Kinderfragen

         It was not the crutches, but the squeaky, clean, Tide-washed, red on white mesh jersey that made him stand out amongst the sea of pads and helmets on the sidelines. She gripped the steering wheel tighter when she caught sight of the battered helmet hanging from his left hand, and a stark white, business envelope crumpled in his right fist. His shoulders slumped onto the support of the crutches, and his curly, blond locks blew across his face. He did not move them.
         Pity struck at her heart. She could not deal with this any longer. With determination, she approached the young, former wide-receiver. She sighed, as she said to herself, Enough is enough!
         "Nicholas Gage Sampson!" she called, when she was close enough to be heard. Her voice carried to his ears and he jerked around in startled fury. How embarrassing! It was bad enough that she had to pick him up. He checked around himself, and a quick glance at #21 as he handed Nick his duffle bag, revealed a smirk behind the former teammate's facemask. Awkwardly, he swung his crippled body past the slight woman to the parked station wagon.
         How dare he walk right past me without so much as a glance! She smoothed her sweaty palms down the front of her dress, her rings on her left, ring finger briefly catching. She marched to the driver's side of the old family car that only she drove now. Across the roof she glared at him.
         He could not meet her intent gaze no matter how much he wanted to do so. His head hung as he reached for the door handle. Her voice stopped him. "Nicholas, you are no longer a Bulldog."
         He only heard the first word. He shifted his weight around to his good left foot to relieve the biting pressure of the crutches into his armpits. He briefly thought of the red rawness there and cursed for the umpteenth time the cumbersome things. His eyes focused on some imaginary object in the sky and spat out, "It's Nick, Mother."
         She sighed indulgently, "Get in the car...Nick." From behind the wheel, she took his crutches and put them in the back seat along with his duffle bag. He was a tight fit and somewhat uncomfortable since she had to pull the bench seat forward so, but he was not in pain. The Chevy was in the driveway at home, and he knew she was not about to drive his "oldie and not quite goodie", nor was he going to allow her to drive his "baby". She glanced meaningfully at his seat belt hanging limply by the door. Hers was already fastened.
         Gently Mother pulled away from the curb. He hated the way she drove, so smooth and calm. Of course her station wagon was nowhere near the machine that his candy-apple red `57 chevy was. Even though the idle was rough, she swung the big barge around the corner as if she were a veteran Mack truck driver. Her bony hands flew across the wheel as if they were fighting for the WWF championship. Wrestling was just another nit-picky thing of hers. In the dorms it was no problem. Even at home he used to be able to sneak a late night half-hour of "man stuff" in once in awhile. Now that he was hurt, Mother made sure he was tucked in early. He looked out the window of the warm, musty car that was filled with her perfume.
She was not driving the familiar streets, but it was still with the easy calm and cautious pace. A sign caught his eye and he was pulled out of his reverie. Silversprings. She wasn't going home or to Dr. Knealey's little building on 5th Street. "Mother, where are you going?" he asked anxiously.
         "Keep your pants on Nick," she said with unnerving calmness. She did not feel calm. He was so big, even with his crutches, and she felt he could now override her decision. This was new to her. Father had always handled Nick. She remembered Nicholas, the little baby boy that spent every day with her, playing on the linoleum floor with Tupperware while she prepared the roast. She never used to fear him. She'd felt fear for him before, though. The first time his father brought him home with those huge pads and a helmet that would engulf her Nicholas for the next ten years of his life had made her tremble. She needed to pull him out of that battle armor now. She had resolved to "seize the day" when the coffee that he'd made before he hobbled out the house and down the road in Parker's old banged up car --much like his own-- woke her up that morning. "Kinderfragen."
         He mentally translated the word. It was a dinner table word. "Child's questions." It wasn't for him to know at the moment. He remembered times in his youth when the word would make him giggle in anticipation, especially at Christmases and birthdays. Now he had been silenced. He glanced at the return address on the envelope in his lap. The logo of the college was so familiar to him, for he'd seen it on all sorts of mail that began arriving for him when he was only a sophomore in high school --an up and coming wide receiver. It was the name that was unfamiliar. Dean Richard Michaels. Academic dean. Coach or Father had always dealt with him before. Coach said Nick wasn't part of the team anymore, that they'd "learn to get along without Sampson." Even the Doc said that it was time for a different kind of pursuit. That meant hit the books. Father had always been too busy to be interested in anything but his business and Nick's football success. Success was his father's middle name. "When's Father flying in from that conference, Mother?" he asked without looking up.
         She glanced over at her son and again noticed the long business envelope. He was intently studying the front as if he were trying to decide if it were real. She imagined that if he discovered that to be the case, then he'd wished it to disappear. She could tell all this by his clenched jaw muscle, she noticed as she quickly glanced at him again. Her eyes then returned to the road. "He's due in tonight, Nick. `Bout nine." She waited patiently, not knowing how to jump into the fire without getting burned. Another right turn. Right here at Sherman's Drugstore at the corner of Sorek. "Well, Nicholas. Are you going to open it?" He glanced at her quickly and for a brief moment she saw directly into his brown eyes. Then he looked away. She slightly shook her head, as she felt the tension thicken even more. She rolled down her window even though it was a bit nippy with the wind rushing about inside. "Who's it from?" she asked with ill disguised off-handedness.
         "The school, Mother," he answered, as he decided he should read it before she insisted. The word probation jumped up from the white page. Why is everything so white lately? he thought bitterly. The hospital sheets. The plaster cast. His jersey. Even the white-washed buildings lacked the normal red, Georgia clay tint and stood gleaming against the backdrop of the late afternoon autumn sky.
"Will they ever leave you alone, Nicholas!" she shouted with sudden fury.
         Nick was shocked to see that his quiet, subservient mother had drawn herself to her full height behind the steering wheel. He was so shook by her sudden display of rage that he quickly checked to see if she'd stayed on the road. She was still between the lines, but he could feel that she had accelerated on the often busy highway. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt an odd sense of pleasure at the thought of her speeding. "Don't they understand, Nicholas, that you can't play anymore," she continued with a sternness that he knew would have been accompanied by her hands aplomb on her hips if she had been standing. He winced, feeling like the little boy who begged to stay outside fifteen minutes longer with Jerry and Parker.
         "It's from the dean, not the athletics department. Don't you think you'd better slow down, Ma," he suggested as a diversion.
         "I know what I'm doing," she replied testily. Nick smirked as he saw the thin, orange, toothpick-like indicator slip back near 55. Sure, she knew what she was doing, he thought as he saw the blush creep up her neck. "Well it's about time that you heard from him," she commented.
         "He's sent letters before," Nick defended himself.
         "Yes, but you never saw them." She was gaining her confidence back. She didn't know where the guts had come from, but she was grateful for the added support of knowing that the letter had bothered him, at least enough for him to contemplate whether he should read it. She suspected he felt threatened and knew that his father wasn't really interested. How like her husband to leave her the pieces of a crumpled son who she didn't know to put back together and get him going on the right foot! Damn him!
         She plunged on, feeling as if she could be stirring up the wrong pot and yet knowing that the job was hers. "I guess he didn't extend his sympathies to you. I imagine he's not concerned with compound fractures." She felt a stab of guilt as pain flickered across her son's sharp features. She knew that he didn't like any mention of the injury, and that he resented anything that reminded him of it. Fleetingly, she thought how handsome vulnerability looked on him. How many young female hearts had he already broken? She slowed to a stop at the red light. The profile of his face still exhibited a square jaw jut and his slightly crooked, hawk-like nose pointed forward in determination, but surrender entered his eyes, uninvited and unwanted, like a visit from Mama Sampson.
         "Nick, what are you going to do now?" she asked slowly.
         He knew what she meant, but he couldn't answer her. "It's a warning, Mother. He says my grades are borderline, and that if I don't pull them up this semester, I'll be faced with probation." He paused, and risked a look at her. She eased the wagon around the corner when the light was green. He wasn't sure she had heard or understood. Father would have. He rushed on. "If I want junior status, I have to declare a major, Mother."
         "What do you want to do, Nick?" she asked again, with a hint of frustration in her voice. "You do know, Nicholas, that your father isn't going to be much help."
         "Yes."
         How could she explain to him that she felt as alienated by his father as he did? She felt so alone. "He only had time for your games on the weekends. During the week, he has so many business trips now that I hardly ever cook for two. Has he even talked to you since your injury?"
         "Talked? No. Yelled? Yes! All he could do at the hospital was remind me that it was my fault, that if I hadn't screwed up the pattern I'd still be running. The whole staff knew I'd run the wrong route! I guess I'm lucky he filled out the forms. He had a plane to catch." Nick looked out his window, trying not dwell on his father.
         "Imagine that," she muttered under her breath. She knew that being the vice president made a lot of demands on her husband's time, but it seemed that it took up so much more this year. She couldn't remember the last time the three of them had been able to sit down as a family to a dinner she'd cooked.
         "Doesn't it really bother you, Mother?" he asked suddenly.
         "Doesn't what?" she asked, somewhat tight lipped. She'd force him to ask her outright what it felt like to lose your only son to football and his father.
         "Father being gone all the time. I mean... he's your husband, and you never spend any time together. I guess I'm surprised you two even sleep in the same bed still." Nick heard her gasp, and his arm shot out against the dash, as the car came to a sudden stop.
         She flung her right arm against his chest as she slammed on the brakes. That was close. She had never run a light before and wouldn't start now. She felt her son's weight surge against her arm, and was almost as shocked by the discovery that it wasn't her arm, but his, that stopped him from flying through the windshield as by the words that Nicholas had spoken.
         "Mother! Don't be so shocked."
         "I'm not," she insisted.
         "Yes, you are. You have never run a light, and probably never will," he added with a certain smugness.
         "It is none of your business. That's all." She couldn't believe how embarrassed she was by this discussion.
         "Don't tell me `Kinderfragen', Mother. I'm part of this family, too. I'm a man now. Not some little boy who brings home drawings from school to be hung on the refrigerator! I wish you'd quit coddling me."
         She stared out the front window struggling to hold back the tears that were collecting in the corners of her eyes. He was right of course. He had turned into an adult without her knowledge of it. All those years had passed, and all she could think about was the little baby in his diaper playing on the floor of her kitchen.
         "It's green, Mother," he reminded her gently. He loved his mother. He was just discovering that he didn't know the woman.
         "All right, Nicholas. I'll stop coddling you. What are you going to do without football? What are you going to major in? How are you planning on making a living? Have you finally decided that you are going to learn to take care of yourself?" The tears receded, but a sort of bleak look entered her warm brown eyes. She was afraid.
         Nick ran his fingers through his long, curly hair in frustration. "I don't know what to do. I guess I never really thought about it. Father always said there would be enough time for that after football."
         She looked at him. "This is after football. You've got to understand that son." A look passed across his face that she'd never seen before. Fear. An emotion touched her heart, and she felt her protective mother instincts kick into gear. She reigned them
somewhat, for she didn't want to lose the ground that she was gaining.
         "Nick, despite what you think your father feels --and I know you feel he thinks that the injury was the end of you, not your football career-- this is not the end of the world. There's so much out there for you. And I know you can bring your grades up. You're smart. We just have to take this one step at a time." She paused to look at him, because he'd shifted in his seat again. They met each other's gaze. "You do know that I'm behind you, don't you, Nick? I always have been." She continued to drive.
         "I know." The silence stretched between them and the tension lifted. He felt a huge weight lifted from his shoulders, yet he wondered, Where do we begin? He settled back against the seat and sifted his injured leg into a more comfortable position. He pushed his hair out of his face. "Where are we going?" he asked with a relieved laugh, as he remembered he still didn't know.
         A smile tugged at her lips as she tried to suppress the laughter within her. Right on cue, she thought, as she slowed the station wagon and pulled to stop along side the curb, right next to a meter. She put the car in park and turned off the ignition. "We're here."
         Nick looked outside his window and up at the awning that hung over the establishment's door. He'd never seen the place before.
On the awning was scrawled "Del's". Next to the door, stood a red and white pillar. It was striped candycane fashion. Nick turned to his mother in bewilderment. "Mother?"
         "This is where we begin. We'll tell Del not to cut it too short." She got out of the station wagon and retrieved his crutches for him.