Date: Sat, 9 Jan 2016 18:34:18 -0500
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: SPECIAL INSTALLMENT of "THE FATHER CONTRACT"

Chapter Forty-Nine: The Outcast

"You won't tell me," Jack said, fixing him with his eyes, "but I know what
it is, PJ. You don't have to tell me, because you've made it pretty clear
all along. Now, I don't want to be mean to you, but you need to get it
straight. I'm not your father, PJ. I never was, and I never will be. I'm
sorry about what happened to your parents, and I know you haven't had an
easy time. But that's just the way it goes. I can't fix it for you. I know
you'd like to have a father, and I know you've picked me for the part, but
it won't work. I'm no good at it. Any urges I ever had to be a father died
six years ago when my son died. And here's something you should know. I was
a lousy father! I was a lousy father to my own kid! I hardly ever saw him
and even when I did, I didn't do much for him. Sometimes I think it's just
as well he's dead. I probably would've screwed him up somehow."

PJ shook his head. "No," he whispered, eyes glistening with tears.

"Look, I can see this is upsetting you." Jack made another impatient
gesture. "But maybe it's for the best. I mean, you're just gonna have to
face this someday. Now's probably as good a time as any. Let's look at the
facts, kid. I'm a professional ballplayer, and this is baseball season. I'm
trying to get a job done here. I'm trying to get my ball club to the World
Series. Now you want to see that happen, don't you? I haven't got time to
play nursemaid or part-time dad. And what's more, PJ, I don't want to."

Jack got up. "Look," he said, staring down at PJ's stricken face, and it
was as if he was trying to sound more friendly, "you had a bad time. I
helped you out for awhile. I mean, what the heck--I like you. You're a
likable kid. But I'm not your father. And it's time you stopped with all
that. Now, I don't want to sound unkind, but I want you outta here. This is
no place for a kid. I should never have let you come. And you need to
forget about me and move on, PJ. Forget about me. Root for the Red Sox all
you want, but get on with your life. You've got lots of friends. You should
be doing things with them. Go hang out with Erik, or that Travis kid. Those
are the people you should be with. Go be a normal kid. I don't want you
hanging around anymore, okay? So call Walter and get something arranged. Do
whatever you have to do. But let's get going. Tomorrow's a travel day and I
have to be out of here in the morning."

With an exasperated exclamation that "I need a drink!" and a gesture of
dismissal, Jack turned and left the room, slamming the door and leaving PJ
sitting on the bed staring after him. He was in such a numb state of shock
and terror of abandonment that for several minutes, he never moved. Then,
suddenly, he got up, ran into the bathroom, and vomited into the toilet
until he was only racked by dry heaves. Eventually, they ended. He spit,
rose shakily to his feet, flushed, and rinsed his mouth out in the sink.

But the shaking wouldn't stop. Panicky thoughts whirled around in his
mind. Get away! Get away! Run away and hide where nobody can find me!

The shame was unbearable. He was the weird kid nobody wanted. Not his
parents, not even Jack. Nobody, nobody, nobody!  And it was all his
fault. There was something wrong with him. Run away before they find out!

Call Walter? No. It was late; Walter couldn't fix anything until
morning. And when that came, Walter would ask questions. They would all ask
questions! And no one must know! They musn't know how weird and unwanted he
was. I would rather die than have them find out! Get away now! He'd have to
pretend later that everything had been just fine, just fine. He was leaving
a few days early, that was all. Jack was busy. A baseball team on the road
was no place for a kid.

He was hiding now, crouched down in a corner of his mind, a secret hiding
place where no one could see him. PJ watched as some other boy, some other
PJ, methodically packed the few belongings not already in his bag. Just as
methodically, that same boy sat at the desk, took a pen, decided to lie out
his teeth about Walter, and wrote this note on hotel stationery:

"Dear Jack,

 	 I called Walter.  He fixed up some tickets for me.  I'm going to
the airport now. I have money for a taxi.  I am very sorry I messed up your
stuff. I hope you do good tomorrow, and in all your games.

 Your friend, PJ."

He left the note on Jack's bed where he would be sure to see it. Putting on
his fitted Red Sox cap, he checked to be sure he wasn't forgetting anything
before walking out of the room carrying his bag. In the elevator going down
to the lobby, he also checked his wallet. Fifty dollars. He hoped it would
be enough. Out on the sidewalk, he hailed a taxi, and told the driver he
wanted to go to the bus station.

 *  *  *

	"Celebrity sucks!" Jack Canon muttered the words bitterly as he
surveyed the crowded interior of the hotel bar and grill. He hadn't felt
the urge to get totally shit-faced in years, but a quiet, private drinking
session in some corner would've been impossible. And the situation would be
even worse at any bar down the street. There, he wouldn't only be
recognized, but mobbed for autographs while Cubs and White Sox fans taunted
him with insults about his slump. All of which he would have had to endure
with a forced, but good-natured smile or else risk blowing the public image
he'd built up for years. Maintaining that image was a royal pain-in-
the-ass. He'd never felt less working at it than now, but it paid the
bills, and he needed the money.

	Fuck it, he thought as he walked into the dim lounge. It is what it
is. He waved to a teammate who greeted him, sat down at the bar, and
ordered a Budweiser draft. He was careful to keep a confident, friendly
expression on his face, though internally he was seething. PJ! Go damn that
kid!

	With a flourish, the barman drew a frosty glass of brew from the
tap, slid it to him on a coaster, and said in a confidential tone, "My
kid's a huge fan of yours, Mr. Canon. Could you possibly sign a card for
him? He'd be so thrilled." A moment later, a Jack Canon Topps card appeared
in front of him.

	 Jack forced a smile. Be nice! Be nice! Never let down the mask! He
got out the felt-tip pen he was never without. "What's your kid's name?"

	"Carlos." The barman leaned forward to watch Jack personalize the
card. "Mr. Canon, I can't thank you enough! Carlos is a Cubs fan, but you
know how kids are. He still thinks you're the greatest!"

	"Yeah." Jack winked at him. "I know how kids are." As the barman
bustled away to deal with other orders, it occurred to him that just as he
himself kept up a public mask, so did the barman, serving customers whoever
they might be, day after day. But he dropped the mask long enough to ask a
favor for his kid. That guy trusted you, Jack mused. He trusted you to be
the person you've created for the public. The perfect star, the ambassador
of baseball, anything for the fans. Good thing he can't see me for who I
really am. He drained off half the beer and thought, Well now, PJ sure as
hell knows who I am. Jack stared at his reflection in the mirror. Shit! I
sure as hell let my mask slip in front of him. But goddamn it! I'm not
running a private nursery service.

	And he sure as hell didn't ever want to be a father again! Christ!

	With a sigh, he polished off his beer and asked for another. He
could allow himself at least two, though more was not an option. He was
Jack Canon. He had an image to maintain. Tomorrow they had another game to
play, he was the captain, his teammates looked to him for leadership, to
set an example. Plus there was that damn slump to contend with, and a
hangover would be no help with that! His team was battling its way toward
the finish of the season, contending for the Division lead, aiming for the
playoffs--and beyond! The pressure on him to perform never let up, day
after day after day. . . .  "Damn slump," he muttered. "Gotta get out of
it."

	And then there was PJ, emailing him all the time, wanting to be
noticed, wanting his attention, wanting his love . . . Above all else,
wanting a father!

	Shit! Who could do all that? It was too much. The kid was one
distraction too many.

	But damn it! If only I didn't like him so much. The way he
sometimes looks at me, the way his eyes light up when we talk. The way it
feels when he hugs me so tightly . . . .

	It was too much. He stirred up too many memories--the way he'd
mistreated his wife and neglected his son. Dead because of me! Jack kept
staring at his reflection. Well, fuck that! He didn't need to experience
all over again! The job of being Jack Canon, baseball idol, was enough
without throwing emotional distraction into the mix. He had to get it
together and first and foremost, get out this slump!

	After finishing his second Budweiser, Jack left the lounge, faking
smiles at his teammates, but still in too foul a mood to stop and
chit-chat. It'd been nearly two hours since he'd left the room, and he was
thinking again about PJ. I was pretty rough on the kid. I better sit him
down so we can have a little talk. But he's got to understand that he can't
hang around, that I'm not his father! Time for him to move on . . .

	He was surprised and a bit alarmed, then, to discover that the room
was deserted. He checked the bedroom, saw that PJ's clothes were gone, and
swore under his breath! Fuck! This was all he needed: that kid, wandering
around somewhere, out on his own in the city at night. Of, great! Why the
hell hadn't he waited for morning like any normal little boy? But no. Not
PJ. Nothing he ever did was normal. Goddamit, what a nuisance! Now what?
Call the police? Report him missing? Oh Jesus, what a mess that's going to
be . . .
	And then Jack spotted PJ's note on the bed.

	 He read it, frowned, and crumpled it in his fist. He thought with
bitterness, Well, that figures. That shark lawyer must have sent a car for
him. I would've driven him to the airport, damn it! All he had to do was
ask. Anyway, he's gone. So that's that.

	But not quite. Jack started pacing the floor. He couldn't help
musing about PJ. He signed the note "Your friend" to make me feel
guilty. He's such a little conniver. The little bastard manipulated me
right from the start. He knew I resented it, too, but he went right
ahead. And what was I supposed to do?

	"And besides, I liked him." The words came out before he could stop
them.

	All right, so what? So what if he liked him? So what if he even
loved PJ? However, he had a job to accomplish in the adult world of
baseball, and a boy had no place in that. And besides, I never want to be a
father again, he told himself through gritted teeth. The very idea of it
frightened him. Go down that road and I'll never get out of this slump.

	"I'm no good for the kid," he muttered as he continued his pacing
back and forth. Yes! That was it. Keep repeating that. "I'm no good for the
kid. I'm no good for the kid. I'm no good for the kid." This is surely the
best thing for both of us.  .  . "

	Jack needed to get PJ out of his head.

* * *

	PJ's ride in the taxi was long enough for him to again feel sick.

* * *

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT TWENTY- SIX

Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com