First Draft Chapter 5

My mother died when I was eight years old.  It was, without a doubt, the hardest part of my childhood.  It left me with only my father.
I have heard it said before that every child goes through certain stages in their relationship with their parents.  In the first stages, the child develops a kind of hero worship for the parents.  The parents can do no wrong in the child’s eyes.  If I was ever in that stage, I don’t remember it.
By the time I was eight, I remember being very critical of several things about my dad.  By the time I was fourteen, they had multiplied exponentially.
The first event that really changed the view I had of my father was the Tramp incident.
When you last saw me, reader, it was the end of summer.  Now fast forward to the winter of that year.  I was still fourteen, though in a couple months that would change.  David, being a few months older, was already fifteen.  Nothing had changed though.  It was becoming a theme in my life I could not escape, the staleness of an unchanging world.
I suppose I should explain what the winters are like in Fabulae.  Fabulae, especially Urbae, is one of those pleasant temperature zones where nothing really ever changes.  Was my child like mind frustrated by the boring consistency, that I lived in a place where even the weather conspired not to change?  I can see where you would think that reader.  However, until I learned what other climates were like, it never occurred to me that the weather could be any different.  Our summers were warm, our winters were cool.  Hot and cold we never knew.  Of course these are relative terms.  Until I discovered what cold can mean in other places, I thought our winters were quite cold indeed.  Sometimes, I would wake up and see the lake outside our house was frozen.  We would even get a light snow once in a while.
Anyway, it was in the course of one such winter that our house received a visitor.  Abel and I were home studying when there was a rap on the door.  It was very unusual for us to get unexpected visitors, especially after dark.  Our house was near to nothing.  Abel and I, filled with curiosity, raced each other to the door.
Our father had heard the rapping as well.  He had brought his work home, as was his habit, and had been working in his study.  Consequently, his study being away from the main part of the house, we beat him to the door, but he was equally curious.
With child like minds, I don’t think it ever occurred to either Abel or I that the person behind the door could be a thief, or an assassin, or some other character which wished our family harm.  I can see now why my father bolted from his study to try and catch up with us.
I grabbed the doorknob eagerly.  Abel, who had wanted the honor of opening the door, protested by my side.  I flung the door open.  Abel and I both stared at the figure it revealed.
He was a tall man.  My eyes were immediately drawn to his clothes.  His pants were so covered with mud it was impossible to determine what their original color had been.  On many areas his skin showed through where the pants were ripped or worn away.  He had no shoes, but his socks, which I assume where once white, were caked with mud as well.  His shirt was muddy also, but a distinctive shade of green was still visible.  The shirt was worn away at the elbows, revealing bare skin.  His hands were without gloves, which was unwise in this weather.  They were purple from the cold.  My eyes moved further up.  His neck and face were caked with mud.  He had a big brown beard, which hid much of his face from view.  His lips and cheeks were obviously chapped from the wind.  His hair was long and tangled and matted with mud.  He smelled funny.
Abel let out a cry of surprise and jumped backward at the sight of this man.  I was shocked as well.  I had never scene a man who appeared like this one.  “Timothy!” my father exclaimed.
“Paul,” the figure said back.  “You’ve got to help me.”  The voice seemed somehow cracked or broken, as if the every word was an effort.
“Tim, I can’t I—“ my father started out, then stopped.  “Alright Tim, get in.”  My father practically pulled Timothy into the house then shut the door.  “Did anyone see you come here?”  Timothy shook his head.  My father smelled the air.  “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you Timothy?”  Timothy didn’t answer.  My father turned to us.  “Jonathon, Abel, I need you two to go to every window in the house and close the blinds.”
“But why?” Abel asked.
“Just do it,” my father snapped back.
Dutifully, Abel and I scoured the house, closing all the blinds.
When we returned, Timothy was at the kitchen table.  My father was making soup for him.  Timothy was munching on bread.  My father’s back was to us, so he didn’t even notice at first when we entered the room.  “Well, when was the last time you even took a bath Tim?” my father asked.  “You smell horrible.”  Tim did not answer.  My father turned to serve him his soup and saw Abel and I standing attentively.  “Excuse me for a moment Tim,” he said, leaving the stranger with his warm soup.  My father ushered us into the other room.
Abel was unable to contain his curiosity.  ‘Who is the strange man?  Who is he?”
“He’s a friend of mine.  Listen, I need the help of both of you, okay?  I need you two not to tell anybody that he’s here.”
“But why?”
“Because I said so Abel.  I need you two to promise.”  All right, fair enough.  If I was my father I wouldn’t trust Abel with any extra information either.  I assumed I would find out later who this strange man was.
“I promise,” I said.  Abel mimicked me.
“Okay, thank you.  Now, it would really help me out if you boys would just go to bed now.”
“But I have homework,’ Able protested.
“I’ll write your teacher a note.”
Abel wasn’t prepared for that response.  Having homework was ordinarily a free ticket to stay up.  He desperately tried his other arguments.  “But I don’t want to.  I want to stay up.  It’s not even late yet.”
“Abel, bed!”  That voice meant business.  I watched to see if Abel would be foolish enough to contest it.  Abel reluctantly began to walk toward the stairs.
“How come I have to go to bed and Jon gets to stay up?”
“Jonathon is going to bed too.”  Now this I couldn’t understand.  Send Abel to bed, but I’m fourteen, almost fifteen.  I’m old enough to handle anything.  Besides which, it was insanely early to go to bed.  It had only been dark outside for about an hour.  It wasn’t even my curfew yet, let alone my bedtime.
“What?”  Not very elegant, but I think it summed up all my arguments.
“Jonathon, please.”  My father’s voice was much more of a request than a command.  He was trying to be nice to me.  I rejected it.  No matter what his tone of voice was, he was out of line by trying to send me to bed.  At the same time, I knew it was fruitless to argue with him.  I grabbed my books, went upstairs, and studied in my room.
The next day I woke up for school.  I went downstairs, wondering what I would find.  Although I looked all over, I did not find the mysterious figure.  That meant he was probably sleeping in my dad’s room.  My dad, not yet gone for work, was probably still in the room, and I dared not go in for fear of his wrath.
I biked into school with curiosity stirring in me.  First hour as always I sat next to David.
I soon lost interest in what the teacher was saying.  “Hey, David,” I whispered.  “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What?”
“I can’t say it here.  It’s top secret.”
“Well at break then?”
“Yeah.”
“Jonathon!  David!  Do I have to send you two to the office yet again?”
“No ma’am,” we quickly answered.
“Okay, then be quiet.  Now, I’ve got your stories graded already.  They were pretty good for the most part.”  The teacher patted the stack of papers next to her.  “Katie,” she handed Katie back her paper.  “Well done.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
“Kevin.  Where’s Kevin?  There you go Kevin.  Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“Joshua.  You’ve got a good story, but you need to work on your style.  And add more details.  Sally, here’s your paper, good job.  Alison, beautifully written.  Clodius, see me after class.  David.”  The teacher paused by David.  “You’ve really got a nice writing style.”
David blushed slightly.  “Thank you.”
The teacher’s face turned to a frown as she looked at me.  “And Jonathon, you still haven’t handed in your story.”
“I know ma’am.”
“Can I expect it anytime soon?”
“I’ve got better things to do ma’am.”
All right reader, that last line was a lie.  I had enough sense not to say that, although I was certainly thinking it.  I mumbled something about how it was almost done, and she intensified her glare and then moved on.  “Matthew, good job.  Icarus, excellent paper.  Arthur, decent story, but you’ve got to be careful about putting words in the mouth’s of historical figures.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Molly, great paper.  Sue blah blah blah blah…”
David reached over and tapped Arthur on the shoulder.  “Hey, can I read your story?”
Arthur was surprised at the interest in his work.  “Sure man, if you want.”  Arthur handed his story to David, who put it in his folder to read later.  The bell rang and I was off to my second class.  I met David at break.
Reader, do not judge me too harshly.  It wasn’t that I was intentionally defying my father by telling David about the Tramp who inhabited our house.  I just thought it was assumed when we promised not to tell anybody, that David did not count.
At break, David and I went into a classroom.  They were empty during break, and I described the strange visitor that had surprised us last night.  David was curious, as was I, to find out who this stranger was.  I made sure David was sworn to secrecy, then we went back out into the hall.
After school got out, curiosity had all but torn me apart.  I hopped on my bike and raced back, not even taking time to socialize.  My father would still be at work when I got home, so it was my chance to discover this stranger.  I biked so fast my legs felt like jelly when I finally arrived home.
I ran into the house.  The stranger was no where to be seen.  I flung open the door to my father’s room, and there was the Tramp.
I don’t know what he had been doing in that room by himself.  Staring at the wall?  He was just sitting and staring blankly ahead.  He looked at me without speaking and I looked back.  I was still trying to catch my breath, and we probably stared at each other for at least one minute without either of us talking.
“Who are you?” I said still breathless, made bold by my curiosity.  He just stared blankly back at me.  I noticed for the first time how old he looked.  Much older than my Dad.  I knew he could talk; he was not getting out of this question.  “Who are you?” I repeated.  Again a blank stare.  I became infuriated.  “Answer me!” I yelled.  He must have been shocked that a young boy would speak so harshly to an older man.  It registered on his face.
“I’m a friend of your father’s” he answered.
“My name’s Jonathon,” I volunteered.
“My name’s Timothy.”  This much I had picked up last night, but it was a good step to getting him talking.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I have no where else to go.”
What did that mean?  “How come I’ve never seen you before?  Why doesn’t my father want anyone to know you’re here?”
“Do you know where your father keeps his alcohol?”
That wasn’t exactly an answer to my question.  “Yes, I do.”
The tramp licked his lips.  “Can I have some?”
“If you answer my questions, I’ll give it to you.”
“Can I have a drink first?”
No way buddy.  These questions have been eating at me all day.  I shook my head.
The tramp sighed.  “What do you want to know?”
“Who are you and why are you here?”
“I’m a friend of your father’s.  We were friends all through school.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged.  “Nothing happened, we just grew apart.”  He saw a blank look on my face.  “You’ll understand when you’re older.  We both went off to the University and made new friends there.  And why am I here?  I’m here because I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m out of money, and I need a place to sleep for a few days.”
“Why doesn’t my father want anyone to know you’re here.”
“Because I’m a criminal.”
My father?  Harboring a fugitive?  It was unbelievable.  My interest could not have been higher.  “What did you do?”
“I was hungry.  I stole some food.”  Wow!  A criminal, in my house.  “Can I have a drink now Jonathon?  Please?”  I led Timothy to my father’s alcohol.  He guzzled it down.  “You want some kid?” he asked.
I made a face of distaste.  “I can’t stand the stuff.”
Timothy smiled.  “You’ll grow to like it someday,” he said, as he took another swallow.
Abel arrived home not long after.  Leaving Abel to entertain the visitor, I studied in my room.  My father arrived home a couple hours later.  I was made aware of this by an angry rapping on my door.  I opened it.
“Did you give Timothy my alcohol?” my father asked fiercely.
I was surprised that I was in trouble for this.  “He wanted some,” I said defensively.
“Don’t you ever, ever give that man anymore alcohol.”  My father was furious.  I didn’t even know I had sinned.  “He’s had far too much of that already.”
“But he asked for it.”  After all, I was just being a good host.  Why should I get chewed out for that?
“I don’t care.  He can’t handle it anymore.”  My father turned to leave.
“So he’s a fugitive?” I asked, very curious to get my Dad’s perspective.
My father stopped and turned around.  “Yes, yes he is.”
“But you’re hiding him anyway?”
“He was my friend.”  I couldn’t believe it.  My father was flat out disobeying the Duke.  It was a side of him I had never seen before.
“Like me and David?”
“Oh no.  No nothing at all like–“ My father stopped himself and thought.  “Well, yes I suppose.  Maybe we weren’t all that dissimilar from you and David.”
It was a rare moment of closeness with my father.  Just for a little bit I was beginning to see what made him really tick.  “And then you just gradually grew apart?”
“No.  No that wasn’t what happened at all.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He’s lying.”
“Then what happened?”
My father stood up.  “I don’t want to talk about it, Jonathon.”  He walked towards the door.  “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said.  I agreed.
At dinnertime I left my studies to return to the kitchen.  Timothy was not there, however.  Able asked where the strange man was, and my father flatly answered that Timothy would be eating by himself.  After dinner, Abel and I did the dishes.  I retired to my room to finish my studies until, weary of homework, I decided just to go to bed.
I had only climbed into bed and the light was just out when my father came into the room.  He apologized for intruding on my sleep and offered to come back later and I assured him it was all right.  He wanted to know everything Timothy had told me, and I told him.  “Lies,” my father said.  “Those are all lies.”  My father then preceded to tell me what really happened.
According to my father, he and Timothy had not drifted apart gradually, but had a decisive fight that had ended their friendship.  My father refused to tell me what the fight had been about.  Timothy did not become a wanted man for stealing food, although my father remarked that “he had probably done that too.”  Instead Timothy, in a drunken rage, had attacked one of the Duke’s men.  The Duke’s second in command to be precise.  Angelo, Flash’s right hand man, had tried to clear Timothy from the streets and gotten punched because of it.  Because of that, Angelo wanted Timothy’s head.
Timothy, my father told me, had once been a promising young man who at the university showed every sign of brilliance and looked like he was well on his way to success.  Unfortunately, Timothy had become an alcoholic, and drank his way into apathy and poverty.  Timothy’s alcoholism, my father asserted, had been his downfall.
My father seemed very bitter towards Timothy still, but risked his whole career to shelter him.  I was astonished.
The last time I talked to Timothy before he left our house was the following afternoon.  I arrived home after school.  Timothy was eating food out of our kitchen.  My father had apparently decided there was no need to hide him in the bedroom anymore.  Timothy didn’t even look up at me when I entered.  He just kept eating, sitting at the table.
“You lied to me,” I said fiercely.
He looked up, stuffing his mouth with more bread.  “What are you talking about,” he said with mouth full.
I pulled out a chair and sat down at the other side of the table.  “My dad told me what really happened.”
“What did he tell you?”  His mouth was still full.
“He told me you two had a fight.  He also told me you’re a fugitive because you attacked Angelo.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s for sure.”
“How do you know he’s right?”
It was a simple question, but I was not expecting it.  I was silenced briefly before answering, “because I trust him.”
“But you don’t even know me.  You don’t know if I’m trustworthy or not.”
“Are you trustworthy?”
“You’ll have to make that decision.  But don’t make it until you know me.”  I didn’t know what else to say.  We just looked at each other and then he went back to eating our bread.
I was motivated by a desire to say something.  The silence was awkward for me.  “Do you work?” I asked.
He shook his head.  “I can’t hold down a job.  I can only work for about a week or two before I start showing up drunk.”
I didn’t understand.  “Why don’t you just not show up drunk?”
“Why don’t you shut up kid?”  His tone had a distinctive edge to it.  I had angered him without intending to.
“I’m sorry,” I said.  At the risk of getting snapped at by this touchy man, I gave into my growing curiosity.  “Where do you stay?”
“I don’t stay anywhere.”
“I mean, where do you sleep?”
“On the ground.”
This was unbelievable to me.  “In this weather?”
He became irritated again.  “Well, where else am I going to stay?  Nobody will give me a bed I can afford.”
I was silent again.  In the back of my mind lurked the question I really wanted to ask.  I was afraid he would explode.  Bracing myself, I asked anyway.  “Dad says all your misery is self-inflicted.”
“So?”
“So what are you complaining about?”
His eyes hardened.  “So that gives everyone else the right to treat me like scum?”  I shrugged.  “You have no idea what it’s like.”  He looked away from me and continued eating bread.  Not wanting to anger him any further, I retreated to my room.
When my father arrived home, he knocked on my door.  After we exchanged greetings, my father asked where Timothy was.
“Isn’t he downstairs?” I asked.
My father shook his head.  “He’s not in the house.”
A thought hit me.  My heart beat faster as I thought about what I had done.  “I think I might have offended him.”
“You think he left because of something you said?”  I nodded, worried about what trouble I would be in.
“Good,” my father said, without changing his tone or his expression.  “I’ll see you at dinner Jonathon.”