he gave Ted a wave and headed off. He was determined not to look back.  New York The city was confusing to a boy from a speed bump-sized town in the Everglades, but with a little trial and error—and the help of a good-natured nun, he finally located Tillie’s garden apartment in a slightly run-down but impeccably maintained brownstone some ten blocks from the St. Joseph Catholic Children’s Home. When the birdlike lady answered the door, all of the fears and concerns that had been weighing on his mind over the past two days of traveling disappeared. Tim allowed her to envelope him in a surprisingly strong, lemon-verbena scented hug and lead him into a living area that could only be called overstuffed. Over tea and molasses cookies, Matilda Mangan filled Tim in as to his history as she knew it. “Your grandfather was my brother,” she told him, pouring tea from a silver pot into a delicate porcelain cup decorated with blue roses and silver gilt. Tim took it a little awkwardly, worried that his long fingers might snap the slender handle. “But your grandmother became my best friend,” she continued. “We were closer than most sisters.” She laughed, a happy, bell-like laugh. “We all met at a skating rink in Jersey. Cathy—your grandmother—was jealous because she thought Ricky—your grandfather—was flirting with me because he took me home every night. She didn’t know he was my brother. Oh, how we laughed at that! My fiancé, Chuck, and I stood up for them at their wedding. She looked so beautiful in her blue suit with those silver hair clips. She loved silver and blue.” She waved at the tea set. “This was hers. Ricky gave it to her as a wedding gift. He loved her so. It nearly killed both of them that he had to go off to war so soon after they were wed. But he left her expecting a son nearly nine months to the day he left for the front. That would have been your uncle, Richard Junior.” She touched his hand. “At least Ricky did come home. My poor Chuck lost his life at the Battle of Cantigny.” She dabbed at her eyes with the edge of a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “He was your husband?” Tim asked. “Fiancé,” she corrected. “My parents wouldn’t allow me to marry before I turned sixteen, and Chuck left for the war a few weeks before my birthday. Lord, how I loved that man! No other could ever take his place in my heart—and believe you me, many tried.” She laughed again but sadly. “This was his parents’ home. They left it to me. They were lovely people. Always treated me as if I had been legally their daughter.” “It’s lovely,” he commented, and it was. Pale ecru walls and polished wood chair rail that matched the equally polished wood floors. Scattered rugs on the wood floor held softly faded bright colors, and the furniture was overstuffed but very comfortable. “Thank you.” She patted his leg. “But you want to know about your mother, not my old lady ramblings. Where to start? Hmmm. After Ricky came home, Cathy gave him Joseph—named for our father, and three years later, your mother was born. They named her Charlotte Anne in honor of my Chuck. Two years later, they added Margaret Mary. We called her Mae.” Aunt Tillie paused, sipping from her teacup. “Mae was never quite right,” she said. “She was a sweet girl, wouldn’t do harm to anyone but herself, but she wasn’t…right. Lottie, now, that girl was a pistol—sharp as a tack and pretty as a picture. Lottie’s heart nearly broke when we lost your Uncle Richard at Normandy Beach; she adored both of her big brothers. In fact, that’s how she met Saul. He was a member of your Uncle Joe’s platoon. That Saul, he completely swept her off her feet, coming back from the war all proud and handsome in his Marine Corps uniform. She never stood a chance.” Aunt Tillie pursed her lips. “He was charming, back then,” she told him. “Saul. Before the drinking and the anger overtook him. He could be very kind and attentive, but he did have trouble holding a job. All that anger inside of him.” She shook her head and refilled Tim’s cup. “He went to Florida to take a job, and when it didn’t work out, he helped rob a grocery store. Charlotte was pregnant, and she came home while Saul was in prison. When her baby was born, she named him John. When he died a few months later, she was devastated. But then Mae showed up with you in her arms and some wild story of how the angels gave you to her.” “Mae was my mother?” Tim asked, the cookie had been chewing turning to ash in his mouth. “The one who wasn’t right in the head?” “No,” Aunt Tillie sighed. “No, Mae never gave birth. The doctor at the Overbrook Asylum confirmed that. But your Uncle Joe was with the police department by then, and he checked for missing babies with precincts in seven different states. I don’t want you to think we just took you, because that’s not what happened. Joe looked and looked, but…” She shrugged and smiled sadly. “You were so small and so sweet and helpless, and Lottie took to you immediately. It seemed as if the angels had, indeed, sent you to replace the child she lost.” “So she just kept me?” Tim looked at Aunt Tillie, trying to make the story make sense. “What happened to Mae?” he asked. “Mae had another breakdown—a much more serious one than her previous breaks. We had her committed to the Overbrook Asylum in Essex but she never really recovered. She was happy enough there in her imaginary world, right up until she passed away two years ago from pneumonia. Joe died in Korea, and now I’m the only one left. Just you and me.” She reached for his hand, and he let her take it. “We couldn’t find anyone missing a baby your age, and we loved you from the first. What else could we do? Turn you over to the orphanage?” “I suppose not,” Tim agreed reluctantly, “but how did she explain it to my…her…Saul?” “She just didn’t tell him.” Aunt Tillie excused herself, returning in a moment with a small box. Handing it to Tim, she continued, “Lottie still loved Saul, despite the mistake he made. She was afraid losing his son would drive him over the edge, so she didn’t. I think she would have just called you John, if it hadn’t been for the buttons.” She tapped the box. “Open it.” Tim did, unwrapping the tissue to reveal a tiny blue suit knit from the softest yarn he’d ever touched. Small, hand-painted buttons sewn down the front of the jacket were monogrammed. Raising it closer to his face, he could just make out the worn cursive letters. “T. J or I. M.” he read aloud. “You were wearing that when Mae brought you here. Judging by the condition it was in, it’s what you were wearing when she found you. We decided that the buttons had your name on them. Tim. And so, you became Timothy John Cavanaugh. It was easy enough to convince Saul that the telegram had left off your first name. After all, you were three before he ever met you.” “I can’t believe you kept this,” Tim breathed softly, his fingers stroking the legs of the little pants. Aunt Tillie reached for his hands again, and he looked into her soft, blue eyes. “Timmy, we never meant to deceive you. Lottie went to Florida with Saul, and things just got worse. I truly believe she planned on returning home with you when your grandfather died. She’d written that Saul’s second prison sentence had been the last straw. She would have told you when you were old enough to understand. I know she would have; she just never got the chance. Your grandmother washed this suit, and we’ve kept it safe for you all these years. We thought maybe someday it might help if you wanted to try and find out who your blood family is. But that’s your decision. As far as we Mangans felt, and as I feel, we are your family.” He couldn’t stop the tears as he wondered how different the last six years of his life might have been if Lottie had been able to make her way north with him instead of finding herself beaten to death, stuffed in a barrel and maligned as a child abandoning whore by her abusive psycho of a husband. “Thank you, Aunt Tillie,” he choked. “I hope I don’t let you down.” “Never, Timmy-me-lad.” She handed him a second handkerchief, this one sans lace, and he mopped at his face. “You’ve made your way home, boy. You’re safe here and very much loved.” As he brought his emotions under control, Aunt Tillie took command. “Now, Tim, this is the plan. We’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow and start the process to reclaim your name. Mangan is a proud Irish name, and you’ll do well by it, I’ve no doubt. Then we’ll go get you some clothing, and see what we need to do to get you enrolled at the high school.” “I should look for a job,” he offered. “I can’t let you support me.” “Who says?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “Besides, I’ve got thirteen years to make up for. But, I respect your need to be independent. So, as long as you can get a job that won’t interfere with your schooling, I won’t object.” “I…I…” He was rendered speechless. “Close your mouth, love. You’ll catch flies.” Aunt Tillie rose and began to clear the tea things. Why don’t you go unpack and let your mentor know you’re home and safe? Then, you can wash up for supper. I’ve a nice chicken in the broiler and some red potatoes to go along.” “Thank you, Aunt Tillie.” Tim stood up and carefully took the tea tray from the older woman. “I’ll be sure to do that as soon as I help you put these away. I want to help out.” “Of course you do, my sweet, sweet boy.” She patted his cheek. “I assure you I’ll find plenty of things for you to do once you’ve settled in. For now, just put those near the sink and go do as I asked.” “Yes, ma’am,” Tim said, and as he carried away the tray, the leaden lump he’d been carrying in his belly since the last night with Saul began to dissipate slightly, and he wondered if, indeed, he had finally come home. What If...? Home Saraid What_If.htmlhttp://rolyru.com/Paradise/Welcome_Page.htmlSaraid.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1shapeimage_1_link_2