Michael Collings - The Slab

Daniel was used to her obsession. For the past seven years, the litany had altered only fractionally. Sometimes it was “that nice young thing Rita,” then it would be “that nice young thing Ellen.” Always one “nice young thing” or another. Always after him to marry.

Daniel Warren was not particularly interested in marriage. He worked hard and he lived well. He could get what sexual companionship he wanted whenever he wanted it, and if that particular companionship was not precisely what his mother might have imagined-or approved-well, that was her problem not his, wasn’t it.

After thirty-two years of Amanda Warren, thirty of those without even the questionable buffer of the father who had so inconsiderately keeled over from a heart attack on Daniel’s birthday, just after Daniel had puffed out the candles on the cake and held out his plate for the first, special, birthday-boy slice, Daniel knew when to nod and smile, and when to answer Amanda’s questions with just the right touch of ambiguity to assuage her for a while longer at least.

And he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

In April of 1992, however, on the Sunday following his thirty-second birthday, Daniel Warren broke his cardinal rule about keeping his mouth shut. He spoke out, and in doing so came as close as he ever would to killing his mother.

He didn’t do it intentionally, of course (although he might perhaps have considered such an action more than once), but even without meaning to, he almost killed her.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, he sat for a long time, staring at his nearly empty plate as if the single smudge of pie filling (peach this time, not cherry-he had grown to hate both) along the floral edging concealed the intricate answers to an infinite universe, he removed the carefully ironed napkin from his lap, folded it just the way Amanda expected him to when he was finished with his meal, laid it precisely across the top edge of the empty plate, sat back in his chair, and looked at his mother for another long time.

When she began to shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze, he grinned at her, a foolish, little-boy grin, as if he already knew that he had done something wrong and was trying to figure out the best way to break the bad news.

And finally said simply, “I’m getting married tomorrow, Mom.”

Like all service organizations, the Helping-Hands Club was always on the lookout for volunteers. It had to be. Cash for paying a professional staff was scarce, especially here in the San Fernando Valley where even the most reasonable-seeming rent rates were punishingly high. Even though the Helping-Hands Club inhabited part of an antiquated school closed the year before when the new high school opened a couple of miles away, the marginal break on rent offered by the Sepulveda Basin School District did little to counter the fact that electric costs were high, heating costs were high, maintenance costs were high, everything was high…except the interest of most of the people in the area.

So when the well-dressed man appeared out of a cold, grey drizzle and walked into the office at Helping-Hands late one January afternoon and asked if the club needed volunteers, Marty Franco literally jumped at the chance.

“Sure thing, Mr…?” he said, out of his seat and hurrying around the cluttered desk before the man had stopped speaking.

“Warren, Daniel Warren,” the man answered curtly.

“Hello, Mr. Warren. Marty Franco.” Marty held out his hand. The other man’s grasp was firm and warm in spite of the chill outside. Marty could feel a comfortable strength in Warren’s wrist and fingers.

“Sit down,” Marty said, pointing to the other chair in the small room. The chair was almost hidden beneath a flurry of manila folders. Warren carefully stacked the folders on the floor and sat down.

“So,” Marty said after a short silence, “what do you know about the Helping Hands?”

“Not much,” Warren admitted. “I saw an ad in the GreenSheet at a grocery store the other day. It didn’t say much, just that you’re a service club and that you work with young people. Kind of like Big Brothers, I guess.”

Marty grinned. He’d written that ad himself. Nice to see that it was pulling in some responses. “That’s pretty close. We handle maybe forty kids at a time here, mostly kids with no fathers who need to be around a man some of the time. You know. Bonding. Role model. Like that.”

Warren nodded.

“We’re not a day-care center or anything. We run limited hours, but we do post a pretty good schedule of activities. Basketball, swimming, baseball. Some weekend hikes and camping trips. That sort of thing.”

Again Warren nodded.

“And of course we appreciate any help we can get. Most of our funding is through private donations. We know that our volunteers are doing a lot just by being here, but sometimes it helps if…”

“I understand. I have no family myself and I make a pretty good living. I’m willing to cover some costs where necessary.”

Marty broke out into an even wider grin, relieved that that hurdle had been successfully negotiated. “Well, Mr. Warren, then if you’ll fill out these forms, we can get started.”

He handed a sheaf of papers to Daniel, who skimmed through them before removing his pen from an inside jacket pocket. The form looked like fairly standard stuff. Name, address, age, marital status. Occupation. References. General backgrounds.

He began writing.

Three weeks later, Daniel Warren met Miles Stanton for the first time.

During an impromptu basketball game pitting four adult volunteers against half a dozen pre-teenagers (who severely and definitively trounced the old-timers), Daniel first noticed the skinny kid sitting alone on the sidelines, elbows propped on bony knees. Once or twice, he had even waved for the kid to come over and play, but the boy had just stared ahead as if the game, the other kids, Daniel himself simply didn’t exist. As if the wall opposite didn’t exist and he could see clear through it to the Santa Monica mountains and beyond.

After the game, while the others were heading sweating and laughing into the shower room to clean up and change, Marty entered the gym and, standing by the boy, motioned Daniel over.

“Daniel, I’d like you to meet a new fellow here at Helping Hands. Miles, this is Mr. Warren. Daniel, meet Miles Stanton.”

At a nudge from Marty, the boy stood. He seemed even skinnier standing up. His basketball jersey was at least two sizes too large for his shoulders and chest and threatened to engulf him. His baggy shorts hung well past his knees, as full as if the boy were wearing a skirt.

Daniel stifled a smile, leaned down stiffly, and solemnly shook hands with the boy. At least now the boy- Miles, Daniel reminded himself-was looking up at Daniel, but he still seemed no more interested in the man towering over him than he had been in the basketball game.

“This is Miles’ first evening here, Daniel,” Marty said by means of explanation.

Daniel noted that the man spoke about the boy as if the kid were not present. The fact grated on him. He squatted down until his eyes were level with the kid’s. He heard his knees cracking; as always, he hated such physical reminders that his body was growing older.

“Hey, Miles,” he said, smiling and watching for any flicker of interest in the kid’s grey eyes. “You like basketball?”

Nothing.

“How about baseball?”

Still nothing.

Daniel glanced up at Marty. The other man shrugged, as if to say sometimes it takes a while, don’t give up, just keep trying and something will break.

Daniel pulled away a bit and examined the boy. He looked to be about ten, perhaps an inch or two taller than average, thin but certainly not malnourished. His light brown hair was unruly but had been recently trimmed. His eyes still seemed empty, though.