Date: Fri, 15 Apr 2016 13:23:08 -0400
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: The Father Contract Installment Forty-Seven

INSTALLMENT FORTY-SEVEN
from

THE FATHER CONTRACT
by

Arthur J. Arrington

Edited Paul K. Scott

Please consider a donation to Nifty so they will continue to publish our
exciting story of little PJ Thorndyke!

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Of Testament and Terror

On Monday, PJ stopped doing his class work.

He would've stopped going to swim practice, too, but he was committed to
taking Erik and Phil every morning, so he went, and out of habit pushed
himself as hard as ever. The exhausting physical exercise helped keep his
mind off the nightmares that now began to invade his days as well as
nights.

The world of The Gordonsville School, in which he'd been, if not happy, at
least comfortable, now seemed to him as alien and bleak as the long empty
corridors of his dreams. Only the presence of Erik and his other friends
kept the loneliness and sadness he felt from overwhelming him. He moved
mechanically from class to class, trapped in the routines of his life. He
began to count the days until he'd be free.

Erik's knee was better. He was walking on it now, and using a soft ace-wrap
brace for practice. Coach Lewis put Erik's name on the assignment sheet to
start Saturday's game.

"I'll keep going to swimming with you, PJ," Erik said happily, "but Friday
morning I'm gonna sleep in. I wanna be all rested up for the game. And you
and Phil should, too."

PJ simply nodded. He had no intention of doing any more swim practices once
Erik no longer needed them.

The evenings and the nights were the worst times. When he crossed the
Quadrangle after dinner, the darkness surrounding him was filled with
strange terrors that were only temporarily held at bay by the lights of his
House. Hour after hour he sat at his desk pretending to work, his mind
turning the same dull thoughts over endlessly, yearning for the release of
sleep and yet unwilling to go to his bed where his dreams waited to stalk
him. To fill the time, he read his article about the street children of Rio
de Janeiro again and again. The eyes of the boys in the article's pictures
haunted him. He saw the same empty, hunted look in his own eyes when he
stared into the mirror over his desk.

On Tuesday night, he was able to kill an hour by finding a website
featuring legal advice. The standard forms provided there helped him
prepare a document for use in Thursday's expected meting with Walter. He
was careful not to let Erik see what he was doing, and printed the document
the next day when he was sure his roommate was not in the House. Then he
hid it in his closet.

By far, the most difficult thing for him in the days before he planned to
leave were the dreams. Waking and sleeping, he saw the long empty corridor
stretching before him with its endless row of dim lights, the locked doors,
and the darkness creeping up behind him. Even during the day, he could
sometimes hear the faint roaring of a vast crowd somewhere in the
distance. At night, the sound came to him like the rushing of the
sea. While the sun was up, his friends and the distractions of familiar
routine helped keep the dreams pushed into the shadowy recesses at the back
of his mind. But at night, they crept out and consumed him, invading not
only his sleep but the core of his being. Time after time, he awoke to the
dim glow of his nightlight, shuddering and sweating in terror after
dreaming that he was running down that corridor, frantically trying door
after door, searching for escape as the darkness crept closer.  He knew now
what the darkness contained: A vast empty void of loneliness and despair
that would destroy him if it touched him!

He was no longer searching for Jack in his dreams. He knew now where Jack
was. Jack was waiting by the pool--and PJ knew how to get there. He longed
with all his heart to go, but he had to wait. He'd made a promise to his
best friend that he couldn't break. In the meantime, he must fight off the
darkness as best he could and that would take all the courage he
possessed. But Jack had told him he could do it."It takes courage to play
the game, Little Champ," PJ repeated over and over. "It takes courage."

In desperation, after waking from his dreams, PJ would try finishing the
night curled under his desk or huddled in his closet. But the dreams always
found him.

"Stand in the face of adversity," PJ whispered to the darkness.

On Thursday, Walter came. PJ had been expecting him all morning, until at
10 o'clock, one of the masters told PJ to go to the Administration
Building, where he found Walter and another man waiting for him in the
lobby. "Hi, PJ," Walter said, smiling. He was dressed in the same way that
PJ had always seen him, a dark suit with a dazzling white shirt, red tie,
and gold cufflinks. "This is the Gordonsville attorney, Mr. Lee Farebuck,
PJ." He indicated the gentleman next to him, tall, middle-aged, heavy, and
wearing a sports jacket over a checked shirt.

"Master Thorndyke," the tall, heavy man said shaking his hand, "it's nice
to see you. Why don't we go to my office?"

He led the way down a carpeted hallway and took them into a comfortable
corner office bright with sunshine from two big windows that overlooked the
lawn on the side of the building. He sat down behind a large wooden desk
and motioned Walter and PJ to some high-backed leather chairs that were
placed in front of it. Once they were seated, he began by saying,
"Mr. Williamson and the headmaster have both told me about your generous
proposal, Master Thorndyke, and I've talked to Walter here on the phone. I
can tell you that the School is anxious to cooperate with you in what
you're trying to do. Are there any additional thoughts you wish to give me
before we proceed?"

"No, Sir," PJ told him.

"In that case," (the lawyer reached for some papers laid out on his
desktop). "I've made a draft agreement that I'd like to show you."

"I have some things, too," Walter said. The two men traded documents. There
was silence for several minutes while each read the other's draft. Then
they started to talk. PJ couldn't follow all the discussion that ensued,
but he gathered that the Gordonsville attorney was trying to get Walter to
agree that certain sums of money be held in special guaranteed accounts and
that Walter wanted only to guarantee that bills presented by the School
would be paid. At last, they make compromises that satisfied them
both. Once they reached an agreement, PJ made them explain everything,
which they both patiently did.

"Okay," he said. "That sounds fair. But I want you to do one thing."

"What's that, PJ?" Walter asked.  "I want you to put something in there
that says that if anything happens to me, Billy still goes to school here
and his tuition gets paid. And the other scholarships get paid too. And
also that my roommate Erik and his stepfather can come whenever they want
to and check that the School and my lawyers are keeping their word."

Walter sighed. "PJ, there's no need for all that."

The School attorney looked at Walter sharply. "I don't see any reason why
we can't put that in if it's what the boy wants."

"I want it in there," PJ firmly insisted.

There was another long discussion between the lawyers until at last they
seemed satisfied. PJ looked over what they'd written and made them explain
it to him. At last he pronounced himself happy with the wording.

"I'll have this typed," Mr. Farebuck said. He went out for a moment. When
he came back, he smiled and suggested, "How about something to drink while
we wait? Master PJ, what would you like?"

"Nothing, thanks." He opened his book bag and took out the document he'd
made with the help of the legal website he'd found two days before. "I also
want to sign this while you're watching and have it made legal."

The two men stared in surprise. "PJ, what is this?" Walter demanded. He
took the document and started to read. His eyes opened wide at the first
words. He glanced up PJ, then continued to read all the way through. When
he looked up again, his face was grim.

"Why are you doing this, PJ?"

"Because I want to," PJ told him. "I want him to see it too." He indicated
the School attorney.

Walter sighed and passed PJ's document across the desk. "This has no legal
status," he said.  "The boy is a minor."

"This is a last will and testament!" the heavyset man said in
astonishment. Like Walter, he looked up at PJ for a moment before turning
back to the paper, and reading it through. "The form is correct," he
commented as he finished.

"Where did you get this, PJ?" Walter asked.

"From a website." PJ met his eyes. Stand in the face of adversity, he kept
telling himself. Stand.

"According to this," Mr. Farebuck said, "if anything should happen to you,
you want your estate divided equally between the Gordonsville School and
these five friends of yours, ah . . . " he read off the names, " Erik
Jantzen, Billy Thatcher, Philip Gilbert, Brian Epstein, and this boy at
Franklyn Prep, Travis Townsend. Is that right? Are the addresses here
correct?"

PJ nodded. "And I want Jack Canon to be the executor, along with the
Trustees of the School."

"I admit I'm surprised that a boy your age would want one of these, Master
PJ," the attorney said, continuing to study the paper. "But it seems
properly prepared and certainly precise enough."

Walter kept shaking his head. "This has no legal standing. The boy is a
minor. The terms and provisions of his parents will clearly state what the
disposition of the estate is to be if he fails to reach his majority."

"That may be," Mr. Farebuck replied. "But this is a very clear statement of
intent."

"Don't forget, Walter, that my parents also said you had to honor my
requests if they were reasonable. May I have my paper please, Sir," PJ told
the School attorney. "I want to sign it and have you witness it."

"I shouldn't be a witness," the man said, handing PJ the will. "I'm the
representative of an interested party. I'll get some other people in here."
He got up from his desk and left the office again.

"PJ, this is going to create trouble." Walter's expression was cold and
hard. "Why are you doing this? Nothing is going to happen to you. What are
you worried about?"

"I just want to do this, Walter" PJ tried to keep his voice steady. He was
beginning to shake a little as the man stared at him. He held his hands
together to conceal it.

"Who are these people you put in this thing you've written?"

"They're my family."

"PJ. . ." Walter started to say in exasperation.

Mr. Farebuck came back in with some women from another office. "These folks
will be your witnesses, PJ," he said. "You can sign now if you want."

PJ took the lawyer's pen and in his best handwriting carefully signed the
will he'd made. Then he passed it to the ladies to sign as witnesses.

"One of my secretaries is a notary," the attorney added. "We can have some
notarized copies of this made."

Walter nodded and waved his hand. "If you want to. It's not going to amount
to anything."

Au contraire, Mr. Harris," replied Mr. Farebuck. "Despite Master
Thorndyke's minority status, this is a perfectly legal form."

"I want a copy," PJ said, ignoring Walter's remark.

	There was a further wait while PJ's will was taken out to be
copied, and a woman came in with a stamp. She made PJ read all the copies
and attested that they were correct. Then she stamped them all and signed
them.

When they were finished, the attorney kept one of the copies, gave another
to PJ, and handed the original to Walter, who put it in his briefcase.

PJ folded his copy and placed it into his book bag. "How soon will someone
talk to Billy's parents," he asked Mr. Farebuck.

"I would think that Mr. Williamson should talk to them as soon as he can."

"I'd rather that he wait until after this weekend," PJ told him. "I'd like
for him to do it after Homecoming."

"All right," the lawyer agreed.

A secretary came in with the typed agreement regarding the
scholarships. Both lawyers signed, and then gave it to PJ. He read it
through and signed it as well.

"Could I have a copy of this, please," he politely asked.

"Of course," the attorney said. "We all should have them." He went out once
again while PJ and Walter waited. Walter stared out the window and said
nothing.

Once they had all been provided with their copies, Mr. Farebuck escorted
them back to the lobby where he shook hands with Walter. "It's been a great
pleasure to meet you," he said politely. Then he turned to PJ. "I'd like to
say on behalf of the School that we appreciate your generosity very much,
Master Thorndyke."

"You're welcome, Sir," PJ told him.

After they stepped outside, Walter stopped on the sidewalk and said to PJ,
"I'm sorry if I sounded cross in there. It's just that you took me by
surprise. You really have nothing to worry about, you know. You're just
fine."

"I know, Walter." PJ was thinking how similar in age Walter and Coach Lewis
must be. But Walter had never been nice like Coach Lewis. He held out his
hand. "Remember how I used to call you an' Ms. Snyder Perry Mason and Della
Street?"

Walter took his hand and shook it. "That was the first time we met. I
remember."

"Goodbye, Walter," PJ said. He turned and walked away without looking back.

As he made his way across the campus to his House, several boys who were
coming from lunch called to him, but he never heard them. He mounted the
stairs to his room. After hiding the copy of his will and the agreement
about the scholarships in his desk, he ran to the bathroom, got into one of
the stalls, locked the door behind him, and threw up into the toilet. His
stomach continued to heave painfully until all he was bringing up was thin,
green bile. Kneeling on the floor, he gripped the sides of the bowl and
rested his head against the cool porcelain. After awhile, he was able to
get back up. He stood shakily, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands and
face. The boy he saw in the mirror over the sink looked like a
stranger. The face was gaunt, the eyes sunken with dark smudges under
them. In their expression was a hunted look of fear and loneliness.

That night, PJ had the worst dreams he'd ever had, despite having done all
he could to avoid them. . .

He'd attended his afternoon classes and tried to concentrate as best he
could to distract himself. At football practice, he'd worked as hard as
possible, hoping that would help him sleep soundly later. But practices
were getting easier as they approached Saturday, and afterwards he hadn't
been all that tired. He put off going to bed as long as he could, forcing
himself to stay at his desk and look busy, and even stayed up late reading
The Secret Garden. But at last he had to turn off his reading light and get
under the covers. Unable to relax, he lay awake for a long time in the glow
of his little nightlight, frightened of what might stalk him if he went to
sleep. He tried to shield himself by thinking about Jack, the real Jack,
the father he so desperately yearned for, who would comfort and protect
him. He's waiting for me, PJ thought. I know he is. He's waiting by the
pool.In his mind, he visualized diving into his pool to find him and lying
stretched out at the bottom. Eventually, his eyes closed.

He dreamed. He dreamed that he was in a penthouse high above the city. The
apartment was huge; there seemed to be an infinity of rooms. He wandered
from room to room looking and looking for something but never finding
it. At first, he thought he might be in Jack's apartment, yet somehow he
knew it wasn't. He was somewhere else. And he was little again. PJ had
forgotten what it was like to be little; to be so small and powerless. He
felt himself surrounded by a world of strange, unknown and unknowable
things. A world of terror and magic.

The little boy that was PJ in the dream knew that he was in terrible
danger. He was surrounded by the darkness. It was everywhere he looked. In
the daytime, it crouched back in the corners. It was still in the closets
and the closed rooms nobody used that PJ sometimes crept into. It was in
the looks that the people who took care of him gave him, and he heard it in
their whispers when they talked.

At night, the darkness flowed into all the rooms, advancing from the
corners and swirling around the pools of light from the lamps PJ kept
turning on. The familiar objects of his bedroom changed at night into
grotesque and menacing shapes just beyond the reach of the nightlight by
his bed.

The small boy that was PJ knew that other boys had parents to protect them
from the dark. But he didn't. And he knew why this was. A long time ago,
before he could even remember, he'd done something so terrible that his
parents had decided to leave him, abandoning him to the darkness. He'd
tried everything he knew to find them again, but all his attempts had
failed.

And now the dark was coming for him. He could feel it in the apartment
rooms, gathering, building in menace. None of his defenses could hold it
back any longer.

PJ had tried to signal his fears to the people around him, but the messages
he sent went unanswered. He kept moving from one empty room to another,
searching for someone to tell. He felt the dark pursuing him.

It was growing now, the darkness. Rising around him in silent menace. Soon
it would be everywhere and he would be alone, frightened and lost. He went
to his room to escape, but the darkness was there before him, spreading out
from the corners, reaching for him.

He ran from the room, desperate with fear, his eyes wide and staring. There
had to be a way, he thought, there had to be some way to let his parents
know how much he needed them. He decided he must send one last message and
escape with it from the dark. He grabbed the matches from the drawer, and
the magic can. He ran to his room and frantically prepared the signal. His
hands were shaking. Hurry! He had to hurry! It was coming. Soon he'd be
lost in the dark forever. He must escape!

Desperately he tried to light match after match. They kept crumbling in his
fingers. He must try harder. If you failed, you must try harder! He knew
that! Why couldn't he make it work?  Tears streamed down his cheeks. Now he
felt like he was drowning. Oh, oh, oh, why wouldn't they strike? Were the
matches too wet? He was almost paralyzed with fear. Mommy, Daddy, where are
you? Help me. Help me. I can't make them work, I can't make them work. I've
tried so hard. So hard. I've done everything. Oh, Jack! Jack! Please help
me! There were people pounding on his door and calling . . .

"PJ!  PJ! Wake up! Wake up! PJ!"

He opened his eyes and stared around wildly. It was dark. He was in the
dark! His matches! The signal! He had to make them work! He threw himself
at Erik and screamed hysterically, "I can't make it work! I can't make it
work!"

His roommate held him tightly. "PJ, it's all right. I'm right here. You're
all right. It's Eric. You're okay!"

"Erik, I tried so hard!" PJ sobbed, clinging to him frantically. "I tried
so hard! I tried so hard!"

"Ss-s-sh," Erik gently stroked him on the back. "Ss-sh, PJ. I know you
did. I know you tried. It's all right.  Everything's all right."

"No! No! PJ shuddered and began to tremble violently. He let go of Erik and
felt his bed. It was wet. His pajamas were soaked with urine. He uttered a
bleating little cry.

"Mr. Williamson, Mr. Williamson!" In a panic, he struggled to free himself
from his bed sheets. "Erik, help! I've got to see Mr. Williamson!"

Erik helped strip away the soaked things. Sobbing and crying, PJ wrapped
himself in his blanket and dropped to the floor, huddling. "Please, Erik,"
he begged, "get Mr. Williamson."

Erik padded down the stairs as quietly as he could, went to the door of the
Williamsons' apartment, and rang the bell several times. When he didn't
hear any response, he knocked, trying to avoid making too much
noise. Finally he heard shuffling from inside. The lock clicked and the
door opened. The housemaster stood behind it in a bathrobe. "Erik!" he said
in surprise. Then he noticed the boy's white face and frightened
look. "Where's PJ?" he asked quickly. "Something's wrong! What is it?"

"It's PJ," Erik told him. "He's . . ."  Mr. Williamson did not wait for
Erik to finish. "Come on!"

He went to the stairs and mounted them two at a time, climbing rapidly to
the fourth floor. He strode down the hallway and entered their room.

PJ still lay curled on the floor, wrapped in his blanket, shaking and
crying. Mr. Williamson went to him and knelt down. "What's wrong, PJ?" he
softly asked.

"I . . . I had a bad dream," PJ sobbed. "Oh, Mr. Williamson, I wet my
bed. I wet my bed." He began to sob hysterically. The man picked him up in
his arms and cradled him.

"Ss-sh." He tried to hush the boy. "Ss-sh. There's nothing to worry
about. It's all going to be all right. I'll take care of it."

"I tried so hard," PJ sobbed. He buried his face in Mr. Williamson's
shoulder and held on to him tightly. "I tried so hard, Mr. Williamson."

"Ss-sh, Ss-ssh. . . . Of course you did, PJ. I know you did," the man
soothed. "Let's go downstairs and let Mrs. Williamson take care of you, all
right?"

PJ nodded wearily.

"Erik," Mr. Williamson asked the boy, who had followed him into the
room. "Get a set of dry pajamas, yours or PJ's, and bring them down,
please."

He took PJ quietly down the stairs, holding him like a baby. The boy clung
to him, sobbing and hiccupping. "They're all going to know," PJ kept
repeating softly. "They're all going to know."

The housemaster took PJ into his apartment and handed him to his wife to
take care of. Erik arrived with a dry set of pajamas. Then he and Erik went
upstairs.

* * *

 They stripped PJ's bed, Mr. Williamson cleaned off his rubber sheet, and
he and Erik remade the bed with the fresh linen and blankets that Erik kept
hidden for just such an emergency.

"You knew he had this problem?" Mr. Williamson asked.

Erik nodded. "For a long time. I guessed at first, but after awhile he sort
of told me." He looked up at his housemaster. "I want to go downstairs and
be with him. Please let me."

"In a minute. First, I want you to tell me exactly what happened."

Erik shrugged helplessly. "I'm not sure. He had one of his nightmares, I
guess. This was a bad one, though. He was crying and calling out in his
sleep even worse than he usually does. I had trouble waking him up. Usually
I can bring him right out of it, but not this time. I had to hold him and
talk to him for awhile. He kept calling out and crying."

"Who was he calling for?" Mr. Williamson asked.

"Jack," Erik told him. "It's almost always for Jack. Sometimes, a long time
ago it was for his dad or his mom. A few times it was for me. But ever
since this summer it's been for Jack."

"Jack Canon, you mean," Mr. Williamson said.

"Yeah. PJ thinks of him just like his father."

"You said just now, 'since this summer.' Has PJ been having dreams like
this since school started?"

Erik nodded. "Yeah. Not as bad as this one, but yeah, he's been having
them. Almost every night lately."

Mr. Williamson frowned. "I wish you had told me, Erik."

The boy looked down and sighed. "I guess I should have. But, see, he hasn't
always been like this. For a time last year, he was fine. That was when
Jack was always coming to see him. There was only one time when he got
bad."

"When was that?"

"It was when Jack stopped writing. There was a problem with Jack's computer
or something. I don't know what it was. But for a few weeks PJ didn't hear
from him, and that's when he got bad. But when Jack started e-mailing him
again, he was okay. Jack told me then to send him a message if PJ ever got
bad again, and I did. I sent him a message about three weeks or so ago that
PJ was having nightmares, but I never heard anything back."

"Has PJ been getting messages recently from Jack?"

"Oh sure," Erik said.

"How do you know?"

"He lets me read them. He always shares Jack's stuff with me. It's like the
biggest thing in the world to him. He's so proud of it. He never says so,
but I can tell."

"Has he been writing to Jack?"

"Oh, yeah." Erik nodded his head. "PJ writes to him practically every
day. Except . . ." He stopped and paused thoughtfully while Mr. Williamson
waited.

"It's funny," Erik finally said, "but I don't remember seeing him write
anything since last week. Nothing.  And usually he tells me something about
what he writes. He hasn't said anything."

Mr. Williamson frowned again. "Erik, if you looked at PJ's computer, could
you tell if PJ had been writing him?"

Erik nodded again. He got up and went to his roommate's desk. "I do this
sometimes when PJ's not here," he admitted. "Ever since that time when Jack
didn't write for awhile, I've sorta checked up." He called up PJ's mail
window and looked for the stored messages. "That's funny," he muttered. He
moved the mouse around and re-clicked the screen. Finally he straightened
up. "There's nothing there," he said in a puzzled tone.

"So, he hasn't written anything?" Mr. Williamson asked.

Erik looked at him. He seemed very confused. "No, you don't understand. All
his messages were there the last time I looked. They're all gone now. He's
erased them. Or someone has. I can't believe he'd do that."

Mr. Williamson eyed him quizzically.

"Look," Erik tried to explain, "I'm important to PJ. I'm like his
brother. But I'm nothing compared to Jack. To PJ he's like the most
important, special person in the world. PJ treats everything he gets from
him like . . . like its gold or something. He keeps all of Jack's messages
and reads them over and over. I can't believe he'd throw them away!"

"Perhaps he saved them somewhere else in his computer," Mr. Williamson
suggested.

"Maybe," Erik said doubtfully, watching the screen while he checked other
locations with mouse clicks.

Mr. Williamson got up and walked around the room. "You say you never heard
anything back from Mr. Canon after you send him your message."

"No."

"Erik, when was the last time PJ saw Mr. Canon?"

Erik shifted around uncomfortably. "Well, because of the baseball season
and the playoffs and the World Series and everything, like . . . Jack
hasn't visited him here or anything like that."

"Has PJ seen him at all?" the housemaster asked.

"Well . . ." With reluctance, Erik related what PJ had told him three weeks
before at the Foxton game. "PJ said he was at the game. I didn't see him,
but PJ swore he was there. He said he wore dark glasses and stayed in the
back so he wouldn't be recognized."

"Did PJ talk to him?"

Erik shook his head. "I didn't see it if he did. And I was with him all the
time." He looked at his feet and made a fist. "Mr. Williamson?"

"Yes, Erik?"

"There was one other time." The man waited while Erik took a deep breath
and eventually blurted out, "PJ went to the seventh game of the World
Series. He told me that he saw Jack there."  That got a
reaction. Mr. Williamson stared at him. "He went by himself?"

Erik nodded. "Just about. PJ drove up to Boston with some kid from the
Upper School. He said Jack had sent him tickets. Anyway, while he was there
he saw Jack."

The housemaster stood in the middle of the room and looked around
thoughtfully as Erik waited in apprehension, wondering how much trouble he
was in for letting PJ go off on his own without telling someone. Finally,
to his relief, Mr. Williamson only said, "Well, let's go see if
Mrs. Williamson has gotten PJ settled down a little." He put his hand on
Erik's shoulder. "You've been a good friend to him, Erik."

"I'm his best friend," Erik said, looking up. "And he's mine
too. Mr. Williamson, Jack's gonna be here on Saturday for Homecoming. I'm
sure PJ will be all right once he sees him and gets to talk to him. He
always is."

"You're probably right, Erik. I hope so, anyway."

* * *

 They went quietly downstairs and found PJ on the sofa in the Williamsons'
living room, finishing a glass of warm milk with Mrs. Williamson sitting
next to him. Erik ran over and took his roommate's hand.

"PJ, we fixed your bed. Everything's all right. It's like nothing even
happened. You know those extra sheets and blankets I've kept around? Well,
I finally got to use them. Everything's all ready for you. Come on up with
me."

PJ nodded dully. He handed the glass to Mrs. Williamson, telling her
politely, "Thank you." She gave him a hug.

"Good night, PJ. Just remember, you're safe here. And we all love you so
much."

With Erik's help, PJ got to his feet. He shook Mr. Williamson's hand. "I'm
sorry I woke you up. I guess I'm just nervous about this big game coming
up."

"You don't need to be sorry, PJ," the housemaster told him kindly. "I'm
glad you came to me for help. Do you think you'll be all right now?"

PJ nodded. "Erik will take care of me."

After more goodnights, PJ and Erik padded silently up to their room. PJ
stood and looked at his newly-made bed and shuddered.

"Come on, PJ," Erik said, taking him by the shoulder and leading him to his
own rumpled bed. "You're sleeping with me."

After they were under the covers, while Erik was holding PJ and gently
stroking his back, PJ whispered softly, "Erik, everyone will know."

"No they won't," Erik assured him. "We didn't wake anybody up. No one will
know. I promise."

PJ sighed deeply. He put one arm over his friend's shoulder and closed his
eyes. He was able, thank goodness, to sleep for the rest of the night.

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT FORTY-SEVEN Editor Paul Scott's e-mail address:
paulkdoctor@gmail.com

AND

A note to our readers, from A. J.:

Yeah, there's a bunch of happiness in this installment (as in, NONE!).  I
did it. I inflicted it on you.  But PJ's character and behavior are based
on real cases I have known.  Truth is truth, and there's no good in
sugar-coating it.  If you're feeling PJ's pain now, you should probably
congratulate yourselves because it means you share the empathy all humans
should have--and which (sadly) some care-givers and parents lack.
Childhood depression is a dreadful thing.  So is the awful shame abused and
neglected children carry within themselves because they believe what has
happened to them is their own fault.  And it all remains hidden.  Children
wear layer after layer of protean masks to shield themselves from adult
perceptions.  It is vanishingly rare for kids to ever reveal the truth of
their inner selves to any adult, be it friend, teacher, therapist, or even
parent (perhaps especially not parent).  All too many of them live "lives
of quiet desperation," as Henry David Thoreau wrote.  PJ is surrounded by
would-be care-givers, but they belong to other boys, not him, and there
aren't any he would trust enough to open up and reveal the shame he feels
about himself given his low self-esteem.  None, that is, except one whom
he's hoped to emotionally connect with, but apparently failed.

I didn't enjoy pushing this installment at you (for what it's worth, it was
no fun writing it either), but I figured like bad-tasting medicine, it was
best to get it over with in one gulp.  And I want you to know that I love
writing for you.  Writing for actual readers instead of just myself,
getting feedback from actual people through my superb editor Paul
Scott--that has to be one of the beat thrills in the world.  I also confess
that like most of you, I don't like stories, books, or movies with sad
endings.  So allow me to dust off an old clich?: "The night is always
darkest just before the dawn.  Hang in there with me, Gang!  We are, as a
baseball writer might put it, "rounding third for home."  As for PJ,
remember Jack's advice to him: "Stand in the face of adversity," "Never say
die," "Anything's possible!"  For now, PJ seems to have blanked out on
that, and Jack has already had and will continue to have his own moments of
desperation, but good advice remains good advice!

Finally, since we have to keep this novel available to the wider world, and
since I know what many of you want more of, I refer you to the works of a
good friend of mine, Joe Hunter.  You'll find his stories listed under "J"
in Nifty's "Prolific Authors List."

Thanks for continuing to read.  PJ and Erik and the other two Top Floor
boys want me and Paul to thank you for reading and caring, too!

Yours, A. J.  Chapter Eighty-Eight: Suspicions

In the morning, Mr. Williamson was half inclined to dismiss PJ's trouble as
just what he had said it was: nerves over the impending Championship
game. But when he mentioned it to a few of PJ's masters at lunch, he was
not reassured by what he heard.

"There's been something wrong with that boy all week," said Mr. Darenowski,
his math teacher. "He didn't turn in a homework assignment yesterday. He's
never done that before! Never! And the other day in class, I called on him
for an answer and he said he didn't know. He always knows the answers! I
don't understand it. I'm telling you, there's something wrong."

"And it's been going on longer than a week," added Mr. Bingham, the English
master. "PJ hasn't been the same boy this entire term that he was last
year."

"How so?" Mr. Williamson asked curiously, while at the same time thinking
to himself, That's true. I've been wondering about that as well.

"It's hard to say."

"Come on. You're the language expert," urged Mr. Stevenson, the science
master, who seemed equally concerned. "You're supposed to be able to find
the right words."

"I suppose so," Mr. Bingham agreed, "but I still find it difficult to pin
down. I guess the best way I can put it is that last year, PJ was so
interested all the time. He was always coming to me and telling me what he
was reading and asking questions. This year, he doesn't. His work is still
good, but it's as if he was just going through the motions. And this week,
he's missed doing all his assignments. Just like he did in your class." He
glanced over at his math counterpart.

The science master was frowning at both of them. "He didn't turn in
anything for me either, come to think of it. And I've got him in that
advanced lab course. I thought for sure he'd love it. But, like you say,
it's like he's just going through the motions."

Mr. Williamson came away from this conversation deeply troubled. The next
person he sought out was Coach Lewis. "I'm convinced there's something
bothering him," the coach said after Mr. Williamson had told him his
concerns. "I've been noticing things ever since the first day when he came
for our football camp. And I don't like the way he looks lately. He's so
drawn looking. And sometimes he says the oddest things. It's peculiar. I
tried to have a talk with him last week coming back from our game and he
nearly became hysterical.  There's something going on. I just don't know
what it is."

"Do you think it could have anything to do with Jack Canon?"

Coach Lewis scratched his head. "I don't see how," he said. "PJ hasn't even
seen him all this term."

"Wasn't he at a game three weeks ago?" Mr. Williamson asked.

Coach Lewis gave him a pointed look. "You know, it's a funny thing about
that. I remember PJ told me he was there. In fact, he begged me to put him
back in the game after he'd taken a very tough hit because he wanted Jack
to see him play. I put him back in the game, too, and maybe I shouldn't
have. But I did look around after that. And I never saw Jack there."

Mr. Williamson shook his head, looking puzzled.

"Do you think it's all right to play him in this game tomorrow?" Coach
Lewis asked. "I would hate to keep him out of it. It would kill him not to
play. He's got his heart set on it. But I'll do it if you think I should."

"No." Mr. Williamson shook his head again. "We can't do that to him. You
have to let him play."

"Jack Canon is going to be here tomorrow," the coach told him. "PJ
absolutely thinks the sun rises and sets on him. You ought to hear how he
talks about the guy. And he's always quoting him to the other players. At
the last game, he sat down and talked to that little quarterback we've got,
Phil. The kid had just fumbled and he was all upset. PJ gave him a talk
about how Jack said you had to have courage and not give up. I mean, it
sounded like one of Jack's speeches or TV interviews. The kid went back out
and won the game.  It was uncanny." The coach took hold of Mr. Williams'
arm. "Listen," he went on. "I'll tell you how much PJ thinks of that guy. I
got on PJ about something he did in that game. Never mind what. He
shouldn't have done it. I asked him if that was how Jack would have wanted
him to play. The kid broke down. I mean, he was sobbing. I had to hug him
and hold on to him it was so bad. He begged me over and over not to tell
Jack what he'd done because he couldn't stand the idea of Jack not being
proud of him. I'm telling you, the kid would die for that man! When he
comes tomorrow, ask him to sit down and have a talk with PJ. He can find
out what's wrong. There isn't anything PJ wouldn't tell him."

"Are we absolutely sure Jack Canon is going to be here tomorrow?"
Mr. Williamson asked.

Coach Lewis appeared taken aback for a moment. He said a little anxiously,
"Well, I certainly expect him to be. PJ told me he was coming. He's
supposed to be the speaker at our Father-Son Banquet. He better be here."

Mr. Williamson, feigning a confidence he did not feel, replied, "If PJ said
he was coming, then I'm sure he'll be here."

Coach Lewis looked relieved. "Well, when he gets here, you'll see. I bet he
gets right to the bottom of what's bothering PJ."

After that, Mr. Williamson walked back to his apartment increasingly uneasy
about the whole situation. He went to the desk in his little den and got a
folder out of a drawer. After studying it for awhile, he put the folder
down and stared into space. Then he picked up the phone and dialed
information for Boston. When he got the operator, he said, "I'd like the
number of the office for the Boston Red Sox baseball team, please. Yes,
their main office, not the ticket office. Thank you."

For more than an hour, the housemaster worked his way up the Red Sox
administrative ladder trying to get a phone number for Jack Canon. He got
nowhere. He couldn't even find out where the man was. Finally, someone up
in the management chain told him they didn't give out that information and
to stop asking. He hung up the phone and tried to think. PJ's lawyer. Of
course! He'd know! He rummaged through the folder, found the number for the
New York law firm, and dialed it. When a woman with a very businesslike
manner answered, he explained who he was and said, "I need to get in touch
with PJ's baseball player friend, Mr. Jack Canon. We've lost his number and
PJ said that you'd probably have it.  Could you help me out?"

"Let me check." She put Mr. Williamson on hold, but was back fairly
quickly. "The only number we have for him is his home in Florida." She gave
him both the address and the number. After Mr. Williamson thanked her, she
coolly returned the thanks and without further conversation hung up. The
housemaster shook his head. These were the people who had legal
responsibility for PJ, yet the woman hadn't asked a single thing about the
boy. He put his face in his hands, rubbed his eyes, and dialed the Florida
number. The phone rang and rang. Mr. Williamson counted ten rings, then ten
more. He was about to hang up when the phone was suddenly picked up at the
other end and a young-sounding voice answered, "Hello?"

"Hello," said Mr. Williamson, "may I speak to Mr. Canon, please?"

"He's not here," the young voice said. "He's out fishing with my dad."

"Oh, who is this speaking?"

"My name's Charlie. My mom and I are here using the pool. Jack and my dad
will be home sometime tonight."

"Okay, Charlie. Do you know about what time?"

"I don't know," the boy replied. "It might be kinda late."

The housemaster thought for a moment before asking, "Will Mr. Canon be home
tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah, for awhile," Charlie answered. "I think he said he was goin'
somewhere later this weekend, though."

"I see. All right, thank you, Charlie." Mr. Williamson hung up.

He rubbed his eyes again. Perhaps Jack Canon really was planning to come
tomorrow. But if so, it couldn't be for the game in the morning. Perhaps he
only intended to appear for the Dinner that night. Damn! He had to know for
sure.  And if the situation was what he was begging to suspect it was, he
needed to talk to the man face-to-face. There was only one way to do
that. Mr. Williamson picked up the phone again and called a travel agency
over at the mall. He'd pick his tickets up on the way to the
airport. Hurriedly, he scribbled a note for his wife.

* * *

For PJ, Friday was one long nightmare. Out of habit, he awakened early for
swim practice, only to remember seconds later that he was supposed to sleep
in with Phil, and Erik. Shortly, after that, events of the previous night
came back with a rush. He realized that he was in Erik's bed. He felt achy
and tired. His head throbbed.

He tried to keep still so he wouldn't wake Erik. His roommate was sleeping,
one arm around him, holding him protectively. PJ gave a little sigh and
tried hard to go back to sleep, but he couldn't do it. Thoughts kept
tumbling through his mind. First, he was sure that the whole House would
know he'd wet his bed. Erik had told him that no one knew, but PJ was sure
the word would somehow get out. Someone would've seen and heard them on the
stairs. He dreaded what would happen. The taunting and the teasing. The
pointing fingers and the hated cry of "Baby!" He'd endured years of it when
he'd stayed in that place in Chicago. He couldn't bear to go through it all
again. He wondered if Erik would let him stay where he was and hide in his
bed. It would only be for that one day. If he could just make it to
Saturday, he could play the game and get the Championship for Erik. Then
he'd be able to leave with Jack. He wouldn't ever have to worry about
wetting his bed again.

When he thought about going with Jack, however, he remembered that he would
be leaving Erik. The thought pained him. He closed his eyes tightly to keep
from crying. He put his hand up and very gently placed it on his roommate's
shoulder. He would miss Erik. He would miss Erik terribly. But his roommate
couldn't go with him to where he had to go. "I'm sorry, Erik," PJ whispered
very softly.

Sleep crept up on him without his being aware of it. It was two hours later
when he awoke to Erik's gentle shaking. "Time to get up, PJ."

PJ tried to hide himself under the covers. "Erik, are you sure no one
knows?"

"No one knows, PJ," Erik assured him.

With a sigh, PJ got up.

All that morning he braced for the taunting to start. He looked for it as
he was brushing his teeth, and while he was going down the stairs to
breakfast, and later while he was going to class. At lunch he was certain
he would hear something! Then he was convinced it would start in the locker
room or at football practice. Only when he'd made it out onto the field
without hearing anything did he begin to relax a bit.

Their practice was easy that day, most of it just talk by the coaches
outlining the game plan and reviewing the scouting reports on the Franklyn
Prep team. Afterwards, Coach Lewis took PJ aside. From the first words and
the look on his face, PJ realized he'd relaxed too soon. Somehow his coach
had heard about what'd happened. Mr. Williamson! He told him about my
wetting the bed!  "PJ," Coach Lewis said sympathetically, "are you sure you
feel well enough to play tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, Coach." PJ did his best to shut down this whole line of
questioning with a strong, positive reply. And he felt like killing
Mr. Williamson. He'd trusted him!

But his coach kept going. "You look tired, PJ. Your housemaster's
worried. He doesn't think you've been sleeping too well lately." Definitely
Mr. Williamson, PJ thought. That's the last time I ever trust him!

"I've had a lot of schoolwork lately, Coach," lied PJ. "An' I guess I've
been a little nervous about the game. But I'll be fine. Erik and I are
goin' to bed early tonight."

"Okay."  The young coach ruffled his hair. "And Jack will be here tomorrow
for you, too. That will make you feel better."

PJ nodded. "Yeah. I'll feel better. We're gonna win tomorrow, Coach. I just
know it."

That earned him a smack on the shoulder. "That's the way to think, PJ," the
coach said with a smile. "I know you'll have a great game."

After that, once he got to the locker room, PJ showered in an angry
mood. If Mr. Williamson had told Coach Lewis, he wondered how many others
he'd told. Probably all his masters now thought of him as "PJ, the Bed
Wetter." Well, it didn't matter. He wouldn't have to think about it anymore
after tomorrow.

The Top Floor Gang had dinner together, and afterwards, Erik accompanied PJ
to the Hobby Shop. Since he hadn't done any schoolwork all week, PJ'd had
time to work on Billy's model, which was now nearly completed. He and Erik
put the finishing touches on it and brought it back to the room, where
Brian and Phil admired it along with them. The Corsair fighter plane
gleamed under PJ's desk lamp its distinctive gull wings and sleek nose
giving it the look of some fierce bird of prey. PJ had put on all the
authentic decals and painted the small detail pieces so that it was just
like the pictures in the reference books. "Awesome, PJ," Erik
complimented. "It really looks nice." "It's perfect," Phil said.

"Thanks," PJ was thinking how hard it was going to be to leave them
all. But at least he'd completed Billy's model. He hadn't wanted that to
remain unfinished. Before tears could well up, he suggested, "Listen, you
guys, let's play some Flight Simulator for awhile."

They used PJ's computer. Brian and Erik did their favorite, the Space
Shuttle. PJ and Phil did the Cessna Citation. Then they all tried the SST
and the F-18 fighter.

We always have a lot of fun when we do this," Brian said happily.

"We better think about getting to bed early guys," Erik told
them. "Tomorrow's our biggest game of the season."

"Yeah, come on Brian." Phil tugged at his roommate. "Crash one more time
and then let's go."

"I only crashed once!" Brian protested.

They all got ready for bed, but Brian and Phil lingered in their friends'
room. PJ could tell that neither of them wanted to go to sleep yet.

"PJ, why don't you read to us for awhile," Erik suggested. "You're pretty
good at that."

"Yeah, PJ," Phil said eagerly. "That would be neat.  Pick something good!"

PJ went to his bookshelf, took down The Black Stallion, and stretched out
on Erik's bed with his own roommate next to him. As he began to read, Brian
and Phil curled up on the other bed to listen. PJ began to read. Erik had
already read the book, but it was new to the younger boys! Each time PJ
finished a chapter, they would both beg for "just one more." Finally, his
voice got tired. He closed the book and gave it to Phil. "I think we better
get some sleep now," he said. "Don't stay up all night reading that. Save
it for tomorrow."

The two eleven-year-olds said goodnight and went across the hall to their
room. Erik turned the covers down on his bed. "Don't even think of sleeping
over in your bed tonight, PJ," he said. "You get your skinny butt right in
here again."

PJ looked at him gratefully. "Thanks, Erik. But look, you know what I did
last night. I might do it again. Don't you think . . ."

"If you do it again, we'll both be wet," Erik told him, grinning. "Get in
here with me."

PJ slid under the covers beside him. "Thanks."

Erik put an arm around him and hugged him tightly. "You're safe, PJ," he
told him. "I'm right here with you. I won't let anything happen to you."

PJ's arm wrapped around Erik and he hugged back. After turning out his
reading light, Erik quietly said "PJ? Do you remember how mad you got when
that kid hurt me?"

"I remember."

Erik hugged PJ again. "Well, ever since this summer something's been bad
for you. I know you won't tell me what it is, but I think someone has hurt
you. It makes me so mad. I'd like to kill that person!"

PJ softly replied, "You shouldn't feel that way, Erik. I was wrong to do
what I did."

This was PJ's attempt to deflect his best friend's prying. He knew
perfectly well that Erik wasn't referring to a linebacker. He also
seriously doubted that Erik bought his little ruse.

 And he didn't.

"Whatever," said Erik. "Whoever it is, I'm still mad. You're my brother,
PJ."

PJ hugged him tightly. For some reason, he wasn't worried. With Erik's arm
protecting him, he slept through the night. But he dreamed nonetheless. He
dreamed of being at the bottom of Jack's pool, floating peacefully in the
light, drifting, drifting . . . forever. . . .

* * *


CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT FORTY-SEVEN

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

Keep them cards an' letters comin'!