Renaissance Man - Part 1

Scene 22 _ Sunday

Scene 22 Rev C

Scene 22 “Sunday”

Torey Campbell – Protagonist
Brodey Campbell – Torey Campbell’s father / Antagonist
Nessie Campbell – Torey Campbell’s mother

         Man, I hurt so bad.
         Daylight and street noise woke Torey. He had trouble opening his eyes and sensed daylight through closed eyelids. A few street sounds floated through the open window of his bedroom, and he could smell fresh coffee. As the mental fog cleared and consciousness awakened his brain, pain screamed through his body. The memory of yesterday flooded in — all of it.
         Laying there trying to wake up, he sensed that something was different today. Sometime during the night, a summer storm had broken the intense heat, and the morning air had the refreshing chill that whispers the first hint of autumn. That wasn’t it. Bedclothes were disheveled, he was still wearing yesterday’s dirty clothes, and he smelled bad — bad enough that he could smell himself. That wasn’t it. It was Sunday, and Sunday always felt different. That wasn’t it either. Yesterday he bought two new pairs of shoes. Maybe that was part of it. Yesterday he had endured the worst beating of his young life, followed by the worst fight ever with his father. His torn and bruised face and body told him that was different. But still, there was something else. He gave up trying to figure it out, pulled himself out of bed, surveyed the mess in his bedroom, and decided that was different enough to account for his strange sense of the day.
         Wobbling as he stood up, he removed his clothes and pulled the bloody sheets from the bed, piling it all in the corner. I’ll deal with this later.
         Opening the bedroom door, listening for sounds, the voices of his mother and father engaged in strained conversation, in loud whispers, drifted up from the kitchen below. Moving to the bathroom, he closed the door and drew a bath.
         While the tub was filling, he did a close inspection of his face. The mirrored door of the medicine cabinet over the sink gave Torey the first clear full view of his face. He wiped the steam from the mirror and saw fully, for the first time, the cuts and bruises that he had been feeling since yesterday afternoon. The full-length mirror on the bathroom door revealed the bruises and swelling covering much of his body. The sight sickened him. I can’t believe they didn’t knock out my teeth, he thought, grateful for small blessings.
         Hot water tingled his skin as he eased himself into the tub, quickly turning pink. Why can’t we have a shower like rich people? No matter, he lay there, appreciating the warmth for as long as it lasted.
         Renaissance Man flashed through his mind. What was that?
         After a bit, Torey summoned the strength and energy to wash himself. The washcloth was pink when he finished. He winced as he wiped and dabbed the towel over his body to dry himself, trying to inspect the visible damage as he went.
         Better, he thought, viewing his reflection again. Cuts and bruises still decorated his face, but the blood, sweat, and dirt had been washed away, an obvious improvement. One cut, the deep one inflicted by the brass knuckles, required attention. Torey rummaged through the medicine cabinet. Finding a box of Band-Aids, he applied one to the cut. That will leave a mark. Thanks, Rufus.
         Crossing the hall back to his bedroom, breakfast smells from downstairs told him Nessie knew he was awake and reminded him that he had rejected supper last night. Man, I am hungry.
         Clean and dry, Torey took his white shirt and grey slacks from the closet, and clean underwear and socks from the dresser drawer. The dresser held his attention for an instant. Renaissance Man came to him again.
         Now dressed, he reached for his church shoes, then remembered that he was the owner of a new pair of Stacy Adams ‘Detonator’ Chukka Boots.
         Where are my new shoes? He recalled having dropped the bag in the corner of the kitchen when he came home last night, then removing the shoes from the bag to show Nessie. Ah, they’re downstairs.
         He could avoid it no longer. He had to go downstairs.
         At the top of the stairs, he paused to look back at his room. The pile of bloody clothes and soiled bedclothes caught his eye. Renaissance Man came to mind for the third time. Where did that come from? Why did it keep crossing his mind? he wondered. Shrugging off the thought, he proceeded downstairs, his mind now filling with the possible indignities his father might have in store for him this morning.
         Sunday meant church. Torey didn’t want to go. He especially didn’t want to put up with his father’s preaching on top of the pastor’s, after last night’s display of ‘Christian righteous indignation.’ But most of all, he didn’t want another fight. Please, no fight today. He would endure the day quietly, avoiding both Brodey and Nessie as much as possible.
         The tension was palpable. Nessie at the stove making her special Sunday omelet, and making herself appear over-busy, Brodey at the kitchen table with his face buried behind the Sunday newspaper, still in his pajamas and robe, nursing a cup of black coffee. Sizzling bacon was the music of the morning. Torey looked at one, then the other, not wanting to speak first. Neither acknowledged his presence. Both pairs of new shoes rested on the counter by the sink.
         “Mornin’ Mom … mornin’ Pop,” Torey forced himself to speak first. “I need my new shoes.” He grabbed the ‘Detonators’ from the counter, sat down, and pulled them on, recalling as he did, how good they felt yesterday.
         Nessie approached, carrying a plate holding an omelet, bacon, and a generous helping of home fries. “Good morning, son. You must be very hungry. You had no supper last night,” she said, turning away with no hesitation.
         Torey accepted the plate but said nothing. His stomach was scolding him about the neglect.
         “Torey, I like those shoes,” Nessie said, trying to start a conversation. “They are very nice, you will look good in them.” Her face was red, and her eyes were puffy. She had been awake all night crying about the self-destruction of her family.
         “Thanks, Mom,” Torey replied, his voice indicating that he wanted no further conversation.
         Pushing his chair back, Brodey rose from the table. “We leave for church in fifteen minutes,” he growled, as he left the kitchen and went upstairs to dress for church.
         Is that the best you can do, old grouch, thought Torey. Instead, he simply replied, “Yes sir,” choosing not to start another fight.
         At the church, the pastor stood by the doorway, greeting and chatting with each family as they arrived. “Good morning, Campbells,” he called out with a big welcoming smile, that vanished when he observed Torey’s battered face, Nessie’s red and puffy countenance, and the fearsome scowl presented by Brodey. Today was not the morning for small talk with the Campbells.
         The service was always uneventful, although today, Torey’s face got a few questioning looks and a couple inquiries from Nessie’s women friends. She tried to pass it off as a typical fight among teenage boys. Brodey avoided eye contact walking straight to his usual seat in the sixth row.
         Stand, sing, sit, pray repeated at least three times every Sunday. Torey got through church, most times, by people watching. But today, he was preoccupied with trying to understand the meaning of Renaissance Man, and the instruction about reading a newspaper. Where did that come from? Sitting in church let his mind wander off, chasing the possibility of religious significance behind this strange mind illusion plaguing him.
         His eyes drifted down to his feet now adorned with his new Stacy Adams Detonators. He smiled and wiggled his toes, thinking about how good shoes felt when they fit right. He lifted his head and sat a little straighter, smug that he had gotten those shoes himself — his first solo shopping trip for his own necessities. Well, I did get help from Addo.

***

         Today was as predictable as any other Sunday at the Campbell’s, except that today Nessie had an added laundry task. She and Torey stood at the washer and dryer in the basement, surveying the pile on the floor.
         “Oh, Torey, what a mess.”
         “I’m sorry, Mom.”
         “There are several ways to remove an isolated blood stain from fabric,” Nessie said. “But here we have whole items needing treatment, not just spots.” Nessie inspected the pile, one piece at a time — two bed sheets, one pillowcase, one T-shirt, one pair of jeans. “… and the stains are many hours old,” she added.
         “Should we just throw them out?”
         “Heavens, no!” replied Nessie. “We can’t afford to do that.”
         “But this T-shirt has to go,” she admitted. “It’s stained and torn, and I can’t mend that tear.”
         “What about the rest?” asked Torey, feeling guilty about the added work and possible cost he was putting on his mother.
         “I think I have two buckets big enough to hold all of it,” she replied. “We’ll soak everything in cold water and vinegar for a few hours, then see how much of a problem we have left.”

***

         Summer Sundays are quiet in Drullins. Some spend the day recovering from the drinking that began at Duffy’s on Friday evening. Then there are those who suffer the ‘Sunday afternoon blues’ anticipating Monday morning. Others just enjoy the day off.
         Some of that may have been at work here, but the silent gloom that hung over the Campbell family like a London fog was the destruction wrought by the emotional tornado that tore through the family last night. Each in their own way knew that life had changed forever, and not for the better.
         Brodey read the newspaper with extra thoroughness, Nessie fussed about the house, spending a lot of time clipping store coupons from the Sunday newspaper, and Torey spent the afternoon in his bedroom. A major league baseball game on TV provided the afternoon’s soundtrack.

***

          “What's for dinner?” Brodey asked as the afternoon waned.
         “Yes, it's time. I need to start supper,” Nessie said.
         “What are we having?” Torey asked, starting to feel hungry again.
         “Roasted Chicken with Apples and Onions.”
         “Sounds good. Can I help?” asked Torey.
         “Sure.”
         The two hastened to the kitchen, thankful for the opportunity to put distance between themselves and Brodey.
         The heatwave that had gripped Drullins for the past week had been broken by last night’s thunderstorm, like a cup of cold water poured into a hot skillet. Even within the confines of tall buildings and brick walls, a strong breeze cooled the kitchen, Torey’s favorite room.
         Nessie put on an apron over her Sunday church dress. She always stayed dressed on Sunday. It made her feel a little special, and she never knew if Brodey would announce a plan to go somewhere. She wished that would happen more often, pleasant Sunday excursions were rare, but it wouldn’t be today.
         “Okay. What can I do?” asked Torey.
         The clatter of pots and pans signaled Nessie's unsheathing the tools of her art — pans and cutting boards from the cabinets, knives from the drawer, and the makings from the refrigerator. This was Nessie's kitchen and here she was queen. The room looked like the workshop of a master, and it was.
         “Slice these onions,” Nessie said, handing Torey a cutting board, a freshly sharpened vegetable knife, and two onions.
         The Campbell furnishings were modest, but not so with the culinary tools in Nessie’s kitchen. The knife drawer held a complete assortment of knives — Universal, Peeling, Vegetable, Jam, Fillet, Chees, Tomato — each with a heft and razor-sharp blade that would be admired in the finest kitchen. So too were the two butcher block cutting boards she produced from under the sink.
         “Mr. Scalisi came through this week,” Nessie said, “and I had him sharpen all my knives.”
         The alleys between the houses were avenues of commerce in Drullins. Burly men delivered blocks of ice to those few kitchens that still had ice boxes instead of refrigerators. Truck farmers walked the alleys hawking vegetables. Hucksters passed through trying to sell all manner of things that might appeal to the housewives in this poor neighborhood, who in all likelihood, were in their kitchen.
         Gregorio Scalisi was the itinerant knife sharpener who walked the alley on a regular basis sharpening kitchen cutlery and other tools if asked. He carried a portable grinding wheel fixture on his back and a small bell in his hand to announce his presence.
         Folks would hear his bell and form a queue to have their blades sharpened. All manner of blades were whetted. Scissors, shears, chisels, axes, carving knives, plane-blades, scrapers, even razors, he sharpened them all.
         Scalisi was a neighborhood fixture. He immigrated in the 1920s from a scissors-producing village in the south-central Italian region of Abruzzi, and made his living as a knife grinder, roving the alleys of Allerford with his equipment on his back.
         Sparks would fly when he applied a blade to the spinning whetstone, turning the blade to whet both sides, changing the angle to the wheel, almost flat for knives, a full right-angle for scissors. He moved in reverie with the blade, caressing the fine edge to the stone, teasing it to a polished finish as he varied the stone’s speed by pedaling the foot-spindles faster or slower.
         He further smoothed the blade by running it over a fabric-buffing wheel, which was treated with a special edge-smoothing gray goop — his own secret recipe — which he kept in a Chock Full o' Nuts can. Then to finish off, he honed it with an Egyptian stone — "smooth as a baby's bottom" — that had been in his family for three generations.
         He was an artist, a craftsman for whom steel was his brush. He would finish with a smile, rubbing the now gleaming blade with an oiled rag to keep the rust off, and hand it back to the owner. He charged something nominal and affordable, for everyone needed their blades sharpened, rich and poor alike, and he didn't discriminate.
         The secret to his technique? Scalisi would say, holding his dusty palms face up: "It's right here, in my hands. It took me 15, 20 years, easy, to learn how to sharpen blades right."
         “Okay,” replied Torey.
         “You look better today, but you're still a mess,” Nessie said. “I wish we had taken you to the hospital last night. There are a couple wounds that should have had stitches.” She focused her attention on her own cutting board, dicing cloves of garlic into small pieces.
         “I'll be okay,” Torey said.
         “I'm worried about infection,” Nessie said.
         Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. But he let the comment pass.
         “Tell me more about your day yesterday.” Nessie wanted to move the conversation.
         “We had a good day. Addo helped me a lot. I guess he goes downtown by himself often,” Torey said, happy to relate the activities of Saturday with his new friend.
         “This boy Addo seems very nice. Tell me more about him.”
         “He is, Mom. I met him last Tuesday at the soccer field. He invited me to play. Then it turned out we have the same science class. The coach asked him to help me buy soccer cleats. That's what we did yesterday. I like him a lot.”
         The quiet was broken by metallic clanging from outside that startled both Torey and his mom. Both looked out through the open door, then laughed. Across the alley, Mrs. Bernardo was wrestling with her metal garbage can and lid. Very few washed their garbage containers. She was one. Most did not, and the stench from the crud accumulating on the can’s inside was part of daily life in Drullins. Looking up, she saw Nessie and Torey watching her, and gave a big grin as she waved. Nessie acknowledged by returning the wave.
         “I'm glad you found a new friend. But Torey, you know, having a black friend will cause you trouble with your white friends.”
         “Why is that, Mom.”
         “I don't know, Torey. It's just the way we are.”
         “I don't understand,” Torey asked.
         “Neither do I, son, neither do I.”
         Torey’s diligence at slicing the two onions was admirable. Not skilled with kitchen tools, and the onion kept slipping from his grasp. Smiling at his ineptitude, Nessie changed the subject.
         “Tell me about shoe shopping.” She knew the story from last night but wanted to hear it again. She had a purpose.
         “We went to a whole bunch of stores. Dad says I didn't shop hard enough. Mom, I really did!”. Torey's eyes filled with tears.
         “Where did you go … Are you crying?” Nessie asked, arching her eyebrows.
         Torey laughed. “No, it's the onions. I never realized how many shoe brands and styles there are … and the prices … everything is so expensive!”
         “That’s for sure.”
         Torey lifted the onion slices into a bowl. His mother handed him two Gala apples.
         “Pop has no clue about the cost of things. He lives in a different world.”
         Torey cut up the apples and put them in another bowl. They were easier than the onions, they didn’t crumble into bits in his hand.
         “Your father doesn't do much shopping, and when he does, he complains about the price of everything.”
         “I never heard of those stores he wanted me to shop — don't know where they are or how to get there.”
         Nessie gave the stove knob a quarter turn, and the comforting poof of igniting gas told her the oven was lit.
         If it's possible for a person to have an emotional attachment to an inanimate object, Nessie and her stove would qualify. Her 1959 Caloric stove was so much a part of her life, she had a real affection for it. It was old, but she was the complete master, and it performed for her like a violin performs for Niccolò Paganini.
         It was a simple four-burner stove (one small burner, two medium, and one large), with a Clock/Timer, and an oven with a window in the door. The white porcelain finish with chrome trim was typical for the time. With it, Nessie created many meals fit for a king. But in her world, Brodey and Torey were her only kings.
         “Neither does he,” she replied, “that was all talk.”
         “Anyway, I settled on these Stacy Adam Detonators at JCPenney. You think I did good?”
         With the chopping and slicing complete, Nessie combined the garlic, apples, and onions in a large bowl and added small amounts of fennel, rosemary, salt, and pepper. She tossed the mixture while adding two tablespoons of oil.
         “Those are nice shoes. Yes, you made a good choice.”
         Nessie divided the vegetables between two large rimmed baking sheets and put one in the oven. She set the timer for ten minutes.
         “The salesman was very helpful,” Torey continued. “He found those shoes for me. They were on sale — $90 shoes on sale for $49.90.”
         “That was a good deal. I think your father would agree with that.”
         “Really?” Torey’s surprise was genuine.
         Nessie washed her cutting board, then washed and spread out six chicken legs. After rubbing the legs with oil, she seasoned them with salt and pepper.
         “Then what?” Nessie urged the conversation forward.
         “He told me I had to pay tax.”
         A dose of reality, she smiled at the picture of Torey’s first encounter with sales tax.
         “So, you got your school shoes.”
         “Then I got so embarrassed,” Torey said. “Addo wanted to get some lunch. I had no lunch money. I hadn't even thought about lunch. I am dumb, Mom.”
         “Not dumb, just inexperienced,” she said, trying to be comforting to Torey’s embarrassment, as she nestled the chicken legs among the vegetables in the second baking sheet. She hid the smile.
         “So, what happened?”
         “Addo bought my lunch — a hot dog and a coke,” Torey said, hangdog look on his face.
         “That was nice.” Another lesson learned. To that, she added slices of lemon and a sprig of fresh rosemary.
         “Then we went to a place called Play Again to look for soccer cleats. That’s a store where they sell used sports gear. Coach Dreyer told us about it.”
         “I never heard of that, but it sounds like a good idea,” Nessie said.
         “Even there the prices were so high, I couldn't afford even used shoes,” Torey said, exasperation still in his voice.
         “But you bought shoes?”
         “They were the cheapest I could find — $35. I only had ten.”
         “So how did you get those shoes?” she asked.
         “Addo loaned me $25.”
         “Oh my, how are you going to repay him?”
         “I don't know.”
         Nessie remembered the story from last night. But she wanted to lead Torey through it again to set him up for this moment. He needed a lesson in reality, but not $25 severe. And here was a chance to repair some of the damage between him and Brodey.
         “Well, today's your lucky day,” she said. “Your father knew he didn't give you enough money,” she lied. “So he gave me an extra twenty to give you.”
         “He did?” Torey exclaimed in amazement.
         “Yes. Don't say anything. He wants it to stay a secret. So you can give Addo $20, and you only have to find $5.” Nessie still didn't know if the extra twenty was a mistake or on purpose, but she wasn't going to bring it up.
         “Wow! That's great.”
         “Now, about this fight that got you so messed up.”
         Torey related the events of the fight and Viviana Tessaro's rescue, careful to exclude the part about dealing drugs.
         “That's terrible. Why do people behave like that,” Nessie said. “I guess you're lucky that Viviana was there and willing to help you. You'll have to do something nice to thank her.”
         That idea had not occurred to Torey, but he liked it.
         His mother seemed satisfied with his explanation, and Torey wanted to explore another topic. “Mom, have you ever heard the term 'Renaissance Man' ?”
         “I don't think so, Torey. It doesn't sound familiar. Where did you hear it?”
         “I don't know. It just popped into my head this morning.”
         “Do you know what it means?”
         The aroma of roasting vegetables began to float through the kitchen.
         “Not a clue?” Torey replied.
         “Maybe you can check the dictionary or ask the librarian at school,” his mother offered.
         “Good idea. Where is our dictionary?” he asked.
         “I … don't think we have one,” she replied.
         “It's not important,” Torey said. “I'll ask at school tomorrow.” We don’t even have a dictionary?
         “That'll be good. They should know about that kind of stuff at school,” Nessie said, embarrassed that the Campbell family didn’t have a dictionary.
         Nessie opened the oven door, added the second baking sheet, and reset the timer. “This needs to roast until the chicken is cooked through and the vegetables are golden brown and tender. I think twenty minutes should be about right.”
         “Mom … can I ask another question?”
         “Sure, son, you are full of questions this afternoon.”
         “Have you and Dad ever thought about me going to college?”
         “Of course not. Why would we think about something like that?” Nessie scoffed. The idea caught her off guard.
         “While dinner is cooking, let’s go check on the bloody clothes,” she said, fetching a big bowl from a kitchen cabinet. The two went to the basement.
         “Torey, I think we got lucky. Most of the stains came out. I can deal with the rest.”
         Nessie used the bowl to make a mixture of half-strength ammonia and water, then used a sponge to dab the mixture on the remaining stains that had absorbed into the cloth. Then she put them in the washing machine.
         “We’ll see how this works,” she said, starting the washing machine, and smiling at Torey. Nessie put her arm around Torey and squeezed him as the pair returned to the kitchen.
         “Torey, I forgot what were we talking about?”
         “Me going to college,” he replied. “I know Dad thinks education is for lazy people who don't want to work. But Addo's parents both work and have good jobs, and they both went to college.”
         “What kind of jobs do they have?”
         “They're both teachers,” Torey said. “His mom teaches math at Darwin High School, and his dad is a professor at Trinity University.”
         “Well, that's different,” Nessie explained, confident that she knew all about this. “Teachers, doctors, and lawyers have to go to college to learn their job, but that's not necessary for anyone else. And besides, your father has a job waiting for you at Flywheel as soon as you graduate from high school.”
         “What if I don't want to do that?”
         “Don't be silly. Of course, that’s where you’ll work. The Campbells have worked at Flywheel for three generations,” Nessie said, the tone in her voice indicating that she was explaining the obvious and need not be questioned further.
         Why does that mean I have to work there?
         “Torey, please set the table for dinner.”
         Torey stood in the middle of the kitchen, unable to process what he had just heard. He shook his head and set the table.
         “Brodey! Dinner is ready.”
         The Campbell kitchen filled with the aroma and sizzle of roasting chicken as Nessie moved her latest creation from the baking sheet to a serving platter.

***

         Well-fed, Brodey returned to watching TV. Sunday night meant the Ed Sullivan show (Toast of the Town), a popular television variety show that ran on CBS during which Brodey always fell asleep.
         Torey surveyed the situation. Brodey was asleep in his chair, his head back, his slow, regular breathing, threatening, but never quite achieving a snore. Nessie was sitting in her favorite chair, sewing a button on one of Brodey’s work shirts now and then watching TV. His eye caught the newspaper piled on the floor beside Brodey, and the message to “read a newspaper” came to mind again. Careful to not wake Brodey or arouse Nessie’s interest, he gathered up the newspaper, went to the kitchen, and laid the pile on the kitchen table.
         Our boy’s experience with newspapers was somewhere between limited and none. Sometimes a front-page story would be pushed at him by his mother, father, or a school teacher. He remembered Brodey outraged about the country heading toward communism because the Russians had launched a satellite named Sputnik. Once in a while, he would read the comic strips. Most often, it was his mom and dad discussing something they had read. Tonight, he would look deeper.
         Shuffling through the stack, he found undisturbed bundles. He set those aside, then refolded and reassembled the rest. The result was eight sections of newspaper and a magazine plus the remnants of a multipage collection of store coupons that Nessie had pretty well demolished. Torey noticed a large letter in the upper right-hand corner of the front page of each section, so he stacked the sections in alphabetical order: A –News; B – Business; C – Sports; D – Opinion/Editorial; E – Life Style/Arts; F – Society; G – Travel and Leisure, H – Classified; then the comics, and Parade magazine; last the destroyed pages of store coupons. Torey had reconstructed the Sunday paper of a major metropolitan city.
         He smiled, pleased with himself, then began to inspect the individual sections. In just a few seconds, he mastered the alpha-numeric page numbering scheme. Flipping through Section A, he noticed stories from national, state, and local sources.
         Section B had stories about companies making the news, economics, and the stock market. In Section B, he saw the story about Allerford Awakens that Brodey had talked about. He stopped to read that one. About the third paragraph, he spotted Kumi Okoro’s name. Wow. Addo’s dad made the newspaper, he thought.
         Section C was all about sports. It had scores and statistics on Major League Baseball teams and players plus small pieces on local teams. A small entry showing the fall schedules for the high school football and soccer teams caught his eye.
         Section D had several lengthy stories about government and politics and a bunch of letters to the editor.
         Sections E, F, and G were unopened. Why doesn’t Mom or Dad read these sections? he wondered. He set them aside for the moment.
         Section H, the Classifieds, was Brodey’s favorite. Torey saw listings for jobs, real estate, automobiles, and all kinds of other stuff for sale. Pop sure loves this section.
         A quick look at the Parade magazine and the bundle of store coupons completed Torey’s survey. Now back to sections E, F, and G. The question repeated: How come they don’t read anything here?
         Torey opened Section E. The LifeStyle/Arts section started with a half-page spread on the new music director for the Allerford Symphony. There was the symphony’s schedule for the upcoming season to be performed at the Veterans Memorial Performing Arts Center. Another page gave the rundown on the stage play performances at the Orpheum Stage.
         Allerford Museum of Visual Arts and Gallery has large collections of paintings and sculptures plus traveling exhibits. The schedule of upcoming exhibits was the main feature on the ‘Arts’ page of this edition. At the end, were a couple pages on home decorating and cooking recipes.
         Next, he picked up Section F. The Society Section was devoted to social and cultural events and gossip of Allerford and surrounding suburbs. Other features in this section were a calendar of charity events and pictures of locally famous people.
         America’s first true society page was the invention of newspaper owner James Gordon Bennett Jr., who created it for the New York Herald in 1835. His reportage centered upon the lives and social gatherings of the rich and famous.
         By 1885, society reporting, both on dedicated society pages and the new Sunday supplements, became very popular. By 1900, most big newspapers had a women's page that covered local high society as well as fashion.
         The society desk is oftentimes the most valuable office on a paper if the occupant is a woman of high intelligence, a woman of poise and dignity with a nose for news, and a woman whom hostesses would be forced to treat as an equal.
         Torey scanned several stories about parties and charity events attended by those the newspaper decided were Allerford’s rich and famous. He thought about how different these people were from those in his world. A picture captioned ‘Mr. and Mrs. Lars Claussen’ caught his eye. “That’s Dad’s boss,” Torey said to himself. “… and Dad didn’t read this story.” The story was about a charity fundraising banquet. Torey read it.
         Last, Torey turned his attention to Section G – Travel and Leisure. There were stories about far-away places. One titled ‘Aruba, Just Enough of Everything You Need.’ Another about summer food festivals. Several ads tried to entice readers to take cruises to places he had never heard of, and a column called ‘Weekender’ featured a piece titled ‘Key West Bound.’ Airline ads offered special low fares for a limited time to places nobody wants to go. There was a lengthy story about how to have a once in a lifetime trip to the UK.
         Then it hit him. They don’t even open these sections because we never do any of this stuff. We never go to a concert or an art gallery. We never take trips to the mountains or the seashore. We don’t know any of these fancy people or go to their parties.
         Why can’t I go to a concert or see a play? Addo and his parents go to concerts, plays, and baseball games. I might even like to see an opera or go to a fancy party … or take a trip to Europe. Why can’t I do that?
         “That’s what Johnathan was trying to tell me,” he said in a voice too loud.
         “What was that, Torey?” Nessie called from the living room.
         “Nothin’, Mom.”
         Johnathan? Who is Johnathan? What made me say that name?

***

         Late that night, Torey lay in bed wide awake. He was comforted by the smell of the fresh sheets and pillowcase his mother had put on his bed, but he was troubled by all that had happened in just this one week — less than a week, just since Tuesday last. The thought that today was different had haunted him all day and still did.
         His brain was full to overflowing: soccer, dealing drugs, Addo Okoro, the beating, Viviana Tessaro and the stirrings of romance, shoe shopping and his own ignorance about shopping, prices, his lack of street-savvy compared to Addo, the fight with his father and the newly exposed streak of bigotry, the money he owed Addo, the encounter with the beggar, ‘Renaissance Man’ and ‘read a newspaper.’ He was drifting off to sleep, then bolted upright in bed.
         Johnathan … Renaissance Man … Read a Newspaper. It was real! It wasn’t a dream! I’m not crazy! Rufus didn’t damage my brain! That’s what was different!

###

Word Count: 5,516
Readability Consensus (based on 8 readability formulas):
         Grade Level: 6
         Reading Level: easy to read.
         Reader's Age: 10-11 yrs. olds (Fifth and Sixth graders)