Finding the Fit Chapter 1
Martha had come really close to replaying the movie trope of having her baby in the back of a taxi, but the boxy checkered cab pulled up in front of Emergency just in time. Richard was born 20 minutes later. He was Richard only in Martha's mind, but she said his name aloud, hoping that it would go with him. As she'd already agreed to give him up for adoption, he was whisked away as soon as he was born. The nurses assured her that it would be easier that way. Somehow, that did nothing to staunch her tears, but she wasn't sure if they were more of relief or loss.
Ricky stares in frustration at his flattened crayon. The waxy sticks get that way for the other kids when they color a lot of sky or green grass. They just pull back the paper and keep right on going. But Ricky is much more interested in writing than he is in coloring. He uses a pencil when he has one, but under his eager grip, the points often break off. He tries to sharpen them with the little plastic thing he's allowed to use, but after a while that gets too clogged up to do a decent job, and the points it makes don't last very long. Also, in his eagerness, his pencil point pokes through the paper. So he's using crayons on the big sheet provided to him and the other kids to draw on.
There are a lot of kids at Compassionate Hearts and there's only enough paper for one sheet each. He wasn't always there. In the fuzzy reaches of his mind, he remembers what he thinks was a mother and father. He doesn't recall much more than fragments. Strong arms lifted him into the air. A gentle voice read him stories. There was also a terrible noise and heat. All his other memories, including whispers of a terrible accident, spring from Compassionate Hearts.
Not every child here stays. Sometimes, smiling people come and take them away for adoption to be part of a family like the one Ricky so vaguely remembers. But so far, no one has chosen him. He's heard Miss Merkle and Miss Sanford talking about it sometimes when they think he's not listening. They say he talks too much for parents who want a quieter, more manageable child. Miss Lula keeps repeating that he has so much creative energy – whatever that is – that he doesn't know what to do with it. Ricky tries sometimes to be like the other kids. He even switched from writing to coloring for a little while. But he couldn't keep the words from wanting to jump out of his fingers.
Since he has to write his stories on one piece of paper, even if it's a big one, they aren't very long. When he has to write them in crayon, they're even shorter. Still, he can put down what he imagines about spies and spaceships. Someday he'll be able to put his stories in books, but not little ones like the ones Miss Lula puts on the shelves for him and the other kids. Ricky is going to write big ones like Miss Merkle reads sometimes. But Ricky's books won't have hearts on the covers like hers do, they'll have heroes having great adventures. A grin spreads over Ricky's face as he pictures them. But then slowly, more aware of the crayon still in his fingers, he does the best he can with it and his one sheet of paper.
The tall, sturdily built man watches the play area outside Compassionate Hearts through a scope from a building a quarter mile away. It's taken him a long time to figure out what happened to the son Martha Rodgers bore nine months after their one tempestuous night together. It's also taken many of the resources unknown to the public but available to him. He would know that the child the Compassionate Hearts staff calls Ricky is his son, even if it weren't for the timing. The eyes and the unruly head of hair are much like his were as a child. The boy also has Martha's presence if not her grace. Still, there is no way the man can claim the boy. His life has no room for family or any personal attachments. A child, especially, would be a constant target for his enemies to use against him. He'll do what he can for Ricky. He's already set up a fund to help the boy with his education. A lawyer will administer it for an anonymous donor. And as much as he can between assignments, he'll keep an eye on the boy. He knows it's not enough, but it's the most he can do."
As April First approaches, Ricky, who now prefers Rick, knows he'll have to leave Compassionate Hearts. He has no idea who the anonymous benefactor who made it possible for him to enroll in the college that offers the best creative writing program is, but he's looking forward to going. Still, that won't be until September, and he can't stay where he is past his 18th birthday. So he's lined up a job in the local library. It's been one of his favorite places since he's been allowed to go out on his own, and he knows every inch of the place. Reshelving books will be a snap, and if someone asks for directions or a recommendation, he'll easily oblige.
Rick will be renting an apartment with three other boys who aged out of Compassionate Hearts. It's in an old building, not yet part of the refacing going on in the neighborhood, so until he leaves for college, Rick will be able to afford it – barely. He'll be eating a lot of ramen, but as long as he's got enough money for pens and notebooks, he'll be fine. He's found out that an allowance goes with his funding for college. It will start when he gets there. And he'll also have money designated for a car. He won't be driving a Mercedes, but he'll be able to get around without depending on public transportation. That will be luxury enough.
Rick gazes around his dorm room. Even sharing it with a roommate, he'll still have more space than he's ever had before – that he can remember, anyway. There's a little fridge and a microwave and what he needs the most: a sizable desk that will hold his newly purchased typewriter and all his writing materials. He still prefers to write in notebooks – the composition books he used while growing up. But he needs the typewriter for his assignments and for stories he plans to send off to publishers. He already has short stories he's ready to transcribe to submit to the crime magazines. But he wants to write novels. He managed to place out of the introductory English classes and into his first writing class to polish his skills. And he's not about to wait until he graduates. By this time next year, if not sooner, he'll be stuffing a thick manuscript into an envelope and sending it off.
The book launch party is taking place in one of the smaller ballrooms at the Reardon Hotel, but to Rick, it's still dazzling. Black Pawn was the 20th publisher to which he'd submitted In a Hail of Bullets. He'd almost given up – almost. His girlfriend Kyra dug up copies of a bunch of rejection letters that now much-celebrated authors received and showed them to him. That gave him the push he needed to hang on until the triumphant day when his acceptance arrived.
In a Hail of Bullets hadn't qualified for a party, but had been a surprise bestseller. That enabled Rick to move to an apartment instead of a dorm room and invest in a desktop computer. He'd also been able to take Kyra to places a lot nicer than McDonalds. Unfortunately, Kyra's mother considered Rick to be at most, a flash in the pan who would end up as an instructor at some obscure community college. Mrs. Blaine sent her daughter off for a grand tour through London and much of the rest of Europe. Rick wanted to follow, but he had obligations to Black Pawn. While he was fulfilling them, letters from Kyra dwindled to few and far between. Finally, she stopped writing entirely. In a sea of admirers anxious for his attention, Rick is alone.