Chapter 7
The Homecoming
It was late afternoon when Willie stood outside his old apartment building, suitcase in hand, where the van had dropped him off. He glanced briefly up and down the street in search of a familiar face. No longer in possession of a key, he pushed the button above his old mailbox and waited to be buzzed in.
Lydia looked radiant. Her eyes smiled brightly, her hair was a honey blonde and cut in a bouncy flip. She wore a pretty pastel dress and had two rings on one finger.
"Big Bill!" She put his suitcase aside and gave him a hug, which startled the boy, so he did not return the gesture. "You really are big! Look how much you've grown."
"Ya look diff'rent…I mean, nice." She kissed his cheek and guided him to the sofa. Willie didn't know why he felt so awkward, but nothing seemed the same. The furniture had changed. The wallpaper. His mother. Instead of cigarettes, she smelled like flowery perfume.
"What happened to the old couch?" he asked uncertainly.
"We had to throw that out, honey."
That was my bed. You threw out my bed, my Peter Pan book was in there, and—who's we?
"So much has happened. I met a nice man—at an AA meeting. Do you know what that is?" Willie nodded. It was an automobile club.
"His name is Richard, and I know you're going to be such good friends." She took his hands in hers. "He and I got married two years ago. We've been living here just till he got his business up and running, but now," she beamed with happiness. "He just bought a house! After all, we're going to need a lot more room…"
From the bedroom came the sound of an infant crying. Lydia led her confused son to the next room where a bassinet stood in the corner.
"This is your brother, Richard Jr. Isn't he beautiful?"
I'm going to call him Little Dick.
She picked up Little Dick and patted his back. "Would you like to hold him?" The teenager backed away, shaking his head—no way in hell. Lydia sat in the rocker as her older son stood across the room, his shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets. He stared at his makeover mother coddling her chubby, flaxen-haired baby. Lydia looked a little concerned. "Why don't you relax, honey? Make yourself at home. I have an idea, you can watch television." He didn't respond. "Bill, aren't you happy? We have a TV set now. And after supper you can tell us all about school."
"Okay," he answered quietly. Yeah, I'll tell ya all about school.
Willie left the bedroom and made a beeline for the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. That was where Lydia stashed bottles, but they were long gone, replaced by Rice a Roni and Duncan Hines cake mix. Shit, he really wanted a drink.
"Lyddie, I'm goin' for a walk, okay?"
"Well, alright, but don't go too far. Richard, I mean your stepfather, gets home at 5:30, so we'll have supper at six." She appeared smiling in the doorway, baby on board. "And honey? How about if you call me Mom from now on? Now that we're a real family."
Willie could think of no reply for this and so he left. The boy ran for a few blocks, not wanting to meet up with anyone he once knew, and headed for the Capri Garden Lounge.
"If it isn't Chilly Willie!" called Bob, the bartender. The kid gratefully breathed in the familiar surroundings. "How's it goin', big guy? You know your mom doesn't work here anymore."
"I know. I just wanted to say hi." Willie sat on his usual stool.
"Well, I'll give you a Coke, but then you gotta hit the road. Not allowed to have minors sittin' at the bar by themselves."
Willie looked at the empty stool next to him as Bob tapped out a cold soda.
"Charlie died in March. Fell right off that stool; dead before he hit the floor. Boy, the place hasn't been the same without him. I remember you two sittin' there together watchin' the Dodgers." There was a moment of silence for Charlie as Willie sipped his Coke. "Hey, I got some chili in the back. Want some?"
"Sure. I got money."
"Well, it's no good in here." Bob called over his shoulder as he rambled into the kitchen. In a flash, Willie hoisted himself up onto the bar and leaned over the other side. He grabbed the first available bottle, which was rye whiskey, and sloshed it into his half-empty cola glass. Swiftly, the teenager replaced the bottle and sat back down as Bob returned with a chipped, steaming bowl and almost clean spoon.
"I miss your mother, too," the bartender continued wistfully. "You'd think she could stop in and say hey, but no, Lydia wanted a clean break, so I never hear word, know what I mean?"
"I sure do."
Willie shoveled in some chili, which actually tasted pretty good and spicy and, like everything Bob made, brimming with grease. The teen took a long draw on his straw, grimaced and gagged. At that moment he spotted a shadowy figure sitting at the other end of the dimly lit bar, at what used to be hookers' row. The man wore a trench coat and a black fisherman's cap. Willie realized the stranger must have been watching the whole time. Their eyes locked. He flashed a shit-eating grin and called for the bartender. The kid held his breath.
"Tell me, Bob," The mysterious fellow said in a lilting Irish brogue, "Might I try a wee bit of that chili as well? It smells delightful."
When Bob returned to the kitchen, the man picked up his drink and moved to Charlie's old stool.
"How do you do, m'lad, my name's Jason Patrick McGuire." His eyes twinkled at Willie, who gave him a skeptical sideways glance. "And who might ye be?"
"Captain James Hook," Willie rudely replied, noisily slurping the remainder of his drink.
Mr. McGuire removed the glass from the child's hand and placed it on the bar in a parental gesture. "You'll want to be runnin' along home now, son, before your poor mother gets worried." His tone sounded friendly and menacing at the same time.
Willie looked at the strange man with uncertainty. "Okay, mister." He slid off the stool and lost his balance, but Jason's hand shot out to catch the boy. "Steady there, mate."
Willie trod careful, premeditated steps to the door. "Gotta go!" he yelled to the kitchen.
"Say hi to your mom, kiddo!" Bob called from the back room.
McGuire went to the door and held it open. "So long, Chilly Willie," he said. "See you around."
Half a block away, Willie looked over his shoulder to see the weird guy was still watching him. He crossed the street and staggered around the corner.
Feeling quite tipsy, Willie shuffled toward the avenue, in the opposite direction of home. No way was he about to sit down to supper with Mom, Big Dick and Little Dick, but he did need to sit down. He needed to think and make a plan.
Taking up residence on a park bench, Willie instead closed his eyes and dozed. In his dream, Peter Pan explained to him that it okay to be a Lost Boy—how mothers were very over-rated persons:
Long ago I thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed.
"Why are you crying, boy?" Wendy asked, only she had a man's voice.
Willie's eyelids fluttered, then he jumped into startled consciousness at the sight of the creepy Irishman standing over him. Sitting up, the kid swiftly wiped the moisture from his face, a little embarrassed, a little fuzzy. He shrugged at the dark haired man, who made himself comfortable on the bench beside him.
"I guess that's whatcha call a wet dream," Willie said with a smirk. Jason barked with laughter and slapped him on the back.
"So, you decided not to go home after all."
"What for? They don't want me," he snorted. "She don't need me anymore. The house is all clean and she threw out my book." Alcohol had clearly loosened the teenager's tongue, and McGuire listened attentively.
"Call me mom. Next she'll be askin' me to call him dad. Well, I won't; fuck, no. The only thing I'm gonna call him is Big Dick." He continued to rail as if his companion had argued the point. "And no way am I goin' back to that stupid school neither; it's a shithole. Do you know what they do to ya there if ya hit somebody? They hit you. But only if they see ya do it, and I don't get caught. Believe me, they only see what they wanna see."
The youngster looked away, only vaguely aware that he was revealing way too much personal information to some guy he didn't even know. But the fellow lent a sympathetic ear.
"Ah, the truant officer might have somethin' to say about that."
"Uh uh, I can drop out if I wanna; I'm 16," the youth protested. That was a seven-month stretch of the truth, but close enough for this slimy stranger.
"Are ya now? Well, you look more like 12."
Willie shot him a dirty look, clearly taking umbrage at that remark, especially after a day of being told how much he'd grown. Jason pulled out a package of cigarettes and offered one to the lad. They sat silently for a minute, smoking.
"Don't get me wrong, boy-o; looks like yours are an asset in some lines of work…So then, what are your plans?"
Willie shrugged and looked up. It was twilight; stars were beginning to peek through the park trees.
"What you need is an adventure—a wayfaring voyage to seek your fortune." Jason patted his back with sincerity.
Willie moved away, staring at the seemingly friendly man, who was old enough to be a dad, but sure didn't act like one—more likely a pervert, with those sharp blue eyes and creepy smile. Willie felt uncomfortable; he slid off the bench, thinking it might be a good time to get away.
"Now, where are you off to? I was about to invite you for a drink. One you don't have to steal."
Willie eyed him with distrust. "What for? What are ya, some kinda queer?"
Jason laughed again. "Under no circumstances! When you have somethin' I want, I'll let you know." He put his arm around Willie. "Come along, lad. My hotel is nearby."
Willie was conflicted. The kid knew this probably wasn't a good idea, but honestly didn't see the harm. It meant he didn't have to go home and could get another drink for free. What the hell; maybe this was the adventure he had in store.
For the next few days, Willie's address was a hotel room floor. His generous new friend showered him with clothes, take-out food, comic books and cigarettes. He didn't like the whiskey that Jason drank and wanted something else. But what?
Sixteen men on a dead man's chest
Yo ho ho and –
A bottle of rum—with a pirate on the label. Willie discovered that rum tasted damn good in Coke or apple juice or, especially, chocolate milk.
But something felt amiss. If he was about to run off to become a pirate, or something cool like that, Willie thought he should probably tell Lyddie, just so she wouldn't get worried. He picked up the phone just as the Irishman came bustling through the hotel room door bearing gifts.
"Hang up, there's no time for that now," Jason announced jovially. "We have more booze, hot pizza, and fish and chips."
"I just wanna call my mom."
"There's no need; didn't I tell you I took care of everything? The arrangements have been made, and all agreed this is no less than a brilliant plan."
"Really?"
"God strike me dead. Oh, and something I forgot."
He reached into the inner pocket of his trench coat and dropped a brand new paperback edition of Peter Pan into the lad's lap.
When he decided the coast was clear, Mr. McGuire brought his young protégé to see a seedy-looking man who lived in a basement apartment. He had a camera and a work table cluttered with tools and razor blades. At the end of the evening Willie was in possession of his first paper documentation: a social security card and a driver's license.
According to his new ID, he lived in Newark, New Jersey, and was three years older.
"Aw, Jason, nobody's gonna believe I'm 18 years old."
"Sure an' they will. You have a genetic disorder, poor lad. Now, sometimes you'll be 18, but otherwise, you're 12. It all depends on the circumstances."
The next day, Jason and his new partner in crime boarded a Greyhound bus for Neverland, whereupon Willie began his career as a pirate.
