Page 1 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
Entry #1
Phoenix
“You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.”
~Plato
Dear Caleb,
What I’m about to share with you is important, so be patient and trust where I am leading you.
I promise to be candid. But I also promise this isn’t a confession or an apology, because to be sorry for what happened when I was eighteen would mean I was sorry for the life we have now, and I could never regret you.
I’ll start from my beginning in the hopes that it’ll help you to understand what was at the root of what happened next, because my beginning is what ultimately led me to one of the most important people in my life, Caleb. What ultimately led me to you.
My father died when I was ten, that age where having a father began to make its impact. At the cusp of understanding what it meant to be a man, and understanding that my dad was a great one. “We’ll figure it out one way or the other way,” he’d always say. No matter how trivial my situation,wewould figure it out. Together.
When I was five, Mom got me an Empire State Building Lego set for Christmas, and Dad gave her the side-eye for it when I insisted on putting it together that same day. Left on my own with it, I grew frustrated and threw a tantrum, knocking down what I’d already completed—which wasn’t much.
“We’ll figure it out one way or the other way,” he said. We didn’t complete it until five the following morning.
My dad hated building things. He was a book guy. A man who could spend hours debating Socrates and then move on to the merits of Jane Austen. He taught philosophy at the University of Denwin, about three miles from our home in the suburbs of Denwin, New York. My love for the subject came from him. I remember as far back as age six, sitting at the breakfast nook every morning and being quizzed on the greats. “‘Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something.’” From the corner of his eye he would watch me mull it over, wearing a crooked smile as he buttered my bread.
I could’ve easily replied with who said that, but this was part of our game. He found joy in sharing this important side of who he was with me, and I found joy in never making him feel as if I’d learned all he had to teach. After serious consideration, where I blew air out of my mouth and shoved my curls aside, I shouted, “Plato!”
“You got it!” he shouted back, leaning over to kiss my chubby cheek.
“Dad, you’re a wise man,” I said around a mouth full of bread.
“So are you, son. So are you.”
My lessons from him often came through play. I’d appreciate that more later on in life. At the time, it was simply some fun to pass the time and a reason to be with my dad.
My imposing but fair-haired gentle giant. He’d pretend he forgot to bend when entering a room and clonk his head on the top of the door frame just to see me laugh. It worked every time, Caleb.
My chest inflated when anyone called me his spitting image, although it appeared I would be shorter like my mother, with her small frame.
He was tactile, opposite of her in his need for touch and eye contact, and I got all his excess love since Mom would often shoo his affections away with her dish towel when it became too much.
There was a park near our house with rolling hills. We’d spend hours during warm weather months rolling down the grassy slopes, laughing hysterically and then racing back to the top. The deal was always that if I made it to the top first, I’d get a million hugs and kisses. So of course, I always won. I’d jump up and down, yelling with my arms to the heavens, “I won, I won!”
He would take advantage of my arms being raised and tickle my flank. I’d scream in delight, and he’d scoop me up into his arms, swing me through the air like a plane, then land with me on the soft crabgrass, hugging and kissing me until I couldn’t breathe. Until my love battery recharged to the point of overheating. “I love you, bud,” he’d say fondly.
He and my mother had been high school sweethearts. But where Dad was a man of soft speech and many words, my mother was a thunderbolt who had very little patience for talking when riled up. They complemented each other, I supposed. That’s what Dad said, anyway. Mom needed to win and Dad needed to keep the peace. He was the nurturer of our haven, and she was the warrior of our realm. They were in love and in like and in everything else considered good. But even at that age I wondered why she didn’t love his raspberry kisses, and his soft and squishy hugs. More for me, I’d say.
We lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in a neighborhood with homes that ranged from quaint and modest to modestly grand, surrounded by your clichéd picket fences. Our home was a replica of the Camden house on7th Heaven. So more on the modestly grand side. Mom said they bought it with the intentions of filling it with children. But after having me, they weren’t able to conceive again. The doctors said they were both fine. Mom said it was in God’s hands. Having all of Dad’s attention was fine by me, though. We were a pair.
When I was sick, Dad would be who I sought out blindly. Climbing into his lap and resting my head over his heart until its beautiful music lulled me to sleep. And at night, when my small body would be racked with chills, he would curl his large frame around mine until my trembling limbs were at rest.
Mom’s job was to administer the correct dosage of medicine every four to six hours on the nose. To force feed me soup and take a stern tone when I refused to take in anymore. And she’d change my sweat-soaked sheets and lecture me lightly on the importance of electrolytes.
But all I wanted was a hug, Caleb.
Dad never had a problem with bending the rules, but Mom was a stickler for routine and structure. Some of my best memories were of Dad picking me up from school on Fridays and whispering, “Guess what? Mom is doing an extra shift at the hospital. You know what that means.” His dimpled smile was a treat on its own.
I’d bounce in my seat, the seatbelt the only thing keeping me from flying through the roof. “It means pizza, ice-cream, and scary movies!”
“You got it,” he’d say, ruffling my hair. We’d have all the evidence gone before Mom got home. Working with sick people made her hyperaware of the need for healthy eating habits. I suspected she knew about our nefarious Fridays because dinner the next night would always include an extra helping of something green. Dad and I would also sneak the big TV from the family room into the living room, because it wasn’t a party without the comfy beige sofa. Mom didn’t like anyone sitting on her beige sofa.
