Clemency

Clemency

         The boisterous group emerged from the tube station among the other travelers hurrying to various destinations that evening. The City was used to groups like this—excited, laughing, one trying to outtalk another, pointing with amazement at mundane landmarks. Just outside the station they stopped to pose for a picture. Gerald Foster positioned his companions carefully in order to include the red, white and blue Underground sign. “Mind the gap!” they exclaimed to each other for the twentieth time that day. In high spirits, their voices carried like school children on a field trip rather than four recently retired American tourists enjoying their first vacation abroad.  While their children were growing up, their budgets supported Little League baseball careers, braces, music lessons, family vacations to nearby Disney World and eventually college tuitions, five of them between the two couples. Years of sacrificial determination culminated into this overseas adventure, the first, they hoped, of many.

         “Which way?” Evelyn looked to Ruth, who held the rumpled map of London.

         “Turn right. We can stop somewhere to eat then go back to the hotel.”

         Their heads swung from side to side as they gawked at shops and businesses that were becoming familiar sights. The post office across the street where they mailed postcards of bright, red phone booths and Big Ben to their children on their first day in London. The darkly painted pub two doors down from the off licence.  The sign that read “Surgery & Clinic” that Ruth photographed because of its “Britishness”. The convenience store where they purchased Oyster cards and learned how to use them, with the help of the patient store owner. Passing the eateries offering pizza, Chinese food, and pub fare, Ruth called out to her friends ahead as they approached a fast-food chain restaurant that she recognized.

         “Let’s go here. I’m starved!” she half suggested, half insisted.

         A young man called out to passersby from a doorway next to the restaurant.

         “Spare some change?”

         Gerald, Ruth’s husband, held the door as the others quickly filed past the man into the noisy restaurant grateful for a short reprieve from the cold. Over hamburgers, French fries and steaming coffee, they relived the details of the day’s sightseeing that Ruth had organized, taking the lead as the group’s unofficial tour guide despite being a first-time visitor to London. She watched Gerald unwrap his chicken sandwich, peer between the buns and quickly wrap it again. At his wife’s quizzical look he quietly pointed out that it had been prepared with a condiment that triggered his allergies—the mayonnaise he asked them to omit. Rather than exchanging it for another sandwich, he munched on French fries and sipped his coffee, insisting he was not very hungry anyway.

         “I’m always hungry,” Ruth laughed, squeezing her thick waist. “Keep it. I’ll eat it later.”

         Outside, the late-afternoon sun had sunk behind grey clouds and the air had become considerably colder. Ruth consciously made a wide turn as she stepped onto the sidewalk to avoid the scraggly young man still sitting on the ground, his legs folded in front of him. His eyes seemed riveted to a grimy plastic cup that acted as an offering plate as if he were too ashamed to look into the faces of the people who were just as eager to pass by as Ruth. Gerald stopped in front of the man.

         “It’s just a sandwich,” he told the man, as if embarrassed he didn’t have more to offer.

         The young man accepted the bag. “Thank you, man! Thank you!”

         “Maybe he should just get a real job,” Ruth huffed turning to Gerald for agreement as they continued their walk toward the hotel around the corner. Gerald said nothing but pretended to be engrossed in Evelyn’s chatter as she commented on every London cab that passed by.

         Certain of catching the man tossing the sandwich aside, Ruth glanced over her shoulder to avoid being obvious. “Those people want money to support their habits, not—”

         Disbelief stabbed her chest and she stopped short on the sidewalk. Hurriedly, as if someone would snatch it away, the young man had torn the paper from the sandwich and was devouring it in quick, ravenous bites. His cheeks spread like balloons as lumps of wet bread, chicken, and lettuce were forced down his throat by rough gulps. Mayonnaise oozed from the corner of his mouth which he licked greedily with his tongue.

         “He’s really hungry . . .” The words seeped from Ruth’s brain through her lips.

         “That could easily be Roger,” Gerald said, referring to their rebellious younger son. Roger’s adolescent years had been fraught with school detentions, run-ins with the police, recklessness and irresponsibility. A continuous battery of his poor choices had kept his parents in a constant state of anxiety mixed with dread. He had given many nameless strangers the opportunity to show compassion and come to his rescue, leaving all of them with debts of gratitude that could never be repaid. The look of determination in Gerald’s eyes surprised Ruth and she watched him stride back to the young man’s side.

         Ruth called ahead to get her friends’ attention. By the time she explained what was happening, Gerald was stooping eye level with the young man with this hand on his shoulder. The young man was crying. Gerald escorted the young man into the restaurant. When they reemerged onto the sidewalk several minutes later, the stranger was eating a thick hamburger and clutching a paper bag in his other hand. Gerald was carrying the young man’s dirty green duffel bag. His introduction was brief.

         “This is Henry Eric McCarthy from Connecticut.”

         The new group—Gerald and Ruth, Tom and Evelyn, and now Henry—continued down the street in a sober mood. Henry, thankful to finally have food in his belly and legitimately preoccupied by his own thoughts, walked in silence except to offer succinct responses to questions he was asked.

         “How old are you, Henry?” Evelyn asked, politely trying to ignore the young man’s grimy appearance and acrid odor.

         “Twenty, Ma’am.”

         “So you’re in London all by yourself?”

         “I am now.”

          The night manager at the bed and breakfast did not bother to disguise his displeasure as he flicked his eyes over Henry’s grubby appearance. Ruth and Evelyn tried to keep Henry occupied out of earshot with pictures of their grandchildren while Gerald and Tom negotiated for an additional room. Other guests whispered among themselves about the homeless man loitering in their lounge, and when his odor began to settle in the air, they crossed their arms and almost killed the unsympathetic night manager with disapproving stares. Finally the men were allowed to book a room for the boy and a key was pushed across the counter.

         “Make him take a shower—with soap,” the manager barked loud enough for everyone to hear. Henry’s cheeks burned with blotchy red patches, and he stared through big window at two Minis parked on the street, blinking away tears that threatened to expose his vulnerability.

*******

         Henry looked around the modest room and waited for the men to speak. Their wives had disappeared in search of a laundromat to clean his clothes. Henry had been too ashamed to protest. They would not find much to clean. What was left of his clothes was now dirty and shoved inside his torn duffel bag. Lately, the bag had served more as a pillow than storage for what was left of his meager possessions.

         The slim, bald man sat on the edge of the bed engrossed in the screen of his iPhone. The blue flowered bedspread reminded Henry of the kind of covering his mother would put on his bed back home. Henry would bunch it up and toss it to the floor. Eventually, his mother would remove it and a different, equally feminine-looking bedspread would appear.

         The other one, who was taller and heavier, the one who gave him the sandwich, handed Henry the room key. With his hand on his shoulder he encouraged the boy to get a good night’s sleep.

         “I’ll drop off your stuff in the morning. Join us downstairs for breakfast around seven-thirty, okay? We’ll get it worked this out.”

         “Mr. Foster, I—”

         Gerald did not let Henry finish—or start—thanking him. He flashed a fatherly smile before he and Tom left the room. Henry retrieved the cold French fries from the bag and gobbled them down so quickly that he almost choked. He decided to save the other hamburger until later when he no doubt would be hungry again. He stared out the window for a long time thinking about the mess he had created for himself, his family and now, it seemed, for these strangers on vacation. He counted backward to calculate the time in Connecticut. Two o’clock. His father, an architect with a small firm in Hartford, would be on a site or in meetings, while his mother busied herself at meetings of her own, probably to discuss the details of the latest fundraiser or circulate a petition to stop animal cruelty. Henry remembered the last conversation he had with his father; it had been about the money.

         “Why don’t I just make the transfer to the school, just like I have done for the past two years?” Mr. McCarthy didn’t like the idea, not one bit, but he finally relented. What difference did it make as long as the tuition was paid? Henry silently savored his victory. After growing up in a small town like Rocky Hill, leave it to his dad to send him to Penn State, a school so close he could practically call home without having to use a telephone, even if it was his father’s alma mater. Henry would have preferred to study in California or abroad, far enough away to enjoy freedom and experience the world, away from the pressure of his father’s expectations, not that he had any interest in the architectural degree his father insisted on. My money, my rules, his father had stipulated, discouraging Henry from pursuing an art history degree to complement his desire for artistic expression. A degree that had no practical future, his father criticized.

         When Mr. McCarthy finally agreed to the new tuition arrangement, Henry used the opportunity to set his plan in motion by immediately contacting two classmates from Visual Communications who agreed to allow Henry to tag along on their transcontinental trek. Matt and Ruben did not have controlling parents, Henry reasoned, and were able to arrange and fund their gap year without deception, although neither of them had the equivalent of a year’s college tuition at their disposal like Henry. Henry generously shared his misappropriated funds so his new friends would not feel badly about not having as much money as he.  All for one and one for all, just like the Musketeers.

         Matt mapped out the route starting in London, sightseeing along the way through France, Spain and Monaco, chasing the milder climate along the Mediterranean before travelling to Asia where Matt and Ruben would teach English in Thailand for three months. Henry had planned to live a carefree life in Thailand painting ancient sacred temples against vibrant blue skies while friends back home were busy shoveling driveways and de-icing cars. Armed with a plump bank account, a credit card and a desire for adventure, Henry never said no and said yes too often to hotels instead of hostels and boulevards lined with glittering night clubs where pretty girls expected free drinks. Henry’s special indulgence, a rented Mini Cooper to fulfill  his illusion of being European, replaced budgeted metro passes and train fares and further drained Henry’s cash flow and common sense.

         Henry wondered where Matt and Ruben were now. The same guys who partied with him had suggested he head back home when he could no longer afford boutique hotels and carafes of expensive wine. They left him after a hasty, unapologetic goodbye in Malaga. All for one? The flight to London would have been reasonable enough under normal circumstances but still stretched Henry’s meager funds. Dejected and alone, his inexperience resulted in costly mistakes. The hotels near Victoria Station cost more than he expected, and after reaching his credit limit, he could not make a reservation anyway and he began to wander aimlessly. He had not cared how many times homeless people were shooed away by shopkeepers, commuters and even school children until his first day and night on the street. A hungry dog could elicit sympathy but not the impetuous young man who moved from doorway to doorway to stay warm. One night a wrong turn led the weary naïve wanderer down a narrow alley where two men robbed him and left him face down in the contents of an overturned trash can. Groping in the darkness, his hand narrowly missed a startled rat that reluctantly scurried away from a discarded pizza box. Henry wiped off a half-eaten pizza slice and finished the rat’s dinner. Henry Eric McCarthy, son of a successful architect, had huddled in a dark doorway where he had shivered through the night, praying for a miracle.

         Henry wiped steam off the bathroom mirror with his fist and reluctantly looked at his reflection—bruised, disheveled and sickly. He felt dirty even though he had just taken a hot shower. He needed a shave.

         “Forgive me, Dad,” he begged. “I’ll get a job. I’ll work until I pay back every cent. Just let me come home, please,” he pleaded silently in an imaginary conversation.

         Henry pulled the blue, flowered bedspread that reminded him of his mother snug around his neck. For the first time in weeks he felt safe enough to go to sleep.

************

         When Henry opened the door to Tom the next morning, he noticed the smell of breakfast even before he could register Tom’s words. Lately, he seemed to be hungry all the time. Tom waved a hand in front of his face to get his attention.

         “Son—your passport. I asked if you still have it.”

         Henry retrieved the passport from under his pillow. Tom had a quick look and handed it back to Henry.

         “Hope you don’t mind. The ladies bought you a new bag and added some stuff. You know women—love to shop.” He placed the navy duffel bag in the room and left.

         “Why do these kids think they can’t call for help?” Ruth was saying when Henry arrived for breakfast. At seven twenty-five, Henry was still the last one to the table. Almost immediately, a full English breakfast appeared. Ruth and Evelyn complimented him on how handsome he looked, ignoring the purplish bruise on his cheek. Henry looked around the bright dining room. The family at the corner table chatted loudly in French. Three businessmen in dark suits each barricaded themselves behind the daily newspapers, occasionally distracted by the news on the television mounted high on the wall. A skinny blonde woman sat alone by the window eating a bowl of cereal watching the passing traffic. She looked as lonely as he felt. Henry turned away  before she caught him watching her and continued to eat.

         Tom cleared his throat and spoke when Henry looked up from a forkful of fried eggs and baked beans. His eyes flicked from one face to the next and waited.

         “Gerald—Mr. Foster—told us about your situation, and we decided to pool our money together and send you home. We’ll arrange for you to get to Heathrow.” Tom slid his finger down the screen of his iPhone. “Flight leaves at 12:05—today. Transfers in Philly and you’ll arrive at Bradley Airport at 6:48 pm. Here’s some cash to get you home after that.”

         Blood thundered in Henry’s ears and his head felt light as he reached out to accept the extended envelope from Tom. Remembering his conversation in front of the mirror the night before, he shook his head in disbelief.

         “I—I—well, thank you,” he began. His eyes fell on Tom first, then to the others.  “I mean, for everything.

************

         Ian McCarthy stood among the crowd meeting the flight from Philadelphia waiting for the first glimpse of his son. Almost three months had passed since Henry had disappeared with a small fortune. Every day passed as a painful eternity not knowing whether Henry was safe. After following every lead to uncover Henry’s whereabouts, approaching his friends and discovering that he had not registered for the new semester, Ian struggled to against the growing dread that his son may be lost to him forever. The incessant emptiness that he had become accustomed to was superseded by one short phone call. He hung up the phone and retrieved a wall calendar from his desk drawer. The picture for November showed a giant tree growing over Ta Prohm temple in Cambodia. The determined roots of the trees encased the roof and walls of the temple and spread like tentacles along the ground, giving the natural and the manmade one existence. Ian drew a thick red checkmark in the box for November 18, after months of disappointing, crossed-out days. The caller, someone named Tom, had provided the flight arrival information. Ian immediately set out for Bradley airport long before the flight crew notified passengers to prepare for landing in Philadelphia.

         When the tall, lanky boy emerged from the sea of passengers, their eyes immediately locked in a tight, invisible grip. The boy attempted to form the words of his penitent heart but the force of his father’s embrace knocked the words from his throat before being uttered. Ian McCarthy drew his son close and kissed his neck, throwing all of his worry, heartbreak and relief into the hug that now enfolded his recalcitrant son like the tenacious roots in Cambodia. Strangers passed on either side, some averting their eyes from the scene of two tear-soaked faces and heaving, sobbing bodies, blending together like the giant tree over Ta Prohm temple.