The boy lived in a large ranch house built alongside a road that followed the course of an old southern California riverbed. The road twisted and turned inside a canyon, and during the heavy winter rains the road often flooded. The rains brought sand down from the foothills, and after the waters receded, bars of the sand remained on the road. Long after a storm had passed, particles of sand blown by the wind would settle on the camellia bushes outside the boy's room, drooping the leaves with their weight.
The boy's room had redwood paneling and plush wall to wall carpet that felt soft and fluffy under his feet. The boy seldom left the room except to go to school or eat his meals. When time for a family meal, his mother would knock on the door, and once her footsteps faded away, the boy would leave his room and slowly walk down the hall to the dining room.
At the dining table the boy ate as fast as possible and never spoke unless asked a question. His parents talked little between themselves. When they did, it was usually at the instigation of his mother, his father's comments restricted to sarcasms tossed at either his wife or his son.
On this particular evening the boy's father was not at the dinner table and had not been present for any meal the previous three days. His mother would have been surprised at how this bothered her son. The truth was, any deviation from the family norm upset him greatly.
His mother's silence had caused a feeling of dread to surge over the boy. He was positive something terrible had happened. His father had not mentioned going away, and now he was gone and his mother's silence meant she was upset. Had they quarreled? He couldn't remember them ever quarrelling, at least not in his presence. Had he recently observed a glance between them that might signify something? The boy cast his mind back to the family meals of the past few weeks. He could recall nothing other than the vague hollow nothingness that always shrouded their table.
He shot a glance at his mother. Her eyes appeared glassy and unfocused, and he feared she might cry. This caused the boy's stomach muscles to tighten, and with that came a warning: any uncomfortable situation made him the focal point of a thousand eyes that magnified his every word and gesture. This came upon him quickly, seizing him often before he could identify it, his only warning that tightening in his stomach.
He must get back to his room! Mumbling that he had a headache, the boy left the table and carried his plate into the kitchen. He had not looked at his mother when he left the table. Nor did he look at her on the way back from the kitchen on his way to his room.
Inside his room the boy felt better. Now he had time to collect himself. It didn't take long, however, for that gnawing ache at the pit of his stomach to return. His father had never been away for so long without an explanation. Something serious must have happened. Could his father have left for good? The more the boy considered this possibility the more terrified he became. His hands began to shake.
Trembling, the boy went to the window and gazed out at the moonless night. A gentle wind softly rippled the leaves of the sycamore trees. The wind could be a prelude to rain, and a good-size storm meant the road would flood, and then he could stay home from school. During the last storm he spent a whole day at his bedroom window watching the cars slip and slide along the road.
Then the boy thought of the big storm two years ago. The storm lasted five days and the raging floodwaters threatened to pour over the curb. On the third and worst day of the storm, he and his father made sandbags out of gunnysacks and had piled them high on the curb. They had stayed awake the whole night replacing and shoring up the bags. Afterwards his father told him how much he appreciated his help, and the boy had been intensely proud of his father's praise.
There were other good times with his father, the best being when he accompanied him to his office. Allowed to roam the plant, he enjoyed the feeling he had when employees nudged each other as he passed by. As he grew older he came to view the employees' reaction differently; the smiles and handshakes now seemed to him forced and artificial. After that the boy no longer wanted to go to his father's office. When his father asked why, he shrugged and said he just didn't feel like going. His father had walked away mumbling he thought he enjoyed the visits. His father never asked him to the office again.
Not wanting to think anymore about his father, the boy walked to a large closet. From the bottom drawer of a built-in floor-to-ceiling chest of drawers, he lifted a large heavy wood box. Inside the box were hundreds of lead soldiers that his father purchased while away in England on business.
The boy often played with his soldiers. He would arrange them on the carpet to correspond with battles he studied in his military history books. He used his clothes as terrain, and shoes, socks, and belts often covered the entire room. To complete a battle sometimes took days. When the family maid first saw a battlefield she didn't clean the room. This upset the boy's mother who promptly told his father. That night at the dinner table his father asked why he didn't pick up his soldiers. He replied the battle of Waterloo took a long time to recreate. His father laughed, and asked which general he favored, Napoleon or the Duke of Wellington. The Duke of Wellington, he answered. For weeks after that his father referred to him as the "The Iron Duke."
Straining with the weight, the boy carried the box to the center of the room, and placed it down on the carpet next to a book on battles of the American Civil War. He sat down on the carpet and turned the book's pages to a chapter on The Battle of the Wilderness. After studying the maps and drawings he began to construct the terrain. To make a hill he placed a sock. To create a stream he strung a belt along the carpet.
He had started to assemble the Union and Confederate battle positions, when he heard footsteps in the hall. He froze. The door opened. The boy did not look up at his mother.
"There is something I wish to speak to you about," she said.
A quick glance revealed his mother's swollen eyes. She had been crying. The boy's gaze returned to the soldiers. He picked up a French Zouave, the blue uniform designated him one of the Union. He leaned over to place the Zouave next to the river.
"Please stop playing with your silly soldiers!"
The boy's hand made a fist around the lead soldier. He did not look up at the woman who towered above him. He heard her take a deep breath.
"A few days ago your father and I had a talk," she said, "and we have decided it would be best if we lived apart for awhile. Our separation has been building for a long time. You knew that, didn't you?"
Her voice sounded like an echo.
"Well, didn't you?"
The boy brought himself back.
"No," he whispered.
"I was hoping your father had talked to you about it."
He shook his head no.
"Would you like me to explain it to you?"
Again he shook his head no.
"I have your father's new phone number. Your birthday is coming up next week and I know he would like to hear from you. In case you should want the number, remember I can give it to you."
After a pause, the mother said: "It's not easy on me either, you know. You might think of somebody else's feelings beside your own."
The boy continued to silently stare down at The Battle of the Wilderness.
"Do you have anything to say to me?" his mother asked.
He shook his head no.
"Good night then."
The door clicked shut.
When he could no longer hear his mother's footsteps, the boy dropped the French Zouave onto the floor and brought his hands to his stomach, probing his flesh for the knot he felt must be inside. Then he struggled to his feet and walked to the window. The wind had died down, and the moon shone brightly in the sky. There would be no rain that night.
I should cry now, he thought.
But he knew he would not cry. The enormity of what had happened to his family was full weight upon him, and yet he knew he would not cry. He knew this because he never cried.
Would he ever see his father again? Perhaps not until he was a man.
In his imagination the boy saw himself as a man confronting his father. His father would fail to recognize him, and what a moment it would be when his father discovered who he was! Over and over in his mind's eye, the boy saw the incredulous look on his father's face when he realized the man he faced was indeed his own son.
Then the boy saw himself taking over his father's position in the household. He would make all the right decisions, and his mother would be grateful and put her arms around him . . .
The boy shuddered. The thought of his mother doing that made him vaguely nauseated. No, he did not want to be in the house when anything like that happened.
That was the answer! Why hadn't he thought of it! He would move out of the house and rent an apartment! He could support himself. He was big for his age, big enough to get some kind of a job. If he moved everything would be fine! He could even send money to his mother!
The boy drove his fist into his palm. It was perfect! Sometime next week he would gather his things together and strike out on his own. His father would approve. They would probably even go out and celebrate together. Besides, there was nothing unusual in what had happened to his family. Hadn't he recently read a magazine article that said marriage was nothing more than an economic necessity? Since more women were working, the article said, marriage was dying out as an institution. The divorce might actually be a good thing. His parents weren't happy with each other, and it was high time he started doing things on his own.
The boy began to softly whistle. Leaving the window, he knelt down on the floor next to his soldiers. Now that he had decided to move, he could return to the Battle of the Wilderness. The battle had been one of the longest battles of the Civil War, and he had better hurry if he wanted to finish before moving into his apartment. And he must make sure to move before his birthday. After all, when you reach the age of twelve you're a little old to be celebrating birthdays with your mother.