At the End of the Gauntlet
by Eli Dupree

The old man slept lightly, so he woke to the sound of knocking at his front door. He took a moment to take in what his senses brought him - the knocking, the light from the front room where he must have mistakenly left the lights on, the chill of the still night air. Then he climbed out of bed and, still in his pajamas, went to greet the newcomer.
He opened the door, saw the figure standing there, and shivered in the cold draft. The figure was lit brightly from the front against a dark background, momentarily a silhouette to the old man. Looking past the unusual lighting, he recognized the figure as Vivian, whom he knew from around the neighborhood as lively and well liked; but a Vivian with weariness shown all over her face, and an ugly bruise under her left eye. It wrenched at him.
"Vivian," he acknowledged.
She wasted no time with greetings. "I need a place to sleep," she said.
The old man wondered why she couldn't sleep at home. The answer would probably come without him having to ask. He shivered again, and said, "Come in."
Vivian entered the front room, carefully closing the door behind her. This room was fairly large and open, the only feature of it being the rectangular table in the center. Two chairs sat at this table, because although the old man did not live with anyone, he felt one should be prepared. He sat down at one, and waved for Vivian to sit at the other; she did.
The old man averted an awkward silence by repeating, "You need a place to sleep."
Vivian continued, "One where people won't ask awkward questions."
"Ah," said the old man aloud. He smiled; the answer had come to him without his asking, just as he had expected. He took it that not asking questions was indeed the right course of action. "I won't keep you waiting. You can use the spare bedroom - that way," he pointed, "The second door on the right."
"Thank you," she said, her manner expressing much more gratitude than her words; the old man noticed that until now, she hadn't been letting her weariness come into her voice. He kept sitting for a little while as she left th table, thinking how convenient it was that he had a spare bedroom for Vivian. He had bought this house to live with another person, and for all these years had not the heart to convert her bedroom to use the space for something else. Though, he did not really need extra space for himself.
He turned off the lights and went back to bed. The digital clock next to him glowed 2:02.
The average man, he reflected, would be unable to help wondering what had happened to Vivian. There was no need to wonder; if he ought to know anything, it would likely come to him in time... he was quickly asleep again.

When the old man woke in the morning, everything in his room was washed in the bluish dawn light coming through his window. He went over and checked the other bedroom; Vivian had already left.
She must have known somehow that she could trust the old man to let her follow her own path. He smiled to himself; he liked the idea of being the kind of person that someone could trust. His smile faded when he realized that meant that there was little in the way of trust between Vivian and her parents.
That night when he left on the light in the front room, it wasn't by mistake.

The old man was preparing breakfast three days later when Vivian entered his life again. Sensing her presence, he finished the small task he was engaged in, brought his meal into the front room, and then looked up to see her emerge from the hallway that led to the bedrooms. He quickly looked down again so that she wouldn't see him wince at the new injuries displayed on her face.
"I know I didn't ask, but..." she began.
The old man waved her explanations aside, saying, "It's fine. I'd never begrudge you a bed."
The old man sat down at the table. Vivian looked around for a clock but found none. She asked the old man for the time, and was surprised when he told her it was around 6:30.
"That late? I didn't think I'd slept that long... I'll have to go soon," she said regretfully.
Vivian stood without purpose for a moment, not really wanting to leave the old man's house. He interrupted her thoughts by asking, "Do you want some breakfast first? I'm afraid I won't have what you're used to, but you're welcome to what I have."
Vivian hadn't been expecting the suggestion, so she took a little while to process it. She nodded silently.
"The fridge is in the other room - " he indicated a door - "Help yourself."
She returned a little while later and sat down opposite the old man. They ate together in silence. From time to time he looked up at her, trying to numb himself to the image of Vivian bruised, Vivian vulnerable.
At length, she looked up, and their eyes met over the two bowls of cereal. Vivian broke the silence:
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Just... why?"
"You mean, why do I let you..." he fumbled for words. The question caught him off guard. "Why not?" he managed.
"I mean... well, most people wouldn't..."
The old man shrugged. "This is who I've chosen to be. There's a lot of worse things you could choose to be."
Vivian smiled a little at this answer, and they resumed their silent breakfast. Vivian was soon finished, and got up to leave.
"Before you go," began the old man, "Can I ask you a question? If you don't mind..." For a moment, he envied Vivian for her ability to ask her question so confidently, so candidly.
She hesitated, then said, "Okay."
"Don't your parents ask awkward questions anyway, the next time you see them?"
She smiled self-consciously; the question was personal, which she had been afraid of, but perfectly innocent. "Well... yeah," she said, laughing a little, "It's just... when I've had a hard night, and just want to get some rest, the last thing I want is them badgering me about it." She didn't know why she felt like she ought to justify herself to the old man, but she continued, "I suppose I could deal with it, but, you know... you should pick your battles."
The old man wondered briefly, morbidly, what the battles were that Vivian was picking. He shuddered at the thought.

The old man didn't see Vivian again for another day, but the thought of her dogged his consciousness. The sight of her had jarred him too strongly, too viscerally, and now he couldn't stop wondering what was happening to her and what evils would befall her next.
She had said, "Most people wouldn't..." Time after time the old man finished the sentence: Most people wouldn't let you in without question. Most people wouldn't shelter you from your own parents. Most people wouldn't be trustworthy.
The old man couldn't think of anybody he knew who would. Amy, for whom the bed Vivian had been sleeping in had been intended, would have called Vivian's parents - and the police - on the first night. Everyone he knew would have tried to help Vivian in a way that went beyond what the old man thought was right. Was he doing the right thing?
Over and over he told himself that she had come to him because she trusted him, and if he even considered stepping over these boundaries, he wouldn't have been the kind of person she could trust in the first place. Over and over he went through the sequence of thought, and told himself he was helping in the way he could, but he was never content.

The old man woke from a troubled sleep in the middle of the second night. His ears seemed to echo something, as if there had been a sound that was cut off before he was awake enough to identify it. He lay in bed a few moments, listening. The sound of heavy breathing in the front room filtered in through his bedroom door.
He rolled out of bed and stretched. He was suddenly achy, and the stretching didn't help. Bothered, he went out into the front room to see what had happened.
Vivian was half sitting, half lying on the floor just inside the door, where she had fallen as she tried to enter. The old man walked over to her and offered his hand. She ignored it and stood up, awkwardly but on her own.
"I fight my own battles," she said, grinning through the pain.
The worst of the bruises on her face were starting to fade, but the old man didn't think for an instant that she was recovering. He read by the way she held herself that the hurt where he couldn't see it was much worse. He could hardly bear to watch her struggle when she started to move again.
Carefully, he said, "They don't stop being your battles because you use the resources I put at your disposal." He followed alongside her and offered his arm for her to lean on. This time she accepted the offer.
For a moment they went off balance. The old man hadn't really been prepared to support Vivian's weight. Soon, though, they were walking - slowly, with effort, but walking. Vivian looked gratefully up at the old man, not finding words to express what she felt.
Wistfully, she said, "I feel like I'm relying on you."
The old man smiled. "I'm sure you'd do fine on your own."

The old man was still achy in the morning and felt as if he hadn't gotten enough sleep. He had made sure to wake up in time to catch Vivian before she left in the morning.
Vivian was on edge and she didn't want to eat breakfast, but the old man convinced her to eat. They made small talk over breakfast, but both their minds were on other things. The old man could tell there was something Vivian wanted to say to him, but kept putting off or avoiding. She never did say it.
He knew he had done what he could when she left his house, but he did not feel it.

In the middle of the next night the old man woke to no sound. He had been jolted awake from a dream that left him feeling alarmed and cold. He didn't waste a moment listening before he started moving - the silence and the stale air only heightened his apprehension.
He hurried out to the front room and found it empty. Moving across, around the table, he threw open the front door. The light from the room spilled out, illumination no one. Not quite sure what he was looking for, the old man kept moving, heading from his front door to the sidewalk, and almost tripped over the dark figure that lay there motionless.
A chill, not just from the night air, shot through the old man as he knelt next to Vivian and asked, "Is this a battle you want to fight for yourself?"
Her muffled reply: "Get me a fucking ambulance."
The old man ran back to the house, tripped over the front step and fell, got up, rushed into the one room in the house with a telephone --

"I called. They're sending an ambulance out."
The figure mumbled, "Oh, good," into the pavement.
"Do you want me to help you sit up?"
The figure mumbled assent. With quite some difficulty, they managed to work together and get her off her face and into a sitting position. Several times during the process, the old man saw her face twist in agony, but she made no sound.
Vivian was pale in the dim light. She was a mess - her clothing torn, her hair all in disarray, her pale skin standing in terrible contrast to dark trails of blood. The old man was stunned. Never in his life would he have been able to survive what Vivian had clearly just endured.
When he found his voice again, he said, "You're very strong, do you know that?"
"'course I do," she replied weakly.
The old man tried to bandage some of the wounds or do anything to stop the bleeding. His shaking fingers prevented him from being useful. When the ambulance arrived several minutes later, she had already passed out from the loss of blood.
It didn't do a lot of good for the panicking old man's nerves when the paramedics told him that Vivian was probably going to survive.

"Hey Vivian!"
She was on the way home from school. Simon caught up with fast-walking Vivian in front of Berucci's and fell into step with her, ignoring the physical cost. Vivian slowed down for him.
Across to her, under his breath, he said, "Want to come to the club tonight?"
"What club?"
Simon smiled a little slyly. "It's kind of a secret."
"Hmm?"
He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then:
"Tell you what. Meet me here at eight. We'll go together."
Vivian looked appraisingly into his eyes for a moment, but replied, "I'll be there."

At eight o'clock, Vivian with the star-blue eyes met Simon under the awning of Berucci's. Her features were thrown into relief by the reflections of the just-lighting street lamps, and Simon couldn't help but notice the image's stark beauty.
He led her along a side street, moving quickly, with all the energy of excitement and mischief. Vivian matched him with her native energy, a constant presence at his side. They ducked through almost a maze of back streets and unused spaces, alert for anyone who might notice them.
Once they were away from the main roads, Simon started to explain: "The club's in an old basement we reckon nobody remembers. No one lives around there so it's easy to hide. We hang out there when we're tired of the clean places in town."
"Who's 'we'?"
"Oh, me and Hal and Ted and John - John Daniels, I mean. There's a few other guys who show up sometimes too."
They reached their destination. Simon lifted the bulkhead door and climbed down a short flight of stairs to another door, Vivian following.
As he emerged into the bright light and relative warmth, someone inside called, "Who's that Simon brought?"
The speaker was Hal. Simon opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted when Vivian stepped down after him and replied, "I'm Vivian."
The basement wasn't very large but it fit its occupants as if they lived there. At one end, there was a low table with one leg missing; Ted and Hal were sitting on it, joking with each other, taking in stride the risk of tipping over onto the bare concrete floor. In the middle, opposite the door, John Daniels sat surrounded by unopened beer cans; nobody knew where he got them, and he begrudged them to no one. At the other end was a bench, wedged into the corner and almost spanning the width of the basement.
The bench was Simon's spot. As Vivian followed him there, she tripped over the missing leg of the table lying unnoticed on the floor. Simon caught her and almost fell over as well before she got her balance back and fought free of him.
They sat on the bench, Simon against the middle of the concrete wall and Vivian towards the corner. They talked about school, about their friends, about nothing. After a couple of minutes John tossed them two cans and they sat and drank and talked for a while. Ted tried to tease Simon a few times about Vivian, but Vivian kept interfering so he gave up and went back to his occasional banter with Hal.
The evening dragged on. Simon got a third can off John and opened it. Hal left. Vivian looked around, wondering what time it had gotten to, but there was no clock.
Simon tried to lie down on the bench but failed. "I'm so tired," he said.
Vivian replied, "Why don't you go home, then?"
"My father's gonna be mad at me for being out so late."
"He won't be less mad if you stay out later." He stared at her, uncomprehending, so she continued, "Staying here won't change that."
Simon started at the face that he couldn't look away from and heard her voice trying to be logical him. It didn't make sense.
Evening dragged into night. Simon stopped being able to carry a conversation from sentence to sentence. Vivian, starting to be concerned, said, "You should really go home. You need rest."
"My father's gonna--"
"This is more important. Why should you care what he thinks anyway?"
Her face with the piercing blue eyes swam in his vision. She was beautiful under the harsh incandescent light but she was saying the most ridiculous things. He was suddenly angry.
She started to say something more but he punched her before she could begin. He liked how that made him feel so he hit her again, in the same place, right under her eye - his right. Her left.
He grinned and said, "My father'd throw a fit if he knew I..."
Half a minute later, Vivian stood up. "I need sleep as much as you do," she said. "I'm going."
Simon muttered, "Don't leave me," but she did. She left him sitting in the cold basement without a real friend to go to, to think about what he'd done and what to do now. Vivian was gone. Simon didn't stay long.

Three days later nothing had changed but something was different. Simon and Vivian hung out at the club each day, and each day the conversation was more forced. Now Vivian with the dark brown hair that swung as she walked was sitting in the corner with her knees tucked into her chest, motionless, staring into nowhere.
From the table on the other side of the basement, Ted diverted from his normal topic of conversation to comment on how surprised he was that Simon had been able to get a girlfriend.
"I don't see you with a girlfriend either, mister," said Simon hotly.
Ted sneered. "I suppose it can't have been too hard - you just had to have low enough standards." He glanced quickly at Vivian, but she didn't move.
Simon floundered, "What are you talking about? Vivian is -" and then he found a retort, and said, "Talk about low standards! A girl'd have to have pretty low standards to hook up with you!"
"I bet you think you know so much about girls and their standards! Think you're so smart. A senior in high school."
"Just because you couldn't pass high school if you tried --"
Ted gestured angrily at Simon, and upset the balance of the table he and Hal were sitting on. Hal was paying attention and caught himself. Ted went sprawling on the floor.
Simon laughed loudly, so Ted jumped up and ran at him. Simon dropped the empty can he was holding - his first for the night - then stood up quickly and met Ted with equal force, and they were off fighting. Simon was smaller and weaker, but they were evenly matched because Ted didn't have any real hatred to draw on.
Before they could hurt each other too much, Vivian came out of the corner to stop them. She tore them apart and threw Ted on the floor, then went back and sat in the same position as before. Ted glanced at her resentfully as he got up and went back to the broken table. Simon sat tiredly back down on his bench.
A while later, Simon turned abruptly to Vivian, saying, "You make me come here and take all this bullshit from my dad and then you just sit there and look miserable."
Vivian didn't respond right away. Simon started to think she might not respond at all. Finally, still staring at nothing, she said, "I'm sorry. I'm just worrying so much."
He laughed loudly for the second time that night. "What is there to worry about?"
Vivian turned slowly to face him. "You, Simon."
He kept laughing, insanely, trying to ignore the sick feeling welling up inside him. "There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."
"I'm serious. In school most of all. I see your teachers talking to you all the time about missed assignments."
"I'm catching up, okay?" They both knew it was a lie.
"In History you used to tell jokes all the time. Now you only talk when Ms. Dane calls on you."
"Shut up!"
"Just look at you! You're not getting enough sleep, you always have that sullen look --"
Simon snarled and hit Vivian across the face.
"-- those dark circles under your eyes --"
He hit her again. Her head jerked backwards but she continued.
"Look yourself in the mirror!" She repeated, hysterically, yelling, "Look yourself in the mirror!"
The force of his next blow silenced her.
They sat together in pain for a long time, looking for ways to bridge between them. It would have been so easy to say that they weren't going to see each other again. Neither was willing to do it.
Finally Vivian said quietly, "Is there any way I can help?"
"I don't need help!" yelled Simon, suddenly furious again. He drew back his fist to hit her again but then collapsed. He yelled again, "Stop it! Stop it!" and buried his face in his hands.
He was crying.
In the corner, bruise-faced Vivian unfolded herself. She moved next to Simon and put her arm over his shoulders. His emotion slowly subsided under her anchoring touch.
"I'll walk you home," suggested Vivian. Simon didn't protest.
They walked close to each other most of the way to Simon's house. The pain was still there when they parted, but neither of them had really expected it to go away.

In the morning of the second day after, Simon and Vivian exchanged a glance across the History classroom, and that evening they met again at the club. After sitting down in their usual positions, Vivian asked, "Where were you yesterday?"
Simon said morosely, "I was sick."
"Nothing different than usual, then."
Simon's eyes narrowed. Moments later he relaxed and heaved a sigh.
Simon touched Vivian's face, very lightly. He said, earnestly, "I'm sorry for hurting you. I just got so angry..." He didn't say he wouldn't do it again. He was hoping he wouldn't.
Carefully, measuredly, Vivian replied, "You made a mistake. It's okay. I forgive you."
They sat and drank and talked about nothing again. They could almost believe it was like the first night. The silences were a little heavier, that was all.
When she was ready for more substantial conversation, Vivian asked: "Seriously, what happened yesterday? There's no way you were just sick for a day."
"Look, I wanted to come, okay? My father thought I was sick."
"So?"
"You act like it's so unimportant. He's my father. If he says I can't go, I can't go."
"Come anyway. What's he going to do about it?"
"That's ridiculous!"
"No, seriously, what's he going to do about it?"
"Why is it always my father with you?"
"Well, he has a lot of influence on you - anyway, you brought him up."
"Wha-- that doesn't have anything to do with it!" The sick angry feeling was coming back and Simon dreaded the moment he would break and hurt Vivian again. Before she could respond he said, "I don't want to talk anymore, I'm not feeling good."
Hours passed. Vivian worried and Simon suffered. Vivian stopped drinking fairly soon. Simon didn't, trying to drown the feeling. It only got worse.
Vivian had barely opened her mouth to speak when Simon said roughly, "I don't want to talk about it, okay?"
Vivian pressed on. "It's important."
An edge of bitterness came into his voice. "Fine, let's talk about it - you can tell me all about how I should be doing more schoolwork and getting more sleep and dealing with my father and disobeying him all at the same time."
"I'm not asking for anything that unreasonable!"
"When am I even supposed to fit in a night's sleep? My father wakes me up at six. If I go to bed early when am I supposed to see my friends? When am I supposed to see you? It's fine for you to say I have problems. Alright, I'll admit it, I have problems! Why don't you tell me what am I supposed to do about them!"
"It's not black and white. You could go home earlier - goodness knows we don't need all this time. Maybe you could bring your work and I could help you with it - "
Simon's eyes were full of madness. "What a bunch of details! Just when I admit there's a problem you go and pretend it's not that bad! Vivian, I can't go on like this! What am I supposed to do about my father?"
She said sadly, "I don't have easy answers."
"Give me anything!"
Suddenly she realized what she could do and looked straight at him. "If you ever need a place to stay that's not his house - there's an old man on Lancer Street, eight Lancer Street. He'll take you in -"
As Simon lunged at Vivian, her eyes glazed over in resignation. For the first time she seriously wanted to leave him, to give up and never see him again. But if she did he'd only collapse.
She turned and hid her face. As Simon started pounding on her back she thought: For the rest of his life he'd live in anger and fear. Under his father's shadow.
He was vicious. He beat every exposed inch of Vivian's shoulders and back. He was hitting to hurt. Where he couldn't see it, tears were streaming down her face. She was biting her lip to hold back a moan. Some moments she wanted nothing more than to throw herself on the ground and scream and cry and let everything out.
She didn't want that on his conscience too. There were already so many troubles.
When he finally stopped, she turned back to him and asked, "Did you get that?"
He stared at her out of a face both harrowed and exhausted, but said, "Eight Lancer Street. As if I give a shit."
A few minutes later he gave a strangled cry and fled. Vivian felt a stab of worry for him, but she had done what she could, and for another moment his fate was out of her hands.

The next day mercilessly came. Simon went to burnt-into-his-memory Vivian in school with the words I promised my father on his lips. When he saw her, all thought of keeping promises vanished.
John Daniels wasn't at the club that day, so Ted and Hal were dipping into his stash. Vivian and Simon joined them. Simon asked, "Where's John?"
"Beats me," answered Hal.
Vivian tried to talk innocently about school. The conversation soon brought them to the topic of Simon's dropping grades. Simon immediately changed the subject, but the new subject led them back just as easily. They tried topic after topic, but nothing worked. Over and over they only came to Simon and his problems.
Ted knocked over the table again. Hal stood the table up again and Ted tried to get back on, but he was too drunk to manage. Eventually he just sat on the floor.
When Vivian started talking about the weather, Simon just laughed.
"You're just trying to change the subject," he said. "You know that. I know that. Who are we kidding? Is this what everything in either of our lives leads back to?" Vivian had no answer. Simon went on, "Say, you're drinking more than usual."
"So sue me. I'm stressed out."
For a long time they couldn't come up with anything to say, so they sat saying nothing. Ted fell asleep on the floor. Hal got down and kicked him to wake him up, then led him out. Now only Vivian and Simon were left.
Simon launched into a long discussion of all his friends and what they were doing. All of them seemed to have more hope in their lives than he did. He tried desperately to characterize every one of them as a redeeming quality in his life. Each one, he eventually decided wasn't a real friend at all.
Vivian kept trying to make comments that cast a more positive light on the conversation. It only made things worse. Simon kept getting more frantic looking for ways out, and nothing she could say could fool him if he couldn't fool himself.
Finally he yelled, "Why do you have to make me go through all this? Why can't we just stop and go back to how things used to be? What do you even want?"
"Well, you could go back -"
"No I can't! And it's because of you!" He leaned towards her, grabbed her shoulders, looked desperately into her eyes. "Why are you doing this to me? What do you want?"
Vivian hesitated. Once again she felt like the power was in her hands to make a change but now she didn't know what to do or say. She seized on the first thing that seemed right.
"What do I want...? I want to see you, Simon." She laughed nervously. "No, not that mad drunk boy who looks like he hasn't slept in a week. I want to see what you can be. Not the son of your father."
Simon roared and threw her aside onto the bare concrete. He stood up, moved towards her, and kicked her so hard that she rolled across the floor. He grabbed the broken-off leg of the table and bore down on her, striking savage blows that tore through her clothing and the skin underneath.
Looking up at him through a haze of pain, Vivian yelled, "Stop! Stop!" but he was too far gone to hear. As he dropped to his knees on top of her, she realized that he wasn't going to stop until it was too late. Panic flooded through her and she almost started to scream, but if anyone heard they still wouldn't get there in time. And they'd find the club.
He hit her on the side of the head, leaving her dazed and unseeing. She tried to get up to run or fight but he was kneeling on her and she couldn't move. She lashed out blindly and his weapon crashed against her flailing hands.
Purely by instinct she managed to move again and grab hold of the table leg. Simon tried to wrestle it out of her hands, but she held on desperately. A moment passed without a new injury and she tightened her grip.
Simon stood up automatically to get more leverage against her, and in that instant she scrambled to her feet and fled.

Damaged Vivian emerged into the chill night air and shivered. She had escaped for the moment but she was still a long way from home and almost as far from the house on Lancer Street. And if she left a trail of blood it wouldn't let anyone find her in time to help, and it'd let them find the club.
Steadily weakening, she set out for the safety she knew, walking and bleeding, bleeding and walking.

Damaged Simon burst through the bulkhead door full of emotion. What had he done? And where was Vivian? He had to find her. He had to help her!
Vivian was out of his reach. He wandered the streets vainly searching for her until he was overcome by despair and collapsed on the sidewalk. He lay there late into the night, unable to bring himself to move. It was only a few hours before dawn when a policeman, driving past on patrol, noticed him and picked him up.

So Simon hadn't come home by his bedtime. Again.
As they got into the car, Simon's father asked, "What were you doing out late last night?" He had meant to ask it at breakfast. Simon had skipped breakfast to avoid this.
As usual, Simon said nothing.
His father started the car and headed off. The school was on the way to his workplace, so it was only convenient. And this way he got to see Simon get out at the school, with his own eyes.
And then trust to fate that he'd come home again.
They were stopped at a red light. Simon's father heaved a frustrated sigh. He said to Simon, "Things were so much easier when your mother was around." They had been. At the very least she had known how to keep him under control. If he tried to punish Simon, he'd just take it glumly. And go on disobeying.
Simon wanted to say: Alive. You said 'when my mother was around'. All these years and you still don't want to admit she's dead.
It would only make his father angry.
They started moving again. As they passed Berucci's, Simon's father didn't notice his sentimental gaze at the space under the awning, or the compulsive clenching of his hands. He didn't even notice when Simon glanced furtively at him to make sure he hadn't seen.
They stopped in front of the school and Simon got out. His father left the car sitting there until he saw Simon go in the front door, as always. Then he drove off.

Another day passed, then a weekend came and went. Simon went God-knows-where during the day and stayed until an ungodly hour of the night. Whenever Simon was out of sight, his father worried about where he was and what went on there. He hadn't known where Simon's mother had been when - things that didn't bear thinking about.
If Simon's father didn't yell at him a lot it was because he didn't give him many opportunities. It seemed to his father that for the last few days, he'd only been coming home to eat or sleep. And sometimes not even that much. His father had tried everything he could come up with to find out where he was going. Nothing worked.

Simon stumbled home late Sunday night and woke his father up vomiting on the floor. His father, before going back to bed, made him clean up the mess.
The next morning he was so hungry that he came to breakfast. When he got up to go out to the car, his father called after him, "Get back here!"
"What?"
"You're sick. You're not going."
"I'm fine!"
"You threw up last night!"
"That was last night! I'm fine!"
"Just what was last night? Since you want to go so much, why don't you tell me what happened last night?"
Simon's father was smiling sidelong at his own cunning retort. Simon had no answer. 
"And you're going to stay in your room where I can keep an eye on you. I'm not going to have you sneaking off when I'm not looking."
Simon went to his room but didn't get in the bed, even though he knew he needed rest. He sat in a corner facing away from the door, sometimes thinking, usually trying not to think. His father came in a few times with food, but he didn't eat.

On Tuesday he didn't get up in time for breakfast, and almost not in time for school. He only woke up when his father dragged him out of bed and then almost directly into the car.
 Once they were on their way - Simon still half-asleep, his father driving just over the speed limit - his father said gruffly, "Why don't you make yourself useful? Get a job or something." At least that would keep him under watchful eyes more often.
No response.
"Maybe you could join the Army."
No response.
"You'd be lucky to get past boot camp."
No response.
"What are you staring at?"
He had been staring at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. It was even worse than he'd thought. That sullen look he always wore. The dark circles under his eyes.
He looked away from the mirror and replied, "Nothing."
And the bruises Ted had given him, that he had been carefully hiding from his father. So many things he tried to hide. This. The club. His dropping grades. Anything to postpone his father finding out.

The next day Simon stumbled home late again and got in bed for about two hours of sleep. The next day when his father woke him up early, hoping to get some breakfast into him, he was so tired and morose that he didn't remember to hide the bruises. His father saw as soon as he got up and was shocked.
"What's that?! Has someone beaten y--"
Just out of bed, Simon didn't have the will to remain silent. He laughed bitterly.
"Who did this to you? What are you laughing at?"
He stopped himself from laughing.
"Simon, this is no laughing matter. If--" He gave up. "Well then, let yourself get beat up. Teach you a lesson."
Simon stood dumbly for a moment, then fell to his knees, his face in his hands, muttering, "Let yourself get beat up... Oh," and he almost said: Oh, Vivian... But his father was there.
His father didn't know how to handle this sudden display of emotion from his normally unresponsive son. He thought he had somehow gotten through to him.
Simon's father was distracted enough that he forgot to try to force Simon to eat breakfast. Simon, numb to hunger, didn't care either way. He just sat on the floor until it was time to leave for school.
As they drove out, Simon's father pressed his imaginary advantage.
"I've had just about enough of this - you going off who knows where and staying to four in the morning. It has got to stop."
"It's not usually as late as four!"
"That's not the point! I don't know where you get off to but I do know that it isn't good for you in the slightest."
Simon thought: It's only a hell of a lot better for me than my own house!
The traffic light turned red right in front of them but Simon's father drove on through. He leaned towards Simon and continued talking.
"- and I say, I have had enough! Starting today, and from now on, you are going to come home right after school - no going off to--"
Out of nowhere, without thinking, Simon echoed Vivian's words: "What are you going to do about it?"
Usually his father made a great show of anger. Now he just gritted his teeth. In a few moments, he spun the wheel and brought the car around to drive down a side street.
Simon asked, "Where are you going?" before he could stop himself.  Now it was his father's turn to be unresponsive.
The streets were ugly in the morning light.
Simon's father turned the car into an unused lot and slammed on the brakes. Then he turned off the car and sat, facing forwards, fuming, his face revealing little.
At length, without turning, he said levelly, deliberately: "We are not going to move from here until you promise me that you will come home immediately after school today."
They sat there for what seemed like forever to both of them, neither saying a word.
Finally Simon said, "I promise."

He broke his promise and came home after midnight. Again. In a police car.
His father had to be woken up, and came out the front door still looking half-asleep. He grabbed Simon and hissed, "God damn it, Simon, what am I going to do with you?" before turning to the police officer to say a curt "thank you."
The police officer was disheartened. He wanted to say: Mister, I found this boy lying face down on the sidewalk, crying. I brought him here hoping he could have a safe place to sleep, so in God's name, make it safe for him.
The police officer had argued with angry fathers before. Tonight was not his night. He walked back to his patrol car and drove away.
Simon's father dragged him into the dark interior of the house, saying, "You are going straight to bed and I'll deal with you in the morning."
"Father, I'm starving, can't I eat something before--"
"No!"
Simon snarled, thought it was barely visible in the dark, and raised his voice. "I'm goddamned starving!"
"And don't you use that kind of language--"
Simon said viciously, "Didn't you say the exact same thing just a minute ago?"
His father roared, "You are going to go to bed this instant!"
Simon tried to head for the refrigerator. His father tried to herd him through a door towards his room. Simon was angry and frightened and didn't want to go, so he shoved back as hard as he could.
Simon heard the stumbling backwards footsteps and the crash of some furniture as his father fell. He stood still, breathing hard, waiting.
His father scrambled to his feet, backed away, and said harshly, "Get out of my house."
Simon grinned fiercely and didn't move. His father was cowering somewhere in the room, backed into a corner, and it didn't matter what he said anymore. There was already no going back. 
"I don't care where you've been and I don't care where you go. You've just been one long ordeal for me ever since your mother died. Probably she died because you didn't deserve her. I never want to see you again."
The words passed over Simon like so much wind. When he left it was because of what he should have known all along.

For the second time that night Simon stepped out through a door into the cold, never to return. He wandered aimlessly, lightheaded. Too much had happened in too short a time. There was nowhere to go back to and no one to search for.
He didn't want to consciously think about it where he was going, but his feet moved almost of their own accord, leading him inexorably to one point. He hadn't thought he even knew where it was, but there in front of him appeared a sign that said Lancer St.

Before dawn the next day, a knock came at the old man's door. He went to see who it was, and found himself face to face with a strange boy who looked every bit as torment-ridden as Vivian ever had.
Before the old man could speak, the boy said, "I'm Simon. Vivian said you could help..."
Ah.

A bit less than a week later, the old man got a phone call.
"Hey - it's Vivian. Sorry I couldn't call earlier, but everybody was too busy worrying about me to call and old man they'd never heard of for me."
The old man smiled. "How are you doing?"
"I'm doing fine - my parents aren't, though. They're still unbelievably worked up over the whole thing. I told them it wouldn't happen again, but no. So now they've grounded me all the way until next fall when I leave for college."
"Before I forget, Simon came to me--"
"Did he really!"

Simon and the old man sat quietly at the table in the front room. Where there were normally two chairs, the old man had brought out a third, without saying why. Cool morning light filtered in through a window; outside, the first few brown leaves of autumn were blowing about in a light breeze.
Vivian entered without knocking, so she saw the scene inside before either the old man or Simon saw her. Even the old man didn't look up quickly enough to notice the flash of hatred that crossed her face in the moment between when she saw that it was Simon there, and the moment when she saw Simon.
He was engaged in animated conversation with the old man, all trace of sullenness gone from his face. Also gone were the dark circles under his eyes. The smile he gave Vivian when he saw her was bright and clear.
She ran to him, grinning, and threw her arms around him. He made the answering gesture, holding her tight, surprised and delighted at what his arms were doing.
Off to the side, the old man smiled and blessed them under his breath.

~(January 2008)