G.

Bradley Davis
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

BELLAMY
Copyright © 2023 G. Bradley Davis. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this
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Version 2023.08.02
Bellamy - English and Irish (of Norman origin), French: literal or
ironic nickname meaning 'fine friend', from French beau 'fair',
'handsome' (bel before a vowel) + ami 'friend'.

Source: Ancestry.com
For my butterfly, Carolyn
 CHAPTER ONE
When a child knows they are truly loved, it allows for a
multitude of parenting mistakes.

I
have been told that I am a Welsh storyteller at heart. Well, do I
ever have a story to tell, the likes of which have never been told
before now.
They say that the motives behind most murders are love,
money, power, or revenge. The motives behind a love triangle ending
in murder is simple enough. Scorn, rejection, embarrassment, and
revenge all come to the party, but this murder had none of these. Many
murders are committed in the act of another crime. A holdup, a drug
deal gone bad, or an argument, are the highest statistical culprits for
murder. But all those reasons for snuffing out a life are generic, lacking
the intent of the one culpable.
The murder that happened in this small Pennsylvania hamlet in
the fall of ‘74 was complex. So much so that everyone missed the
minutiae; like skipping several chapters of a novel. Not because the
details were hidden from sight, but because there was a convenient
conclusion. Conclusion. People like things wrapped up with a pretty
bow. An alternative meant not wasting time with the details but
rather, jumping to the inevitable ending to the story. Inevitable. Funny
thing about the inevitable. Everything looks obvious when looking
back.
When it came to this murder, it was a falsehood that everyone
bought in to. The entire town never knew who the perpetrator was
and the motive behind the killing. They believed the story had to end
the way they wanted it to end, and as a result, the truth was never told.
Facts were replaced with assumptions and assumptions led to fallacy.
In a small town like North Hills, a mystery cannot be left unresolved
2 G. Bradley Davis

(another reason for creating a conclusion). It was a sterile town. A town

that would not, could not, tolerate loose ends. Everything and
everybody had its place. Every piece of the puzzle had to fit. A
community that was barely a mile from one side of town to the other
lent itself to rumor and innuendo with both traveling faster than a fire
through a barn packed with late August hay.
I guess I could leave sleeping dogs lie, but for years the events of
that day have gnawed at me like a porcupine at a hemlock
smorgasbord. The more I try to smother the recurring memories, the
more frequently they resurface, often with fresh nuances. I had even
thought of seeing a therapist or psychologist, but the fear of
confirming that I really may be crazy has kept that idea at bay. I mean
no harm to anyone that falls within these words I write, nor do I seek
your sympathy. My intent is simply to document exactly what
happened, why it happened, and to expose the truth; the truth which
has been buried beneath years of discarded fears and misconceptions.
I left North Hills soon after that dreadful event and never
returned. The murder left its marks on me like pock marks from
chicken pox. I needed to breathe. The air in that closeminded town left
me gasping for breath. The suburbs of Philly seemed far enough away
but, after my divorce, I exiled myself to the mountains of northeastern
Pennsylvania. Just me and my dog, Blake. We are isolated in the
woods and surrounded by nature that speaks quiet truth. Sometimes
I do not see another person for weeks, and that is more than fine by
me.
Before I continue, I must throw out a caveat. If you agree to
continue reading this work, understand that my story is not to be
rushed. You, then, will take a journey back to my childhood and with
it share in my less than smooth ride. My early childhood was, as it is
for us all, that which has transformed me into who I am today. Good
memories often wrestle with bad ones in a futile attempt to land on
top.
I have never told this story before. Since talking about it is what
any good therapist would say is the best medicine, I am more than
ready for any prescription that will help me find peace. The origins
 Bellamy 3

of this fiasco go back many years before that fateful day. Any
psychologist would advise patients to return to their childhood to find
answers.

I had curled up in a fetal position so to limit the target size for the
beatings. The problem was that when you are curled up in a ball the
back of your shirt rises, exposing skin just above the beltline. That is
exactly where the leather strap landed. Any amount of clothing softens
the sting of the lashes, but bare, taut skin tears easily at the end of
whip. I remember reading somewhere that 40 lashes were considered
deadly, thus the often-reduced sentence of forty minus one. Although
they often felt like forty, I seldom received more than a dozen strokes.
The leather belt struck a second time, but this time lower, finding
the well-cushioned expanse of my derrière. The flogging continued.
The third and fourth lash were higher on my back and hurt, somewhat
surprisingly more than the others had.
My stepmother was convinced she could beat the bad out of me
but, apparently, she was wrong. Though there were four kids in my
family, somehow, I consumed her attention and received most of her
cruel corporal punishment. She had no tolerance for people who were
not compliant. So, it was I who received the status of homo sacer for
my repeated disobedience. I was the black and bloodied sheep of our
family.
It was the result of the fifth crack of the belt that made my
stepmother stop the beating. Ostensibly, she needed to regrip the
torture implement. To do so, she had grabbed the end of the belt
allowing the brass buckle to strike my back, tearing both my shirt and
flesh while exposing a three-inch gash. I fell flat on my face from the
surging pain that shot through my injured back. Reaching back, I felt
the back of my shirt wet from absorbing the blood flowing from my
wound.
Had my father been there, he certainly would have stopped my
stepmother from her abuse. He would have allowed the beatings, of
course, but would have stopped them when they crossed that line
4 G. Bradley Davis

between punishment and torture. But my father worked endless hours

so we would have just a little more. Those long hours provided the
extra money needed for my brother’s music lessons or my sister’s
braces.

My friends call me Cal. I was a disappointing child that never lived up

to expectations. I was inquisitive, to a fault. I was the type of boy who
would pick up a hot coal just to see how it felt in the palm of my hand.
I was seldom interested in the mundane, and if the truth be told, I often
lived within a fantasy world I created to make reality more palatable.
I would become easily bored at school and tended to fantasize about
my teacher if she were attractive and younger than my stepmother.
Why I experienced sexual obsession at the tender age of six years old
would be one of the things I would love to ask a shrink, but that will
remain an unanswered question.
In college I had to take a psychology course to fulfill the social-
science requirement for my degree. Right or wrong, I have always felt
that my early childhood problems and my lifelong obsession with
breasts stemmed from my mother not having breast fed me. Life is
hard enough without having to be force-fed the nourishing juice from
a Guernsey. Drinking milk from a cow instead of your mother? That
does not even sound natural. Without a doubt, I believed that was the
reason why I was a late bloomer. Clearly, there were far-reaching
psychological effects having not suckled at my mother’s breasts which
impacted both my cognitive and socio-emotional development. For
example, I could not tie my shoes when I entered kindergarten. It took
forever to learn how to ride a bicycle. I wet the bed till I was 7, and I
sucked my thumb even longer! I’ve always known that I was…well,
different!
But I have always felt guilty blaming my mother. She died while
I was but an infant. I have no recollection of her and no memory of
what she was like. Her photographs displayed a beautiful lady with
an olive complexion and high cheekbones characteristic of Eastern
European women. She had dark, curly hair which flowed past her
 Bellamy 5

shoulders, deep beckoning eyes, and a figure that would rival Bettie
Page. She was first generation Ukrainian and grew up in the eastern
European neighborhood of Pottstown, an hour’s drive west of
Philadelphia. Whenever anyone spoke to me about her, their face was
transformed into a captivating smile as if describing their finest
birthday party. She was much like my father, in that she could do
anything she set her mind to tackle. She was renowned for her
seamstress skills, as she made most of my sibling’s clothes. I received
their hand-me-downs. Her baking was legionary, and she was
prudent with the family finances and generous with those who were
less fortunate.
Her name was Maria. I would often retrieve a dog-eared
photograph of her from a cigar box where I kept my most treasured
possessions. Later, I would find a more secretive place to store the
things I did not want anyone to find. Having no recollection of her, I
would take the photograph of her and roll my thumb over it trying to
imagine the texture and softness of her soft, flowing hair. In truth, I
longed for her to return to me and give me the one thing no one else
could, motherly love. Cancer had been found in her left breast and
from the bits and pieces I was told, she suffered terribly for well over
a year until the disease completed its filthy work.
I hated school and academics did not come easily for me. I was
short for my age and my attention span far shorter. Stupid I was not,
but I did have a speech impediment. I had difficulty pronouncing
words that had an R in it, often bringing mocking laughter from
listeners when speaking those dreaded words which only added to my
academic challenges. Furst. Ulsa. Burd. Simple words were just not that
simple.
When my mom passed, our two paternal aunts took turns helping
their younger brother care for us by cooking and cleaning. That is,
until dad remarried when I was four. Big mistake! Dad met Dasha at
a Bible study at church and curiously, like my biological mother, she
was Ukrainian, having emigrated with her parents, sister, and brother
when she was five. Being the youngest, my stepmother insisted I call
her mother, even though my older siblings were not held to the same
criterion.
6 G. Bradley Davis

I heard repeatedly from Dasha, to the point of noisomeness, that

the youngest child was always coddled and spoiled…like it was my
fault! She would tell me the youngest are underachievers having had
the road paved by the blood, sweat, tears and spankings of their older,
pioneering siblings. The proverbial bar of expectation had been
lowered, she would say, so that the youngest child could easily skip
over it. The youngest have it the easiest!
I could not disagree more! My understanding was verified by my
own life experience that the youngest was perceived to be less
intelligent than their older siblings, lazy, and carelessly willing to take
unnecessary risks, which resulted in a lack of confidence in the child.
Perhaps the risk-taking thing is true, but I also experienced unrealistic
expectations that were placed upon me being the youngest which
often came in the form of wishful cloning. Why aren’t you more like your
brother…your sister? Individuality was frowned upon in the Lloyd
household; conformity encouraged.
In our home we had a collection of cherished family photographs,
mostly of us children. There were hundreds of photos of the first born,
Olivia, and scores of photos of the second born, Audrey. When my
brother Ted, the first son and heir to the Lloyd throne, entered the
scene, the cameras flashed like the red carpet at the Oscars. But when
I, the fourth child, wandered into the domestic tranquility, there never
seemed to be film in the camera or an extra flash bulb in the drawer.
And don’t even start with the hand-me-downs. Other than underwear,
which was a perennial Christmas gift, I never received anything new.
So please, do not tell me that the youngest have it the easiest. Being
the youngest, from my perspective, had its own unique set of
challenges.
With all that said, I was the one piece of the Lloyd jigsaw puzzle
that just did not fit. I always had difficulty staying within the lines of
my coloring books. Like a white boxer puppy who is surrounded by
its fawn and brindle counterparts, I was clearly different.
 Bellamy 7

CHAPTER TWO
Love and discipline in child rearing should be balanced as
carefully as you would juggling nitroglycerin.

C
hildren and dogs seem to have the same innate ability to
distinguish good people from ones they should avoid. Even
when a grown-up offers them a wide smile with an expanse
of large, fairly white teeth, their instinct is to be cautious.
Sure, the promise of ice cream or candy can cause a child to make the
wrong decision, but their first intuition is to raise the proverbial red
flag. Their vision is not clouded by mature philosophies and political
correctness that cloud an adult’s vision. This poor visibility often
causes grown-ups to suffer from a deficiency of observation. Adults
often see and hear what they want to, as if their minds were made-up
about people before they even an initial conversation with them.
Regardless of how obvious things appear to a kid, grown-ups often
see things differently. Though I was but a child, I instinctively knew
that I should be leery of our family’s pastor.
At the ripe age of five, my observation of Reverend Bartholomew
Michael Markey could not have been more spot-on. Now, looking
back many years later, I could not tell you what it was exactly that
made me fear the reverend like I feared no other grown-up. But make
no mistake, there was something peculiar, if not sinister about this
ordained figurehead. The clergyman did not like dogs and dogs did
not like him. Perhaps that was my first indication that something was
off about him.
The Reverend Markey was a tall man, 6 foot 5 or so. He had
narrow shoulders and a soft pouch in his mid-section that exemplified
an undisciplined life. Still, adults were calmly manipulated by his gift
8 G. Bradley Davis

of persuasion, and the authority he presented as a “man of God.” His

hair was unkempt; a mousy brown color which had grown long
enough to be combed over to cover his ever- disappearing hairline. He
sported a trim, pencil-thin mustache just like the ones I would see on
villains in cartoons, like Boris from the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.
The few times the good minister came over to our house, Jackson, who
never growled at anyone, snarled, and barked endlessly. He had a
habit of stroking the hair on the back of kid’s heads and gently rubbing
our necks which made that same hair stand at attention and cause me
to breakout in a cold sweat.
Maybe it was the way his eyes were positioned; so close together
that they crowded his long, pointed nose. And they were black as coal;
so dark that you could see your reflection in them when he would
bend his towering frame over to talk at me. And that breath; hot and
filled with a stale, musty odor that resembled the basement of an old,
deserted house. Then again, it could have been his enormous hands
that had five long and thin arthritic protrusions that resembled the
rods from my tinker toy set. The rev’s fingernails were a half inch too
long and when he extended his arms, I could have sworn he was the
Grim Reaper reaching for those whose time had come.
But it was the minister’s smile that made me most apprehensive
of him. It wasn’t that his smile was that odd as it was how often he
smiled. He always smiled, as if it had been painted on his face, like the
large plastic clown at the entrance to the kiddie rides at Willow Grove
Park. It was as if he could smile even with a tear in his eye….as though
a smile was the necessary camouflage to hide something
else…something he did not want you to see. It made me want to hum
the Smokey Robinson & the Miracles’ song I would hear from my
sister’s record player, Tears of a Clown. Camouflaged Clergy. No one
smiled all the time. No one! He smiled when my brother got stung by a
bee at the Sunday School picnic. He smiled when Charlie Dauterman,
the church janitor, broke his ankle on the front steps of the church one
icy February day. For crying out loud, he even smiled at funerals!
My stepmother volunteered on Mondays and Thursdays in the
church office. On Mondays she would take the flower arrangements
from Sunday’s service over to the old folks at Green Meadows
 Bellamy 9

Community; a place grown-ups called a retirement home, but one I

called the waiting room to heaven. One Monday, Dasha took me with
her to the church office. As I was sitting in the large hard-back leather
chair in the office, my feet dangling high above the floor, my eyes were
glued on to the church secretary, Mildred White. She was a whale of a
woman with full, puckered lips and cheeks so plump it made her eyes
squint as if she were Asian.
“Oh no!” Miss White cried out. The phone wobbled as her hand
quivered against her ear. I watched as a tear rolled down the
secretary’s round cheek, frozen, immobile for just a few seconds before
dropping onto her large breast.
“When?” she asked. “I’m so sorry. Okay. Okay. I’ll tell him. What
can we do for you, John?” I was always pretty good at figuring out
what was being said on the other end of phone conversations I could
not hear. Dasha was always on the phone, and I could tell what the
remainder of my day would be like just by the way she responded to
the mystery person on the other end; that is, unless she was speaking
in Ukrainian.
Miss White ended the phone call and slowly hung-up the phone.
Reverend Markey had come out of his office in time to hear the end of
the conversation and looked at Miss White for an explanation.
“Reverend, that was John Robie on the phone. Betty passed away this
morning.”
The Reverend walked over to Miss White and placed his hand on
her shoulder. “She’s in Glory. She’s at peace now.” And there he
was…smiling as if he had scored the final run in the annual North
Hills/Ardsley Fourth of July baseball game. At five years old, I did not
know much about dying, but I knew it was not something to smile
about. It made me wonder why your cheeks tend to promptly hurt
quickly when you force a fake smile, but never seem to hurt when your
smile was genuine. I figured it must be hard work to hold a smile you
did not mean.
Growing up, it seemed as though my family lived at church.
Church of the Rising Son was not any mainstream, organized,
traditional sect of Christianity. It was a cult, a hybrid of several
religions. In fact, its own laws were reminiscent of the Middle Ages
10 G. Bradley Davis

which embraced a warped legalistic theology that applied to everyone

but the minister. It was more Rev. Markey’s unique sect. The church
preached that the 12 disciples… Matthias had replaced Judas the
betrayer… transcended time and never died. From generation to
generation, they took new physical forms and were scattered
throughout the earth to evangelize to every corner of the earth. Like
many false religions and prophets, Reverend Markey plucked
scripture out of its context to serve his “theology.” For example, he
used the apostle Paul’s words “to bring to light what is the
administration of the mystery which for ages has been hidden in God,
who created all things; in order that the manifold wisdom of God
might now be made known through the church.” Another favorite
verse to support this warped doctrine was his interpretation of
Matthew 16:28, when Jesus told his disciples “Truly I tell you, some
who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of
Man coming in his kingdom.” Pastor Markey even claimed he was one
of the original disciples, Bartholomew.
The church would routinely hold exorcisms. That is, until one
teenage girl died when blankets were held tightly over as she was
beaten during this ritual. That happened when I was just an infant,
and no one would talk about it. However, I am convinced that I would
have been subject to something similar if they had not suspended this
heathen practice. What did not cease was the parental thrashings that
were encouraged to purge evil from a rebellious child. A severe form
of corporal punishment was more than encouraged. If a child would
not willingly change his behavior, and cease sinning, you would have
to beat it out of him.
Dasha was a pious woman, and she took church and her faith
seriously. On more than one occasion I would peek through the
slightly opened door of her bedroom as she was down on her knees,
praying for my salvation. In her eyes, my soul was in great jeopardy.
We seemed to live at church. We would go to church on Sunday
mornings; first to the Sunday school, then to worship service with the
grown-ups. Most of the kids went to children’s church but my
stepmom insisted on me and my siblings assimilate into big-people’s
church at a young age. I assumed it was like teaching a puppy how to
 Bellamy 11

do their business outside when they were young rather than waiting
till it was a couple of years old. They learn faster when young.
The church building was a converted women’s silk-stocking
factory that went under when the owner failed to see the transition to
nylon stockings. It was made of red brick and if not for the steeple with
a fish on the very top and one large stained-glass window that couldn’t
been seen from the street, it could have passed for any office building
in town.
The church and its congregation were originally located in the
Nicetown neighborhood of Philadelphia. The church joined the urban
mass-exodus and moved to the safety of the suburbs when people of
color started moving into that area of the city, giving credence to the
phrase “the most segregated part of American happens on Sunday
mornings at 11 o’clock.” I guess grownups thought the neighborhood
wasn’t very nice anymore. A few years later, racial unrest burned hot
in North Philly when the accelerant of brutality inflicted on blacks by
white cops resulted in three days of rioting.
After the morning worship service, our family would go home to
a cold lunch, normally consisting of sandwiches made of luncheon
meat and processed cheese on margarine-spread bread. We were not
allowed to play with the other kids on the block on Sundays because
we honored the Sabbath. It truly was a day of rest for the Lloyd family.
I was not allowed to watch TV, play football, or whiffle ball in the yard
or do basically anything that involved exerting any energy, and the
possibility of getting dirty or having fun, was out of the question. The
only good news was that I did not have to do any chores on Sundays.
What I could do was homework, which I found strange because that
was clearly work, just as the name suggests, read the Sunday funnies,
take naps, or play board games. Then, we went back to church for the
evening service. I guess I resented the forced adherence to the Sabbath
back then, but now I can appreciate it much more, not that I know
anyone who strictly observes it anymore.
On Wednesday nights they held classes to study the writings of
Reverend Markey. Friday nights were youth night, where the teens
would have a place to hang-out; a place where their parents would
12 G. Bradley Davis

allow them to go and know they were not trying to have sex, smoke
pot, or drink a six-pack of PBR.
Sundays were mostly uneventful, but there was one Sunday
morning I will never forget. It was mid-July and the church was filled
to the rafters, which just added to this steamy sanctuary that lacked
air conditioning. The four ceiling fans pushed the hot air around so it
would not sit thick in any one row of seats. Our family always sat in
the second pew, just behind Mrs. Pompton and her fox stole whose
beady eyes would stare at me all through the service like a snake
focused on an unsuspecting frog.
Our self-assigned seats were just to the left of the pulpit and
nearest to the stained-glass window that depicted a white-robed, red-
sash Jesus with a staff in one hand and a little lamb cradled in the
other. The window faced east so that by 11 o’clock the sun would hit
the stained-glass and make the colors explode like fireworks. By 11:13
the green hillsides of the shepherding scene could be seen vividly on
the organist’s white blouse and by 19 minutes past the hour Jesus’ red
sash hit her wheat-blond hair.
On that specific day, the choir director, an aging man with poorly
dyed thinning hair, walked up to the pulpit and asked the
congregation to turn their hymnals to page 271. I could tell by the
organ and piano’s prelude that it was my least favorite hymn, In the
Garden. It had funny words like tarry and whenever we came to the
word dew, I would look at my brother, Ted, and try to get him to laugh,
as long as our wicked stepmother was not watching. But apparently it
was someone’s favorite song because we would sing it three Sundays
out of four. I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, the
congregation sang. Mrs. Townsend, in her operatic, falsetto voice was
standing right behind me (we always stood when you sang or when
scripture was read). My eyes would squint when she would bellow
out the shrieking high notes.
Meanwhile, Reverend Markey sat in his cushioned, high back
chair; his legs loosely crossed. He wore a starched, white shirt, gray
and white striped tie, and a plaid jacket…and he was smiling as he
walked to the pulpit.
“Good morning,” the minister declared.
 Bellamy 13

“Good morning,” the congregation recited back.

The reverend repeatedly stroked his thin mustache as he
surveyed the congregation, making me think a goatee would have
been more appropriate. Then he would “look” like Satan, too.
“Today we have reason to rejoice. A sheep that was lost has been
found.”
What the heck was he talking about? I wondered whether this had
something to do with that painted glass window I loved so much.
“One of our own…one of our flock was led astray, but this
morning the transgressor will come before us to publicly repent and
to ask for your forgiveness,” the minister stated.
Oh crap! I felt a hot sensation throughout my body which made
me increasingly anxious. Is he talking about me? I had been trying to
squelch a guilty feeling about a petty larceny I had committed a few
weeks earlier. In preparation for Missionary Sunday, every family in the
congregation had been given a small cardboard church that had a slit
in the roof for depositing loose change. The first Sunday of the
following month they would collect the cardboard church banks and
give the money to some missionary evangelizing in Africa. I had
borrowed some of the change to buy a butterscotch sundae at Jack Frost,
the corner ice cream shop. I swear I was going to put the money back!
“Public confession is powerful and effective, and it brings the
much-needed cure from God. Spiritual weakness results in the
indulgence of earthly, sinful pleasures,” the minister added.
Crap, how did he find out about the money? Did Dasha and Dad know?
Reverend Markey continued, “One’s infidelity to God affects
others in the congregation. It is a cancer that so easily spreads…a root
that produces such bitter poison. We must purge this sin from our
congregation.”
My eyes became as large as yo-yos and I could feel sweat begin to
exit from every pour of my body. My starched white short-sleeved
shirt was soaked, and my clip-on bowtie was half choking me to death!
I forced my index finger between my neck and shirt collar and slid it
around my neck in hope of giving me a little breathing room.
14 G. Bradley Davis

“In order for the sinner to confess their sin, they must call it by
name and I’m going to ask them to come up here in just a minute to
do just that.”
It was then that it happened. I could feel the warm and wet
sensation spread across my shorts and trickle down my thighs. In a
strange way, it felt a little liberating, that is, until I realized what was
happening.
“Taking responsibility and seeking reconciliation is welcome and
I’d like you all to give Naomi Baker a hug after this morning’s service,”
the reverend said. “Naomi come on up here.”
I had not seen Naomi anywhere around church for months. By the
time she reached the second step to the platform I saw her enlarged
belly that caused her dress to stick out nearly a foot. Heck, I didn’t even
know she had gotten married. I could not help but wonder what she had
done wrong. I did not think Naomi could ever do anything wrong.
I had always thought Naomi was the best teenager girl in the
entire church. I found her beauty mesmerizing. She had a pretty,
round face with shoulder length hair the color of pecans and full, red
lips. Her breasts were large for her frame, and they would always force
the buttons on her one-size-to-small blouse to spread ever so slightly
so I could catch a glimpse of her lovely lace bra and beckoning
cleavage.
“In order for Naomi to confess her sin, she must admit guilt and
acknowledge her sin. Asking for forgiveness is a prerequisite for
reconciliation with the church body so that she can be readmitted into
our congregation,” the minister explained.
Just then a small yellow trickle ran down the pew, like water
down a hog’s feeding trough, heading straight for my father’s
backside. I was not sure whether my father had felt the wetness or
smelled the stench of urine, giving new meaning to the phrase “church
pew.” Before I could give a detailed explanation, my dad and Dasha
looked at each other, then to me as each grabbed one of my arms and
dragged me, stiffed legged, up the center aisle so that my toes left two
impressions in the thick, sky-blue carpet like the train tracks that lie
behind the local Kenyon Diner.
 Bellamy 15

CHAPTER THREE
Imaginary friends never leave until we find a real friend
who can take their place.

A
fter a thorough beating, I had been exiled to the far reaches
of the gulag, or my bedroom, if you please, after the church
ordeal. I had been banished from the populace, which
included my two sisters, my brother, my wicked
stepmother, and my father. Time always passed glacially in Dasha’s
purgatory, as there was no one to offer me any empathy or sympathy,
as I sat sentenced to rot in solitary confinement for a week. The
expectation was always that isolation from the populace would result
in some type of attitude adjustment, but it never did.
They say necessity is the mother of invention, and I had a
desperate need for a friend, a confidant, someone I could talk to and
trust. Enter Bellamy. Feeling overwhelmingly alone in the gulag;
alienated from the world around me, Bellamy simply appeared in my
room. The door had never opened, and the windows were too high for
anyone to have climbed into the room. I was not really surprised at his
appearance. I guess that is why I was not the slightest bit afraid of him.
In fact, quite the opposite.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The boy put his arm around me and pulled me close to himself.
“Bellamy. Listen. It’s alright. It wasn’t your fault.”
Bellamy? What an odd name. “It’s always my fault. I don’t do
anything right and I’m always getting in trouble. No one likes me.”
“I like you, Calvin,” Bellamy said. “I am your friend. I’ll never
leave you. Never! Please don’t ignore me. You won’t want to introduce
me to your family and friends. I get that. That’s okay. They won’t even
16 G. Bradley Davis

see me, because they won’t want to see me. When you need me the
most, I’ll be there for you.”
I looked up from my curled position on the floor, my eyes wet as
I looked into Bellamy’s eyes. He was about the same age as me, but
with an air of maturity that was difficult to explain. There was a
confidence, but with the absence of arrogance, and a face of empathy
that seemed trustworthy, an alter ego that was everything I was not.
I thought about having a best friend, the kind that both my sisters
and my brother had. The kind of friend you could hang out with,
laugh with, build memories with. I had no idea how long I sat there
on the rug, mesmerized, as if off in a dream, sucking my thumb, when
I heard my stepmother calling me to wash-up for dinner. When I
looked around his room, Bellamy was gone.

My stepmother was the contemporary Cheka. She morphed into

becoming the secret police who investigated and dealt with any
threats to her regime by attacking her enemies, both internal and
external enemies. But to her defense, she was a product, if not a victim,
of her own childhood. Her father, Misha, while working in the Russian
city of Orel, escaped to America the winter of 1914 by a route which
eventually took him through Austria-Hungary. From there he sailed
to America from the port of Rijeka on the Cunard at the cusp of World
War I in 1914, just before the port closed. His brother, who remained
behind, would be killed in the October Revolution of 1917.
Misha was a Ukrainian immigrant who quickly became a
successful real estate salesman in Pennsylvania. He used his magnetic
charm, handsome good looks, and shrewd business sense to balance
his dealings between the traditionalists and the roguish. Misha’s
business agreements were all handshake deals. He believed that a
handshake was more binding than anything that could be written on
paper. Unfortunately, he and three friends were killed in a drunken
automobile crash, all his debtors seemed to dissipate, like rain drops
on a hot car hood, leaving Dasha’s mother and siblings penniless.
Literally, they went from prosperity to poverty overnight.
 Bellamy 17

Dasha’s mother only knew a few words of English as she found

herself stranded alone in a foreign country with three children under
the age of seven. Through a neighbor acquaintance, she got a job
scrubbing floors and cleaning bathrooms at affluent homes on
Hanover and King Streets in Pottstown. Pottstown was an industrial
town bounded on the west by the Manatawny Creek and on the south
by the Schuylkill River.
Desperate, Dasha’s mother simply settled for the first available
suitor. He was an authentic swine who qualified as a potential
husband simply because he breathed and had a steady job with the
railroad. She married him out of necessity for stability and mere
survival. Nine months to the day after their wedding, they had a girl
of their own, Olena, whom he treated like a princess. As much as he
loved his daughter, he despised his stepchildren just as much and
treated them like second class citizens. He saw them as nothing more
than irritating little gnats that would circle around him as he
agitatedly shewed them away.
Every Christmas he would buy his little princess several presents
from the Ellis Mills Department Store. But there would never be
anything under the tree for the children who were bred by another
man. That was Dasha’s cold reality. The world was painted black and
white. It was a sad childhood, but as she escaped the vault of hell by
leaving home to marry my father, she carried with her more of her past
than she ever realized.
My stepmother simply did not like me and, to be quite honest, I
did not like her. At that young of an age you instinctively know that
you are supposed to like your parents…love your parents. Talking about
guilt? I felt like I was hands-down the most terrible son the world has
ever seen. Now, many years later, I still do not get it. I was a little kid.
What is there not to like about a child? It is not like I deliberately did
things to upset the witch. We were polar; she was negative, me,
positive. Complete opposites. One of us would say calm, the other
windy; one bitter, the other sweet. Dasha was determined not to be
undermined by some little shit. Our relationship was a constant
struggle of wills, both of us being as hardheaded as a statue of Chang
and Eng Bunker. The only thing that connected us was my father.
18 G. Bradley Davis

This was the milieu of what would become a lifelong struggle for
me, a struggle with conformity verses individuality. As people’s
expectations and demands of me grew, I tended to retreat, running in
the opposite direction as fast as a rabbit. No matter how fast I would
run, those expectations would inevitably catch-up, casting a shadow
over me like a descending bird of prey.
I became familiar with the merits of self-denigration. If your
expectations of yourself are low, you will never disappoint yourself. If
other’s expectations of you were low, then you would be obliged not
disappoint. Apparently, I had disappointed any and everyone who
had such high expectations of me. Of course, some of those
expectations were based on my siblings and not on my abilities. My
stepmother wanted a Calvin that could be created by placing my three
siblings into a blender, pureed for a few minutes, and then a much
more palatable version of the Calvin she wanted could be poured out.
I found myself slipping into depression even at that early age, but
I figured out a way to survive. I owe a lot of that survival to Bellamy.
Fear had been my only other faithful companion. True friendship is
rare. It is laughable when I hear people say they have dozens of
friends…. Hundreds of friends. Those friendships are fragile. One
misspoken word or misconstrued sentence can shatter those
relationships. One is fortunate to have one true and loyal friend.
Bellamy was a true and loyal friend. He was the only person who
encouraged me to be who I was, not who others wanted me to be, that
is until Perry and Simone came into my life. More about them later.
Bellamy was a genuine friend, my guide and confessor. It was because
of him that I could escape the adult persecution that haunted me.
Strangely, I would often find myself in a dark pit that eerily
morphed into a familiar place that I eventually did not fear. When you
visit a place often, it becomes normal. Some things you cannot change.
Some things you eventually accept. Though it always brought inner
pain, the pain hurt good, if that makes any sense. It became that friend
you really do not like but, for some godforsaken reason, you let him
stick around. Self-doubt could always be counted on to offer some
choice words of discouragement; words I would grow accustomed to.
I would get sucked into a warped mentality that I could not dismiss
 Bellamy 19

for fear that I may end up alone. A bad friend is better than no friend at
all. And so, I learned to live with it, like a wart you know you should
have removed, but after a while you become oblivious to it. You just
do not care. It becomes part of who you are. It becomes an appendage.
Maybe that explains my need for Bellamy. He wanted nothing from
me. He only had my best interests at heart.

I would get into trouble without intent. A perfect example of that was
the naked-behind-the-couch story. Saturday nights were mandatory
tub nights in the Lloyd household because the next day was Sunday,
church day, and that meant putting on your Sunday white shirt, a tie
that choked the life out of me, and dress slacks. For that you had to be
“Dasha” clean. There was a personal hygiene check-off list which had
to be followed very carefully. Brush behind your ears, check. Wash
behind your neck, check. Scrub every little crevice until your body was
the cherry-red color of a strawberry Twizzler, scrub your fingernails
with a brush and make sure your arm pits are washed twice; check,
check, check.
One Saturday night I remained in the bathtub playing with my
favorite grey battleship and destroyer until the soap bubbles had all
but disappeared. As I was drying myself off, I looked down at my male
appendage and could not help but think of my stepmother’s absurd
words she would create for anatomical body parts, the penis being a
prime example. Dasha had taught my brother Ted and I from an early
age that our male organ was called the “Johnny,” which completely
baffled me since I had a cousin named Johnny.” No wonder I was a
confused little kid.
Still wet on my back, I ran naked into the living room to make a
brief exhibition to anyone who might be present, normally strumming
my Johnny like it was a six-string while singing some inane song. After
receiving some much-needed attention and laughter, I would trot
down to my bedroom to put on my pajamas. On this occasion, and to
my disappointment, the living room was empty. I could hear chatter
in the kitchen, so I peeked around the corner to catch a small glimpse
20 G. Bradley Davis

of the kitchen table. I saw a teenage boy whom I did not recognize,
dressed in dark slacks and a solid baby-blue button-down shirt,
talking with my parents. I was just about to retreat to my bedroom
when everyone stood up from the table and headed my way.
My escape down the hallway was blocked and, to say the least, I
began to panic. Without hesitation I scurried behind the living room
couch just in time to see my parents walk down the hallway toward
their bedroom and my sister, Audrey, along with what appeared to be
her date, enter the living room. I was trapped!
Minutes seemed like hours as I sat motionless behind the couch
listening to the two of them talk about ridiculous things like final
exams, the senior prom, where they planned on working for the
summer and how the boy feared the draft and going to Vietnam. Heck,
couldn’t they talk about these things in his car? How long would they be
camped out on the couch? I knew that time was running out and that
sooner or later Dasha would check to see if I was in his bed. It was then
that I heard Dasha asking my older sister if she had seen me. I knew I
had to make a run for it, but my options were limited. Audrey was
sitting closest to the entrance into the living room, with her back away
from the hallway and towards her date. My only hope was that the
boy would be too engrossed with my sister to notice me, and that
Audrey wouldn’t turn around. I made my move.
Crawling on all fours, I slowly, with military-like stealth, made
my way to the hallway. The problem was that my exit would force me
to crawl nearly to the center of the entrance before making a U-turn
for the hallway. Every few feet I would look over my shoulder to see
if I had been made. So far, so good. It was just when I thought I made
it safely out of the living room when, quite unexpectantly, I let out a
malodorous air biscuit. With whip-like quickness, both Audrey and
her date turned their heads just in time to see my two small, white,
round cheeks and a crack scuttling out of the room.
Thankfully, I heard nothing more about it and, for the time being,
escaped the wrath of Dasha.
 Bellamy 21

CHAPTER FOUR
Youth is to all the glad season of life; but often only by what
it hopes, not by what it attains, or what it escapes.
—Thomas Carlyle

P
hysically, I took after my mom much more than my dad.
Unfortunately, I was a late-bloomer, and it did not help that I
was always one of the younger kids in my class at school. I
was shorter than most of the boys, reached puberty later and
got my driver’s license later. All of which were more than a little
challenging for a kid who was already struggling with confidence and
acceptance. Thankfully, Bellamy was always there to help me navigate
the difficult times.
I had a few sprinkled freckles on my upper cheeks and caramel,
light brown hair, cut straight across my brow, which would turn three
shades lighter in the summer sun. When I look at photographs of me
as a kid, there is always a memorable smile; forty percent mischievous,
forty percent innocence, with a splash of a born skeptic thrown in. I
was a kid who never took things at face value, which did not work
favorably for me in my academic endeavors.
Why should I believe anything someone tells me? Blind faith? It
may have played out differently had I believed that these grown-ups
had my best interest at heart. When proven repeatedly that that was
not the case, everything an adult said was suspect. It is not that it was
not necessarily true, I just had to prove it for myself. This type of
mindset does not play well in academia. You are told to take every
word from teachers and authors of textbooks as fact. I was especially
suspicious of history. Anything older than a century can only be
known through unreliable whisper down the lane.
22 G. Bradley Davis

I was named Calvin after the French theologian, John Calvin,

which partly reveals the religious, fundamental upbringing I received.
I always found it odd that my parents named me after a Frenchman
since my father had disdain for the French; partly for how quickly they
turned and hightailed it from the Germans in the Great War, and
because my dad despised De Gaulle. After reneging on France’s
agreement to pool their gold resources with the rest of Europe, De
Gaulle demanded that the U.S exchange gold, rather than treasury
debt paper, for the dollars they earned from French export.
When I was young it never dawned on me that I was named for
the theologian’s surname, not given name. Nonetheless, as I said,
religion was an important element in the Lloyd household, and its
legalistic thick smoke would strangle the life-breath out of me. It
would fuel a life-long wrestling match of truths, questions, and
wavering faith. My spiritual journey would take me from an inherited
faith to a nonbelieving infidel, and finally to a posture of acceptance
of God and the Bible’s teachings. Sometimes you need a shock to your
system to change your perspective. For me, it was that murder which
shook me to my core. But I am getting ahead of myself.
I wanted to grow up to be just like my father, Thomas Edwin
Lloyd. He was a man with street-smart wisdom, unquestionable
integrity, and the ability to learn and master just about any skill he put
his mind to. My father’s frugality came from having experienced the
Great Depression firsthand, and it was obvious that that event
influenced many of his decisions in life. I have always believed that
my father had limited his life experiences. His decisions were
calculated, and he was not a gambler. After the war, instead of going
to college, he got a good paying job. He did so out of some sense of
responsibility to his family and the fear that one day the depression
would return, making money not only scarce, but worthless. A good
job in hand was worth more to him than delaying a steady income
while spending four years attending college. It was a shame, because
he was a brilliant man.
My dad felt no need to prove his masculinity, unlike me and my
friends, and he never felt the need to join a “Big Boys Club.” Mr. Dean
tried to get my dad to join the VFW, but Thomas Lloyd could not have
 Bellamy 23

been less interested. It seemed to me that just about every man I knew
belonged to some type of club. There were the country clubs and the
American Legion or VFW. There were the Masons, and the Knights of
Columbus (for the Catholics), the Elks, the Moose Lodge, and the
Fraternal Order of Eagles. Yikes! Old man frats. If a guy did not have
an official club, he made the local bar his club where he would attend
“meetings” just about every night.
My dad fought with the 1st Marine Division at Guadalcanal as
part of the Pacific theatre during World War II. That was enough to
prove to me that my dad had courage, something I yearned for. Dad’s
work ethic was legendary and my respect for him, immense. He
worked long hours and took advantage of any overtime that was
available.
Dasha was a stay-home mom, like most of my friend’s moms.
Other than how strict she was and the frequent beatings I received for
not conforming to the Lloyd expectations and my disobedience, which
came naturally to me, I thought our family was fairly normal.
Nonetheless, I continued to experience an increasing disconnect when
it came to me and the rest of the world. I would have embraced Henry
David Thoreau’s “On the Duty of Civil Disobedience,” that is, if I had
ever read Thoreau. My literary repertoire consisted of Mad Magazine,
Sad Sack comic books and Ray Bradbury fantasy novels.
I was an accident-prone kid, mostly because there was not a tree I
wouldn’t climb, or a mound of dirt I wouldn’t jump with my bicycle
that would result in a broken arm, stitches, etcetera. Once, Dasha told
me that my injuries were the “bad” coming out of me. In retrospect, I
guess I did not get hurt enough.
There were ways I found to express my creativity that was seldom
appreciated, or even understood. The way I acted and reacted to life
were often viewed as bizarre, not just by my family, but by others as
well. It was more than traveling to the beat of a different drum; I was
viewed as a weird kid. I saw the world differently than everyone else.
Everyone! Taking risks was more than acceptable simply because the
possible consequences of my actions were seldom a deterrent. The
ability to comprehend simple concepts was difficult for me and I could
not, for the life of me, understand why people could not see things
24 G. Bradley Davis

through my lens. This helped launch my creative drive which was

necessary to craft a world which was both safe and effective for me.
When I was young, I hated my inability to conform, but as I grew
older, I realized that I really did not want to be like the masses.
I was the youngest child of four, and although my stepmother
desperately wanted her own biological children, it was never to be.
Dasha manipulated me and my siblings, as well as our environment,
in an attempt to mold together four progenies to be clones of each
other. She was only successful with the three older children. I had
trouble being compliant, and I exhausted extensive energy and time
attempting to find myself—yet find myself I would. I understood that
there was a vast world outside of my home, and I heard it calling me
to live life fully and to do so under my terms.

I was six when my grandmother, Mom-Mom died. It was the first

death I had experienced, having no recollection of my mom’s passing.
After the memorial service, I walked to the car with my father to take
the ride from the church to the cemetery. A cool afternoon breeze
assisted the leaves on the tall elms to bow ever so slightly as if to honor
the deceased.
I spoke first. “Dad?”
“Yes, Calvin.”
“Can we visit mom’s grave after the burial service is over?” I said
as I scanned the hundreds of gravestones neatly patterned like a
checkerboard as far as my eyes could see.
“Today’s not a good day to do that, Calvin. I’ll take you another
day.”
“Why? Isn’t she buried here?”
“Yes, but it might be better if it’s just you and me who come. It
wouldn’t be fair to Dasha,” responded his father. That did not make a
lot of sense to me, but I did know that Dasha didn’t approve of her
stepchildren dwelling on her predecessor, or should I say, her
competition. We walked to the car and waited for my stepmother,
brother, and sisters. It was a short drive to the cemetery and my
 Bellamy 25

thoughts were sobering. When will my dad and Dasha die? I hope Dasha
dies first…and soon.
My family was seated in the first row at the gravesite, directly in
front of the coffin and the large 3 x 8-foot hole in the ground.
Desperately needing to ease my nerves, I reached deep into my pants
pocket and retrieved my prized Bullwinkle Pez dispenser. With a flick
of my index finger, I pushed back the antlers and pulled out the little
rectangular grape treat. It just so happened to be the precise moment
Dasha decided to look at me, witnessing the crime. Without warning,
Dasha slapped my hand that held Bullwinkle causing the rectangular
treat to fly, end-over-end, kicking off Mom Mom’s casket and into the
grave. Reverend Markey abruptly stopped reading from his black
Bible and, as if in slow motion, the reverend, and every mourner
present, turned slowly and starred disapprovingly at me. Bellamy was
laughing uncontrollably.
A few months later the Grim Reaper paid a visit to my great-aunt
Gertie. My paternal grandfather’s sister had always been old and
wrinkly, at least as far as I could remember. Aunt Gertie’s furniture
and household possessions were divvied up by Dasha and my aunts
and to my horror, I received Aunt Gertie’s bed, the one that she died in.
Sure, I had wanted a big boy bed for months now, but not one
handcrafted by the Angel of Death. My brother, Ted, smiled as my
father and Uncle Ron reassembled the deathbed in my bedroom.
“Aunt Gertie died of an incurable disease which is highly
contagious,” my brother told me. “You’re not going to make it to third
grade.” When I tried to protest to my parents about me having to sleep
in the open coffin, I was given the “just grow up and stop being an
ungrateful brat” speech. For the next couple of weeks I would stay
awake long into the night wondering if every shadow and creak in my
dark bedroom was the messenger of death coming to escort me. The
shadow of the old oak tree limb outside my bedroom window looked
exactly like a boney arm of the Prince of Darkness with his long index
finger bent ninety degrees toward where I lay. Bellamy would lay next
to me, but I got the feeling he was just as scared as I was.
The morning light was especially welcomed in those first few
weeks of sleeping on the deathbed. I would wake-up in the middle of
26 G. Bradley Davis

the night from a dream starring Aunt Gertie. The dreams would differ
from night to night, but it always included a scene where I would be
in bed asleep. In my dream I would awaken just in time to see Aunt
Gertie bending over to give me a good-night kiss. Her fake eye lashes
were on crooked, and her fire engine red lipstick extended well above
her lips. Her lips puckered and just when she was inches away from
my lips, her skin and flesh dissolved, dripping onto my bed sheets,
exposing a skeletal face with fake eye lashes and red lipstick in tack.
It always ended the same way, with me screaming like a cat who
had its tail crushed by a rocking chair, my parents running into my
room, and my brother terrified and shaken from a sound sleep in the
bed next to mine.
 Bellamy 27

CHAPTER FIVE
Youth, which is forgiven everything, forgives itself nothing:
age, which forgives itself everything, is forgiven nothing.
—George Bernard Shaw

S
ummertime was always special growing up because there was
no school. One of the highlights of summer was the third
Saturday in July, the day I would leave for camp. But this was
not just any ol’ camp, it was Camp Wackasack! Camp
Wackasack was the greatest, most incredible, fun-filled, action-packed
camp in the whole world! The site was constructed like a huge
stockade, positioned just an hour outside of the fifth largest city in the
U.S. of A, but it could have been located in the Wild, Wild, West, as far
as I was concerned.
Dasha had spent the week sewing little pieces of cloth with
CALVIN LLOYD printed on them in my shirts, shorts, bathing
suit...even my underwear! Who in the world would want to steal a pair of
my undershorts? She packed my suitcase in geometric shapes; shorts
folded in perfect squares; t-shirts in rectangles, and underwear in
congruent triangles. There was an orange container for a bar of soap
and a pink toothbrush travel kit which belonged to my sister.
“I can’t take this toothbrush case to camp!” I begged.
“What’s wrong with it?” responded Dasha, without lifting her
head from her packing.
“It’s pink, mom. All the guys will make fun of me!”
“Well, just ignore them. There is nothing wrong with a boy having
a pink toothbrush case, and I’m not buying another one when this one
will suit you just fine.”
28 G. Bradley Davis

I had already made up my mind that once I started unpacking in

the camp cabin, the pink case would remain in the gathered pocket of
his suitcase. I would also leave the toothbrush on the windowsill near
my bunk, risking being a dance floor for cockroaches. Bottom-line,
nothing was going to ruin my week at camp!
After Dasha had finished packing my suitcase, there were a few
precious necessities that I knew had to be added. I scoured around my
room and started throwing things into my ditty bag; one Swiss army
knife, Sad Sack comic books, the May issue of Argosy magazine,
Ludwig Von Drake Duncan World of Color Yo-Yo, the coonskin cap I
had found in someone’s trash, and a handful of Bazooka bubble gum
all were going to make the trip to camp. Heck, these were all things a
guy needed for a memorable week at camp.
As our ‘61 Brookwood station wagon pulled up to the entrance of
the camp there was a line of cars dropping off 6-year-old boys,
sleeping bags and suitcases, I was surveying the camp’s perimeter.
The tall fence surrounding the camp was made of hemlock boards
placed side by side vertically with the tops sharpened to a point to
prevent Indians from scaling the walls. The near corner had a watch
tower with slits where, no doubt, guns could slip through to shoot any
attacking enemy. My thoughts went immediately to finding a way to
get inside that watch tower for a closer inspection.
Being a little naive and needing little help with my fantasy world,
I thought the camp was impenetrable. Only pre-approved station
wagons transporting new campers were allowed through the gate
which was guarded by some skinny man with glasses and a clipboard
who looked remarkably like Barney Fife. Camp Director, no doubt.
The whistle around his neck gave him away. “Death’s head on a mop
stick,” Bellamy whispered. The man had on a Camp Wackasack t-shirt
and cargo shorts that were an embarrassingly eight inches above his
knees. They were more like hot pants than an explorer’s frontier
shorts. Trying to make sense of this fashion faux pas, it dawned on me
that frontiersmen never wore shorts! This guy was a fraud! He did not
look like the bearded, weathered, frontiersman who should be
wearing a fringe suede jacket and carrying a Kentucky long-rifle that
 Bellamy 29

I had dreamt about for weeks. But nothing was going to ruin my
perception of the camp. No Sir-ee Bob!
The anticipation of archery, canoe races, fishing, catching frogs
and snakes were all enough to send a young boy into some kind of
altered state. The wonderful nuances of the camp were endless. The
snack bar was open every day. The thought of having ice cream every
day was enough of a reason to want to go to Camp Wackasack. Being
away from the watchful eyes of parents and knowing that camp
counselors could hardly be expected to have complete control over
their charges at all times offered countless adventure opportunities
beyond what my mind could conceive. Ahhhhh, the possibilities.
My Dad patted me on the back and said goodbye. Dasha turned
her cheek as she bent down towards me, expecting a kiss. Now, it is
not like I minded kissing Dasha, but there were guys all around me
that I had yet to meet. I had to establish my moxie and coolness. A kiss
from “mommy” would not exactly help me accomplish that.
“Thanks! See you next week,” I yelled as I ran toward the bell
tower.
I grabbed a smooth round stone off the ground and headed
toward the tower tossing the stone from one hand to the other. The
bell tower stood twenty feet tall, had four thick wooden legs and a
steeple-like roof over the bell. Between the legs were bench seats made
from oak logs that were cut lengthwise. I sat on one of the benches and
sized up the situation. I was rocking back and forth on an unstable
board when the bench seat pivoted just enough to throw me
backwards and onto the ground. Amid the fall, I inadvertently threw
the stone up in the air, hitting the bell which alerted the campers that
it was dinnertime. Problem was, it was only 3 o’clock. The hungry
campers stampeded the mess hall from all directions like a colony of
ants attacking a Jolly Rancher. It was true camper mayhem. Expecting
a feast of meat loaf, canned green beans, and powdered mash potatoes,
they were turned away in ravenous disappointment being told to wait
for the official bell to ring.
When I tried sitting down again the there was a sharp pain in
my left keester. Reaching down to my butt-cheek, I discovered a
tear in my shorts and realized that I was the first casualty of the
30 G. Bradley Davis

week. A 5-inch splinter had pierced my left cheek causing a stain of

blood on my shorts. Reluctantly, I walked over to the First Aid hut to
have it removed by nurse Betty, a thin, unattractive, flat chested
woman who looked and spoke remarkably like Jane Hathaway of The
Beverly Hillbillies fame.
By 1600 hours my cabin was full of its assigned campers, and we
had been introduced to our counselor, Rick. He went around the cabin
having the boys state their name and why they wanted to come to
Camp Wackasack. Just before chow time the campers decided,
collectively, that we needed nicknames, and nicknames are what we
got. Larry was “The Hunchback” because, well, he had this weird
bulging in the back of his upper shoulders. Lonnie was lean and tall
and when he would run, he would take huge awkward steps. We
decided to call him “The Healthy Animal,” taken from a Kellogg’s
Special K commercial that featured a polar bear standing on its hind
legs. Edward was short, fat and had a serious problem with flatulence.
He received the name Zeus, because when he farted it was like
thunder and lightning. Someone asked Billy Bates if he ever received
any letter from a grown-up addressed to “Master Bates,” as in
masturbates. The place broke up and Billy got pretty pissed off but the
name “The Master” stuck. Huan’s parents were from Taiwan and
strictly practiced Mahayana Buddhism that prohibited the killing of
any creature, even a mosquito. As a result, Huan became a
smorgasbord for every mosquito at camp and began looking like a
human blackberry and so we campers gave Huan the nickname
“Skeeter.”
The ever-studious Kevin who wore coke-bottle glasses received
the title “Professor” and Bobby got the nickname “Muskrat,” simply
because he looked like one. Nate was at least 4 inches taller than the
rest of us, skinny, with wiry, curly hair. He adopted the name “Boner”
for obvious reasons. Art proudly showed the rest of us that he only
had 4 toes on his right foot, so naturally he was called “The Freak.”
Don’s mother was French and when she was dropping him off at
camp, kissed him goodbye, saying “Au revoir ma petite mouche.” We
drilled Donnie for hours until he told us that petite mouche meant
“Little Fly.” That seemed pretty humorous to the guys, so from that
 Bellamy 31

point on he was known as “the Fly.” They called me “Mayhem”

because of what happened at the bell tower earlier that day.
Like Muskrat, Hunchback and me, Charlie was from North Hills,
but had arrived at camp with a nickname in place, one he could never
escape. The previous August, Charlie was playing stick ball with some
neighborhood kids when a fast-rising summer storm arose from the
southwest. Without warning, Charlie was struck by bolt of lightning.
Although he was hospitalized for only a few days with burns on both
his hands and feet, he never was quite the same after that. The name
Choo-Choo was coined when he started wearing a blue and white
stripped train conductor’s hat and repeatedly sang the Good and
Plenty song about Choo-Choo Charlie.
The next morning Counselor Rick had recruited another
counselor for a hike up to Sunrise Lake, a lake at the top of the
mountain. Rumor had it that this lake had never been fished before
and it was teeming with trophy-sized trout and largemouth bass. This
other counselor was a megalomaniac suffering from allusions that he
was creating his own government where he, and he alone, would be
the authoritative dictator worthy of allegiance and obedience. The
campers did not see it quite that way. His name was Ted, but he
demanded that the young campers address him as “Colonel.”
The hike was long but uneventful. When we returned to camp,
Counselors Rick and Ted snuck behind the camp’s laundry facility to
catch a smoke. We campers were told to take showers and wait in the
cabin until the counselors returned to discuss the next day’s scheduled
activities. What happened next is up for interpretation and years later
I would swear that I had no idea how the whole thing started but, to
the best of my recollection, it went something like this ...
... we were getting undressed when, for no apparent reason,
Muskrat started strumming his bald-headed yogurt slinger as if it was
a Les Paul 8 string. He started singing his own variation of Shocking
Blue’s Venus. “I’m your penis, I’m your fire, your desire, do-do-do-do-
do-do-do-do-do-do-do!” The entire cabin positively howled in
laughter. The Professor fell off his cot and cut his forehead on the sharp
corner of bunk while the Freak leaped off his cot, as uninhibited as
Muskrat, and joined in the band. As the two were playing with their
32 G. Bradley Davis

pork swords, they became erect and, as if on cue, they began to

swashbuckler each other. There they were, one hand on their hip,
arched backs, one attacking forward while the other retreated, all the
while striking the other with their purple headed soldiers. It was not
30 seconds before the entire cabin was in a commotion as 14 young
lads celebrated their boyhood with skills that would have made Errol
Flynn proud. The Fly received points for style while Master decided
to make the rounds, advancing towards one opponent, then, within
seconds challenging another. He would lunge, spin, and attack the
blindside of another rival while shouting “En guard!”
The squealing and laughter could be heard a good way up the hill
and apparently reached the laundry cabin where the Colonel was
folding some underwear. Had we posted a guard at the door we may
have had time to gather ourselves in time, but this was such a
spontaneous act of unadulterated innocence that any idea of strategic
planning was preposterous.
The Colonel barged through the door, stopped, and for a split
second had a look of complete stupor that made him look simple.
“I’m going to contact each of your parents and have them pick
you up tonight, you little pre-verts!”
“Don’t you mean “perverts,” Colonel?” the Professor interjected.
“Don’t you correct me, you little weenie whacker!”
The young fencers put away their now softened sabers and
sheepishly retreated to their bunks. I knew this was not going to be
good. Just the thought of my parents having to pick me up in the
middle of the night sent chills down my spine. Turning to the
Hunchback I whispered, “When my parents find out that I was using
Mr. Winky for anything other than relieving myself, there’s going to
be hell to pay!”
All the campers were sitting on the edge of their bunks with a
sense of dread when Master spoke first. “My parents are going to kill
me.”
“I’ll be grounded till I’m 100 years old,” the Healthy Animal
chimed in.
 Bellamy 33

The Freak turned to me and said, “My Dad’s never going to let me
come to camp again, and there is no chance he’ll let me visit my cousin
in Florida. I’m screwed!”
That is exactly how I felt, screwed, that is until Boner spoke up.
“Hey, I got it! The Colonel swore he’d beat the shit out of me if I
told anyone this, but we’re pretty desperate, aren’t we?”
Everybody shook their heads in agreement.
“What is it?” the Fly asked. “Come on, tell us.”
Boner stood up and walked to the center of the cabin. He had
everyone’s attention.
“Yesterday, during free time, I took a walk out to the gravel pit
just to check it out. There’s a little dirt path that goes off to the right,
where those big blue spruces are.”
“Yeah, go on,” Skeeter said.
“Well, I heard some giggling and so I moved closer to
investigate... and guess what I saw?”
“What?” We all asked in unison.
“There was the Colonel with that redheaded girl from the kitchen
crew. She had her top completely off and her culottes down to her
ankles. Her bra was hanging on a limb from the hemlock tree they
were under. The colonel had his jeans off and he clearly had a chubbie”
“How’d her tits look? Master asked.
“What’s a chubbie?” asked the Fly.
“You know, a hard-on, a woody, throbbing gristle, the full salute,
a boner, right Boner?” Muskrat asked.
“Right you are, my little rodent,” responded Boner.
My eyes grew bigger than hub caps as the solution to our problem
dawned on me. Looking at Boner with a shrewd smile I said, “We can
blackmail the Colonel!”
“Exactly!” replied Boner. “When that stinking weasel comes back
into the cabin and we’ll give him the news. He tells, we tell.”
“He’ll keep his mouth shut,” shouted the Hunchback.
“You betcha,” I said with a smile.
34 G. Bradley Davis

Our plan worked perfectly. For the remainder of the week, the cabin
gang would refer to the incident as “The Enlightenment,” but after we
went back home, the matter was never discussed again. The incident
did not leave me quickly, however. The humiliation Bellamy and I felt
at the hands of Counselor Rick gnawed at me. Had my stay at camp
lasted longer, I would have found a creative way to seek revenge. I can
accept a lot of grief, but being humiliated is something I never would
tolerate.
 Bellamy 35

CHAPTER SIX
Bullying comes in a variety of forms: physical, intellectual
and emotional. We all are bullies.

B
ellamy had not made an appearance for several weeks. It
seemed as though he appeared only when I was lonely, bored
or, most often, when I had been punished, embarrassed or
humiliated, which was often enough. When things were
going fine, I guess I did not need him.
September 8, 1964, the day after Labor Day arrived and with it,
the first day of school. Every year I began the school year with the
same mindset, that this year would be different! I would pay attention,
do my homework, and get good grades. The way Dasha treated her
step kids was directly related to how our performance reflected upon
her. If you performed well and she was able to boast about our
accomplishments, the better your treatment. Better yet, if you were
fortunate enough to shine on a public stage, like my brother did by
being a brilliant pianist, you received the queen’s favor.
I so wanted to be in that inner circle that I was determined to do
well in school that year. If I was a good student, people would
compliment Dasha and life would be infinitely better for me. If I did
poorly, it would be another year of beatings and time spent alone in
the gulag. My rationale was that I was a lot smarter than I was the
previous year and had outgrown my speech impediment, thanks to
several years of being pulled out of class for an hour with the township
speech therapist. This year I’ll get all A’s. Dasha will be proud of me! Heck,
I might even move up in her pecking order!
That September, the Phillies were in first place with a 5 ½ game
lead over the Cincinnati Reds on the first of the month and the dream
36 G. Bradley Davis

of a championship seemed real. As far as I knew, the Phils had never

been in first place in the month of September. The year before the
Phillies won 87 games…87 games!! But this was 1964. This would be the
year the Fightin’ Phils would go all the way. That past summer, Jim
Bunning had pitched the first perfect game in the National League
since 1880! It was an omen! They will cruise to clinching the pennant. My
Aunt Anastasia subscribed to the TV Guide and there, on the front
cover, was a photo of Connie Mack Stadium and a preview of the
World Series. It was going to be a great year!
As went the Phillies, so went my academic year. On Labor Day,
the Phillies split a doubleheader with the Dodgers while the Reds lost
2 to the St. Louis Cardinals. That increased the Phillies' lead to 6½
games with 25 games left to play. I had gotten several quizzes back
and received an “A” in both. All was going well, until things did not.
The Phillies got hit with a string of injuries. Frank Thomas broke
his right thumb sliding into second base, pitcher Ray Culp started to
have problems with his right elbow and things began to look dubious.
By the 20th of September the Phils still had a 6 ½ game lead over the
Reds with 12 games to play. Easy peasy!
A few days later, when Chico Ruiz stole home to steal the win
from the Phils, it was an ugly omen. It just happened to be coincided
with the appearance of my first “F” of the year on a math exam. I began
to feel edgy. Phillies manager Gene Mauch was getting nervous, too.
Mauch decided to pitch his two best pitchers, Jim Bunning and Chris
Short on only 2 days’ rest, and the result was devastating. The Reds
were not taking advantage of the Phillies woes and after the Phil’s
seventh loss in a row, the St. Louis Cardinals took over first place. The
Phillies would finish with a 92–70 record, the best season since the
1950 pennant-winning Whiz Kids, but there would be no World Series
for my Phils. The ten-game losing streak to end the season did them in
and my academic year followed suit.
My third-grade teacher, Miss Angelo, was a creepy old maid who
made my teeth itch and my skin crawl. She dressed like the Amish and
smelled like Ben Gay and, for the life of me, I just never could get
comfortable around her.
 Bellamy 37

Most of the children in my class thought they knew me; after all,
how much was there to know about an eight-year-old boy? You knew
his skill sets in athletics. You knew if he was a goody-goody, a bore, a
bully, a fighter, or a coward. You knew how bright or senseless a kid
was. You could also tell a lot about a kid by his parents. How strict
were they? What kind of job did their dad have and what type of
expectations and pressure did they place on their child? Did the kid
enjoy school, despise school, or simply tolerate it? But there really was
only one person who truly knew me, who understood me, and that
was Bellamy. In retrospect, he was the only one I felt safe and
comfortable with. I did not have to put on one of my many facades
with Bellamy. I could always be transparent.
North Hills Elementary was just about like any other grade school
in 1960s America. Due to an overwhelming national fear of
communism and the increasingly aggressive Soviet Union, we had
mandatory bombing drills. An alarm would sound throughout the
school, and we would have to briskly walk, single file, to the basement
of the school where we would be safe from the inevitable commie
bombs.
There was only one way to teach back then and there was only
one way to learn. If you, by some chance, did not learn that way, you
had purchased a one-way ticket to Dunceville. It was clear that I had
already boarded that train. I hated the “clone” mandate at school that
required a Pavlov dog’s mentality. Besides the fact that it bored me to
death, it never ended with a tasty treat. The bell would ring and the
clones would respond by walking into the classroom. Sitting at the
same open desks with the same laminate top and the same black
lacquer edge with the same groove to place the same number 2 pencil
in so that it would not roll away. The same 5 desks per row. A perfect
square. They would look at the same white, chalk-smeared
blackboard, the same teacher’s desk, the same 4 windows and the
same metal cage that protected the heater. The first hour of class,
English. “Class, open your Words Work for You to page 24.” Second
hour, math. Then recess, history, lunch, science. How dare I think
autonomously. Conformity was certainly not my strong suit.
38 G. Bradley Davis

One day, as Miss Angelo began with her lecturing, I began my

daily daydreaming, spotting a monarch butterfly dancing with the
wind outside the large window to my left. I followed the orange and
black ballet high into the trees and watched it disappear. New
beginnings, I thought. New school year and a new teacher, anything
was possible.
The first grading period arrived and Miss Angelo handed out the
report cards alphabetically, thank God, with short comments like
“Well done, Richard. Exceptional, Judith,” and “much improved,
Robert.” Miss Angelo always used the children’s proper names. The
report cards were 5 x 7 cards slid into a manila sleeve with the pupil’s
name handwritten on the front. When she handed me my report card,
she lowered her eyes and mumbled, “I expected more out of you,
Calvin.”
Yeah, so did I.
Walking home from school, I took the long way, through the black
section of town. I wanted to go to Pep Boys to pick-up a lock for my
bicycle, and it was shorter than walking the long way around. I knew
I was risking getting beat-up by Ricky Maddox, a black kid from my
class who was a head taller than me, but I really didn’t much care. I
figured that I deserved getting beat-up for simply being so stupid. I’ll
get that beating when I get home and Dasha sees the latest edition of the
“Disappointing Times.” That is when I saw Simone sitting on a swing in
her side yard.
Simone was in my class at school. A pretty little thing with a kind
heart who always seemed authentic. She did not see me as I stopped
to watch her dress blow high in the air exposing her dark thighs and
white panties with little pink flowers scattered on them. I was totally
mesmerized as I watched her swing back with bended knees, then
extending her legs forward as she pointed them toward the sky. There
was a sense of dance in her swinging as if she were leaping gracefully
in a ballet performed for only one spectator, me. It was in the
downswing that she turned and caught me staring at her. I felt sudden
heat on my face as I turned quickly and started walking down the
street, but Simone took the momentum of the upswing, flew off the
seat and ran across her yard in an angular path to cut off my stride.
 Bellamy 39

“How long were you watching me?” She said as she cut off my
exit route.
“I wasn’t watching you. I mean, I saw you, but I wasn’t staring or
anything.”
“I like that you were watching me, Calvin. You know you don’t
have to be afraid of me,” she said with a curious smile.
Yes, I knew that, yet there was an uneasiness that came over me.
“Where ya going?”
“Nowhere. Home, I guess.”
Simone’s skin was the color of almonds, and her hair was the color
of dark cocobolo which had a thousand little ripples like tiny waves
running from a thrown pebble. She had large, dark brown eyes that
were both bright and welcoming.
“Did you get your report card?” She asked.
Of all the things we could talk about, she brings up my grades?
“Yeah,” I answered reluctantly.
“How many A’s did you get?”
This wasn’t going well. I really didn’t want to talk about my grades.
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t look at your report card? Let me see.” Before I could
conceal the envelope, she grabbed the manila sleeve from my hand.
“Give it the hell back!” I screamed.
Holding the sleeve above and behind her head, I leaped toward
her. As I came dangerously close to her cheek, I smelled the aerial
notes of jasmine and the woody tones of a freshly cut cedar. As I
pushed forward my hand for the report card I brushed fleetingly
against her breast, not that a third-grade girl had anything to speak of.
I was prepared for her reaction, but none came.
“Here,” she said as she handed me the report card. “You didn’t
have to get so upset.”
I jerked the manila jacket from her hand, turned my back to her
and headed home.
Before I reached the corner of our property, I got a whiff of
something coming from Dasha’s kitchen. Stemming from a passion for
food and the capability to consume large quantities of it, I had the
uncanny ability of being able to catch a whiff of her cooking by the
40 G. Bradley Davis

time my foot hit the corner of Hawthorne and Locust and be able to
tell exactly what was for dinner that evening. Dasha was a good cook,
not in the Lobster Thermador sort of way, but in the well-rounded
salad, meat, starch, veggie type of way, sometimes with a Ukrainian
flair. Lifting my nose toward the north-northeast to get a better sniff, I
decided it was pork chops and fried onions. Another good dinner
option, but I knew the meal would be anything but pleasant.
As I approached our driveway, I noticed a colony of ants
devouring a grasshopper. It gave me the feeling that I was about to be
the grasshopper. Dasha was anxiously waiting for me at the kitchen
door, expecting some cosmic phenomenon to occur where I would get
straight A’s which, of course, would reflect well on her. Three out of
four of her children were model students and a real blessing to be
around. Unfortunately, for both of us, the planets were not going to
align on this day. When she saw the list of C’s and D’s, her blood
pressure shot to her head like a steaming geyser and shouted, “What’s
wrong with you? Why can’t you be like your brother and sisters?
Indeed. Why can’t I be more like them. I knew what was coming next.
She walked down the hall to her bedroom and reached into my dad’s
side of the closet retrieving a thick brown leather belt. She knew that
the belt would have greater impact on my skin than a wooden spoon.
Thankfully, I was wearing pants and not shorts. When I was younger,
I would have to pull down my pants and undershorts to get my
beatings. As I got older, she would simply aim for the legs if I was
wearing shorts. Dasha was the very definition of insanity. She would
continue the thrashings every marking period even though, for some
inexplicable reason, the beatings never seemed to improve my grades.
The first whip was always the worst. Dasha cocked back her arm
and hit me just above my waist, in the soft area just beneath my right
arm. That tender skin which never receives sun when you are at the
beach. It hurt. It hurt bad, but I was determined not to give her the
satisfaction of even a single tear. I would simply stare at her
expressionless. The second blow was supposed to land in the same
spot but caught my elbow, and it hurt as badly as the first. She would
normally swing until she got tired which, depending on the day,
consisted of seven or eight lashes. I took the beating and never did cry.
 Bellamy 41

“Go to your room!” Dasha shouted.

Gladly! And to my room I went. Sitting on the thick green rug at
the foot of my bed, I felt Bellamy’s warm hand against my shoulder.
“I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not stupid.” Bellamy
spoke softly, in almost a whisper.
“Then why do my grades suck?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but what I do know is that you don’t try to do
poorly in school. It’s just so damn hard to pay attention.”
I said nothing for a long while. Finally, I turned to Bellamy and
said, “I hate her. She doesn’t love me. Isn’t a mother supposed to love
their kids no matter what? I swear to God, she hates me.”
In retrospect, I now get Dasha, although it took a few decades.
Hurt people, hurt people. It really is that simple. No one is born mean,
but a pitiful environment for a little kid can really scramble their
psyche. Things happen to people that tear at their heart. Often, time
will help heal the heart, but when that tear is deep, it leaves a scar.
Scars never disappear. Scars are reminders of a painful experience.
In retrospect, I am sure that I was aware of this, but I would never
cut Dasha any slack and, perhaps, rightly so. I knew that Dasha had
been treated very poorly as a kid and, like me, she never outgrew the
pain. What was confusing was, if she knew how badly it feels for a kid
to be deemed worthless, why in the world would she choose to inflict
that kind of emotional pain on her husband’s kid?
I was never told that much about my stepmother’s childhood. I
would pick up tidbits here and there, mostly when Dasha and her
sister got together. There were, however, questions that no one could
answer, and I never asked. Questions like, why is it that those who
mistreat their own children often extend a warm and inviting love to
children that aren’t theirs, presenting a kind and loving facade that
these children would find alluring? Why could they extend this love
and acceptance to other children but not their own, albeit
stepchildren?
I wondered if some people were just born nasty or if one’s
environment was the culprit for their evil ways. What about that article
in the paper I read about that son of a judge who cheated on his wife and when
his mistress got pregnant, killed his lover and unborn child and buried her
42 G. Bradley Davis

body in a shallow grave behind his Daddy’s cabin up in the Poconos? Now
that boy had a good upbringing, but he turned out rotten. Or the boy who had
watched his alcohol-loving daddy use his mommy as an anvil too many times
and told his son he was a worthless as a tit on a boar hog? That boy grew up
with a mean streak the size of Montana. He went down south somewhere and
was executed for raping and killing 3 women. Clearly, his environment
scarred him, but would he have turned out differently if he grew up in a
nurturing and loving home? Nature or nurture? It truly is a paradox. I
wondered how my childhood would impact me when I became an
adult.
“Yes, Cal, she is supposed to love you. It sucks, but it is what it is.
Look at it this way, the day you reach eighteen you can leave and never
look back,” Bellamy said as he put his hand on my shoulder. Eighteen
seemed like a lifetime away. “What we really need is to find a way to
handle her. We cannot continue to take this crap! You’re nothing more
than an old, dusty rug that she throws over the clothesline and beats.
That is how she views you. With each whack she actually sees the dirt
coming out of you. If we put our heads together, we can come up with
a something that make her think twice before laying a hand on you.
It is a shame that kids simply lack the wisdom that age and life
experiences bring. I have found that life really is all about a few
decisions. Not whether you should order chocolate or strawberry or
whether you should steal second base. Life is about three or four,
maybe as many as a half dozen, decisions that will drastically alter
your life, depending upon how you choose. They are forks in the road,
and if you choose the wrong road, you may never get back to the
original course that was heading in the right direction.
In my late forties I began climbing glaciers, which has provided
many life-lessons. Life is much like mountaineering. As you climb the
glacier of life, you take along sixty pounds of past experiences in your
backpack. All those experiences are necessary to reach the summit, but
critical decisions need to be made as you labor along. A climb is not
easy. Neither is life. Taking the time to do a Rutschblock test to
determine the stability of the snow is imperative, but ignoring the
likelihood of an avalanche and continuing to climb is foolhardy at best.
Doing the little things also improves the chances of summiting. Things
 Bellamy 43

like staying hydrated and consuming calories that are being quickly
exhausted by extreme physical exertion are as important as using an
ice axe to knock excess snow from your crampons.
When you are absolutely spent and do not think you can go on,
you have options. You can quit and head back to where you started,
to the safety of the past. You can press forward, despite the discomfort
and difficulty, because your eyes are on the prize, something you
believe is obtainable. Or, you can remain where you are, afraid to go
forward, afraid to go back down the mountain. That decision is always
fatal. You will end up starving, or dying from exposure on the
mountain. In life you die a slow death of boredom and lack of
stimulation. That is how many people exist.
These decisions are so crucial that they will decide the direction
the remainder of your life takes. Certainly, the person you marry and
what career path you want to pursue are two of those decisions, but
there are always a few unexpected ones. My fear growing up was that,
when faced with a life-changing decision, I would select the wrong
one. Of course, you can avoid making the decision entirely, but that
often ends up being as costly as making the incorrect one.
I had no idea how long we had been sitting there in solitude. It
must have been a while because I had forgotten Bellamy was still there
when he finally broke the silence.
“She’s pretty and so nice to us.”
“Who?” I muttered, ignoring Bellamy’s use of the plural.
“You know who I mean. Simone.”
“She’s alright, I guess.”
“She likes you,” Bellamy added. I ignored the comment but
wondered if that could be true. Does Simone really like me?
I wonder why it is that so many of us think that if someone really
knew us there would be no way they could really like us? Is self-
loathing that comfortable that we feel no one can love us since we
don’t even love ourselves? Is it really that unbelievable that someone
would love us? Actually, for some of us the answer is yes.
“But she’s colored,” I added.
“So?”
“I can’t have a colored girl as a girlfriend.”
44 G. Bradley Davis

“Why not?” asked Bellamy.

“Yeah, why not,” I mumbled. “Because you know the crap I’ll get
from dad, Dasha…everybody!”
“If they expect the worst from you, what does it matter?” asked
Bellamy.
Bellamy had a good point. I got up off the floor about the same
time I heard Dasha calling me to wash-up for dinner. I could not stop
thinking, or rather, obsessing over Simone. I kept telling myself that it
was crazy, absurd, yet I could not get her out of my mind, that is, until
I heard Dasha call everyone to supper.
Dasha had prepared a meatless dinner, but one that I loved: fried
eggplant, sweet, white Jersey corn-on-the-cob, fried tomatoes, and
tomato gravy. The tomato gravy wasn’t traditional spaghetti sauce,
but rather a sweet sauce made with whole milk and sugar, thickened
with flour and poured over white bread. All throughout dinner I felt
guilty, not so much about the report card, but that my thoughts were
consumed by a colored girl.
After dinner I went outside with my dog, Jackson, following close
behind. Laying on the ground, I felt the cool grass on my back. I looked
at Jackson who laid next to me. She cocked her head to the left and
stared at me with that inquisitive look as if she were wondering what
kind of “game” I would invent for the two of us to play. In the past I
had invented “Here come the bad people so we have to hide behind
the rhododendron until it is safe” game.” There also was the “You are
the outfielder and I’m the batter” game, as I would throw a tennis ball
as hard as I could against the stucco wall that made up the side of our
house, so it would fly over my head compelling her to leap, catch, and
return with eagerness to repeat the game.
As was lying on my back, Jackson wondered, “What kind of game
could this be? It was the “look at the clouds and find a face, an animal,
or even a huge bag of popcorn” game. Jackson did not like that game
much at all. I looked at the puffy cumulus-formed marshmallows and
stared. It did not take long for me to find a sea turtle that changed into
a rhinoceros when the clouds moved and finally into a large, arching
bridge over an ocean of foamy water. I wondered where the bridge
went. Wherever it was, I wanted to go there.
 Bellamy 45

CHAPTER SEVEN

Choose your friends wisely, then cherish them forever.

T
he house I grew up in was a brick-faced ranch house on the
corner of Hawthorne and Locust Roads in the eastern edge of
North Hills. The other three sides of the house were white
stucco with its sharp scalloped points that I found difficult to
bounce a tennis ball off. Rhododendrons grew in front of both the
living room and the bedroom I shared with my brother Ted; ewes
grew in front of the dining room. A breezeway separated the house
from the 2-car garage, and there were three tall oak trees in the front
yard, the tallest which stood at the corner of the yard where no grass
would grow. There, I would play in isolation with my matchbox cars,
creating roads and tunnels in the large roots, entertaining myself for
hours with some imaginary rural road trip. Imagination and loneliness
were attached to my life like ticks on a wild turkey.
The backyard had a cherry tree, a peach tree, and a pear tree; the
pear tree never produced fruit, which always reminded me of the Bible
story I had heard in Sunday School of the barren fig tree that Jesus
cursed. The backyard butted up against Mr. Slaven’s expansive
property which he allowed my friends and I to play football. Mr.
Slaven sold the adjoining lot to my dad in 1960, which is when we built
our family home.
Flowing from the windows of my home were sounds and smells
that were warm and inviting, like the late August waves at the
seashore. Arriving back home I would often be greeted with waves of
fresh baked bread or the sound of my brother Ted playing the piano
or cornet, or my sisters, Olivia, and Audrey, practicing their clarinet
or flute. Ted was a gifted musician, and it did not go unnoticed by
46 G. Bradley Davis

Dasha or my father. Ted would skirt chores for the sake of practicing
his music and, since I lacked any obvious talent, I was relegated to
assume his chores as well as mine. In retrospect, I guess that made
sense. No matter how hard I tried playing the piano or cornet, it was
futile. Somehow the music-gene that my siblings possessed skipped
over me, just another confirmation that I did not belong to this family.
It was like a Highlights for Children magazine that often had some
drawing and would ask the reader to find those items that did not
belong in the picture. There might be a picture of a sailboat on the
water and in the clouds at the top of the picture you would discover a
pitchfork. I was the pitchfork.
Ted was not an “outside” kind of kid. He ran like ink from a
fountain pen; deliberately and slow. I, however, was as fast as an
arrow from a bow. I once won a 100-yard dash when I was in second
grade. The race was for first, second, and third graders and the boys
who placed second and third were both third graders. I only tell you
this because I come from a long line of non-athletic people, and I am
very proud of that accomplishment. Athletics was never encouraged
in the Lloyd household; academics and music were.
My frugal stepmother, having grown up poor during the Great
Depression, knew how to make a dollar last beyond its life expectancy.
Meatless dinners were common, and Dasha would find creative ways
to be economical. I would marvel at how she would collect the small
pieces of soap which had become unusable until she had nine or ten
of them and then sew them in an old washcloth to create a sudsy cloth
once wet.

North Hills was an archetypal, all-American town. There were the

railroad tracks on the east and southside of town and a country club
which bordered the westernmost edge of the sleepy hamlet. Penbryn
Park, nicknamed by the local kids Chollie Mollie’s, sat on the east side
of town, just behind the row of houses lining Edge Hill Road. The town
had two penny candy stores, that is until Kline’s closed, leaving
Plockies as the lone tabernacle of cheap treats. Chernoff’s pharmacy,
 Bellamy 47

Joe’s Market, Jack Frost soft ice cream stand and a taproom that sat
next to the fried seafood joint, were all on the perimeter of town,
allowing the rectangular grid of homes to occupy the interior of the
town.
On any given summer morning, you could get whiffs of scrapple,
pork roll or other salty breakfast meats escaping from the screened
windows of working North Hills kitchens. Freshly washed laundry
would hang with wooden clothes pins in the early morning summer
air. Bicycles sounding like wannabe motorcycles by securing a
baseball card of a perennial .220 hitter onto the frame of the rear wheel
with the same wooden clothes pin could be heard along the scuffing
of sneakers as young girls hopscotched their way to home base.
Caddy corner to where I lived was the home of Mr. Krauthammer,
commonly called Mr. Crap-hammer by the local teenage
establishment, due to his refusal to allow kids to retrieve balls or stray
frisbees that found his yard. Rumors were that he would confiscate
any ball that was hit into his property and any kid trying to retrieve
them was never heard from again, but I never knew a kid that had
disappeared behind the forsaken land. Large oak and maples trees
created a darkened domain and a 15-foot untrimmed Arborvitae
hedge formed a green wall which gave the property more than
privacy, making it the darkest house on the block. The sun struggled
to make its way through the shaded trees which enabled thick moss to
cover the dark grey asbestos shingles. Every time I would look at Mr.
Krauthammer’s house I would see imaginary gargoyles with sharp elf-
ears, bat wings and gnashing teeth leaning over edge of the roof
waiting for a wandering youngster to devour. My imagination was not
always a good thing. Growing up, fear never seemed far off.
I would hang around with some of the other boys from my class
as there were always six or seven kids you could gather for a pick-up
game of whiffle ball or football. Usually, I hung out with Larry and
Bobby, who we called Hunchback and Muskrat, as I have said. The
nicknames they received at Camp Wackasack stuck. Often, when you
could find the three of us together, Charlie “Choo-Choo” Cardin
would tag along.
48 G. Bradley Davis

Sometimes I would wonder where each of them would land

twenty years later. Hunchback, would probably be a carpenter or
electrician. Muskrat might become a doctor or dentist. Choo-Choo’s
future would be less promising. I expected him to end up as a
gravedigger, or trash collector. Me? I wasn’t quite sure what I was
destined to be, but I would dream about the possibilities. Fueled by
television shows like The Lone Ranger, F-Troop, Gilligan’s Island, Get
Smart, Batman, The Wild, Wild West, Bonanza, Hogan’s Heroes, The Man
from U.N.C.L.E., Mission Impossible, and Sea Hunt, I had wanted to be a
cowboy, an Indian, a farmer, professional baseball player, sailor, an
Indian again, a herpetologist, a spy, a professional football player,
President of the United States, an assassin, and a scuba diver. It was
not until I realized that an Indian was an indigenous American, an
ethnicity rather than an occupation, that I gave up that dream.
After a breakfast of Sugar Pops, I had some chores to do; empty
the dishwasher, collect the trash and take the cans out to the curb, and
mow the lawn. Once completing the tasks, I went to my room where
Bellamy and I began inspecting a box of animal skulls I had collected
from my many explorations in the woods when Dasha walked into my
room. I had been grounded for the better part of eternity for breaking
a garage window with a homemade slingshot.
“This came in the mail for you,” Dasha announced.
My eyes grew as large as hubcaps when I saw the box wrapped
in brown paper and tied in twine.
“I’ve been waiting for this! Thanks, Mom!” I said, using the title
Dasha preferred.
I would often send away for novelties and tricks I found at the
back of MAD magazines or Sad Sack comic books. Three weeks earlier
I had sent away for some unbelievable treasures I found advertised in
one those comic books. The ads were more than enticing.

Enter the WONDERFUL WORLD of AMAZING LIFE

SEA-MONKEYS
Own a BOWLFUL OF HAPPINESS—INSTANT PETS!
 Bellamy 49

What really sold me on ordering the Sea Monkeys was the

promise that they were so eager to please. Heck, they could even be
trained, so the advertisement stated. Instant pets, instant friends!
I pulled the bag containing the Sea Monkeys out of the box. I
would have to explore my treasure chest of novelties in secret since
my dad told me not to order anything from the back of a comic book
because it was a colossal waste of money. I reached into the box feeling
around for the other things I had ordered, pulling out a pair of X-Ray
Spex. For only a dollar I would be able to see right through the clothes
of the beautiful sixth grader, Mandy Breyer who lived down the street
from me. The last item I found in the box was a packet of itching
powder which, little did I know, was actually finely ground finger
nails and toe nails shipped from somewhere in China. I would need a
naïve and oblivious volunteer to try that new gag gift on and I knew
that my older brother, Ted, would do just fine.
My brother and I had nothing in common but our last names. Ted
was a more serious specimen of teenagerhood. Serious about his
studies, serious about his stamp collecting and serious about getting
into State, where he planned on majoring in music. I was the anti-Ted,
and I lived to torment my all-too-serious-and-boringly-studious
brother, if for no other reason than because he was at the top of my
stepmother’s pecking order. I found him at the bottom of that ladder
and I despised the whole idea of a family social hierarchy, but that is
the way it was.
There were also those occasions that I accidently made my
brother’s life miserable, like the time I convinced Ted to play David and
Goliath. Ted was Goliath, of course. I mined a puppet from deep in the
corner of the large wooden toy chest, placed a nicely shaped stone in
it, twirled it around my head and let it fly. No one was more surprised
than me when it hit Ted squarely on his temple, knocking him silly
and to the ground. The easy flow of blood from Ted’s forehead
immediately brought fear and shock as my brother sat on the
driveway in a painful stupor. Thankfully, and most likely because Ted
had yet to gather his wits, my brother begged Dasha not to take me to
the woodshed, and so I miraculously escaped what seemed to be the
inevitable corporal punishment.
50 G. Bradley Davis

With the itching powder in hand, I slipped down the darkened

hallway, past my parent’s bedroom, to the last door on the left.
Ground zero! Ted had laid out a light blue, long-sleeve sweater-shirt
on his bed that he was planning on wearing to a piano recital that
evening. Perfect! Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out the small white
envelope and noticed some Chinese writing on the front of the packet.
For a split second or two, I wondered if the writing was a warning of
some sort as I sprinkled the powder around the inside of the pullover.
Too late now.
Ted had been in the shower, and I listened carefully for the
water to stop. Time to exit the bedroom and look inconspicuous. Passing
by the bathroom, I saw him come out with a towel wrapped around
his waist and headed down the hallway toward the bedroom. I
knew Ted would take at least a few minutes to comb his hair and
glue it down with half a can of hairspray. My brother’s hair had to
look perfect. I decided to wait in the living room for the show to
begin. It would be another 10 minutes before Ted would come into
the living room and I thought it best to lay low in the company of
my parents.
Ted entered the room wearing the rust-colored dicky that laid
tight against his neck and already had made small gestures of
discomfort as he scratched his rib cage and again on his elbow. It
wasn’t long before he was itching as though he had been trapped in
a wool straight jacket with disturbed ant hills in the arm pits. It was
only a moment later when Ted screamed that something was alive
and crawling all over his body. He pulled the sweater up over his
head in two seconds flat, still screaming something unintelligible as
he ran into the kitchen.
I tried stifling the hilarity that was building up inside of me, with
little success.
The Chinese itching powder was as advertised and worth every
cent. Now howling uncontrollably, I had not noticed my parents who
had left the living room to see why Ted was screaming. Within
minutes, Ted was back in the shower trying to remove that which was
 Bellamy 51

torturing him. My reaction told my parents everything they needed to

know; that I had done something to make Ted’s afternoon unbearable.
The beating and time I spent in Dasha’s gulag was well-worth the
punishment!
52 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER EIGHT
It is true that many creative people fail to make mature
personal relationships, and some are extremely isolated. It is
also true that, in some instances, trauma, in the shape of
early separation or bereavement, has steered the potentially
creative person toward developing aspects of his personality
which can find fulfillment in comparative isolation.
—Anthony Storr, Solitude: A Return to the Self

I
had finally slept an entire night in Aunt Gertie’s death bed. In
fact, it was a Saturday morning and I had slept past eight o’clock;
highly unusual for me. I was always an early to bed, early to rise
kind of guy. Saturdays were the only day unadulterated by
grown-ups, at least for the most part. When my stepmother would get
into one of her moods, chores would be dished-out and the prison
work crew would not have free time until noon. By that time, it was
nearly impossible to hunt down the gang.
I did not want to waste any time by sleeping in this specific day. I
had been saving money for months so I could make a special purchase
at the pet shop located across from the railroad station at the edge of
town. I threw on some jeans and my patriotic red, white, and blue
striped shirt, and ran into the kitchen. I opened the fridge, drank the
concentrated orange juice from its container and plopped a slice of
Wonder bread in the toaster. I saw a pork chop left over from dinner
on a plate in the fridge and the longer I waited for the toaster to pop
up, the more I could not get that hunk of meat out of my head. The
refrigerator door opened at the same time the toast jumped out of its
slot. Grabbing the pork chop by the bone and putting the toast in my
 Bellamy 53

mouth, I raced out the kitchen door. Within seconds I was on my bike,
flying down Hawthorne Road and turning on to Locust.
Down the street I peddled turning right on Hazel Avenue and
then a left down busy Edge Hill Road. Crossing the road, I went into
the parking lot at Chernoff’s Pharmacy for a package of vanilla wafers,
and across Jenkintown Road to the pet store, where Muskrat was
waiting for me, looking a bit pensive.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Today’s the day we’ve been
waiting for. I’ve saved up for this for months. I’ve taken on more lawns
to cut and even washed Mrs. Lawrence’s windows!”
“Yeah, I know,” Muskrat said with an expression of apprehension
on his face. “Something’s wrong with my dad.”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno. He’s just acting different. The other day my mom called
him at work because the washer went on the fritz, but his secretary
said he took a personal day. He never told my mom he was taking the
day off. When my mom asked him about it, he just said he had to run
a bunch of errands and didn’t want to waste a Saturday. Then, he
started growing a beard. My dad with a beard? Are you kidding me?
You know him. He’s not the beard type. Heck, he even shaves on
Saturdays.”
“Ah, it’s probably nothing,” I said as I propped my bicycle against
the side of the weathered, whitewashed building, the paint peeling in
large flakes, silently pleading for a fresh coat.
A bell announced our arrival as I opened the door. The proprietor
always struck me as a person who disliked animals, which really made
no sense to me. He was a smallish man with a belly too large for his
frame. The man was bald, except for a pushover which did not cover
a third of the area where hair had long before abandoned him. The
store reeked of animal turds and dirty cages, but I knew we would not
be in there long. I had waited for the “25% OFF ALL REPTILES ONE
DAY SALE” which was today. I maneuvered down the aisles crowded
with charcoal air filters, sacks of feed and carpeted cat trees, to find
what would be my new pet, a 3-foot green iguana. There were a few
smaller ones in the next aquarium, but I wanted the big boy. Thirteen
dollars seemed to be a fair price for an exotic trophy like this, and I
54 G. Bradley Davis

had already selected a name, Mabel, assuming the green prehistoric

friend was a female.
I have always been driven to do the opposite of the masses. In that
regard, I strove to be different. I knew no one who had an iguana as a
pet; that was one of the attractions of owning one.
“I’ll take the green iguana,” I said to the store owner.
The man’s back was to us as he was bent over stacking cans of dog
food into a giant pyramid.
“The big one?” the man asked.
“Yep, the big one.”
The man’s eyebrows raised as he grabbed a nearby shelf to help
steady himself as he rose from a squatting position. The iguana had
been for sale for a year and a half and the man thought he’d never sell
it, but now that the price dropped, it entered my sweet spot.
Digging into my right-front jean pocket, I pulled out ten one-
dollar bills, some balled-up into a tight little orb, and a fist full of
change. Accompanying the money was a flattened piece of Bazooka
bubble gum and a blue-grey piece of lint. Carefully I counted out the
thirteen dollars and gave it to the man.
“You’re 78 cents short,” the man exclaimed.
“What do you mean? I thought it cost thirteen dollars since it is
on sale,” I replied.
“It is. Thirteen dollars plus six percent tax.”
My heart dropped. It figures. How could I have forgotten about
the stinkin’ tax? I looked at the iguana, then to the man, then back to
the iguana. I started to gather the cash I had laid out on the counter
when the man said, “Go ahead and take the lizard. I’ve had him for
over a year, and I don’t think anyone else is waiting in line for him.”
“Gee, thanks Mister,” I said with eyebrows raised.
The man pulled out a flat piece of carboard from behind the
counter and began folding it at pre-creased points. Quickly, a box with
handles began to take shape. Gently, he lifted the iguana out of the
glass aquarium and placed it in cardboard box.
“What do I feed him,” I asked.
“Lettuce and insects. Crickets, flies, mosquitos.”
 Bellamy 55

“We can catch tons of crickets down at the ballfield,” suggested

Muskrat. “I’ve gotta get home. My dad’s mounting a basketball hoop
on our garage roof. I’ll see ya later.”
The man handed the box to me and, almost immediately, I began
to contemplate how I was going to sell the idea of a 3-foot pet lizard to
Dasha. When I opened the door to exit, the bell rang once again,
signaling the beginning of this junior herpetologist’s fascination with
reptiles.
I grabbed my bike and rode home with one hand on the handlebar
and the other holding the cardboard box, up Locust Avenue to the
corner of Hawthorne Road, where my home stood. In the corner of the
garage, I found my old aquarium, dirty and dusty, but without a crack
in the glass. I had bought it a few years earlier when I went through
my tropical fish phase. Now it would house the mother of all pets, an
iguana. I knew no one who had an iguana. I would stand alone in my
quest for “Pet Individuality.”
After cleaning the aquarium, I collected some gravel, a rock I had
found in Chollie Mollies, the local enchanted forest. I also found a
twisted stick and positioned both in the aquarium so it looked like the
lizard’s natural habitat, or what I imagined it would have looked like.
To my bedroom I went, the box containing the iguana under one arm
and the aquarium under the other. When I got to my room, Bellamy
was sitting on the bed.
“An iguana?” asked Bellamy.
“Yeah! Isn’t it great?”
“It sure is! No one has an iguana.”
“I know, right?”
“What are you going to tell the commandant?”
“I don’t know,” I responded.
“Well, maybe we should figure that out, ‘cause she’ll be home
soon.”
“Well, I think I’ll tell her that I’m really getting interested in
science and studying a live lizard can only help me in the classroom.”
“Brilliant!” shouted Bellamy.
56 G. Bradley Davis

It was after four when my stepmother got home from the Food
Fair. With groceries in her arms, she rushed about knowing she had
little time to prepare dinner.
“Mom,” I said. “I need to show you something.”
“Not now, Calvin. I’ve got to get dinner going.”
I went back into the bedroom I shared with his brother and
crouched over to get a closer look at my new pet. Pressing my nose
against the aquarium I went eye-to-eye with the large, green reptile.
Lifting the screen from above the enclosure, I gently lifted the iguana
out of its glass home. I laid on back on my bed and placed the iguana
on my chest so I could study its face up close.
“Your name is Mabel,” I said matter-of-factly.

I did not realize that I had fallen asleep, nor how long I had been out.
Startled, I looked around the bed for the iguana, but she was nowhere
to be found. Quickly I jumped on the floor and looked under both my
bed and his brother’s, but no Mabel. Under the bureaus and in the
closet, I searched, but to no avail. While the rest of the Lloyd
household went about with life as normal, I searched high and low for
the miniature dinosaur. Not finding him anywhere, I retreated to my
bedroom. When I opened the door, I saw my brother lying on his
stomach reading a book, and Mabel hanging on the curtain behind his
bed.
Before I could say anything, the iguana lurched forward and
landed on Ted’s back and began slowly walking toward his neck.
Feeling the gripping nails on his back, Ted turned his head only to see
the prehistoric green face staring back at him.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Ted screamed as he leaped from his bed
to the hallway in a millisecond.
I heard Dasha’s footsteps running down the hall as I grabbed
Mabel, who was clinging to the bedspread near the floor, and placed
her back in the aquarium. When all the commotion died down and I
had explained to my parents the “no returns” policy of the pet store, I
quietly accepted the 2-week grounding penalty and went down the
 Bellamy 57

stairs to the rec room without turning the light on. Bellamy was there
waiting for me.
“Well, that went well,” Bellamy said with a belly laugh.
“I can’t do anything right. Everyone hates me.”
Looking directly at me, Bellamy said, “You are incorrect on both
accounts. You can do plenty of things right. The problem is that you
are misunderstood.”
“I want to be understood,” I said as he looked down at my feet.
“It’s not the end of the world. Actually, it was pretty funny, don’t
you think?”
Once I gave it another thought, I had to agree with Bellamy. The
whole thing was pretty funny.
“Look,” said Bellamy, “we are not going to keep taking abuse
forever. I promise you that. There is going to come a time when we
will respond, and when we do, the world better watch out! A
volcano can only hold back the pressure for so long! When it erupts,
all hell breaks loose!”
What I did not realize then was that most people have no idea
how much they really do not know. They live in a movie where
everything is scripted for them. They act how the script tells them to
act. They move stage left, stage right, house left or house right. They
cry when the script says cry and laugh when it says to laugh. They are
robots who, the longer they play their assigned role, become numb to
the sensitivities of the world. They live an entire life without
swimming outside the fishbowl and, if they ever do realize that they
have been duped, it’s too late and the curtain falls.
My desire was to dance to the rhythm of a different tune; it was
who I was. Instinctive. Most children yearn for conformity; however,
I have always been suspicious of conformity, even more so as I grew
older. Conformity insinuates that the masses are correct. As the years
turned its pages, I began to see the plot of the story that had been
written for me. Conformity is more than boring; it is a life killer. Not
the longevity of life, but the experience of life. A life worth living.
Although I may not have realized it, I was a modern-day Lewis or
Clark. I pioneered through the wilderness. Bears and lions, and
storms, drought, and floods tried to throw me off course, but I would
58 G. Bradley Davis

not have any of it. I was going to be just fine. Heck, even Bellamy
agreed with a beaming smile!
 Bellamy 59

CHAPTER NINE
A good youth ought to have a fear of God, to be subject to
his parents, to give honor to his elders, to preserve his
purity; he ought not to despise humility, but should love
forbearance and modesty. All these are an ornament to
youthful years.
—Saint Ambrose

D
own on Ivy Lane lived an odd little bachelor by the name of
Perry Strathmore. I had heard the fathers at Indian Guides
refer to Perry as “a little funny” but I never found him very
funny at all. Yeah, he was odd, but funny? Not so much.
Besides, these fathers always joked around. Why would they criticize
a man offering some comic relief?
Mr. Strathmore was frequently seen wearing a paisley ascot, bell-
bottom slacks with buttons at the fly instead of a zipper, and sported
a peridot ring on his pinky. Strathmore was always on the cutting edge
of fashion. His wavy blonde hair was long over his ears and combed
to the side where he would use a bobby pin to keep it in place. I had
never seen a man wearing a bobby pin before. Perry was never seen
outside without wearing his signature horn rim sunglasses and would
ride around town in a canary yellow Triumph Spitfire, which I thought
was more than cool; a California look in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
He was a florist and shared a building with his brother who was also
single and owned a shoe repair shop simply called The Village Cobbler.
One day my dad told me to come with him to Weldon’s Auto
Parts; he needed to pick up struts for the Chevy. I sensed that my
stepmother was about to pour wrath upon me for God-knows-what-I-
had-done-or-not done and thought it a good idea to get out of the
60 G. Bradley Davis

house for a spell. It was just the two of us as we turned the corner onto
Ivy Lane when we saw Mr. Strathmore outside his house raking
leaves. Perry looked up when he heard our car, stopped raking and
gazed at us as if starring into the abyss. Abruptly my dad turned to
me and said, very matter-of-factly, “Stay away from that man.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Just stay away from him.”
I could tell by his answer that I was not to ask any more questions.
I could only assume that he was a very bad man.

Fourth grade is sort of like hump year for a kid in elementary school.
You are not one of the little kids, yet you’re definitely not one of the
short timers; soon to enter into the world of Junior High. You are in
transition, and you find yourself in no man’s land—you don’t really
belong to any group. There are challenges galore, not the least of which
is prepuberal purgatory.
I often felt like I was in limbo between two worlds, but one thing
that always makes a kid feel better about life is a dog. Every child
needs a dog. Period. It was just about this time that I brought Cookie
home in a cardboard box. Our family had been dogless for over a year
after ol’ Jackson had gotten whacked by an Oldsmobile. He was
chasing some calico cat and closing in on the filthy, stinkin’, feral
moggy when he got blindsided. But Tommy Macalister’s dog had just
had a litter of pups and asked me if I wanted one...for FREE!
Truly, there really isn’t anything cuter than a six-week-old
puppy and within the litter there was one whelp that seemed
segregated from the rest of the group. When I saw that isolated pup,
I knew that dog that was meant for me. It takes one to know one.
She had a beautiful taffy and white and velvety-soft ears; one ear
standing up, the other laying down. The puppies were mongrels; a
mix between a German Shorthaired Pointer, a beagle, and some
unknown breed; a mutt just like me, but a beautiful, friendly dog,
nonetheless. Tommy told me that the dogs were spayed, possibly
because his mother threatened him that if he didn’t give away all
 Bellamy 61

the puppies by the end of the week, they would be euthanized. But I
would soon find out that was not the case.
At first, Dasha was pretty upset about me springing a puppy on
the family without asking for permission. She had reminded me that
it was a rerun of when I had brought home the iguana without
permission. However, it did not take long for the entire family to fall
head-over-heels in love with the little soft, furry canine, and luckily
avoiding punishment, Cookie became a fixture within our household.
I should have said that punishment for bringing the dog home
was delayed. Nine months later, having not realized that Cookie had
reached her first estrous cycle, the inevitable happened. It was a late
autumn morning when I asked my older sister, Olivia, to give me and
a few friends a ride to band practice. I was never that interested in
playing in the school band; that was Dasha’s idea. Football was more
my passion. I was a natural at the sport, but I learned early on that if
you appeased Dasha and let her see for her own eyes that you were
not cut out for something, you had a much better chance at being
allowed to shift interests. In any case, my sister Olivia had a baby blue
Simca, a square French car that made the Volkswagen Beetle look like
a limousine. Olivia grabbed Cookie so she would have company
driving home after dropping us off at school.
Large clouds of breath could be seen as my sister and I exhaled
into the brisk autumn air. I opened the door for Cookie, and she
willingly jumped in, happy to be taking a ride. I rode shotgun and
placed the cornet on my lap. I was never quite sure why I ended up
trying to play a shrunken trumpet. It never appealed to me, but Dasha
wanted clones, not children with varied interests, and since my
brother played the cornet, I was going to play the cornet. The drums
or guitar would have been more my style, but the drums were
outlawed by Dasha due to their repetitive banging and the guitar was
not an acceptable instrument for the school band in the 60s and early
70s.
We first picked up Gary Vee (short for Vanderkamp) and his tenor
sax and then swung around the corner to pick up Earl Chisum and his
sousaphone. Earl wasn’t a small boy by any stretch of the imagination
and how he, Gary and that piece of twisted tuba-brass fit in the back
62 G. Bradley Davis

seat was a positional magnum opus. Maybe that’s why Cookie jumped
on the back dash. The poor girl seemed a bit agitated and was
breathing heavy enough to cause a ring of condensation to build on
the back window.
Olivia played with the stick on the column trying to get the Simca
in reverse and out of Earl’s driveway as Cookie breathed heavier
before we turned onto Locust Avenue. It was Gary who first noticed a
male mutt trotting down a driveway and towards the car. A short
while later another dog came from a back alley and joined the first dog
in following Olivia’s car. As they turned on to Elm Street two more
dogs from opposite sides of the street joined the others to form a posse.
Gary wiped the condensation off the back window with his
sweatshirt sleeve and said, “I think Cookie’s in heat.”
“Oh, she can’t be. She’s fixed.” Olivia answered.
“Well, I’m not a Vet, but Cookie’s vulva is swollen and there’s a
bloody discharge on your vinyl seats,” Gary exclaimed, always the
first to share his fourth-grade medical mind.
“Yeah,” Earl chimed in, “and there’s a half dozen horny dogs
following your car.”
With that, the three of us laughed hysterically while Olivia was
mortified and panicking.
“Hurry Olivia,” I screamed. “The dogs are gaining on us!”

The delayed punishment came in the form of a week of grounding.

That would not have been a big deal except for the fact that Dasha
knew I had plans for that Saturday. Skeeter’s father had been given
Eagles tickets for that Sunday, and he had invited me to go along with
them. Just another disappointment.

I opened the refrigerator scanning the shelves for something, anything

to eat. Nothing looked appealing, so I tore off a leaf of iceberg lettuce,
pushed the door shut and grabbed an apple from the bowl that sat on
 Bellamy 63

the kitchen table and headed to my room. The lettuce was for Mabel,
the apple for me. It had dawned on me that he had not fed the lizard
for several days. That is not good, I thought.
Entering the room, I was immediately hit with a smell that was a
cross between the cemetery pond and dead crayfish. A thick stench
that was not going to be covered by a can of Glade. Mabel sat
motionless. I grabbed a pencil from my brother’s bureau and removed
the screen off the top of the aquarium. Holding the point, I touched
Mabel’s head with the eraser. Nothing. I pushed a little harder. Still,
nothing. I prodded the iguana’s rib cage, but there was no movement.
She was, indeed, dead. What, I wondered, was the life expectancy of
an iguana living in an aquarium hardly longer than the length of the
reptile’s body?
I was pretty upset, but it had nothing to do with the death of my
green friend. It had everything to do with the lecture and, perhaps,
consequences I would face when Dasha learned of the lizard’s demise.
The lecture would be on wasting money and the repetitive reminder
of I told you so. It was time to improvise.
I jumped on my bike and rode to Chollie Mollies with a plastic
cup in hand. Following the trail, I rode quickly, doing my best Evel
Knievel impression as I lifted my bike into the air whenever I would
run over a large stone or root. Parking the bike by a mock orange tree,
I began lifting rocks and rotted logs to find some salamanders.
It did not take long before I found a green salamander,
appropriately named for its greenish-yellow patches that stood out
boldly against the otherwise black body. I watched as the morning air
hit the tiny amphibian’s body causing it to walk cautiously, slowly as
if each foot was lifting off a roll of sticky taffy candy. Not exactly a
small iguana, but it would have to do. After collecting five of the little
critters, it was back on the bike and quickly to home before anyone got
a whiff of the rotting carcass.
I threw open the kitchen door and grabbed an egg out its cradle
from the door of the refrigerator. Into Cookie’s bowl I cracked the egg
open and watched as the dog made quick work of the yoke and clear
slimy white. Flying down the hallway and into my room, I placed the
salamanders into the aquarium and crumbled the eggshells around
64 G. Bradley Davis

the gravel floor. My thinking was that someone would find Mabel
dead and deduct that she died giving birth. It sounded plausible to me
and, besides, no one in the family exactly excelled in the sciences. Little
did I know that if there is no male iguana, the female will lay eggs, but
they will not be fertilized. Five eggs were also not normal. They tend
to lay between 20 to 60 eggs, but who in the family would know that?
It did not take long before Mabel’s adopted family was spotted by
Dasha, having been drawn into Cal’s room by the fetid odor.
“Tom?” Dasha yelled.
“What’s up honey,” my father said as he poked his head into my
room. “Oh, what is that smell?”
“Cal’s lizard.”
“What about it?”
“He…she….it had babies!” Dasha cried.
“What? Babies? Oh, my…what in the world? Are you telling me
Cal bought a pregnant iguana? And this thing stinks. When was the
last time he cleaned this aquarium? Cal!”
I could tell that the discovery had been made. Flying like a startled
swallow from its camouflaged nest, I flew down the hallway to his
room.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Have you seen this?” my dad asked.
“What? Hey, what’s wrong with Mabel? She looks bad.”
“I think she’s dead. Get this aquarium out of here and bury that
thing in the backyard. Now!” My father ordered.
There was not any discipline handed down, partly because
everyone but me was relieved that the iguana no longer took residence
in the Lloyd household. The salamanders lasted for another month
and a half before I decided to take them back to the hollow in Chollie
Mollies where I had found them.
“Cal, my friend,” Bellamy said, “congratulations on a job well
done! I have to hand it to you. You improvised and covered your
tracks! That is exactly what I had told you we need to do.”
 Bellamy 65

CHAPTER TEN
Summertime: long days, no school, ice cream, warm
weather, amusement parks, watermelon, baseball, and
picnics—a child’s dream that comes true every year.

T
he late 60s were a time of strange and wonderful beginnings.
The country was changing, my family was changing, and I
was changing, albeit, without my consent. My sisters had
begun dating and my brother had come into his own as a
wonderfully gifted musician. My sense of adventure and discovery
made me feel like an experimental jet-fueled craft being tested on the
salt-flats. Every day had its own paradoxical reality. It was a time
when ice milk, a flavorless substitute for ice cream, and a deplorable,
inexpensive replacement for butter, was all the craze. The popular
ancillary for butter, sold in similar rectangular blocks, was a bit darker
in color, but tasted nothing like butter, contrary to the television
advertising blitz. It had a foul taste that could not be hidden no matter
how much strawberry jam I smothered it with. They called it
margarine, but it was really lard that was on an ego trip. Of course,
Dasha bought it because it was half the cost of butter. Later, I would
discover it was invented by some French guy responding to a
challenge by Napoleon to create a substitute for butter to be used for
by his armed forces and lower classes of citizens. Figures! No wonder
my dad hated the French!
When they were on sale, our family would eat TV dinners when
my dad had to work late. Peel back the aluminum foil to find
clandestine meat, peas with more wrinkles than my mom-mom, and a
cloud of something that was supposed to resemble mashed potatoes,
66 G. Bradley Davis

but tasted like heavy cotton. I would put a slab of margarine on it and
wait a half an hour for the yellow paste to melt.
Changes in my perspective were also taking place. I may have
been immature, but I was also observant, and little got past me.
Through my pre-adolescent philosophy of life, I tried to decipher why
some adults seemed habitually happy and kind, while others seemed
serious to the point of ad nauseam. From a young age I had an innate
ability to discern authentic smiles from artificial ones. It was a gift.
Sadly, I found that people who were immune to ulterior motives;
people who were truly as they appear, were, in fact, unfortunately
rare. I found that those individuals were often mistreated and taken
advantage of and too often, appeared married to someone unworthy
of their pureness. I called these people dandelions, because I always
believed dandelions were beautiful and the attractive “weeds” could
not care less that people were annoyed with them and wanted their
removal. They were going to smile everywhere they popped up. I
never could understand why it was so rare to find one dandelion
married to another dandelion. My Uncle Neil, Aunt Paula and Aunt
Margery were dandelions.
Reverend Markey was no dandelion. There was something off
about him, but I could not quite pin it down. Mouche, one of the kids
who went to camp with us, did not have a dad. He died at 44 from a
heart attack at work. Reverend Markey seemed to take the place of
Mouche’s dad; his car often seen in front of their house. Mouche pretty
much blew off the reverend, but his little brother, Tommy, was not so
lucky. What was stranger still was that Mouche’s family did not attend
our church. Perhaps the minister’s interest in Mouche and Tommy
was somewhat understandable since they were fatherless, but the
reverend also had a keen interest in Choo-Choo. That did not make
sense because Choo-Choo had a stepdad, albeit a poor representation
of a father. The few times we saw his stepfather he was always
ridiculing Choo-Choo.
 Bellamy 67

From a young age, I had the canine-like ability to hear the familiar
chime of the ice cream truck when it was still over a mile away. Then
again, when someone would blow a dog whistle my eyebrows would
rise, and I would cock my head like a vizsla.
It was a fine Saturday summer day, the Queen Anne’s Lace and
Chickadee were blooming wildly in places where there was but a
tablespoon of earth within the cracked pavement. I heard the
familiar "Ice Cream" song by Andre Nickatina (which is basically
Turkey in the Straw without the bass) while the white painted truck was
still a long way off. I knew I would have to start early with my sales
pitch if I had any chance of securing a dime from my parents.
Sometimes, if I was at my cousin’s house, or if we had some guests
over, there was always a greater chance of being successful, out of
sheer peer pressure. My parents certainly did not want to look cheap,
but the chances of them splurging for some ice cream were slim.
Regardless of the poor odds, I immediately went to Dasha first to hit
her up for a dime while she was sewing a skirt for my sister, Audrey.
Without missing a stich, she told me to go ask my father.
“Dad, can I have 10 cents? The ice cream truck is coming.”
“I don’t hear anything,” my dad mumbled while trying to read
the Philadelphia Bulletin.
“Well, I can hear it. It’s coming,” I pleaded.
“I think you’re hearing something else. Ask me again if it really
comes by,” my dad said.
The problem with waiting till the truck turned on to our road was
that we were the second house from the end of the road, or beginning
of the road, depending upon which direction the ice cream truck came.
More times than not, it always came down our street where we would
be the second house after the turn, so I knew that I had little time to
secure the money from one of my parents and catch the truck before it
turned the corner. The truck was not going to stop unless kids ran
toward it, and no one was going to come a-runnin’ till the truck
reached Elm Street. I had to make my case now, before it was too late.
“Dad, it’s getting closer. Please, can I have ten cents?” Somehow,
ten cents sounded like less money than a dime.
“Go ask your mother,”
68 G. Bradley Davis

This was not going well. My chances of getting my mouth around

a delicious artificially flavored and colored frozen strawberry-
shortcake-on-a-stick was dwindling. I thought about whimpering a
little, but that would only piss my father off, and then there would be
no chance, so I stood there. I stood there when the music got so loud it
sounded like the truck was in our living room. I stood there when I
could hear that the music had gone from east of our house, to clearly
west of our house and I stood there until the chime vanished.
I walked into my bedroom where Bellamy was sitting on my bed.
“That’s it! I’m going to find a way to always have my own
money!”
“Absolutely!” Agreed Bellamy. “You could do odd jobs around
the neighborhood; jobs that grown-ups are too lazy to do.”
“I swear that I will always have money saved up so I won’t have
to Dasha and Dad for anything ever again!”
Okay, that may have been a little extreme, but right then I made
the conscious decision that I would always have change in my pocket
and would not have to rely on others for the simple, but necessary,
pleasures in life. I would never have to resort to begging or desperate
deal-making. Since I never received an allowance, I would have to
come up with creative ways to earn cash, but creativity was never a
problem for me. I would rely on my own resources to fulfill the
inevitable ice cream deprivation.
On the positive side that day, my step-mom sent me down to Joe’s
Market for a pound of luncheon meat, thinly sliced sirloin and a dozen
Amoroso rolls. The ham would be for lunch sandwiches, but the slice
beef and rolls meant it would be a steak sandwich night.

My parents instilled an almost renowned work ethic upon their

children. Work was more than admirable; it was religious, in a cult-
like way. You were to be obsessed with it, and a mere eight-hour dose
of it per day was simply for slackers. Overtime, you say? You don’t
have to ask twice. My father’s answer would always be “yes," even if
 Bellamy 69

there were previous commitments for trivial things like birthdays,

ballgames, or Christmas. After all, money does not grow on trees.
I was still too young to get a prestigious job scooping out ice cream
at the malt shop, being a lifeguard at the community pool or stocking
shelves at Schneider’s Hardware store, but I was well-suited for the
mundane paper route. I was enamored more with having cash in my
pocket than I was having to deliver the news, but at least I was outside
(albeit, in all kinds of weather). I was basically my own boss and could
use my own two-wheel mode of transportation. Even when I was
grounded, which was often, I was allowed to fulfill my duties as the
sole newspaper carrier in town for the once-a-week Glenside News.
That one day a week was Thursdays, and it seemed as though
Thursdays would always have the worst weather a newspaper boy
feared. High humidity and heat, torrential downpours, high winds,
and the coldest and snowiest days of winter, but I kept doing it for the
money. If I did not dally and pumped the peddles relentlessly, I could
finish my rounds in about 90 minutes, weather permitting. One day,
while collecting weekly payments from my clientele, I made a
titillating discovery.
Several times a year the Glenside News would offer their
paperboys prizes for opening new accounts. The prizes were always
totally cool, like transistor radios, faux leather wallets with a separate
zipper compartment for loose chain and even Phillies tickets. Being a
natural born salesman, I always opened new accounts and
accumulated prizes. Early one Saturday morning, I left the house on
an expedition to secure some new accounts. Assuming that everyone
was dressed and doing their family chores by 7:30 on Saturday
mornings, I flew out the screen door to find new clients.
I was met at the first door by a disheveled man who was not at all
happy with being awakened on his day off from work. I quickly
apologized and headed to the next house. I would not be dissuaded.
No one was home there, and the following house belonged to Perry
Strathmore. I had remembered what my father said, to stay away from
that man, but a new customer was a new customer, no matter how you
looked at it. I grabbed the brass comedy and tragedy mask knocker
and let it announce my arrival. Perry Strathmore opened the door
70 G. Bradley Davis

dressed in a maroon bathrobe and grey slippers, uncombed hair and

holding a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, young man.”
“Hello Mr. Strathmore, I’m Calvin Lloyd. I was wondering if you
would like to get the Glenside News delivered. It’s our local weekly
newspaper, and it only costs 15 cents a week.”
“Only 15 cents? What a bargain!” Mr. Strathmore said with a
smile. “Sure. That would be swell. In fact, I’ll prepay for the month,
because I won’t be around at the end of the month. Come on in a
minute.”
I had that uneasy feeling that I was doing something I should not
be doing. I stepped inside the world of the unknown. As Mr.
Strathmore turned to go into a back room to retrieve his wallet, I
surveyed the living room, which looked more like a museum than a
dwelling space.
Orange and white pottery with Grecian warriors cocking javelins
and framed paintings of 18th century men and women complete with
powdered wigs and cherry-red cheeks festooned the room. There was
a floor lamp which was crafted as a palm tree with a monkey climbing
three-quarters the way up the base and a maroon patterned Persian
runner rug draped over a brass chair. A stuffed ring-necked pheasant
stood on top of a bookcase standing watch over the horde of books,
mostly old, in faded red, mustard-yellow, green, and black bindings.
Two peacock feathers arching themselves out of a very large
periwinkle-colored vase stood next to the bookcase. On the dining
room table, I noticed a board with a stunning butterfly spread out with
small strips of paper strategically placed with tiny pins holding them
in place.
“Do you like butterflies?” Perry asked as he returned with his
wallet.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I said reluctantly. I did like butterflies and
moths; in fact, I loved them, but I was afraid of admitting it for fear of
being ridiculed as not being masculine.
“This is a spreading board.”
 Bellamy 71

Perry saw that my attention was drawn to the rear of his dining
room table where I was hypnotized by a spectacularly beautiful
butterfly, its wings a dark turquoise with diagonal orange bands.
“It’s an Kallima Inachus, commonly called an Orange Oakleaf. It’s
beautiful, isn’t it,” Perry asked.
It was, so much so that I was completely transfixed, unable to turn
away.
“I’ve never seen one that looked like that.”
“I guess you wouldn’t. They are found in the Far East, from India
to Japan.” And with that, Mr. Strathmore reached across the table
handing me a small spreading board, a butterfly net and some pins.
“Here. It is yours.”
“Thanks,” I said with astonishment and reserved gratitude.
“You will find butterflies wherever there are flowers, including
trees that are in bloom, and in open fields. Plants that many people call
weeds also flower and attract butterflies. Milkweed, Chickadee, and
wild Aster, that many people mistake for a weed, are all butterfly
attractants.”
“Did you know that Christian tradition views the butterfly as a
symbol of resurrection? There’s symbolism there. Butterflies appear to
transcend the ordinary as they take flight into the sky, higher and
higher as if reaching the heavens.” Perry knew that my family was
devout Christians, because Dasha would try to convert him whenever
she would take one of our shoes to Perry’s brother’s shop to be resoled.
“Really?” I said with an expression of amazement.
Mr. Strathmore gave me the money for the month of newspapers,
and I headed home with my gifts. When I got home, I was glad no one
was there, as I did not want to explain where I got the spreading board
and who gave it to me. I went straight to my room and took out the
microscope my older cousin had given me when she went to
veterinary school. She had recognized my love for field biology. I was
anticipating looking at the butterfly’s wings under the microscope.
Now all I had to do was catch some.
Turning the spreading board over, I noticed that Mr. Strathmore
had written something on the back.
72 G. Bradley Davis

To Calvin, a future lepidopterist,

Never ignore the beauty that surrounds you!
Your friend, Perry Strathmore

I didn’t know what a lepidopterist was, so I looked it up in the red

jacketed Webster’s Dictionary that sat on my desk. Just as I had
suspected, it said it was a person who studies moths and butterflies. I
thought it would be cool to get paid to study these beauties, but I also
knew it would never happen. I knew I was too stupid to ever get into
college and besides, I always got Ds in science,” I reminded myself.
Meeting Perry was different from meeting other adults who
would talk in a nursery rhyme rhythm that infants prefer, as if they
did not realize that I was no infant. There comes a time when a child
comprehends a lot more than the adult realizes, and it always happens
much earlier than you might think.
Perry spoke to me, not as if I was inferior, even though, of course,
I knew so little and had experienced so much less of life than Perry.
Rather he spoke to me in a matter-of-fact kind of way, like, Hey, want
to know something cool? Or, I think I know something you would enjoy and
I’m going to share it with you. Whatever it was that Perry had in his
communication with me, I liked it…was drawn to it. I didn’t feel
patronized and believed that Perry actually enjoyed my company.
Bellamy walked over and picked up the butterfly net. “Damn! A
gift and it isn’t even your birthday! That was more than nice of him to
do that. Perry is alright!”
I could not help wondering if my dad had gotten it wrong about
Perry.
 Bellamy 73

CHAPTER ELEVEN
If you could see within the hearts of those closest to you,
you would turn and run for your life.

T
here was A knock on the front door, the door only used by
people who did not frequent our house. Knowing no one was
home, I quickly slid my new possession under my bed and
went upstairs to see who it was, assuming it was a solicitor.
To my horror, I saw Reverend Markey with that painted smile on his
face. Had he not seen me, I would have pretended no one was home.
Reluctantly, I opened the door.
“Hello there, Calvin,” the reverend said as he entered our living
room without an invitation.
“My parents aren’t home,” I said trying to end the unannounced
visit before it began.
“Oh, I know that. I was in the area and thought I would drop by
to see how you were doing,” he said as he entered the living room and
took a seat on the couch.
Now, I’m sorry, but is that weird, or what? He knew my parents
weren’t home and he still dropped by? Maybe Dasha told him how messed up
I was and that his intervention might help. And maybe not.
“I’m fine. I was just in the middle of some science homework. I
really need to get that finished before dinner,” I said, hoping that
verbal bug spray would cause the pest to fly away.
“You know, I was pretty good at science. Maybe I could help you
with that. What are you studying?”
This is getting worse. Can’t he take a hint? Yeah, he was good at science.
According to him, he was good at everything (except getting lost when he
needed to). I have always been allergic to people who are narcissistic.
74 G. Bradley Davis

Markey strutted around like a sage-grouse at a lek hoping to attract a

willing female. I was starting to wonder if it was not a female he was
trying to attract.
“Biology,” I answered. “That’s one part of science I’m good at. I
really need to get back to it, but I’ll tell my parents you dropped by,”
I said as I walked toward the door to show the reverend out.
Thankfully, he got up and followed me to the door. Placing his
huge mitt on my shoulder, he said, “I hope you know that you can
always come to me if you need to talk. If you don’t feel comfortable
coming to my office, we could go grab a hamburger or something.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I replied while restraining myself from using my
foot to remove him from the premises.

The next day I saw Hunchback and Muskrat over at Chollie Mollies
and told them about the cool spreading board Mr. Strathmore gave
him.
“You know Strathmore is queer, don’t you?” Muskrat informed.
“What?” I thought Muskrat was jealous of the cool gift and was
just being a jerk.
“A faggot. He screws boys instead of girls,” he continued.
“My older brother’s friends always call him Backdoor
Strathmore,” Hunchback added as Muskrat threw his head back and
laughed so hard that he began to choke.
The thought of me hanging out with a queer made my stomach
sick and my head spin. If this got out everybody in town, let alone at
school, would think I was a fag. I tolerated a lot from just about
everyone, but when it came down to preventing humiliation, another
side of me came out. Shame and embarrassment were the things I
feared the most. I would do anything to prevent that. I was so insecure
and afraid someone would pull back my veneer exposing the fraud
underneath.
“Why do you think he’s always in his garden pretending to play
doctor with his roses?
 Bellamy 75

He’s looking for boys to lure into his house, tie them up and mess
with their dick and stuff,” explained Hunchback.
The premise petrified me. “You’re crazy,” I said unconvincingly.
“Yeah, he’s right, Cal,” Muskrat added. “And what about
Reverend Markey? He’s gotta be a fag.”
“He’s married,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Muskrat interjected. “He’s only
married so no one know he likes boys, and I mean boys, not guys his
age. Why is he always at Choo-Choo’s house or Mouche’s house.
Mouche told me Markey took his kid brother to the roller-skating rink
last Friday night. Maybe the rev and Perry are in love!” And with that,
Hunchback and Muskrat roared with laughter.
Let’s go play wire ball,” I suggested, trying to change the subject,
knowing that I could never again bring up my association with Perry
to my friends…to anyone. But this new found information would
bother me for days. I knew I could never go over Perry’s house again,
but I had received kindness and acceptance from Mr. Strathmore. I
knew that I had to stay away from this perceived monster, and yet,
deep inside, I really did not want to. Mr. Strathmore had opened a
whole new world to me; discovery into field biology which captured
my attention and interest and besides, he never tried to touch me. Mr.
Strathmore, I believed, was a dandelion.
As Muskrat took the pimple ball out of his pocket, he turned to
me and hesitated. “Remember what I told you about my dad, that he
was acting strangely?”
“Yeah?” I responded.
“Well, now he’s working late several nights a week. My mom
didn’t think that was strange, but he never had to work late before. I’m
telling you, something’s up.”
“You’re overreacting,” I said in attempt to reassure my friend.
“My dad works late lots of nights.”
“I can never remember him working nights. Ever! I’m telling you,
something’s not right. Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
“Your Dad?” Hunchback said with a chuckle. “He’s overweight,
wears goofy glasses and dresses like it’s 1940!”
76 G. Bradley Davis

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right,” Muskrat said as he tossed the ball

high toward the sub-transmission lines that crossed the street from
telephone pole to telephone pole.

On Thursday it was raining, which was more than disappointing. It

was not only newspaper delivery day; it was collection day. Since I
had to take the time to knock on doors anyway, I decided to secure a
few new accounts. As I walked down Edge Hill Road, I saw Donna
Reagan’s house and walked up to the front door and push the
doorbell. Donna was my schoolmate, a tall girl with short sandy-
blonde hair who often wore plaid skirts and colored knee socks. She
was on the quiet side, but friendly enough; a very middling looking
girl who would not turn a boy’s head, making me think she took after
her father rather than her mother. Mrs. Reagan was a goddess among
mere mortal women. Wasn’t there a law where a mom should not be better
looking than her daughter?
The door opened, and I gazed upon the most beautiful woman I
had ever seen, dressed only in a lovely lavender, silky, shiny, Van
Raalte Lace slip, the bustline complete with lace. One of the straps fell
carelessly off her shoulder revealing a good percentage of her right
breast.
“Can I help you?” asked Mrs. Reagan.
Can you ever!
“Uh, hi Mrs. Reagan. I’m Calvin Lloyd. I go to school with Donna.
Would you like to subscribe to the Glenside News?”
My biggest fear was getting caught with wandering eyes, but
how could I not look? My eyes were drawn away from Mrs.
Reagan’s lovely face and down at the ripe, firmness of her breasts.
The low-cut slip revealed a significant amount of flesh south of her
tan line which exposed lighter skin that had not been tanned by the
sun. Mesmerized by the half-clad, beautiful woman standing in
front of me, I looked up to find that I had been caught red-handed
stealing a forbidden glimpse, but the alluring lady responded with
 Bellamy 77

a flirtatious smile with one side of her lip raising just a bit, seemingly
not the least bit fazed by it.
“Come in here and get out of that horrid weather. How much does
it cost?” she asked.
“Fifteen cents a copy,” I said as I tried to position myself on the
throw rug so I would not create a puddle in her foyer.
“Will you be my delivery boy?” she asked with another seductive
smile.
“Yes, I will,” I said with enthusiasm.
“Okay then, sign me up.”
Ever since that day I became attracted to older women. The sexual
maturity of them fascinated me, not to mention Bellamy!

I needed a birch beer float to cool me off, so I walked the short distance
to Jack Frost as I conjured various reasons for having to knock on
Donna Reagan’s door as often as possible. I knew the rain would keep
the crowds away from the ice cream stand and that there would be no
lines in which to wait. Jack Frost was my little oasis. It was a place I
could go by myself and relax without fear that I would be blamed for
something and punished.
Arriving at Jack Frost’s, I reviewed the menu posted on the board
even though I had long-since memorized it. Sundaes were 40 cents,
banana splits 60 cents. Bob, the owner of the Taj Mahal of ice cream
joints, was a thin, beardless Santa Claus with rose-colored cheeks and
a friendly disposition that children were drawn to. Instead of a sack of
presents, he delivered banana splits, strawberry sundaes and
chocolate dipped soft ice cream cones. Bob was the frozen-custard-
chef- extraordinaire; a modern-day Michelangelo who would create
edible masterpieces that mesmerized children as they watched him
sculp their sweet treat. Bob was kindhearted and would often talk with
me. Bob was a dandelion.
Behind the shop was a huge 150-foot ravine which held railroad
tracks. Up at street level there were a cluster of wires and cables that
extended from one side of the ravine to the other accompanied by a
78 G. Bradley Davis

large pipe-like structure roughly five feet in diameter. The local kids
would always dare each other to crawl on the pipe from one side to
the other knowing well that one little slip would be the last attempt of
bravado.
The hot dogs at Jack Frost always looked inviting as they rotated
ever so slowly, sweating under the perfectly calculated heat. I knew it
must have taken food chemists years to have come up with the perfect
cooking temperature for slow roasted wieners. The truth be known,
that perfect temperature was 194 degrees…not 193…not 195, but 194
degrees that would slowly heat the middle without causing the hotdog
to split down its length. I preferred my rolls straight out of the plastic
bag; soft and pliable, and Bob knew that was my preference. I would
never have to emphasize that point when ordering. If you got the rolls
from the heated drawer, they were crunchy and detracted from the
194. Bob, wanting to keep one of his favorite patrons happy, always
kept aside one roll secured in the plastic bag for me.

June had finally arrived and although that meant summer vacation, it
also meant final report cards. North Hills Elementary School offered
two teachers for every grade, and it seemed as though whatever
teacher I hoped to be assigned to in the coming year, I would always
end up with the other. For me, the norm would be to receive no A’s,
perhaps one B, several C’s and the remainder of the report card was
filled in with D’s and F’s. My fear was being grounded for the summer
and the threat of summer school. None of my siblings had ever
received a D. In fact, only 4 Cs ever entered the Lloyd household until
I began my schooling. It was not because I didn’t want to do well or
that my poor results were from a lack of trying, but I just seemed to
struggle with sitting still and paying attention. My thoughts were like
a pin ball bouncing within the glass-top machine, never resting
anywhere very long, being tossed about by flippers of ideas and
fantasy while always trying to avoid the tilt of people’s rejection.
Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) was rarely
diagnosed in kids back in the 60s and early 70s. We were simply
 Bellamy 79

disobedient children who chose not to sit still, concentrate, and

cooperate. For me, there was a screaming demon within my brain
preventing me from focusing in structured environments whenever I
was expected to do so.
It was clear to my parents, teachers, and minister that I was simply
a troubled kid who willfully misbehaved. I would often make careless
mistakes and I lacked attention to details. I would also fail to follow
through on instructions, schoolwork, or chores. Not because I wanted
to be disobedient, it just came so much more natural to me than the
discipline of following through with the assignments. It truly was a
case of out of sight, out of mind, and when I failed to complete the
work assigned to me, there was hell to pay.
At the beginning of every school year, I was determined to make
that year the year I turned things around. However, by the time
October arrived I was so far behind in school that any hope of parental
praise for my accomplishments was all but gone. The impossibility of
sitting still and concentrating was too prevailing. At school,
punishment for not paying attention would come in a variety of forms.
I would have to stand outside the classroom for an hour, which would
only guarantee an “F” on the next quiz on whatever was being taught
while I was outside the classroom. Then there was having to stay after
class and clean the blackboard and erasers, or the dreaded being
told to stand up in class and answer questions from the teacher
which I had no ability to answer. More humiliation and
embarrassment.
Sometimes I would receive the unconstitutional double jeopardy,
which I learned later in high school Civ Ed, was not legal. I would be
punished at school for not turning in a paper which would result in
cutting ridicule, normally in the form of belittling comments from the
teacher communicated in front of the entire class, which was then
followed with a detention. A note would then be sent to my parents,
or there would be an explanation in the comment section of my report
card explaining why the teacher thought I deserved the poor grade.
The double jeopardy was that my punishment came from both my
teacher and my parents.
80 G. Bradley Davis

It would take something really spellbinding for me to focus long

enough to learn and remember schoolbook “facts.” What was strange
to me was that I could recognize all sixteen of Pennsylvania’s common
songbirds by ear, but could not memorize the Gettysburg Address.
Why is it that we respect someone who is very knowledgeable in one
field of interest, but is completely inept in a long list of other subjects,
while a child is supposed to excel at every subject dictated to them?
At least this would be the last report card of the school year and
at least I would have the next two and a half months off.
 Bellamy 81

CHAPTER TWELVE
Too bad people aren’t like dogs; loyal, loving, quick to
forgive and only fight in self-defense, or the defense of a
loved one.

T
he beatings from Dasha continued. She had learned quickly
that wooden spoons and even broom handles break too easily
when targeting my back or head. Leather belts and belt
buckles never break. Most of the marks on my body
disappeared within a week, and most of them were where the sun did
not shine. Occasionally, the metal buckle would tear my skin. Since I
was a rough-and-tumble type of kid, and always had scrapes and
bruises from playing aggressively, no one ever questioned the marks
Dasha left on my body.

It was a Monday, but a Monday in the summer was like a Saturday

during the school year. A day with unbridled freedom and thousands
of possibilities. Going outside, the daffodils and tulips gave way to
rhododendron and dandelions as temperatures continued to rise. I
realized that I was paying more attention to butterflies when I saw a
familiar black and orange beauty suddenly appear, only remaining for
a few seconds before it disappeared behind some distant brush.
There simply is nothing like summer vacation for an adventurous
young boy, and I was no exception. No fear of the reckoning for poor
report cards. No homework. No early curfews or lights out at 9 o’clock
for bedtime, just opportunities and plenty of free time to make dreams
come true.
82 G. Bradley Davis

I had always spearheaded one of the most anticipated events of

the summer, the neighborhood go-kart race since I lived on the
steepest street in North Hills. And there was another reason. It gave
me a realistic chance to excel at…something.
Now, make no mistake, these karts the neighborhood kids
made were not those fancy schmancy, pretty-painted symmetrical
beauties found in those official soap box derby races kids from rich
neighborhoods had. The gang from North Hills made their own karts,
with no help from grownups. They were gravity karts made from
anything they could find in our garages, basements, or people’s trash.
The first day of summer vacation Muskrat and I posted
homemade signs on telephone poles announcing that this year’s race
would be on June 30, giving everyone two weeks to build their karts.
The race would begin at the top of Hawthorne Road and the winner
would be the first one to arrive at the dead end on Monroe Avenue.
Entry fee was a nickel and the winner would receive it all, minus a 25-
cent processing and promotion fee that I would pocket. It was
assumed that Tommy Kerrigan would be absent from the race since
last year he cracked his head open when he hit a large Bitternut
Hickory tree in Mr. Kosinski’s yard, forcing the doctors to insert a
metal plate in his head. From that time on he would whine about how
he hated winter, always complaining of headaches whenever it got
cold outside.
It was time to begin the scavenger hunt for odds and ends that
could be used to create the best homemade go-kart in the whole world.
My paper route gave me an advantage, taking me to the far reaches of
North Hills, where I could scour around the curbside trash looking for
anything that would catch my eye and imagination. Down on Elm
Street, Mrs. Bristow was throwing out an old baby carriage which
served both as a trailer to gather the rest of my supplies and for the
front wheels of my go-kart. It was important to have small wheels in
the front and larger ones in the back for optimum acceleration.
A few blocks down the on Hamel Avenue, my eyes widened
when I saw that distinctive gold and brown tin in someone’s trash.
This was my lucky day! A Charles Chips potato chips can, only
slightly dented, would serve well for the front hood of my kart,
 Bellamy 83

making it look like a train locomotive—(points for style). Mr. Peck at

Schneider’s hardware store gave me an offcut of plywood and a
warped 2 x 4. Turning the corner onto Taft Avenue, I immediately saw
an aluminum chair with green and white stripped webbing that
someone was getting rid of. The seat itself was basically non-existent
since it was missing half the straps. The remaining straps were loose
with frayed ends, but the back was in perfect condition, ideal for some
comfort while piloting my kart to victory. I also spotted a stained
couch pillow with pictures of red, blue and purple peacocks on them
and gold tassels outlining its perimeter that would serve well as his
cushioned seat. Across town they were building a house and after the
workers would go home at five o’clock, I would carefully walk around
the perimeter of the house looking for dropped nails. It did not take
long before I had myself a pocketful.
I spent the better part of the day constructing an aerodynamic kart
with the smaller baby stroller wheels on the front and larger wagon
wheels on the back. I weighted the nose of my racer with a cinder block
and nailed a couple of 2 x 4s in a triangular pattern so that the front of
the kart came to a point. If anyone tried to cut me off during the race,
the pointed nose of the kart would cut right through their racer. Using
a staple gun, I fastened the peacock cushion to the plywood, giving me
a little comfort for the race and used electrical tape to repair a small
tear in the cushion. My feet would rest against the extended axel,
which is how I would steer the kart. Bellamy reminded me that the
year before I had used a clothesline rope fastened to either side of the
axle for the steering, which did not end well. The knot on the left side
had slid toward the wheel and the friction caused it to break, pushing
the kart uncontrollably to the right and head-on into Mr. Proctor’s
fence, destroying two of his prized hybrid tea heirloom rose bushes.
That fiasco ruined any chance of me winning the race. I had learned
from my engineering mistakes. I even installed a primitive braking
system, a 1 x 3 board a foot and a half long with a single nail attaching
to the side of the kart. I attached a thick strip of rubber I picked up
from a piece of a tire thrown by a speeding semi’s retread as it barreled
down Limekiln Pike. I cut a small rectangular piece off the retread and
glued it to one end of the 1 x 3 while using the other end as a handle.
84 G. Bradley Davis

By pulling the board towards me, the other end would scrap against
the pavement slowing the kart down through friction. None of the
other kart entrees had a braking system which had proved costly in
previous years.
While I was working on my kart, Choo-Choo had snuck-up
behind me to see what I was creating. He had a tendency to be where
he shouldn’t be and he had a loud mouth. If he knew something, the
entire town knew it. A secret was impossible with Choo-Choo.
“What the hell are you doing here? I said as I gave Choo-Choo a
good push. “If you tell anyone how I’m building my kart I’ll kick your
ass!”
“I won’t tell anybody, Cal. I was just on my way to Chollie Mollies
and saw you working in your garage. Really!”
“You better not. If you’re going to Chollie Mollies, go!”

Another Wednesday night came and with it, the arrival of three stacks
of newspapers I would have to deliver the next morning. Since there
was no school the next day, I decided to take Cookie along on my route
to keep me company. Cookie trotted alongside my bicycle and helped
make the chore less dreadful; a friend to share the task with. The
houses where tossing the paper onto the front porch was forbidden,
Cookie would follow me up the steps as I placed the paper inside the
screen door.
The day was going better than expected, when suddenly a car
drove up Maple Avenue at a hurried rate of speed. Before I knew it,
Cookie darted in front of the car. Screeching brakes could hardly be
heard over the pitiful yelps from Cookie; her rear right leg had been
crushed, exposing the bone through the bloody flesh. As the car
accelerated away with no obvious intention to inspect the dog or to
give me comfort, I picked up a baseball-sized stone and threw it as
hard as I could clipping the car’s sideview window with a crack. The
brake lights lit up for only a second, then the car proceeded to the stop
sign where it barely slowed as it turned on to Limekiln Pike.
 Bellamy 85

I walked over to Cookie who was whimpering pathetically. As I

stroked her head to comfort her, the dog, incensed in excruciating
pain, turned and bite me repeatedly on my right hand and wrist. A
neighbor, hearing the commotion, had called the police, who arrived
in surprisingly short order. The officer gathered the necessary
information, put on thick gloves and picked Cookie up and placed her
in the back of his police van. I got into the passenger’s seat as we drove
over to Roslyn Animal Hospital.
The attendant at the door of the veterinary hospital seeing the
emergency, ran and got the doctor. Before I knew it, Cookie was in
surgery. Asking for my phone number, the officer used the phone at
the front desk to call my parents.
The decision had to be made quickly; euthanize or amputate. The
vet explained that a dog’s front legs are for balance and their back legs
are used for speed. He assured my parents that Cookie could live a full
and enjoyable life with just three legs. My parents discussed their
options and decided, to my surprise, to have the leg amputated, even
though it was an unplanned expense.
Cookie was lethargic when she got home, frequently licking her
bandaged stub, but she steadily improved and quickly adapted to
having just three legs. Within a month’s time she improved and within
a few weeks, you could hardly notice she had lost the appendage.
After the initial anger expressed by Dasha and my brother, Ted,
for having taken Cookie on my paper route, things began to settle
down and even though it was not mentioned again. I knew that I
would always be blamed for the poor dog’s unfortunate fate. But of
course, it would have to be me that would cause such a dreadful
incident. Who else would have caused such a thoughtless act? But
Bellamy understood.
“It was just an accident. It wasn’t you who was driving recklessly
down Maple Avenue. You would think they would put themselves in
your place and see how upset you are over what happened to Cookie.
They always act like they’ve never done anything wrong. Their time
will come. A tooth for a tooth!”
Bellamy’s encouragement did little to boost my dwindling self-
esteem.
86 G. Bradley Davis

It only took a few days before the racers had completed their karts for
the Hawthorne 500, named after the hill the racers would descend. By
9 a.m. the racers began arriving with their 4-wheeled speed craft, that
is, all but The Professor, who engineered a 3-wheeler, thinking the
friction of four wheels would slow it down. Mouche, a.k.a. The Fly,
brought along a can of railroad grease he had found in his garage to
slab onto the axles hoping it would add speed to his wheeled-ground-
jet, as he called it.
Thanks to Choo-Choo’s inability to keep his mouth shut, everyone
knew what my kart would look like and all its features. Muskrat
brought a race kart which looked like something out of the Beverly
Hillbillies, resembling an outhouse on wheels more than a go-kart, and
it was definitely top-heavy. He had framed a vertical rectangular box
out of used, warped 2 x 4s. Downspouts were nailed horizontally that
appeared to be bumper guards. He had “borrowed” some choice
wood from his grandfather who was in the process of building a new
pigeon loft. He had also taken the landing boards off his grandfather’s
loft and nailed them to the front of his racer using the trap door as the
windshield for his kart.
Boner decided to use the wheels from a shopping kart, however
steering would be a serious issue. He would use his shifting weight on
a pivoting floorboard to steer his kart figuring the fast-spinning
wheels would give him an advantage. Some of the contestants were
taking practice runs, but only for a block, down the hill to Locust Road.
Gina Majorino, outfitted in hot pants and a skin-tight white
midriff tied tightly around her upper waist, was recruited to wave the
green flag to signal the start of the race. Choo-Choo had broken his
arm the week before when his bicycle flipped while attempting to
jump a wood pile, or so he claimed. At the bottom of the hill, he stood
with his one arm in a sling and his good arm holding a homemade
checkered flag he had painstakingly created with a white t-shirt and a
black magic marker.
“Gentlemen, start your engines,” Gina said with a smile that
distracted some of the drivers.
 Bellamy 87

“God, I love her! She is so sizzling hot,” the Fly whispered to me.
Most of the contestants stood bent over their craft at the starting
line, wanting to run as fast as they could and then jump on once the
kart had momentum.
Gina gave the countdown. “On your mark, get set…go!”
Early on, there were indications of steering and braking problems,
like in years past.
The Fly’s coke-bottle glasses fell off and Muskrat ran right over
them. The Fly couldn’t see two inches in front of him without those
glasses and that was evident by his erratic steering. His front right
wheel started rubbing against Muskrat’s front left which caused
sparks to fly. Muskrat tried to push The Fly off the road but with his
wheel hopelessly locked to The Fly’s wheel he had little time to try and
free himself. In one last desperate attempt, Muskrat pulled his steering
wheel hard to the right hitting Boner’s kart broadside so hard that he
tipped it on its side and caused it to slide to a stop in the middle of the
road. Meanwhile, The Fly and Muskrat’s karts were still attached by
two of their front wheels as they headed for the big oak tree in the
corner of my yard. Neither could steer and when the karts were a few
feet from impact, they both bailed. The latched karts hit the tree
squarely sending splintering pieces halfway across the street.
The Professor and Skeeter were right behind me, not gaining on
me but holding steady. The Professor’s back right wheel was
beginning to wobble excessively. When he turned to see what was
causing his kart to shake so violently, he saw the tread coming off the
wheel. He had no choice but to steer to the side of the road, dropping
out of the race.
With that, Hunchback took the lead and was running smoothly
with great speed, so much so that it was difficult to keep the kart in
the center of the road. He had a kart and a half lead on me, and two on
The Freak who had been incognito through the entire race, when
disaster struck. Hunchback thought it would be very cool if he had a
parachute to slow him down, once he crossed the finish line. He used
some corn sacks he had gotten from his cousin who lived out in
Lancaster County. By cutting the bags so they laid flat he was able to
sew them into a makeshift parachute, fastening it to the back seat of
88 G. Bradley Davis

his kart with six strands of box twine. As Hunchback was nearing the
finish line, the chute had become loose and, in an instant, flew behind
the kart spinning it around to a dead stop as he watched me pass him
in a flash and crossing the finish line with both arms raised high in a
touchdown pose.
“We won!” screamed Bellamy. “See, you are a champion!”
 Bellamy 89

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The pace of time is an enemy to both young and old. For the
youth it moves too slowly; for the elderly, too fast.

A
fter Camp Wackasack, my nickname, “Mayhem,” never
stuck, unlike the other boy’s handles had, that is, except The
Fly. We changed his to Mouche, the name his mother called
him. I cannot remember exactly why. I was stuck with Cal,
something that always bothered me. Not that I disliked the name Cal,
but because I always felt that every kid should have a nickname. I
needed a nickname. Something cool, like Razor or Striker. Heck, even
Boner had a cool nickname. Although the first time my parents heard
someone calling him Boner, I realized it would be a nickname that
could only be used in the absence of grownups. Sundance was already
taken, as was Hoss, and it wasn’t cool to steal Hollywood nicknames
anyway. They had to be original and appropriate. Thankfully, loser or
jerk-off never stuck.
Funny, my friends were not all keen on the nicknames that they
were stuck with, but at least they had one. Hunchback did not like the
nickname he was given, but he didn’t like the name Larry much either,
thinking Larry was the least of the 3 Stooges. Muskrat thought his
nickname was a reference to his looks, which it was, but after camp he
had accepted the moniker, and besides, he had more important things
on his mind.
By now it was evident that Muskrat’s dad was hiding a secret. He
had always been an argumentative type of guy, seriously critical of
anyone who would not measure up to his holier-than-thou measuring
stick. He was constantly belittling Muskrat if he ever shed a tear or
when he did not perform well on the baseball diamond, the criticism
90 G. Bradley Davis

would come in the form of, “Be a man!” That was extremely difficult
for a kid who wasn’t even old enough to shave, drive or even have
pubic hair. Lately, his father had been much nicer to his wife and kids
and it was obvious that a change had come over Mr. Zimmerman. It
was as if a different man had come home from work. He was a kinder,
more considerate husband and father, but for Muskrat, that only
confirmed that he was hiding something. He had finally convinced me
and Hunchback that, indeed, something smelled rotten on Edge Hill
Road. The straw that broke Muskrat’s back was when the three boys
had spotted Mr. Zimmerman’s car parked in the train station parking
lot. Muskrat’s father always drove to work, he never took the train.

That Thursday was the first of the month which meant newspaper
collection day, or “pay day.” It was an unusually windy day with
cloudy skies, the type of day that lets you know a front is on its way.
It would mean that delivering the newspapers would take three times
as long. Bellamy joined me but, of course, other than being company,
he really did not help much lugging the papers around town.
Knocking on every door to collect 60 cents was what I considered a
tedious chore, but it also meant having more cash in my pocket.
“Hey, Bellamy. Do you think if I bought Dasha flowers she’ll like
me?”
I would often buy Dasha flowers as an expression of my love for
her or, more correctly, to get on her good side.
“She would have to, right?” Asked Bellamy. “No one brings her
flowers but you.”
Bellamy was correct, but it never seemed to have any lasting effect
on Dasha. She would be obviously delighted to receive the bouquets I
would surprise her with, but it never got me above the bottom rung of
the pecking order. You would have thought I would get the hint and
stop buying her flowers, but I never did.
After finishing my paper route, I rode down to the edge of
Ardsley and went into the flower shop. Mr. Strathmore was putting
some fresh roses in the refrigerated display case. He had on skin-tight
 Bellamy 91

lime green pants and a Qiana shirt with a bold paisley pattern. He
turned around and looked genuinely pleased to see me.
“Well, hello Calvin. How are you this fine day?”
After what my friends had said about him, I was petrified to
engage in conversation or nurture a relationship, but Perry had been
kind and generous to me and real friends were at a premium. It seemed
alien to me to have a grown-up be so sincere and nice to me unless my
parents were in the same room, or they wanted something from me.
The latter made me have my antennae up for anything off kilter. Perry
was unlike Reverend Markey, who always seemed overly nice to me,
which made me feel uncomfortable.
I’ll proceed cautiously. At the first sign of anything fishy, I’m out of
there.
“Not much, just wanted to get some flowers for my mother,” I
said, not looking directly at the florist as I walked around the store.
“Now, that’s a good son! I have some beautiful gladiolas on sale
that just came in. Two dollars a dozen,” Mr. Strathmore stated.
“Sure, I’ll take 12 of those. Can you mix the red in with the yellow
ones?” “Certainement,” replied Mr. Strathmore, in a perfect French
accent. Perry grabbed some green tissue paper and set it on the
counter. Carefully, he selected the gladiolas and gently shook the
water from its stems. “Have you used your net to catch any
butterflies?”
I had not, at least not yet, but somehow, I did not want to
disappoint Perry, especially since he had been so generous with the
gifts. “Yeah, but only those white ones with the black spots. I haven’t
gone down to Chollie Mollies with the net, yet. There is a huge field
down there. I think there will be a lot more butterflies down there.”
“Chollie Mollies?” asked Perry.
“Penbryn Park. We call it Chollie Mollies. I have no idea why. It’s
always been called that.”
“Oh. Got it, and you can call me Perry. We’re not very formal
around here. Well, remember, if you want to find butterflies you need
to go where there are flowering weeds, plants, or trees. You’ll find
them all over if you’re looking for them.”
92 G. Bradley Davis

Perry had tied some ribbon around the bouquet and rang up the
sale on the cash register. “That will be two dollars. Would you like to
write a note to go with them? They’re free.”
“Eh, sure,” I said, even though I had no idea what I would write.
I so desperately wanted to get on my stepmother’s good side; to
demonstrate in a tangible way that I really was not a bad son. Sure, I
was not the student my brother and sisters were, yet I wanted to bel. I
really wanted to be a good student and a model citizen. I had such
difficulty remaining focused during class or through lengthy readings,
but no matter how hard I tried, the goal seemed unobtainable.
Reaching into my pocket I pulled out a dollar bill and a fist full of
change and counted out two dollars. Picking up the card, I scribbled:

To the best Mom in the whole, wide world.

Love, Calvin

That should surely make her happy, I thought to myself. She’ll

like me now. None of my other siblings ever gave Dasha flowers.
Like in similar attempts, Dasha was delighted to receive the
flowers, but when they died, so did any affection she had for me.

There is nothing like a good explosion to grab the attention of every

red-blooded American boy. The shear anticipation of the detonation
while watching the fuse sparkle as it gets smaller and smaller was
enough to have a boy ecstatic. Occasionally, my friends and I were
lucky enough to have one of the kids in the neighborhood bring some
firecrackers to our local gatherings. Usually, they got some from some
cousin who traveled through South Carolina on vacation.
We would pick straws to see who would be giving up their plastic
ship model for the good of the group. Ground zero would usually be
Floaties pond in Hillside Cemetery, where we would put on a show.
Floaties pond was an unlikely place for kids to gravitate to. No one
would go there alone, that is, except me. It was the nearest body of
water, but it was also an eerie place, a place where danger lurked. A
 Bellamy 93

false oasis in a place filled with death. Yet I was drawn to the pond.
Safe. Solitary. So many hopes and dreams of mine had already died.
A cemetery seemed an appropriate place for me to frequent.
Floaties was the only nearby pond where we could execute our
military mission. We would use scotch-tape to secure 3 firecrackers, or
one cherry bomb, at mid-ship while, pouring model airplane glue
around the ship’s perimeter. We would light the ship on fire as one of
us pushed the ship out to sea. The fuse would ignite, and it would
seem like an eternity, but suddenly a rapid succession of three
explosions would scatter pieces of the model as far as 3 feet from the
ship. We would watch the vessel slowly sink; the few remaining drops
of glue burning on the surface of the water making it seem like the fuel
oil from the ship was on fire. The boat never lasted long before it sank,
but it was always one of the highlights of the summer. The gang would
each chip in a nickel so the kid who lost his boat could get a free
sundae at Jack Frost.
Fireworks were illegal in Pennsylvania; in fact, they were not legal
in many states, but South Carolina was the nearest place to get any,
and that was a good 8-hour drive. Immediately upon entering South
Carolina on I-95 you would come across the mother of fireworks stores
at a place called South of the Border. My memories of South of the
Border were bittersweet.
It had been a hot August day when our family headed to Florida
in our aqua blue and white 1958 Chevrolet Brookwood station wagon.
The car had a broad grille, quad headlights and my dad referred to it
as the “baby Cadillac.” The wagon's tail had the signature fan-shaped
alcove on both side panels and seating for nine. It was custom for me
to sit in the very rear, since I was the youngest. That was fine except it
had no air conditioning and heading south on I-95 in August with the
heat visibly rising up off the road made the trip more like crossing the
Sahara on a camel. Having a crew cut helped a little, but sitting in the
very back of the wagon there wasn’t much air, unlike the window
seats where my sisters sat. My shirt was soaking wet and my thighs
would stick to the blue vinyl seats, but that was a small price to pay as
I anticipated what was waiting for me in Dillon, South Carolina.
94 G. Bradley Davis

Although the dream of palm trees and white sandy beaches were
more than pleasant, my anticipation was to investigate all that South
of the Border had to offer. I had heard wonderful stories about South
of the Border, and I had been saving the money I had earned by
delivering papers and mowing lawns around the neighborhood, and
I was going to spend a good amount of that dough on firecrackers,
cherry bombs, bottle rockets, M-80s and roman candles.
In the day, South of the Border was a young pyromaniacs dream!
It was an island oasis located in the barren sea called I-95 on the North
Carolina/South Carolina border at a time when it was illegal to sell or
possess fireworks in any other state on the east coast. It was the
halfway stop on road trips between the northeast and Florida. You
would drive miles and miles through pine forest until suddenly you
would begin to see the tacky world of pyrotechnics.
Every kid north of Virginia begged their parents to stop at the
fireworks bonanza. But it wasn’t like my dad needed the reminder.
Corny signs featuring spokesman “Pedro” would pop up every couple
of miles which remind the family vacationers that they had X-amount-
of-miles till they reached Pedro’s fireworks Utopia, whoever Pedro
was. Billboards like PEDRO’S WEATHER REPORT—CHILI TODAY
HOT TAMALE—SOUTH OF THE BORDER—23 MILES, or YOU’RE
ALWAYS A WEINER AT PEDRO’S—SOUTH OF THE BORDER—10
MILES or the one that had a giant sausage on the billboard. That one
read YOU NEVER SAUSAGE A THING.
My family had traveled hundreds of miles, having gotten up well
before dawn. Off in the distance, as a beacon of tacky tourism, was the
colossal sombrero nearly 200 feet high giving plenty of purpose for the
hot and weary desert journey. It was Tijuana smack dab on the border
between the two Carolinas, except you did not have to worry about
being propositioned by prostitutes and the water was safe to drink.
As our car approached the exit, I saw the 97-foot Pedro, which
stood adjacent to the Mexico Shop East and the Sombrero Restaurant.
I anticipated the joy of driving underneath the legs of the giant man,
but to my huge disappointment, the Chevy station wagon drove right
past the exit. Was Dad daydreaming? “Dad, Dad. You missed the exit!”
I screamed as I saw Pedro disappearing in the rear window.
 Bellamy 95

“We don’t need gas and you’re not getting any fireworks.” And
that was that.

My vision of having a motherload of fireworks at my disposal received

a second chance that October. My oldest sister, Olivia, was dating a
Marine stationed in Parris Island, located in Beaufort, South Carolina. I
guess the young marine thought it would be a good idea to keep my
sister’s kid brother happy, because he drove home one weekend and
brought back a trunk load of fireworks from South of the Border. My
father was not happy about it, but he took the bag of fireworks and hid
them by placing the box of explosives in the basement rafters, just
above his work bench. He could not push them too far in the rafters or
they would disappear somewhere between the raised ceiling and the
plywood floor of the main floor. It took me all of 15 minutes to
discover where they were so strategically placed. The undeniable
pink-red sticks of the various rockets were poking out just enough to
catch my eye. Someday, when my parents are not home, we’re going to have
a whole lot of fun, Bellamy!
That someday came in the form of a weekday after school.
Being grounded for God-knows-what, I was desperate for some
entertainment. Bellamy came up with a brilliant idea! I had a
neighbor two properties behind my backyard who was an
annoying little girl. Her name was Gretel. She was the product of
German immigrant parents who escaped Germany prior to World
War II. Rumor around the neighborhood was that her father’s real
name was Adolph but that he changed it to William because of
that Nazi thing. Nonetheless, he spoke with a German accent as
heavy as cough syrup. He walked with a slight limp and used a
wooden cane with a medieval silver-plated dragon head with,
what looked like, a black pearl in its mouth that would scare the
bejeebers out of me.
Gretel, an only child, would spend countless hours in her
backyard everyday caressing and conversing with her pet rabbits.
Mr. Ed, I was familiar with, and I really enjoyed Bunny Rabbit on
96 G. Bradley Davis

the Captain Kangaroo show, but I knew they were make-believe—for

entertainment purposes—simply because naïve kids were watching
TV.
Gretel had no idea I was spying on her with my $2 spyglass I had
bought at the Howard Johnson’s on the Pennsylvania turnpike. She
named her rabbits after Pennsylvania politicians. For god’s sake, who
ever heard of a rabbit named Milton Shapp? She would fuss with those
rodents as if she was a beautician and they were Princess Grace Kelly
of Monaco. Gretel would take her Barbie doll’s pink and white banana
hair curlers and go to work on those poor four-legged underground
muttons.
On this glorious day, while watching Gretel practice her creative
cosmetology skills, I got a brilliant idea. Running inside and down the
stairs, missing 2 or 3 steps at a time, I pulled a chair next to my father’s
workbench, climbed on top of his workstation and pulled out a shoe
box filled with fireworks. On the top of the open box were 5 bunches
of bottle rockets held together with a rubber band. Removing one
packet of these little gems, I carefully put the others back in their
hiding place. Grabbing a box of stick matches I had stored away in my
sock drawer; I went out the kitchen door with the hopes that Gretel
would still be out doing her daily routine with her long-eared friends.
I was in luck. There she sat on her swing set stroking her prized tick-
smorgasbord-walking-hand-muff.
Between my house and the garage was a breezeway that my dad
had enclosed. The frame was made of 2 x 4s and was nailed to the
concrete floor. There was a little door for Cookie to come in and out
on her own discretion, and that would prove to be the perfect
launching pad for this novice NASA prodigy. If one of these little
rockets could fly from a coke bottle to several hundred feet in the air,
then why could not it fly horizontally across the earth’s surface for
about the length of a football field in just a few seconds, if positioned
properly. If I could perfect the launch angle and get good results, the
possibilities to use them on Dasha were endless!
I laid one of the bottle rockets on the 2 x 4, lit the stick match off
my front tooth and lit the fuse. There is something magical about a
fuse. In slow motion the sparks ignite one’s anticipation, almost
 Bellamy 97

teasing you as it seems to pause; a slight hesitation just before it

reaches the explosive device. You never quite know when it is going
to explode. Three, two, one, whoosh! We have lift-off!
My calculations did not take into consideration the slight
nuisances and variances in my backyard or Mr. Bates’ backyard. Our
yards were not perfectly flat; there was a slight dip in my backyard
and, what seemed to be, insignificant incline in Mr. Bates’ backyard,
but that small incline made all the difference in the world. The first
launch quickly hit the ground, throwing sparks every which way and
jerking about like a dragonfly caught in a spider web. Rats! Back to the
drawing board. My biggest concern was that by the time I would be able
to figure out the right geometric calculations, Gretel would retreat into
her house.
I needed to position the bottle rocket slightly upward, not so
much that it would go skyward, but just enough that it would stay
about 10 feet off the ground. I placed a deck of playing cards on the 2
x 4 and was ready for my second launch. I lit the fuse and this time the
spark ran quickly to the rocket and, in what seemed to be a second or
two, it took off on about a 40-degree angle. Immediately I knew it was
positioned too high as I saw the rocket heading straight for Mr. Bate’s
chimney. Unfortunately, it missed the chimney and exploded on the
roof with a bang! I quickly ran for my kitchen and watched for the
fallout that was sure to come. Sitting on the kitchen sink, I peered out
the window waiting for Mr. Bates to exit his dark house. With each
passing minute I felt my luck increasing. No Mr. Bates. He was not
home! What an omen for the next launch.
The third time was a charm. By removing the deck of cards and
using just the 2 x 4 framing, I rested the body of the rocket on the edge
of the board with the end of its stick touching the cement floor. The
angle appeared to be roughly 25 degrees. I pointed the nose of the
rocket for Gretel’s rabbit shack. I checked and double-checked the
rocket’s position, incline, and fuse. All systems go! Breathing through
my mouth to dry off my teeth, I struck the match off my front tooth.
Crack! I could smell the sweet odor of sulfur as the fuse was ignited.
Whoosh! It took off heading directly for Gretel’s backyard. I could
follow its trajectory by the slight stream of smoke that followed the
98 G. Bradley Davis

rocket. The one thing I had no control of was distance, but as luck
would have it, just when the rocket reached Gretel’s swing set, it
exploded. Gretel jumped three feet off the ground and turned around
to see a small puff of smoke. Petrified, she ran into her house.
I fell to my knees laughing hysterically as Gretel reappeared in
her backyard with her mother. It was clear she was trying to explain
what had happened, but her mother wasn’t buying any of it. By the
time they Gretel had convinced her mother to come outside, the smoke
had disappeared and there were no signs of any foul play. Gretel’s
mother went back inside.
Knowing that her mother might be peering out the back door
window, I waited 5 minutes before launching another attack, but that
was okay, it gave me time to set-up another rocket. When I thought
the coast was clear, I sent another rocket across three backyards. This
time it took a bit of a right turn and headed directly over Gretel’s head
and exploded behind the rabbit pen. Bang! This time I could hear
Gretel’s scream. Off she ran into the house. Within a few minutes
Gretel and her mother came out of the house. I could not hear what
her mother was saying, but clearly, she was scolding Gretel for
fabricating such an outlandish story. At this point I had peed myself
laughing hilariously!
If this worked so well on Gretel, it should work well with Dasha. Perhaps
the inexplicable explosions could make her go insane, or at least have my dad
think she lost her mind. Maybe he would have her committed. This would take
a little more planning.
Over the next several weeks I would revisit the bottle rocket
experiment, often inviting Hunchback or Muskrat to experience it.
One day the winds had picked up, and since I had yet to take physics
in school, I failed to take the squalls into consideration. When I made
my calculations as the rocket went well off course, striking Mrs. Bates’
bra that was hanging on her clothesline. The rocket made it halfway
through the triple E cup and lodged there burning a silver dollar sized
whole in the left cup. Thankfully, I never heard any accusations come
my way. Sadly, all good things must come to an end as my supply of
bottle rockets had run out.
 Bellamy 99

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It’s only in love and in murder that we still remain sincere.
—Friedrich Dürrenmatt

M
uskrat continued his clandestine investigation into his
father’s odd behavior. The day before his mother walked
into the kitchen, surprising his father who was on the
telephone, so much so that he dropped a glass of water,
causing it to shatter across the linoleum floor. When his wife asked
who he was on the phone with, he simply said, “No one,” but Muskrat
was convinced that his dad was cheating on his mother, especially
since he had lost over 30 pounds since all of this began. Still, with no
concrete evidence, he had nothing but suspicions and conspiracy
theories that were only based on surmising.

Muskrat and Mouche asked me to join them at the Saturday matinee

to see the movie MASH. There was no sense in asking my parents. I
knew what their answer would be. Whenever my friends would go to
the Keswick Theatre in nearby Glenside, I was never allowed to join
them. The strict, religious upbringing forbade that. My brother, Ted,
the chosen one, was able to persuade our stepmother for us to see Mary
Poppins, and Funny Girl, but my cinematic appetite was for The Good,
the Bad and the Ugly or Planet of the Apes. I even had to sneak out of the
house to see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
I thought about going anyway and risk the possibility of being
seen by someone who would report back to Dasha, but I squelched
that idea. They decided to ask Mouche as my replacement. Hunchback
100 G. Bradley Davis

told me that Mouche said that his little brother, Tommy, had almost
stopped talking. It was if someone had stitched his mouth shut. His
mom was sick with worry, and they were sending him to some shrink
to find out why he went quiet. Mouche said he thought it had
something to do with church because on Sunday mornings Tommy
would scream, kick, and lay on the floor, refusing to get into the car
and go to Sunday School. If it was not church that was scaring him, it
was Reverend Markey.

Instead of the movies, Bellamy suggested that we get up early on

Saturday morning, before the neighborhood kids were up, to tryout
my butterfly net. I knew if I got caught chasing butterflies the
embarrassment and humiliation would be never-ending! Walking
through the woods of Chollie Mollies, covered with a canopy of tall
sugar maple, northern red oak, cherry birch, and black walnut, I felt
the coolness of the morning shade as I weaved down the dirt trail to
an open field. The sun began warming the October chill, drying the
mist that had drenched the field. A bit too early for the late autumn
goldenrod, I quickly spotted several monarchs that had found
abundant nectar on the tall milkweed and spectacular Joe Pye Weed.
Practicing the swooshing of the net with a quick twist of the wrist, I
felt confident I would capture a few of these gorgeous, winged
wanderers.
With my first try I captured a large male and was surprised at how
easily I had done so. Placing the winged beauty into the pickle jar I
had secured from the neighbor’s trash, I went off to find more. I would
have been happy chasing after, and netting, butterflies all morning,
but when I saw the first couple of kids heading down to the ballfield,
I knew I had to hide the net underneath my shirt and head home.
Having a reputation of being a butterfly enthusiast would not be a
good thing, especially when I was striving to be a guy's-guy.
I took the jar with the butterflies and the spreading board that
Perry had given me and laid it on my desk. While working with the
butterflies I found that I could lose myself in their beauty as an escape
 Bellamy 101

from my otherwise ugly existence. The butterflies were still alive, so I

dipped a cotton ball in a bottle of insecticide and gently placed it in the
bottom of the jar, just as Perry had instructed me to do. Seconds later
there was no movement in the jar. The exquisite beauty and intricate
pattern of the insect had me memorized as I stood there admiring
God’s creation. Yet, through the exquisiteness, there was a haunting
question which gave me a feeling of melancholy as I contemplated
whether I was justified in killing such a beautiful creature for selfish
gain. Is it fair to imprison a butterfly, and then euthanize it even when
it has a lifespan of a mere 2 weeks? Is it right to kill so you can gaze
upon beauty indefinitely as it hangs on your living room wall? If that
is acceptable, then why not kill a person who would prevent you from
having a beautiful life? What if you were faced with the possibility of
humiliation and your reputation ruined? Would that justify killing
someone to protect you from emotional harm. Is that not self-defense?
I deliberated for some time but could not, or would not, come to a
reasonable conclusion, and so I put it out of my mind. So many
philosophical questions, so few answers.
The butterflies were dead and ready for mounting. Carefully, I
began folding the wings down with forceps using strips of paper and
pins. I manipulated the wings perfectly so they were hinged to the
body just above the surface of the mounting board. With surgical
precision, I cautiously avoided touching the wing surfaces with my
fingers so as not to rub off the scales.
“You’re a natural at this,” suggested Bellamy.
“I am, aren’t I,” I responded.

A three-hour drive north of my home stood the hamlet of Equinunk,

Pennsylvania, a sleepy little town nestled between the Delaware River
and the Endless mountains that made North Hills look like a
megalopolis. It was a destination of fascination as a place of adventure
and perplexing contrasts. It was the location of Aunt Polina’s farm
which sat on 150 acres and that is where my family was headed this
day.
102 G. Bradley Davis

My love for the mountains came from my father, who would take
long walks in the woods whenever we were in the Poconos. For me,
the woods were a place of escape—a place where I was safe and did
not have to answer to anyone. I have always been more comfortable
around nature than around people. At Aunt Polina’s farm, I could
wander in the hills and woods for hours, and no one would care where
I had been. The first daffodil that would sprout in the early spring,
defiantly ignoring the lingering snow clusters, brought me
indescribable joy. The falling acorns, the offspring of the majestic oak,
gave me comfort as I would roll the smooth green and yellow nugget
between my fingers. I would notice the subtle changes in nature that
the rest of the world was oblivious to. I realized that every two to five
years there would be an excessive number of acorns that would drop,
not knowing that the botanical term for that is “mast years.” I would
memorize each bird’s unique song and would be placed in a state of
reverie as my eyes followed the flight of a butterfly.
Aunt Polina was my biological mother’s aunt, or, if you prefer,
my great aunt. A widow, Aunt Polina stood a mere 4 foot, 5 inches,
but looked even smaller as she was hunched over from advanced
osteoporosis. She always wore characteristic granny glasses, which
Audrey thought were cool and in style, a pale blue apron with
embroidered yellow and red flowers around the trim, and she wore
her long, grey-white hair in a bun. She was toothless, save for two
incisors on the lower plate and one canine in the upper, and she wore
black high-top shoes which had been re-soled several times. She was
approximately 152 years old and had forgotten her birthdate nearly a
decade or two earlier, but what made Aunt Polina memorable was that
she lived without electricity, running water or a flush toilet. A spring-
fed well was only a few feet from the kitchen door and an outhouse
stood about 40 feet behind the wood frame farmhouse.
Aunt Polina would make these delectable muffins stuffed with
huckleberries that were growing wild throughout the endless
mountains of Pennsylvania. As far as I could tell, huckleberries
were small blueberries, just a bit sweeter. When we would visit in
the late spring and early summer, she would send me out to pick
them before black bear would feast on them. It was easy to know if
 Bellamy 103

a bear had beat you to the large bushes because the branches would
be bent downward and stripped of fruit.
As my parents were busy discussing something about Aunt Polina,
I looked out the window, taking in the change of scenery as the family
car left civilization far behind. I understood the term a simpler life, but
thought, too, that it was misguided as I saw men chopping wood for the
winter, being the home-warming fuel of choice, as it came at the right
price. The fields were sparsely populated by both men and women
bailing hay and old women bent low harvesting green beans and
tomatoes for canning. An old man was bent over carrying a bundle of
kindling and branches on his back reminiscent of the album cover Led
Zeppelin IV. There was a poverty that was unlike the poverty I had seen
in Philadelphia. Here the people were poor but worked assiduously
for their sustenance and survival. The family car passed an abandoned
general store, Maggie’s Sit n’ Eat and a gas station -convenience store,
all which were permanently closed. Good ideas gone bad.
My thoughts returned to my great aunt’s farm as I gazed out the
window at the passing sites. I loved going to the homestead, except for
the fact that my parents made me kiss Aunt Polina upon arrival at her
house, an obligation which almost made the trip unbearable. A thick
cloud of garlic and tooth decay would welcome my lips as I would
hesitantly lean over for the obligatory osculation. My great aunt would
pinch my cheeks and say something in Ukrainian since Aunt Polina
spoke no English. She would smile as Dasha would explain what
grade I was in, hobbies I was interested in, and what plans I had after
high school. After sitting through the routine pleasantries, I was free
to go outside and explore.
On the other side of the gravel driveway was the barn and behind
the barn, the chicken coop. The barn was weather-beaten grey with
faded red paint intermittently visible on lower portions of the boards
and a rusting, silver metal roof would sing whenever it would rain.
The chicken coop was approximately 100 feet by 60 feet with wire
mesh around the frame and the wooden shelter had a little ramp for
the chickens to enter where they would sleep and get relief from the
elements. When visiting, Aunt Polina always made sure to tell Dasha
104 G. Bradley Davis

to instruct me on shutting the housing door at night to prevent

predators from eliminating a chicken or two.
Aunt Polina had three sons; two of them had their challenges. Coy
was the youngest. He was a special boy; special in that he would ride
the little yellow bus to school. He never made it past the fourth grade.
Johnny did a bit better, that is, until he was too large to ride the bus.
He was not too old to ride the bus, or too tall, just too big! Johnny
tipped the scales at well over 400 lbs. When he was entering the 5th
grade, he could no longer make it up the three steps of the bus, so he
just stopped going to school altogether. Aunt Polina told Dasha that it
was all for the better because Johnny could help her around the farm,
but Johnny could hardly walk, let alone bale hay, or feed the chickens.
Marko was the only normal son, if you call normal being consumed
with reading and academics, but never using that knowledge outside
of their little farm. All of Aunt Polina’s sons were older than my
parents.
Johnny never bathed. I guessed it was because he could not fit into
the bathtub, but even if he could, the bathtub was always occupied.
From September through April, it was filled with apples from the
small orchard that grew on the hill below the chicken coup. There was
an awful stench that would linger for a good thirty minutes after
Johnny would leave a room making an association with the boy
difficult if the visit did not occur outside.
Coy would play with a stuffed groundhog his dad had shot years
before and had a habit of repeating words or phrases. Coy’s dad was
always killing something. When Aunt Polina would tell Johnny that he ate
too much, Coy would chant, “Johnny eats too much. Johnny eats too
much,” like a well-trained macaw.
One day Johnny died choking on a pork chop. My great aunt went
to a neighboring farm to call Dasha, describing the horrifying story
between her fits of Ukrainian hysteria. The best I could understand,
Johnny was gnawing on a pork chop when a piece of the bone
splintered and got stuck in his throat. Aunt Polina was upstairs when
she heard a strange mixture of cackling and retching which she
deliberated on a bit too long. By the time she figured out that poor
Johnny was choking, it was nearly too late. She found him fallen back
 Bellamy 105

on his chair with his eyes wide open. Aunt Polina jumped on Johnny’s
chest, beating it like a tom-tom, but Johnny just became bluer and
bluer and continued his spasms. She tried to remove the bone but, in
her attempts, ended up driving it farther down his throat.
It took seven neighbor farmhands to remove Johnny’s body from
the house, and then they needed a backhoe to place the body on a
flatbed to take it to the nearest crematorium, 36 miles away. Aunt
Polina told Dasha that the cemetery wanted her to buy three lots to
bury him, so she decided cremation was the way to go. Since Aunt
Polina was what they call a “shut-in,” they told her they would ship
the urn via UPS and promised it would arrive on the Saturday
following Johnny’s death.
Aunt Polina scheduled the memorial service at the farmhouse for
that same Saturday. I assume she had no idea that UPS’ delivery
window was large, because she had not calculated the arrival of
Johnny’s remains well with the beginning of the service. The extended
family, including me and my siblings, were all gathered in the living
room and on the porch waiting for Johnny’s remains to arrive.
Hours passed, but no Johnny. Dasha was about to suggest that
they eat first, then have the memorial service when a UPS truck could
be seen kicking up dirt and stones on the gravel road. Coy looked up
from his slumber, like a dog from a long midsummer’s day nap, and
began announcing Johnny’s arrival.
“Here’s Johnny! Here’s Johnny!” repeated Coy, unknowingly doing
a fine Ed McMahon imitation.
Death fascinated me, even as a boy.

On the way home from the memorial service, my father took a slight
detour and jumped on the Pennsylvania turnpike.
“Dad, I need a bathroom,” I pleaded.
“We’ll be home in less than an hour.”
“That’s about 59 minutes longer than I can wait.”
As the family Chevy rolled down the interstate, I could see the
familiar orange roof with blue spires beckoning the weary traveler, a
106 G. Bradley Davis

Howard Johnson’s, the pioneer in comfort food and a selection of 28

flavors of ice cream. I ran awkwardly with a full bladder into the
restaurant and was immediately welcomed by the aroma of fried
clams.
The bathroom was a primitive sex education lesson for a boy
coming-of-age. There was the cologne machine. For a quarter you
could get a squirt of your favorite after shave; British Sterling, Brut,
English Leather or High Karate. It was clear to me that the cologne was
a prerequisite for the second bathroom vending machine, the condom
machine. As I stood in front of the urinal releasing the reservoir in my
bladder, I was fascinated by the selection the vending machine offered.
There was the glow-in-the-dark Pink Panther condom, the lambskin
condom for extra sensitivity and the ever-popular French Tickler with
ribbed sides and multiple receptacle ends. The French Tickler I had
seen before. Somehow Choo-Choo Charlie got his hands on one, filling
it up with water so that it looked like a cow’s udders. After relieving
myself, I got back into the idling car and we headed home.

I was thinking of the Ten Commandments this evening as I was

writing this. It is funny, if not appropriate, that as we grow older, as
we approach the inevitable end, that our attention is drawn to our
past. Even an atheist must wonder if they got it right. If not, they made
one hell of a mistake. The specifics of what comes after death is a
unanimous contemplation. Judgement for our sins is something we
have all become so good at ignoring.
It is curious, that the Ten are wrapped up in two other
commandments not included in the stone tablets given to Moses. In
Matthew chapter 22, a Pharisee asked Jesus which is the greatest
commandment. Jesus answered, “You shall love the Lord your God
with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This
is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall
love your neighbor as yourself.” In other words, if you love God and
you love people you will have kept all the Ten Commandments. In
retrospect, I was never particularly good at obedience.
 Bellamy 107

The “Thou shall not kill” thing is another thought-provoking

commandment. The State kills with their death sentence. The
government kills with their wars. Self-defense has always been an
acceptable reason to kill. To me, it was as though killing was okay as
long as someone in authority said it was justified.

Even though it had been years since my encounter with Simone at her
house, I found myself creating reasons to ride my bike past her house.
If I went to Plockies with my friends to pick up some grape balls, I
would always make an excuse why we should ride down Ruscombe
Avenue, but I always heard the same reason why we could not.
“That’s the dark side of town.” Dark, as in, black people.
My friends were all white, that is, all but Simone, and at this point
in my life, I was not sure I could call her a friend. They would use nasty
slang when referring to a black person. They would make hurtful jokes
about them, not to their face, mind you. I had to wonder if it was
hereditary or a learned trait.
One day after church I told my parents I would catch a ride home
with Olivia. She had choir practice after church, and I knew it would
mean hanging around for an extra hour. By my calculations, the black
Baptist church would be letting out about then. The African American
church services were at least 3 hours long, but if I could come up with
an excuse for us to drive by, I might just catch a glimpse of Simone.
My ploy was to tell Olivia that I had seen a brand new 68’ Vette,
the only year between 1963 and 1976 that Chevy had not made a
Stingray, and I really would like to drive by and see it. Olivia, always
easy when it came to my whims, obliged.
As we turned on to Limekiln Pike, I could smell the fried fish
coming from Slish’s Seafood House. A stout lady in her Sunday
clothes was coming out of a restaurant with a large, grease-stained
brown paper bag of takeout fish. Driving down the hill towards Edge
Hill Firehouse, I saw that my timing was spot on. An older, white-
haired black man with a brown suit and purple-flowered tie and in
need of a haircut, was standing by the large red doors of the church
108 G. Bradley Davis

shaking people’s hands. Simone’s mother was waiting her turn to

thank the reverend as Simone stood next to her dressed in a peach-
colored dress with pleats from the waist down. She had white heels on
and black stockings. She looked elegant.
I must had been daydreaming because it took me a few seconds
to realize that Simone had turned and looked at Olivia’s Simca that
had come to a stop to allow churchgoers to cross the street. I had no
idea what to do so I ducked below the window.
“What are you doing?” Olivia asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
“You always duck under the seat when you see black people?”
“No. I saw somebody I didn’t want to see me,” I said, hoping it
would put an end to the questioning.
“You’re a weird kid.”
“Yeah, I know.”

When we got home, I checked on my butterflies and was delighted to

find that they had dried to a flawless position. I had purchased a glass
frame and a roll of cotton from the hobby shop in Jenkintown to
complete the kaleidoscope of colored entomological art. With scissors
in hand, I rolled out the cotton, cutting a piece to the dimensions of the
frame. Delicately I positioned the butterflies on the cotton, replaced
the back of the frame and secured the metal tabs in place. What a perfect
gift this would be for Simone.
 Bellamy 109

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They killed to free themselves from a tyranny of love and
care.
—J. G. Ballard

T
he murder I mentioned earlier was an ugly thing, as I expect
all murders are, but this had that which, to this day, unnerves
me. Perhaps because I detest unfounded accusations, or it
might have been because the weak and the needy are always
easy prey for those in authority, or it may have been because I have
known who the perp was all these years.
What type of person takes another one’s life? Was such an act
something they toyed with for years until an acceptable victim
presented themselves? I am guessing that most of us do not know
anyone who is a murderer, and so delving into a murderer’s psyche is
impossible.

It was Thursday and it was rainy and windy, which meant I would
have to roll each newspaper up with a rubber band, slide it into a
plastic bread bag and stick each one on inside a customer’s screen
door. It would take twice as long to complete my route. The phone
rang and Ted yelled from the kitchen that it was for me. It was
Muskrat.
“We need to put a tail on my dad and see what he’s up to. I’ve
gotta find out what the hell he has been up to. Even my mom thinks
something is going on.”
“Alright, I’m in. When do you want to do this?” I asked.
110 G. Bradley Davis

“We’re going to have to pick a day when we know his normal

schedule has changed. There’s no sense in following him to work
every day. We’re going to have to be ready to drop everything, no
matter what we’re doing, and follow him. We need to catch him in the
act.”
“Yeah, but he’s going to be really pissed off if he finds out we’re
trailing him,” I warned.
“If he’s cheating on mom, he’ll have more to worry about than the
fact we followed him!”
I hung up the phone and finished rolling up the newspapers. I
made the rounds in surprisingly less time than I had imagined and
stopped by Hunchback’s house to see what he was up to. His mother
told me him he was at Muskrat’s so I headed over there.
I did not want to admit it back then, but Hunchback and Muskrat
were best friends. I was the third wheel. I was always the quasi-leader
of the pack. I exhibited faux confidence to hide my fear. I had fear of
non-acceptance; fear that if someone did really like me, they were
probably pretending. Fear that I was, well, peculiar. I have always
been life’s stranger. Looking back, Hunchback and Muskrat were
really not my friends, at least not how the dictionary defined the word.
I knew the guidelines; what I could say and what not to say, so I could
be included in their plans. I could never tell them about Simone, Perry,
or Bellamy.
I knew exactly what would happen if I told them about my other
friends. First, I would be ridiculed, something I feared more than
Dasha’s beatings. Secondly, I would be labeled as a nigger-lover,
queer, and a baby. Thirdly, they would never want to hang out with
me again, and I would really be alienated. Actually, none of the
neighborhood guys would want to be my friend.
If I excelled at anything, it was salesmanship. I was a born
salesman and often I could convince them both to go along with my
ideas, but if it came down to choosing sides, I was out. Bellamy was
the friend I had that I could be completely truthful and vulnerable
with. I still had to be careful not to let certain parts of me be seen by
Simone and Perry. Perry’s decision, conscious or not, to let me into his
life was not one of sudden declaration, but rather, was a gradual
 Bellamy 111

process. His subtle encouragement and lack of criticism was more than
attractive to me; it was safe.
“Hello Calvin. How are you today?” Muskrat’s mother asked.
“I’m good, Mrs. Zimmerman. Is Bobby home?” I had been
mindful to call Muskrat by his given name after making the mistake
once and Muskrat’s mother made it clear to me that she was not
pleased.
“Yes, he’s down in the rec room with Larry. Go on down.”
“Thanks Mrs. Zimmerman,” I said while opening the basement
door.
Navigating carefully around Muskrat’s kid sister, who was trying
to make her Slinky walk down the stairs, I heard Muskrat and
Hunchback laughing and Curly’s n'yuk nyuk before I was halfway
down the stairs.
“Yo.”
“Yo,” they answered in unison.
From the top of the stairs, Mrs. Zimmerman asked, “Calvin, the
boys are having a glass of Tang. Would you like one?”
“Yes, please,” I answered. Tang was a treat I seldom had at home
and, heck, if the astronauts drank it, it had to be good!
The 3 Stooges show ended and the three of us sat around figuring
out what to do.
“Let’s go over Cal’s house and play Nok-Hockey,” Hunchback
suggested.
“Naw, we only have a half an hour before the 5 o’clock whistle
blows, let’s play Electric Football,” I responded.
They both quickly agreed. Electric Football was a tabletop football
game which featured players which moved by the vibrations created
by the electro-magnet motor under the metal field. The football was a
little piece of felt which was frequently lost and sucked up by the
vacuum, and so we would use various replacements including the
cotton off a Q-Tip.
“Hey, Hunchback, didn’t you say that Keith Steube has a
Havahart trap?” I asked.
“Yeah. He got it at one of those second-hand booths at
Gilbertsville Farmer’s Market.”
112 G. Bradley Davis

“Does he use it? Has he caught anything in it?”

“Yeah. The only thing he catches are cats. He caught Mrs.
Torintino’s cat and she got real pissed off,” Hunchback said with a
smile of delight on his face.
“Do you think he’d let me borrow it?”
“I guess so. I think his mom said he had to get rid of it. Maybe you
could swap it for a couple of baseball cards. He loves collecting cards.”
That Saturday I went down to Keith’s house, finding him in the
driveway throwing a tennis ball against the garage door which left
dozens of small round dirt marks scattered in a haphazard pattern
below its windows.
“Hey, Keith.”
Keith turned around and waved with his mitt. “Hey, Cal. What’s
up?”
“Nothing. Hunchback told me that you might want to sell your
animal trap.”
Keith walked over to the dented silver trash can that sat on the
curb, lifted the lid and pulled out a medium sized 2-door Havahart
trap. “How much you want to give me for it?” Keith asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “You were going to throw it away.”
“Well, I changed my mind.”
“Come on. Don’t be a dick.”
“You want it? Then let’s make a deal.”
I did not know Keith very well, but if what Hunchback told me
about Keith being an avid baseball card junkie, I had come prepared.
“I’ll give you a Don Money and Clay Dalrymple card for it.” Not
that either player was a Hall-of-Famer, but they were both Phillies and
that made them more valuable.
“Throw in a Cookie Rojas,” Keith added as he leaned toward me
to see what other cards I had in my stack.
“Don’t be greedy. Is it a deal or what? These two cards for the trap
that you were throwing away anyway.”
“Alright.”
Keith agreed and the deal was consummated with a creative
North Hills handshake. I stopped by home and grabbed a wilted hunk
of iceberg lettuce and a pickled herring to use as bait and headed for
 Bellamy 113

Chollie Mollies. Walking down the path to the fork by the large oak
tree, I took the left trail and went into the hollow where the mock
orange tree stood. At the base of the tree, I set the cage down and
gathered leaves and branches to camouflage the trap. After church the
next day I planned on seeing if I had caught anything.

Church ran longer than usual, and Reverend Markey insisted I follow
him into his office so he could give me a biology book he picked up at
a flea market.
“Here, Calvin. I got this for you since you said biology was your
favorite subject.” The book looked like it had been dragged through
the dissection of a cat; stains covered the pages.
“Gee, thanks Reverend Markey,” I said while quickly exiting his
office before anymore conversation could develop.
When we got home, I went to my room to get my play clothes on,
haphazardly hanging my dress pants on their wooden hanger. I ran
into the kitchen, sliding on the linoleum floor and grabbing the
phone’s handset as I slid past the phone.
“Muskrat, meet me at the mock orange tree in the woods at
Chollie Mollies. Let’s see what I caught with Keith’s trap,” I said with
unbridled excitement.
“Beat you there,” roared Muskrat as he hung up the phone.
Muskrat had gotten to our meeting place before I did, but since he
had no idea where exactly where I had planted the trap, he had no
other choice but to wait for me.
“What do you think will be in there?” Muskrat asked while I was
still coming down the steep path.
“I dunno. Maybe a fox or a raccoon.”
“Oh, Cool! I hope it’s a raccoon. We can make hats like Davey
Crockett,” suggested Muskrat.
“Yeah. That would be cool,” I said in agreement.
Before we got to the trap, we could hear the metallic shaking of
the cage. Both of our eyes got larger than a Rizzo’s pizza as we knew
that we had caught something.
114 G. Bradley Davis

“There’s something definitely in there,” I shouted.

It took a few seconds for it to register in our minds what rodent
had been caught since we could not see the animal’s face. All we saw
was a large ball of grey and white hair. The bottom of the beast was all
white.
“What the hell is it?” Muskrat asked with an odd look of
trepidation and repulsion on his face.
“It’s a muskrat,” I answered with a laugh. “You of all people
should have been able to recognize it.”
Muskrat gave me a hard push as he responded. “Screw you.”
Just then the animal turned where we could see its long furless
tail and a white-haired face exposing its dark set eyes and pointed
snout.
“It’s actually a possum,” I declared.
“That’s boss!” cried Muskrat.
“Hey, your cat got hit by a car last year, didn’t it?’
“Yeah. By the time we found it, the thing was flat like a frisbee.”
“Do you still have the leash and collar?”
“I think so,” said Muskrat.
“Go get it.” And with that Muskrat was peddling fast as he could
up the dirt trail toward his home.
It did not take long for Muskrat to return with the teal-colored
collar, which I thought would look great against the light grey hair of
the possum, but getting the collar on the sharp-toothed rodent was
going to be harder than we expected.
“I’ll take a long stick to hold back its head down while you take
another stick with the collar looped and try to lasso it over the
possum’s head,” I suggested.
“I’ve got a better idea,” responded Muskrat. “I’ll take a long stick
to hold back its head while you take another stick with the collar
looped and try to lasso it over the possum’s head.”
“I’m the one that came up with this plan and I’m the one that
caught this possum. You said you wanted to be a part of this, so this is
your part.”
Reluctantly, Muskrat found a stick and approached the cage. As
he opened the side, the possum displayed its nasty teeth.
 Bellamy 115

“Shit! That thing is rabid! I’m not going to reach my hand down
there!” Muskrat cried.
“Quit being a pussy. I’ve got its head pinned down.”
“If it’s so easy, you do it!”
I could see that Muskrat was getting a little upset and I knew this
was a two-man job, so I relented. “Alright then, grab a larger limb.
That one with a fork in it. Hold his head down to the ground. Lower!”
With a few attempts I was able to get the collar on the possum with
the leash fastened on to it.
“Okay, sloooowly lift the stick,” I instructed.
At first, the possum did nothing. It just laid there, but suddenly,
as quick as a cricket, the thing made an about face and came straight
at us. I dropped the leash and the two of us took off through the
woods. We had not run far when Muskrat yelled, “I’ve gotta get the
leash back.”
“Relax,” I said. “I’ll get it back.”
Walking cautiously back to the Mock Orange tree we stopped
when they heard leaves rustling in a straight-line heading away from
the tree.
“There it is! Come on,” I shouted.
We ran towards the little mound of leaves bobbing along the
bottom of the hollow until we saw the leash. Muskrat stepped on the
leash as I picked it up by its looped handle. It didn’t take us long to
realize that I had to hold the possum at arm’s length to keep it from
biting my ankles, but after a bit I got the hang of it.
“What are you going to do with it,” Muskrat asked.
“Keep it as a pet. How cool would that be? Know anyone who has
a pet possum?”
Just then we heard the 5 o’clock whistle, that long siren blasting
from the fire house instructing all the North Hills kids that it was time
to go home for supper.
“Well, I gotta go, Cal. Let me know if your parents let you keep
him.”
Keep him? The thought never entered my mind that I would have
to convince my parents to let me keep the hairy rodent, but I thought
that there was a chance my dad could plead my case for me. I was
116 G. Bradley Davis

successful in convincing my dad and Dasha to let me keep an iguana

and a puppy, but I was not quite sure how I would make out selling a
possum to my parents.
Before I got to our driveway, I could smell chicken-a-la-king
coming from Dasha’s kitchen, a culinary treat my siblings were not
fond of, but I liked the creamy banty. If my sisters and brother did not
like what was on tonight’s menu that meant there would be more of it
for me.
I saw my father with his head buried underneath the Chevy’s
hood. My dad was one of those depression-era, Word War II, the
greatest generation guys that could do anything. Carpentry, masonry,
electrical tile work, it did not matter, and if he didn’t know how to do
it, he would read a book on the subject, tackle the project and the end-
result was fantastic. I had a pretty good idea that I would never be able
to do a fraction of what my dad could.
“Hey, Dad, look what I caught,” I said with fervor.
With his head still extended toward the engine block my dad
turned his head to see this undoubtedly irritated rodent hissing and
bearing its razor-sharp teeth.
“Shit!” He yelled as he jerked his head and caught the latch right
at his hairline creating a nasty gash. I had never heard my dad curse
and had not seen him that angry since I created an anti-snore powder
from Ted’s chemistry set which I tested on him while was taking a nap,
burning the inside of his nostrils. This was not going to be good.
“What in the world are you doing with a possum?”
“I caught it,” I said reluctantly.
“And what do you plan to do with it?” This was not going as well
as planned. I had to think of something quickly and suggesting they
keep it as a pet was not going to work.
“Uh, I don’t know.” That answer was not what I expected to come
out of my mouth.
“Well, I do,” my dad said rather sternly. “You’re going to set it
free, and nowhere near this house. We kept that rooster way too long.”
That was a reference to some blue-dyed chicks we received from
Aunt Polina one Easter. I have no idea why so someone would dye
them. I guess because it was Easter, anyway, all of the chicks died
 Bellamy 117

within a month, even though we made a makeshift incubator with a

shade-less lamp, that is, all but one that I had named Cletus. It had
grown into a nasty rooster with an attitude. It was always a sight to
see Cletus run down to the corner of the property to greet my sisters
and brother when they got off the school bus. Their schoolmates
would slide down the bus windows a begin singing the theme song to
the television show, Green Acres, and yelling comments about the
Lloyds living on the only farm in suburbia North Hills.
My dad put his head back under the hood of the car. “If your
mother sees that thing, you’ll never see the light of day.”
“She’s not my mother,” I mumbled as I turned and looked back at
the possum which had curled its tail. And with that, I hiked back to
Chollie Mollies to release my catch.
118 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Youth is the pollen that blows through the sky and does not
ask why.
— Stephen Vincent Benét

A
utumn was my favorite time of year apart from shorter
days, returning to school and raking leaves. The problem
with raking leaves is that the longevity of a leafless lawn is
solely dependent upon your neighbors having raked their
leaves as well, a possibility that never occurred. The smell of burning
leaves, chilly nights and warm days, football, apple cider,
and...mischief night, the informal holiday which always proved to be
a lot more fun than Halloween. For a boy who did not need a reason
to pull pranks on people, mischief night was a license to do so in grand
ways. Bellamy and I would spend countless hours scheming new and
creative ways to have fun at an unexpected victim’s expense.
At first, Bellamy’s ideas were a little too evil. Starting a fire on
someone’s porch or shooting an arrow through a homeowner’s
window would have serious consequences if I got caught. I was
tempted. The part about getting caught was the teaser. I thought I was
too smart to get caught, but jail was a decent deterrent.
Mischief night had its origin in England in the late 1700s when
some headmaster encouraged pranksters by selecting a play whose
last line made a strong suggestion for children to participate in the
shenanigans. In North Hills, the youth had a variety of tomfooleries.
When still young, they would inherit the traditional pranks from older
kids. Those who had a dog (which was just about everyone in town)
would volunteer to pick-up the dog droppings, which should have
been the first clue to their mothers that the boys were up to no good.
 Bellamy 119

They would take the yard bombs and place them into a brown paper
bag and place it on the front doorstep of someone in the neighborhood,
normally someone who would accumulate demerit points for being
nasty, or, more specifically, those grouches who would not give the
kids their ball back if it accidently ended up in their yard. Often these
were the same people who would deliberately be oblivious when their
dog would leave curb level scourge on other people’s lawns. The same
people who would never buy any of the things the local kids were
forced to pawn off on their neighbors for football camp, marching
band trip, or Girl Scouts. Whatever it was the kids were petitioned to
sell, these adults would refuse, and rudely so.
Some of these people we would target were simply scary, living
in dark houses with a ton of creepy bent trees with limbs that looked
like giant arms ready to grab an unexpected kid. The kids would light
the bag full of the dog butt truffles on fire and run behind a tree or
bush just in time to see their target stomp on the fire to put it out,
getting the rusty nuggets all over their feet. Sometimes they would
unknowingly go back in the house with their shoes on. Those
moments were precious because, inevitably, the boys would wait just
a few minutes, till the stink rose in the people’s living room, quickly
forcing the homeowner back outside where they would remove their
shoes on the steps to clean off later. Not exactly an original prank, but
one most of us cut our teeth on. If the pranksters were both ambitious
and creative, like my gang, they would come up with more devious
tricks.
As planned, Hunchback and Muskrat met me at Joe’s Market, a
local food store that mothers would send their kids to purchase chip
steak, lunchmeat, fresh rolls and the like. A hog farmer was hanging
several butchered swine by their back feet on a hook as we watched
mesmerized. The hogs disappeared inside the market when a butcher
in a white coat pushed the large beasts along a metal rail fixed to the
ceiling.
“How cool was that?” Asked Hunchback.
“Very!” I replied.
120 G. Bradley Davis

“Ya know, they call that guy the pigman, not just because he bring
those pigs to Joe’s Market, but cause he looks like a pig. Did you see
his flat nose,” Muskrat asked.
“You’re crazy,” Hunchback said as I started laughing.
“No, seriously. My cousin lives in Lansdale and everyone out
there calls him the pigman. Says he doesn’t talk much. Just walks
around town and grunts.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Let’s go inside and get everything we need.”
Inside, the market, we emptied our pockets and consolidated the cash
to increase our purchasing power. Muskrat had sixty-seven cents with
one of the quarters having chewing gum on it. Hunchback had a dollar
and four pennies, and I had a crumbled-up dollar and ninety-two
cents in change. We were still a little more than a dollar short of what
it would cost to get the “supplies” we needed. As if on cue, Choo-Choo
came riding up on his hybrid bike that had both a banana seat and ape-
hanger handlebars.
I looked at Hunchback and Hunchback looked at Muskrat.
“Oh no, you aren’t! We’re not taking Choo-Choo with us. We’re
bound to get caught if he comes with us,” Muskrat adamantly stated.
“Look, it’s either Choo-Choo or we have to scrap the entire plan,”
I explained.
“Hey, guys. What’s up,” asked Choo-Choo as he skidded into a
stop.
“What the heck happened to you?” asked Hunchback. “Your lip
is swollen like a bee stung it.”
“Oh, it’s nuthin’. Max got so excited when I brought him his
dinner last night that he jumped up and got me in the mouth with his
paw.”
“I swear, you are the unluckiest kid around. You’re always beat-
up one way or another.”
Choo-Choo simply shrugged his shoulders as Hunchback pushed
open the door to the sound of the little bell and went into the market
with the rest of us followed close behind. Immediately, I smelled the
familiar fragrance of fresh Italian bread as soon as we entered the
store. Walking over to the refrigerated food section we grabbed three
of the cheap, IGA brand raw biscuits that came in a tube. We weren’t
 Bellamy 121

going to spend more money on the Pillsbury biscuits. We had just

enough money left over to buy a can of Reddi Whip.
Just down the street from Joe’s Market was an empty lot that had
a few overgrown bushes. Opening the paper bag, I pulled out the
doughy biscuits and cracked open the tubes to a “peuwf” sound.
Strategically positioned behind a few tall bushes, we armed ourselves
with a raw biscuit in each hand as we began to hurl them at cars
driving down Jenkintown Road. When a biscuit hit a car, it would
instantaneously stick and make a loud PLUMP sound. Brake lights
would light up as the drivers tried to figure out what could have
possibly happened to their car as hysterical laughter came from
behind the bushes.
Having quickly exhausted our dough throwing ammunition, we
turned down Maple Avenue heading toward the old Mrs. Kline’s
Penny Candy Store, which had closed when Mrs. Kline died the year
before. Choo-Choo came up with a brilliant idea to visit Mrs.
Cacciatore’s house. Mrs. Cacciatore was a woman in her mid-seventies
with thick milk-bottle glasses and a heavy mustache. She had two
Chihuahuas that were more like cats impersonating dogs, which
would never stop yapping, and their yammering could be heard a
least two or three blocks before you reached her house. When I would
arrive at her house to deliver the weekly newspaper, I was repeatedly
instructed by Mrs. Cacciatore not to throw the paper on her lawn
because the one time I had, the Mexican rats shredded the paper into
confetti. I was clearly told to wait at the gate until she came out of the
house, down the sidewalk and to the gate, which often took 20 minutes
as she walked in slow motion with a walker. She had lived in the states
for over fifty years and still couldn’t speak more than a dozen words
in English.
When we got a block from the old lady’s house, I told my fellow
desperados, “You’ve gotta be stone dead quiet. Those stickin’, batty-
eyed rats have supersonic ears, and if they hear us and start yapping
her flood lights will come on and she’ll catch us in the act and call the
cops.”
We sneaked up the sidewalk and reached the gate as Muskrat
slowly opened the latch which made a loud metallic clang.
122 G. Bradley Davis

“Shhhhhhh,” I whispered.
As he pushed the open the gate, it made a creaking noise loud
enough to wake Rip Van Winkle. Immediately, the Mexican
chinchillas started yapping and the porch light came on. The four us
jockeyed for position best that we could, crouching low behind Mrs.
Cacciatore’s prize-winning Rosa Meitronis pale pink rose bushes that
she cherished almost as much as the cymbal-clapping monkeys she
called dogs. The old lady, dressed in in her housecoat with her hair
wrapped in small pink curlers, pulled back the curtains and peered
outside.
We waited for what seemed to be half the night until the yellow
porch light finally went out.
“I’ve got a freaking thorn in my ass,” cried Muskrat.
“You are a pain in my ass,” laughed Hunchback.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “We can’t wake up those barking
burritos. Let’s get to work.”
Mrs. Cacciatore had collected dozens of ceramic figurines that she
ordained her lawn with. White and pink rabbits, gnomes, frogs, ducks
walking in a line, and a miniature 8-point buck were all strategically
positioned around her front yard making it look more like a chaotic
menagerie than the cute, artful envy of the neighborhood which is
what she was seeking. A lawn jockey whose obvious Negro face had
been painted pink, obviously as an attempt not to offend any of the
radical black militants who had rioted after the Martin Luther King
assignation, welcomed us at the fence gate. Creeping around her lawn,
we started gathering all of the ornaments we could carry and went a
block down the street to Judy Green’s house and placed them all over
her front yard. We had to make four trips to get all of Mrs. Cacciatore’s
paraphernalia off her lawn and onto the Judy’s yard, but we
accomplished our task. Mrs. Cacciatore’s front yard was naked and
the Greene’s looked like a yard sale.
By the time our crew had finished rearranging of lawn fixtures it
was well past our curfew, and we needed to head home, but there was
one more mischief night prank we wanted to pull off, but,
unfortunately, the weather had not cooperated.
 Bellamy 123

We three amigos waited for an entire week until the weatherman

promised that it would rain pitchforks beginning that Thursday night.
Just after dinner the three of us met at Muskrat’s house. Hunchback
had just gotten his driver’s permit, but his brother did not want to
chaperone while Hunchback taxied his friends around North Hills to
play pranks. We would have to trek it on foot. Muskrat grabbed his
little brother’s jumbo bottle of Mr. Bubble and stuffed it in his jacket
as he told his parents that we were heading to Chollie Mollie’s to shoot
hoops. Instead, we headed to Tommy Carson’s house to send a little
message.
Tommy had been once been a part of our gang. He hung out with
us, played and went to school with us and even attended the same
church as I did. When he moved to North Hills from somewhere
within the five boroughs of New York, City, Hunchback, Muskrat, and
I befriended him, and even though he spoke with that funny way that
New Yawker’s tawk, we made him feel like he belonged. His mother
was a nagging old lady who made his father move from city to city
because she was never satisfied with any job or promotion he would
get. The truth be known, she was embarrassed by his lack of
achievement and always thought she had married down.
In any case, when the Hunchback’s parents got divorced Tommy
wanted nothing to do with him, or any of the guys that hung out with
Hunchback. His decision to alienate Hunchback stemmed from his
family’s belief to shun sinners. It was as though his association with
the Hunchback would cause his parents to divorce. He treated his
former friends like they were lepers, so on this night our motive was
to help Tommy clean up his act.
The rain was not supposed to start until after midnight, which
was perfect for our plan. We crept quietly around Tommy’s front yard,
each of us holding our weapon of choice, a large bottle of Mr. Bubble.
Our thinking was that one bottle would not do much damage, so we
bought another bottle at Joe’s Market. We poured the bottles of Mr.
Bubble all over the front lawn and the driveway, but it seemed
anticlimactic because, obviously, nothing happened, but with the
124 G. Bradley Davis

weather report promising torrential rain we promised to meet in front

of Tommy’s before school the next day to see the how many suds
would appear. The anticipation was unbearable.
Early the next morning I threw on my favorite blue jeans and my
red and white striped polo shirt, half tied my P.F. Flyers and flew
down the stairs stepping on every third or fourth step. Grabbing the
curved end of the banister I swung 180 degrees and slid into the
kitchen while grabbing my denim jacket I had left on a kitchen chair.
“Where do you think you’re going young man?” Dasha
demanded an answer.
“I promised I’d meet Hunchback and Muskrat so we could walk
to school together.”
“How many times have I told you not to call Bobby and Larry by
those horrible names.”
“Aw, they’re alright with them, Mom.” And then Dasha said
those magic words that were sweet music to my ears. “You never
brought in the trash cans when you got home from school yesterday,
Calvin. It rained so hard last night they’re probably overflowing with
water. Before you head off to meet your friends, I want you to bring in
those cans…and don’t forget to put on your rubbers on!”
My mind sprinted. It rained? Not only did it rain, it rained hard
enough to activate the full fury of Mr. Bubble! And what is it with calling
those waterproof overshoes, rubbers? Really? The rest of the world calls them
galoshes, but Dasha calls them rubbers. She might as well have called them
condoms, raincoats, frangers, sheaths, fishnets, love gloves or party hats!
Muskrat was already at the corner of Elm and Hawthorne—riding
around in circles on his Schwinn Lemon Peeler Krate Stingray, the
coolest bicycle in town. There were even racing stripes on his banana
seat! Hunchback could be seen a few blocks down Elm.
“Hurry up!” yelled Muskrat. “We’ve gotta get over to Tommy’s
house before school starts!”
“Look!” Hunchback said as he pointed toward the sky.
A gentle breeze was carrying some bubbles a block from where
we were—as we approached the bubbles they would rise, as if
climbing stairs, moving six or seven feet above our heads in a parallel
plane and then climb a few feet higher with the help of the cool wind.
 Bellamy 125

“Damn, and we’re still three blocks away from Tommy’s!”

As we got closer to Tommy’s house, clouds of bubbles were
rolling like sagebrush down Hazel Street, and when we were still a
block away what we saw was beyond what any of us could have
anticipated...or hoped for. Coming straight down the street was a
tsunami of bubbles at least ten feet high, wide enough to cover the
entire street and sidewalks.
“Jumping Josephat! Are you kidding me?” I yelled.
Each of us stood there stunned, eyes and mouths equally opened
in exaggerated poses.
“Crap! What did you guys do with your empty bottles of Mr.
Bubble?” I asked in an interrogating way.
“I chucked mine into an empty trash can on the way home,”
Muskrat answered.
“What about you, Hunchback?”
Hunchback stood there, head down, staring at his sneakers.
“Oh, no! You didn’t?”
“Well, there was still a little left in the bottom and my mother
always makes me take a bath on Saturday nights, so I thought it would
be cool to try Mr. Bubble.”
“You had better go home and get that bottle right now before your
parents put 2 and 2 together.”
“I’ll be late for school.”
“What is worse, getting detention for being late to class, or getting
hammered big time for the massive suds and taking us down with
you? Here, take Muskrat’s bike.”
“Oh no, he ain’t!” insisted Muskrat.
“Come on! We will be grounded through summer vacation if our
parents find out. If Hunchback takes your bike, he can get home,
destroy the evidence, and still make it to school before the bell rings.”
“Aw, alright,” Muskrat said hesitantly.
Hunchback did make it to school in time, barely. After school we
dropped by the iconic Plockies Penny Candy Store located inside the
Texaco Gas Station to buy some grape balls before heading home. The
three of us leaned on top of the glass display case until Mr. Nelson
asked us to take a step back as he took a white cloth from his back
126 G. Bradley Davis

pocket and wiped our fingerprints off the glass. Hunchback bought a
packet of Nik-L-Nip which contained five little sweet liquid-filled wax
bottles, a packet of Pixie Sticks and some satellite wafers. Muskrat
bought a pack of Marlboro and Jolly Viceroy bubble gum cigarettes
and a packet of Razzles. I went for a couple of strips of candy buttons
and a half dozen grape balls.
We decided to go by Tommy’s house to see if the suds had
disappeared, but when we arrived, we saw that the mountain of suds
had clearly dropped a good 5 or 6 feet, but it was still a spectacle.
Maybe that is why we didn’t see Tommy at first. We could hear the
“swish-swish” of the broom Tommy was using to sweep the clouds of
suds off his driveway when Tommy looked up and saw the three of
us staring at him with broad smiles. For a second, the three of us just
stood there starring. Then, as if on cue, we broke into hysterical
laughter.
“You guys are ass-holes,” yelled Tommy. “I know you did it!”
How do you let someone know that you will gladly take credit for
an incredibly creative hoax without letting them know you did it? We
simply walked up Hazel Avenue arm-in-arm smiling smiles of a job
well done.
 Bellamy 127

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Advise persons never to engage in killing.
—Billy the Kid

I
had spent the following weekend up at Aunt Polina’s farm to do
some archery hunting. I had bagged a doe during rifle season the
previous year, but my archery skills had improved, and I wanted
to try my luck at more skilled hunting.
Even though Hunchback did not hunt, he had heard stories about
my aunt who lived without the modern comforts of the civilized world
and wanted to experience it firsthand, so he gave me a ride. I warned
him that he might have to clean the chicken coup while I was hunting,
but he did not seem to care. We arrived after dinner as the sun was
setting over the rolling hills spreading a blanket of orange and yellow
across the darkened cornfield. Aunt Polina was fetching a pail of water
from the spring as we pulled up to the small farmhouse. I introduced
my friend to her, and she was able to repeat Larry’s name with a heavy
accent.
I took the pail of water from her as we entered the house. A strong
odor of mildew and dampness mixed with cabbage hit us we walked
into the small dining room. Marko was dragging two stained
mattresses down the stairs.
“Hey there, Calvin. Heard you are going to try and get a buck
with a bow. If you walk below the apple orchard, you’ll see tracks the
deer have made. They come up at dusk to steal as many apples they
can gorge themselves on. Kill as many as you can,” he said with a
chuckle. “Sorry, but you two will have to sleep on the floor. We only
have two beds.”
128 G. Bradley Davis

“No problem, Marko” I said. “This is my friend, Larry. He doesn’t

hunt, but he was good enough to give me a ride.”
“Welcome to our country abode, Larry.”
“Thanks, Marko,” Larry said, as he tried to take in his
surroundings.
I wound up my alarm clock, and we settled in for the evening
since there was no tv to watch.
The alarm went off at five o’clock as Hunchback rolled over with
a groan. I quickly put on my camouflaged clothes and went outside to
retrieve my bow and arrows from Hunchback’s car. I sprayed myself
with a scent elimination liquid and grabbed my bottle of doe-in-rut
estrus deer attractant that I would trickle on a few trees nearby where
I would set my tree stand.
Strapping my tree stand to my back, I walked through the orchard
and into a wooded area with my flashlight low to the ground. It did
not take long for me to see the first buck rub; the bark of a three-year-
old ash had been stripped clean at the height of the buck. A good sign.
Deer droppings littered the trail and footprints were visible in an area
where mud had dried hard. I found a large oak tree that overlooked
an open valley and began climbing it with my stand. At about 18 feet
up I found a good spot to position my stand and settled in for sunrise.
It did not feel chilly when I was lugging everything through the
woods, but now that I had been sitting for a while, I could feel the chill
through my jacket. I wanted to pull up the collar on my jacket, but any
movement would easily have been seen by a cautious buck. It slowly
began to get light, even before the first rays of the sun bounced
through the crowded trees. It was then that I saw the first deer, a doe,
as she slowly walked into the open area in the valley, her head down,
looking for food, and then up again to survey the area. A second doe
entered the opening, followed by a third and a fourth. When the
rangale had exited the woods and gathered in the valley there was a
total of eight deer, but all were doe. At least 15 minutes passed before
I saw the girth of a much larger deer guardedly enter the area
previously occupied by the doe. His antlers were high and wide, but I
could not count the number of points from the hundred or so yards
 Bellamy 129

where I was sitting. Isn’t that just like a guy to have the girl make sure
the coast is clear?
When I saw the first doe enter the woods on my side of the valley,
I knew the rest would follow, single file. As they deliberately walked
on the path toward my tree stand, I slowly stood and picked up my
bow; my breathing becoming heavy. My thin camouflaged mask
concealed my breathe as I exhaled into the cold air. The lead doe
stopped just short of my tree stand and raised her head high and
rotated its ears toward me as she stiffed the air. Apparently, my scent
was not completely disguised. The others in line stopped and waited
for her analysis. After a few minutes she was satisfied and continued
walking past my position with the others slowly following her.
My breathing increased in a futile attempt to catch-up with my
rapid heartbeat. I knew that I would have the opportunity I had
longed for. When the eighth deer entered my space, I drew back my
bow before the buck was visible. Within seconds, he appeared. His
neck thick and a huge rack that totaled eleven points. My lethal
shooting range was 30 yards and I waited till he entered that distance
and released the arrow. The buck jumped wildly and ran off to my left
into some dense brush.
I was not sure I had hit the deer, but I waited a full 30 minutes
before quietly climbing down from the tree. Walking over to the spot
where the buck had been, I saw hair and a small pool of blood. A dozen
yards farther I found my arrow which was drenched in blood. I began
walking in the directions the deer had ran and soon found a blood trail
and spots of blood on leaves and thin branches. After walking about
40 yards, I saw the trophy lying in a hollow. I kicked it with my boot
to make sure it was dead.
There is a strange sense of power to have a living thing’s life in
your hands; to have the power to decide whether something lives or
dies. To kill or not to kill. It is an opportunity to play God. For me, one
who lacked power in just about all aspects of my life, this was
exhilarating. I was in control of a living thing’s destiny. The sense of
accomplishment of bagging a trophy buck did not compare to the
authority and supremacy I felt.
130 G. Bradley Davis

Hunchback helped me drag the deer back to the farmhouse, and

Marko helped us hang it in the barn where I butchered it. I gave Aunt
Polina several roasts and steaks and wrapped the remainder to take
home.

I had cleared the plates from the supper table when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” I announced to anyone listening.
“Cal, it’s me,” Muskrat said with uneasiness in his voice. “My dad
said he had to take care of a few things after dinner. I think we need to
follow him.”
“But if he takes his car, how are we going to trail him?”
“I called Hunchback. He’s on his way to pick you up. I’m walking
down to the corner, and he’s picking me up there. We’ll just wait there
until we see his car, and we’ll follow him.”
Muskrat hadn’t finished his sentence when there was a knock on
the door. I could hear my stepmother welcoming Larry.
“Hunchback just got here. See you in five,” I said as I hung up the
phone.
Muskrat was waiting exactly where he said he would be when we
pulled up.
“Get in the back,” Muskrat said to me. “I need to have a full
visual.”
I did not argue as he pulled the seat back forward and slid
through to the backseat.
We did not have to wait long before we saw Mr. Zimmerman pull
out in his Cortex Gold Buick Electra and head down Edge Hill Road.
He made a left on to Jenkintown Road, past Joe’s Market, and a short
distance later pulled into the 19th Hole, a nondescript building of
yellow painted stucco and dark tinted windows that was a popular
watering hole on the corner of Jenkintown Road and North Hills
Avenue. The owner was well-known, not just in the North
Hills/Ardsley communities, but throughout the Philadelphia
entertainment industry for promoting concerts like Tom Jones, The
 Bellamy 131

Soul Survivors, Blind Faith, and The Young Rascals. The question was,
what was Mr. Zimmerman doing at the popular night club?
“Maybe he’s picking up chicks here,” suggested Hunchback.
“I swear I’ll kill him. I’ll borrow your father’s shotgun and kill
him, Cal.” Hunchback and I had never heard Muskrat with such
venom in his voice.
“And maybe he went in there to have a drink,” I suggested. “Does
your mom allow alcohol in the house?”
“Just wine and beer.”
“Well, there you have it. He wanted a few high balls to let off some
steam. That’s all,” I said in an attempt to bring some reason to the
conversation.
“That doesn’t explain the weight loss, the new clothes, the
whispering phone calls. One of you have to go in there and check out
what he’s doing.”
“Right. We’re 16 and there’s a bouncer at the door. We’ll never get
past him and into the bar,” Hunchback said as he turned to me in the
backseat. “You try, Cal. You can get yourself in anywhere.” A bizarre
statement that I was the only one of the three of us that looked two
years younger than I was.
“Yeah,” I responded. “And I can get myself into trouble, and this
has trouble spelled all over it.” Wanting to live up to the high opinion
of my two compatriots and afraid of my warped mentality that if I did
not perform, I would be minus the only two pseudo-friends I had.
Spoken or unspoken peer pressure had a great influence on me. In
retrospect, it is somewhat funny that I would succumb to another’s
suggestion or request to engage in a specific behavior. It is a sign of
weakness, which I avoided at all costs. But the fear of not being
accepted trumped any logical reasoning.
I quickly began stretching my brain to come up with an idea that
would sanction my newly crowned title of being the creative and
intrepid point man. “I need a cardboard box,” I said looking at my two
partners in crime.
“We just bought a Big Wheel for my kid sister. I was supposed to
breakdown the box this afternoon, but I got the call from Muskrat,”
132 G. Bradley Davis

Hunchback said with more than a little excitement in his voice. “What
are you going to do with it?”
“You’ll see. Let’s drive over to your house and get it before
someone smashes it flat,” I said.
By the time we got back to the 19th Hole, more cars had appeared
in the parking lot, but Muskrat’s father’s Buick was still where he had
parked it. I closed the lid to the box and walked toward the entrance
to the bar with a stride of confidence. The bouncer was a behemoth of
a man, standing 6 foot 4 and a girth that blocked the setting sun.
“What have you got there?” he asked me as if he was expecting a
delivery.
“Just napkins, stirrers, coasters. You know, the normal stuff,” I
answered nonchalantly.
“Well, you can’t come in the front. I’ll have someone open the
back door for you.”
“Okay,” I replied as I walked back down the steps toward the
parking lot.
“He got shot down,” Hunchback said without taking his eyes off
me.
“Wait. You know Cal. He’s not one to take no for an answer,”
Muskrat said with confidence in his voice.
They watched as I walked around the building and disappeared
from their vantage point around the back of the taproom. By the time
I had reached the back door, it was already cracked open. I opened the
door with my foot and saw a woman wearing a tight white midriff and
equally tight jeans.
“Do I need to sign for this?” she asked me while looking me over.
“Nope. It’s just a backorder. Hey, can I use the bathroom?”
“Make it quick. Kids are not supposed to be in the bar. It’s around
the pool table and to the right. Underneath the Schaefer Beer sign.”
I put down the box, exited the storage room and entered the bar.
Not wanting Muskrat’s father to recognize me, I pulled my Phillies cap
down low over my brow, tilting the bill to hide as much of my face as
I could. Turning toward the row of bar chairs, I immediately spotted
Mr. Zimmerman pouring a glass of Wild Turkey for a patron from
behind the bar. Having seen what I came for, I forgot the bathroom
 Bellamy 133

and exited the backdoor. Not wanting to get caught delivering an

empty box, I sprinted toward Hunchback’s car.
“Let’s get out of here. Quick!!!” I directed as I slid into the
backseat.
As we were pulling out of the parking lot, Muskrat turned around
to me and said, “Well?”
“Your dad is a bartender.”
“What?”
“I guess he has a part-time job. He was pouring drinks behind the
bar.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t he tell mom? And
where does he go during the day when he doesn’t go to work? We
need to follow him again the next time he ventures off on a day
fieldtrip,” a confused Muskrat mumbled to himself as much as to the
two of us.

I could hear Cletus crowing even before the sun got out of bed. It
would be the last time I would hear his wake-up call. In retrospect, I
cannot believe at how naïve I had been. Sometimes I had difficulty
grasping the obvious. Like the time our dog Chief, a beautiful boxer,
bit a kid who had insistently taunted him by riding his bicycle just
beyond the dog’s reach. The very next day my dad had to send the dog
to “a farm” to live out his days. Yeah, he went to a farm like Roseanne
Barr went to finishing school. Cletus was supposed to head back to
Aunt Mary’s farm but that evening, dinner consisted of broccoli,
mashed potatoes, applesauce, and roasted chicken—very fresh roasted
chicken.

The next day I headed for Chollie Mollies to meet Muskrat and
Hunchback. They got to the Havahart cage before I did and were more
animated than usually. “We got another possum!” They yelled.
It’s the same one,” I said.
134 G. Bradley Davis

“You’re crazy,” replied Muskrat. “There’s gotta be hundreds of

possums in these woods. How do you know it’s the same one?”
“Look at him. I’d recognize him anywhere. It sure looks like the
same one, but we’ve gotta let it go. I can’t bring it home, that’s for sure.
We have to keep trying till we catch a fox. That will be the ultimate!”
“Yeah!” shouted Hunchback. “Hey, if we put that cat collar on it,
we’ll know if it’s the same one.”
“Are you crazy?” Muskrat shouted without taking his eyes off the
marsupial. “We had a hell of a time getting a collar on that thing the
first time; besides, if the possum never comes back, we’ve lost the
collar and my mom will kill me. She’s been really edgy lately. I’ve been
keeping my distance from her. I do not need anything else to set her
off. Damn! Look at those teeth!”
Just then I smiled one of my patented smiles. There is more than
one way to skin an armadillo! I have got an idea how we can prove
whether it’s the same possum we keep catching,” I said as I jumped
on my bicycle. “Wait here. I’ll be back in 10 minutes. Find a good stick
with a Y in it. We’re gonna need it.” And with that I was out of the
saddle, peddling as fast as I could back home.
“Anybody home?” I yelled as I cased-out the house before
deciding how to get that which was crucial to my possum
identification plan.
“Me,” Ted answered. “I’m going to practice the piano so if you’re
planning on screwing around, go downstairs.”
“I just need to pick something up. I’m going back to Chollie
Mollies.”
Quietly, I entered my parent’s bedroom, a place strictly off-limits,
and opened the top drawer to Dasha’s dresser, surprised by the large
selection of rainbow-colored nail polishes. Who would have thought
nail polishes come in so many different colors? After a quick scan of
my choices, I decided on coral orange. Closing the drawer, I put the
bottle in my pocket and was back on my bike, all in less than 5 minutes.
When I arrived back at the trap, Muskrat had found the stick with the
Y and was trimming one of its ends with a pen knife to make both
sides uniform.
 Bellamy 135

“Whatcha got,” Hunchback asked as I pulled out the small glass

bottle.
“Nail polish. We’re gonna paint his toenails. We’ll know for sure
if this guy is the same possum we keep catching.”
“That’s awesome,” Muskrat said as he laughed riotously.
I opened the hatch and Muskrat pinned the possum’s head down
when he came out of the cage. Quickly, I painted all its nails and then
set the hairy rodent free.
“Bait the cage and let’s come back tomorrow,” I said as we
watched the possum slip underneath a fallen hemlock.

As I have stated, Dasha always had chores for me to do on Saturdays

before there would be any free time. This Saturday was no exception.
It was after twelve before I knew it and needed to call Muskrat to
discuss another one of my ingenious plans. That is, if we should catch
the possum again, but I decided to head over to his house instead.
Walking over to a shelf above my desk, I retrieved a book about child
psychology entitled The Aggressive Child, I had purchased for a dollar
at a flea market held in the fire company’s parking lot. The book was
3 inches thick, which had been perfect for my purposes. I had
hollowed out the inside, leaving the front pages intact, so that I could
have a special hiding place for all the secret items in my life. Of course,
they had to be smaller items that would fit within the book. A pack of
Marlboros, money I had been saving, my favorite pen knife, and a
stack of Bazooka bubble gum wrappers I was saving for a free magnet
set. For 150 Bazooka wrappers I was promised 2 magnets, 2 metal
balls, a wooden dowel, and a magic tricks instruction sheet. I had
about 90 wrappers saved and had them secured them with paper clips
in lots of ten. I grabbed the pack of cigarettes and placed the book back
on the shelf. Upstairs, I could hear Dasha asking my father if he had
seen her coral orange nail polish. With that, I headed to Muskrat’s.
Muskrat’s mother said he and Hunchback were in the family
room watching television. When entering the room, I saw they were
watching Wild, Wild West and drinking Yoo Hoo, so I grabbed a seat
136 G. Bradley Davis

without saying anything. That episode was called "The Night of the
Sedgewick Curse", a story about a family suffering from rapid aging and
the family doctor, trying to find a cure, began kidnapping people with
the same malady to test his serum on them. Needless to say, the three
of us were riveted to our seats.
When the show ended, I began to share my plan for the expectant
rodent capture.
“Guys, if our possum shows up with the painted toenails, let’s sell
it.”
“Sell it,” responded Hunchback, “who in their right minds is
going to buy a possum?”
“A stupid city person,” I answered. “People are always driving
down Edge Hill Road when they are coming from Cheltenham or
Chestnut Hill. I’m telling you, if we put a sign on the cage that says
Free Cat, some fool will take the bait.”
The three of us fell about laughing and as one of us would stop,
the other’s laughter just made him laugh again harder.
“Alright, but let’s first stop by Plockies for some candy,”
suggested Hunchback.
As we approached the Texaco gas station that doubled as Plockies
Penny Candy Store, a car pulled in and parked next to the gas pumps.
A man stepped out of the car and told the attendant to fill it up.
“Cal, how are you?”
To say I was startled would have been a poor choice of words. I
was completely drenched in fear. Not to hear my name called
unexpectedly, but by who it was that had called my name. When I
turned my head, I saw Perry who had stopped to get gas. With a
heightened panic washing over me like an august rainstorm, I turned
away, ignoring Perry, and quickly opened the door to Plockies and
went inside.
“Hey Cal, that queer is calling you,” Hunchback said as he
grabbed my arm.
“No, he didn’t!” I retorted.
“Oh, yes he did!” Muskrat said chiming in. “I think he likes you.”
“I deliver the Glenside News to his house, you moron! That is how
he knows me. Screw him!” I said defensively.
 Bellamy 137

“I think that is exactly what he wants to do to you, Cal. To screw

you,” laughed Hunchback.
“Very funny. Are you going to buy some candy or are you going
to audition for Laugh-In?” I responded.
Perry had a look of disappointment on his face as he gave the
attendant a sawbuck and got back into his car as he waited for his
change.

The three of us headed over to Chollie Mollie’s and headed down the
trail to where we had left the trap. We could see grey hairs protruding
from the wire mesh and knew they had another catch.
“Look! I told you! It is the same possum! Painted toenails don’t
lie,” I yelped.
Muskrat fell to his knees and threw his head back and tried to talk
between bouts of laughter. “Let’s take it to Edge Hill Road and see if
anyone stops for a free pet.”
We put the possum in a cardboard box and propped the sign
against a large oak that read, FREE CAT as we sat and watched the
cars drive by. Reaching into our paper sacks we continued eating
tootsie rolls, grape balls, and strawberry licorice waiting for a car to
stop and accept the free pet.
An hour and a half past and we were discussing releasing our
wild friend, when an AMC Gremlin with New York plates pulled over
a good hundred yards past where we were sitting, as if from a delayed
reaction. Putting the car in reverse a man with a Yankees cap stopped
in front of us and rolled down his window. “Is that cat really for free?”
“Yeah,” answered Hunchback. “We are moving and not allowed
to take it with us. We’re looking for a good home for it.”
“That’s a weird looking cat,” the man said looking into the box.
“What kind is it?”
“A Long Nose Vietnamese mouser.” I answered. “They’re very
rare.”
“Wow. Okay, I’ll take it. Thanks, boys!” The man said as he got
out of his car, put the box in the back of his hatchback and drove off.
138 G. Bradley Davis

It seemed as though Cookie had gotten old without anyone noticing. I

knew that she did not chase balls like she once did. She would spend
her days lying either in the sun or shade and slowly walking between
the two. She had thick, cloudy cataracts over both eyes and money was
not going to be spent having them removed. Her movements were
restricted to those areas of the house she had memorized. Thank
goodness Dasha never rearranges the furniture. When she had difficulty
standing, Bellamy knew it was time.
“You’ve gotta do the right thing, Cal. The poor thing is in misery.”
She had adapted well to having only three legs, but now she
labored with every movement. I looked at Cookie with a plea of
forgiveness, knowing that I was to blame for her pain and
disfigurement. A plea for forgiveness; a familiar song.
One Saturday morning I insisted that I accompany my dad to the
veterinarian’s office. When we arrived, I told him that I wanted to take
care of the rest; after all, Cookie was my dog.
I slid my arms underneath her warm belly and lifted her slowly.
As I cradled her in my arms, she looked up at me, sad-like, as if she
knew what was waiting for her on the other side of the paneled door.
Thankfully, I felt Bellamy’s reassuring hand on my shoulder as I
walked up to the counter. A little folded sign was next to a candle
which read, If this candle is lit, someone is saying goodbye to their beloved
pet. We ask that you speak softly and with respect during this difficult time.
The candle was not lit.
I knew it was the right thing to do. My thoughts were filled with
justification for what I was about to do. I kept telling myself that she
could barely walk outside to relieve herself and how she was in pain
just trying to stand…and none of that mattered. My mind was like a
flip book animation with pictures of Cookie running and playing with
me and the times she would snuggle in my lap to take a nap. I was
ending a relationship forever. And for a guy who had few meaningful
relationships, this was no small task. It dawned on me that I had the
power to snuff out a life.
“Is this Cookie,” the receptionist asked.
 Bellamy 139

“Yeah,” I said without taking my eyes off my friend.

“Would you like to say your goodbyes here or do you want to go
in the back with her?”
Without hesitation I said, “I’ll go back with her.” At least I would
be the last person she would see as she drifted off to wherever dogs go when
they die.
As I was escorted into an examining room, I placed Cookie on the
table and stroked her head which had become more white than tan.
The doctor explained that there would be two injections, the first
would be a sedative that would make Cookie extremely relaxed and
sleepy before he administered the lethal drug. I was fine with all of
that. Cookie was lying on the cold metal examining table as I
continued to stroke her forehead and behind her ears. After her eyes
closed, it was only a matter of a minute or so and she was gone. Death
would soon be a too familiar entity that would define my life.

Once we got home, I jumped on my bike and headed for Simone’s. I

had been seeing her sparingly, trying to convince myself that she was
just a friend. I wanted to be with Simone because, other than Bellamy
or Perry, she would be someone who would listen and not offer limp
sympathies. She would understand. My emotions were conflicted. My
dog was one of my true friends. Never criticized me. Always eager to
spend time with me. Forgave me before I even asked to be forgiven.
Loved me!
I had the remarkable ability to compartmentalize, that is, when I
wanted to. I was deeply saddened to see Cookie put down and yet I
had the calming acceptance that I did the right thing and that my
timing was right. The decision was not rushed, and I had not let her
suffer from selfish reluctance to keep her alive.
Before I could knock on Simone’s door her mother opened the
door. She had been sweeping the enclosed porch and had seen me
coming up the walk.
“Hello Calvin. I assume you are here to see Simone?”
“Yes, Mrs. Arnett.”
140 G. Bradley Davis

Mrs. Arnett turned and yelled toward the stairs. “Simone?

Simone, honey! You have a guest.”
I could hear Simone’s feet before I could see her legs appear from
the narrow stairs from the second floor. First, I saw her blue tennis
shoes, then her caramel-colored legs. Her pale-yellow shorts came into
view, a skinny blue belt and then a blue and yellow stripped pullover
top with 4 buttons became visible, the first 3 buttons undone exposing
the slightest hint of cleavage. I had forgotten about Cookie.
I had become a superb actor and each day selected who I would
become, dependent upon the audience of that moment. There was
always a deep-rooted fear of being completely myself; naked and
transparent. I was afraid that if I simply reacted to life rather than
acting within it, I would never be accepted or loved. This facade met
less criticism than my authentic self, and so I learned to evaluate a
scene and play the part that best suited that situation. I had become an
emotional contortionist, but with Simone I could, surprisingly, be more
myself.
“Hey there,” Simone said with a smile.
“Hey. Are you doing anything?” I asked.
“I was reading a book.”
“What were you reading?” I wondered what kind of book
intrigued this beautiful creature. Her answer would tell me more of
her “inner workings,” so I thought.
“The Left Hand of Darkness, by Ursula K. Le Guin. It’s science-
fiction.”
I was not a reader back then and had only read one science fiction
book, but it was enough to add credibility to the conversation. “I like
Ray Bradbury. Ever read Something Wicked this way Comes?”
“Oh, yes! That’s a great book. I loved how the characters would
get younger or older depending upon which direction the merry-go-
round went. Have you ever read his Dandelion Wine?”
“No.” I wanted to talk about something else besides literary
preferences since I would only be able to talk intelligibly on that
subject for less than a minute.
 Bellamy 141

Simone sensed my short attention span that had already left the
conversation and entered another room where she was not. “You
would like it. What did you do this morning?”
“I had to put Cookie down.” I suddenly realized that Simone had
never been to my house. She had never met my parents, my brother or
sisters, or my dog, and she probably never would. I was not going to
put myself in yet another situation to be ridiculed and criticized. After
all, what would they think of my attraction to a colored girl? I knew
exactly what they would think. I thought there was only one race; the
human race.
“I’m so sorry, Cal. Was Cookie your dog?”
“Yeah. She could not stand anymore without shaking
uncontrollably. She started peeing in the house. She just got old.”
Simone leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Surprised, I
looked into Simone’s eyes, cupped my hand beneath her chin and
kissed her on her lips. She opened her mouth, and we kissed with
desire and purpose. I felt the compression in my pants and placed one
hand over my crotch to hide my protuberant reaction. As cool as the
November afternoon was, the warmth of Simone’s body in my arms
was more than I needed to stay sheltered from the cold. I held her face
in my hands as I looked at her lovely nut-brown eyes and raven-black
hair. I breathed in deeply and caught a trace of her perfume, having
the notes of jasmine, freesia, and apple blossom that I always enjoyed
whenever I had been close to Simone. I couldn’t remember a time
when I felt like this, suspended above all that burdened my life, for
now all those things seemed mundane.
It seemed as though Simone, unexpectedly, felt validated. She was
no longer invisible. She had value because I valued her. I’m guessing
she thought that it was funny that that is all it took. I remembered a
Pablo Neruda poem she had shared with me and was wondering if
she was reciting it in her head as she gazed at me:

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you
straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you
because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor
142 G. Bradley Davis

you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that

your eyes close as I fall asleep.

If Simone felt validated, I felt that I had found a safe place where
I belonged, not so out of place. I had felt safe with Perry, but there was
always that issue of his sexuality. Simone was my first true love, my
only love. Well, there was Donna Brantley, but she did not count. She
was the first girl I had kissed, but we were only six years old, and it
was a spontaneous expression of appreciation, not “love.” This was
different. It felt like a clean undershirt that had just come out of the
dryer; it felt warm, and it fit.
Simone turned to me, smiling with her eyes that could not contain
her delight. We shared a moment that we could call our own. We did
not have to share it with anyone and, in fact, anyone adding to the
equation would have detracted from what it was. Perfect. We spent the
afternoon laughing and sharing intimacies and touching, innocently
and honestly. Neither of us wanted the moment to end, but the 5
o’clock whistle abruptly interrupted our reverie and thrusted us back
into reality.
“I’ve got to go,” I said matter-of-factly.
“NO!” Simone said as she threw her head back carelessly and
laughed. “No, no, a zillion times no!” I looked at Simone and smiled.
“I know you must go. Come back to me tomorrow?”
“Of course, I will. And the day after that and the day after that,” I
said as I stood up, leaned over, kissed her again.
 Bellamy 143

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I know many 80-year-old children and 14-year-old adults.

A
s I entered high school everything seemed to be changing;
however, the war in Vietnam remained constant. I became
more interested in the endless war and began thinking of
the draft and my ever-diminishing chances of getting into
college. Even classmates who had no interest in college were making
plans to attend as a deterrent from the draft. Picking up the Philadelphia
Inquirer, I read about Colonel Ripley and 600 South Vietnamese who
were ordered to "hold and die" against 20,000 North Vietnamese
soldiers with about 200 tanks, what seemed like an impossible task.
The only way to stop the enormous force was to destroy the bridge.
I had been fascinated with the television show Combat, that
covered the grim lives of a squad of American soldiers fighting the
Germans in France during World War II, but this was Vietnam. An
increasing number of the American population were protesting the
unpopular war and heroes were demonized instead of honored. The
perfect kind of war for me, I thought.

The phone rang twice before I picked up the pine-green receiver.

“Now!” Muskrat said only the one word and hung up the phone. The
three of us had it planned out thoroughly. No wasted time. I grabbed
my father’s binoculars, part of my responsibilities, told my parents
that Hunchback needed help changing the manifold in his car, another
pre-planned performance, and headed to the corner where Hunchback
144 G. Bradley Davis

and Muskrat would pick me up. I got into the back seat and listened
as Muskrat gave his synopsis of the situation.
“Dad said he is taking the day off from work to run some errands.
I think he’s wise to mom finding out where he goes when he takes a
day off and doesn’t tell her. She has been calling his office more and
more to check on him. Anyway, mom asked him what errands he must
run and he said, ‘Schneider’s Hardware, Pep Boys and a couple of
other places.’ We’ll see about that.”
We pulled into the parking lot of Mt. Carmel Church and began
debating what Mr. Zimmerman could be up to, but this only added to
Muskrat’s anxiety. It seemed like an eternity before we saw the Electra
passing the church.
“There he is. Follow him,” barked Muskrat.
“Aye aye, Captain,” answered Hunchback as he offered a
sarcastic salute.
We followed the Buick for a short while when it pulled in front of
the Schneider’s hardware store.
“He said he was going to the hardware store and, guess what?
He’s at the hardware store,” Hunchback said as he appeared to be
tiring of the detective game.
“Of course he is at the hardware store. He has to bring something
home to cover his lie,” responded Muskrat brusquely.
Muskrat’s father got out of the car and as he approached the door
to the hardware store he dropped his keys, taking three attempts to
finally pick them up. Ten minutes later he came out of the store with a
bag in his hand, got back into his car, and drove off. My friends and I
tailed him, three cars behind, as we followed through Glenside and
into the town of Abington. Not much was said between us as we
watched our suspect park his car at a building across the street from
the hospital. Muskrat’s father got out of the car and entered the
building.
“What’s that sign say?” I asked as while stretching from my
position in the back seat to see better.
“I can’t see. We’re at a bad angle,” Muskrat said as he stretched
his head out the window.
 Bellamy 145

We became bored having waited for over an hour when it was

Hunchback that first saw Muskrat’s father come out of the building.
Mr. Zimmerman stood there looking up at the sky and looking pensive
when an attractive brunette with perfectly shaped legs wearing a
white lab coat came outside. Mr. Zimmerman must have known her
because they stood there talking for several minutes.
“Do you think she’s a nurse?” asked Muskrat.
“Probably,” I answered. “She’s pretty hot.”
Muskrat was about to hit me for my less-than-encouraging
comment when we saw his father reach out to woman and give her a
hug which he held for, what seemed like, a very lengthy amount of
time.
“Bastard!” Muskrat yelled as he opened the car door and ran over
to his father.
I reached for Muskrat’s shoulder wanting to talk some sense into
him, but he was already halfway to where the woman and his father
were standing. His father didn’t see him until he was a few steps away.
“Larry, what are…”
“What the hell are you doing here and who is she?” Muskrat said
as he pointed at the woman without taking his eyes off his father.
“Calm down, Larry. This is not what it looks like. Can we talk
about this at home?”
“No, we can’t talk about this at home,” Muskrat answered in a
sing-song tone. “And what it looks like is that you’ve been sneaking
around to meet with…her! We’ve all known you’ve got some big
secret. It’s been pretty obvious with the way you’ve been acting. Do
you think we’re stupid? Sneaking off to your underground meetings.
Getting a part-time job as a bartender. Changing your appearance my
losing weight and growing a beard. No more bullshit! Is this your
girlfriend?”
“You have it all wrong, Larry. I wanted to share this with your
mom first, but obviously, I need to clear the air. This is Dr. Bradford,
my neurologist.”
“Neurologist?” Whispered Muskrat as the doctor touched Mr.
Zimmerman’s shoulder and turned to go back into the building,
giving the two some privacy.
146 G. Bradley Davis

“Son, I have ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease. Dr. Bradford has been
treating me. I haven’t tried to lose weight. It’s just been happening. I
grew a beard to help hide my drawn look. I took a part-time job just
so I can save as much as I can for your mom and you kids before I
wouldn’t have the energy or coordination to work any longer. I had to
quit that bartending job last week because my coordination has
become poor and I kept dropping glasses and bottles of booze. I’m
sorry, Larry.”

Muskrat’s preconceived notions were unfounded. He had believed the

worst about his father. Heck, we all did. There are times when those
under the suspicion cannot find an acceptable alibi or defense. It has
been proven, time and time again, that some law enforcement
individuals jump to conclusions and conjure up evidence to support
their theory. Prosecutors, too. They need to win the case. To hell with
the truth and the facts. Gotta put another notch in your belt. I guess
the three of us were guilty of that towards Mr. Zimmerman. Even now,
I feel ashamed for that.

As my relationship with Bellamy grew and I became more reliant on

my friend’s comfort and advice, I knew Bellamy must remain hidden,
and yet, any confidence I had, came from the encouragement of
Bellamy, and Perry, and yet, somehow, I knew that I would always be
an outsider looking in. At least I was becoming better equipped to
wrestle with my demons.
After dinner I went to my room since the family television had
been commandeered by Ted who was watching Three’s Company.
There would be no Batman for me tonight. Bellamy was waiting for
me in my bedroom lounging on the bean bag with his hands clutched
behind his head.
“Hey Bellamy. One TV and I never get to watch what I want as
long as anyone else is home,” I complained.
 Bellamy 147

“Pecking order,” responded Bellamy.

“What?” I asked.
“There’s a pecking order in every family and you come in last.”
“Thanks for that. That sucks.”
“Yeah, it…”
I was interrupted by my brother’s hysterical laughter as he stood
at my bedroom door. I had no idea that Ted had followed me to my
room to tell me the tv show was over.
“Cal’s got an imaginary friend,” Ted howled loud enough for
everyone in the house to hear.
“I do not!” I retorted. “I was just talking to myself.”
“And answering yourself,” Ted said between more bouts of
laughter.
I could hear my brother reveal the hysterical news to the rest of
the family and listened to the tenor of the five-participant laughter that
followed in the same key. My siblings and parents sang to the same
melody; they laughed in harmony. I was always off tune, as if having
been given the wrong sheet music. They would sway to the right when
the music played, me to the left. I sometimes wondered if I had been
adopted. Certainly, I could not have come from the same biological
parents; I was too different from my brothers and sisters. Life seemed
like a private joke that I had not been privy to.

“You should have kicked his ass,” Bellamy said with a more than
usual callous expression on his face. “Brother or not, you have got to
stand up for yourself, Calvin! There is only one way to deal with
bullies. You need to have the courage to walk up to them and hit them
in the face as hard as you possible can, right between the eyes. That is
how you gain their respect. I guarantee, that after you do that once,
they will change their tune. They will never pick on you again and, in
many cases, they will want to be your friend. Bullies do not want a
fight. They want to give the fight. Do you understand what I’m
saying?”
“I guess so,” I mumbled.
148 G. Bradley Davis

“You guess so? Stop being a pussy, Calvin. If you cannot start
standing up for yourself, I will…out of default,” Bellamy said with
fury in his voice. “You’ll give me no other choice.”
My head pivoted backwards with astonishment. I had never
heard such antagonism from Bellamy. “You know, you have a triad of
clandestine comrades, right?”
“What do you mean?” I asked with a look of bewilderment.
“I’m your secret friend, just like Simone’s your secret friend and
Perry as well. Have you ever asked yourself why you keep our
friendships private? You are in a war with yourself. Part of you, I do
believe, actually likes us. Unfortunately, the other part of you is
ashamed of us. You need to decide which part of your nature you want
to win. That takes courage, Calvin.”
Although Bellamy was a calming presence, he also had a
retaliatory spirit which could have stemmed from his desire to protect
me. It could have also been that my alter ego had had enough of being
picked on and kicked when I was already flat on my face.
I pondered what Bellamy had said and knew there was some
truth to the accusation, but truth I preferred not to confront. The way
I dealt with my various relationships was working just fine…for me.

Hunchback and I were determined to distract Muskrat from the reality

that his father was slowly deteriorating before his family’s eyes. His
dad was wilting like a week-old bouquet of flowers, each day
displaying a small sign of their inevitable demise. Thankfully,
Hunchback’s birthday was the perfect diversion.
Hunchback was the first to receive the gift of all gifts, the one gift
all the guys in the neighborhood wanted: a Daisy BB gun. The limitless
possibilities and hours of pure excitement were guaranteed. Simply
shooting soda cans off the back fence would not suffice. I headed for
Chollie Mollies with Hunchback and Muskrat. Choo-Choo was to
meet us at the edge of the woods with a can of cat food, and he was
there waiting for us when we arrived. We invited him to do the dirty
work.
 Bellamy 149

Looking at a large bandage on his forearm, Hunchback asked,

“What the hell happened to you this time?”
Peeling back the gauze to expose an ugly wound oozing with a
yellow puss, Choo-Choo said, “Ahhh, it’s nothing. I burned it crawling
underneath my stepdad’s car retrieving a ball. Got burned by the hot
tailpipe.”
“I swear, you’re a walking emergency room,” responded Muskrat
with some genuine sympathy.
“I know,” responded Choo-Choo sadly. “What are we going to
shoot with the gun?” he said, wanting to change the subject.
“A skunk,” I said.
I had read in an Argosy magazine that skunks are opportunists,
always looking for an easy meal. Although nocturnal, in the
springtime, when they have their young and being especially hungry,
they will often leave their rocky crag. Choo-Choo had also been
instructed to bring a hand can opener as a requirement to be included
in the escapade. Making our way to a rock-covered cliff that stood
above the hollow, I told Choo-Choo to open the can of Puss n’ Boots
cat food. Like a choregraphed synchronized swimming team, the four
of us turned our heads and squinted our eyes.
“That’s horrendous!” Muskrat squealed.
“That smells worse than shit!” Added Hunchback.
“That smells like Floaties Pond that time when someone poured
some Clorox in it killing a bunch of fish,” I said as I held my nose. “But
that is exactly what we want. Good job, Choo-Choo.”
“Yeah, our house smells like rotten fish for a couple of hours
whenever we open a can of this stuff,” replied Choo-Choo.
The can was placed a few yards away from the rocks as we sat,
sharing a few boxes of Cracker Jacks Choo-Choo had brought along.
We didn’t have to wait long before we saw a black and white head
poke out from amongst the rock pile. Muskrat saw it first.
“Look!”
“Quiet,” I whispered. “Give me the gun.”
“It’s my gun. I get first whack at it,” answered Hunchback.
“Alright. We each get one shot. Make sure you pumped the gun
ten times, and you have to hit it in the head. If you shoot it in the head,
150 G. Bradley Davis

he will not spray us,” I assured the others with my less-than-expert

knowledge of the Mustelidae species.
The skunk had come completely out of the rock outcrop,
twitching its nose in the air. Hunchback, pumped the BB gun, laid on
his stomach, aimed and froze.
“What the hell are you waiting for,” I asked. “It’s not gonna stand
there forever. Shoot!” But Hunchback refused to fire the gun. “Give
me that thing!”
“I don’t want to kill it. Let Muskrat or Choo-Choo get a shot first,”
Hunchback said.
“Not me,” replied Choo-Choo.
“Me, either,” added Muskrat.
“I swear, you guys are pussies!” I said.
I took the gun, sat on the ground in the shooting position I had
learned at Camp Wackasack, and took aim and fired the gun. Phew!
The pellet hit the skunk in the neck and within a few seconds, our
nostrils got hit with the robust musk.
“Damn, let’s get out of here,” Muskrat screamed as he led the four
of us through the woods and into a field. Each of us began smelling
our clothes.
“We got sprayed! Great! I thought you said it wouldn’t spray if it
got hit in the head, Moran,” Hunchback yelled while grabbing the
back of my shirt collar.
“He shot it in the neck!” Choo-Choo said while I pulled away
from Hunchback’s grasp. “We can’t leave it there to suffer. We need
to finish him off.”
“I’m in a world of shit,” Muskrat whispered. “We’re supposed to
go to Casa Conti’s tonight for dinner, and my mom’s going to have a
conniption. I’m going home.”
Choo-Choo fell to the ground laughing hysterically. Casa Conti
was a “dressier” restaurant which was a favorite of the older crowd
due to their “soft” vegetables; creamed corn, stewed tomatoes, and
creamed spinach.
“Screw off, you moron,” Muskrat said as he headed toward the
path above the ballfields.
 Bellamy 151

Hunchback, Choo-Choo and I headed back into the woods. Before

we got to the mock-orange tree, we could hear a rustling in the leaves
and the pitiful cry of the skunk.
Pumping it 15 times, I took careful aim and fired. The shot landed
just below the striped fiend’s left eye dropping it in the leaves.
“Is it dead?” Choo-Choo asked.
“Naw, I think it’s still twitching,” I answered as I handed Choo-
Choo the gun. Finish him off.”
The skunk had stopped moving by the time Choo-Choo shot.
“Did you bring the potato sack? I asked Hunchback without
turning away from the skunk.
“Yeah, and my mom’s going to be pissed when she finds all the
potatoes at the bottom of the pantry closet.”
“She’ll get over it,” I replied. “Choo-Choo, go over and pick it up
by the tail and stick it in the sack.”
“I’m not picking that up. It stinks and it might still be alive.”
“Kick it first,” suggested Hunchback. “Come on. Don’t be a
pussy,” a favorite line whenever anyone wanted Choo-Choo to do
something.
“Alright, but if it bites me, I’m kicking your ass,” Choo-Choo
mumbled.
Hunchback turned to me and said something about how Choo-
Choo could not beat up his grandmother but didn’t say it loud enough
for him to hear it. He did not want to distract Choo-Choo from his
assigned task. Choo-Choo reluctantly placed the skunk into the burlap
sack and held it at arm’s length.
“Why can’t we just leave it here?” asked Coo-Choo. “What are we
going to do with it?”
“Yeah, what are we going to do with it?” Hunchback mimicked.
“I have a plan,” I said as I led the way out of the woods. “Follow
me.”
I jumped on my bicycle and started peddling down Edge Hill
Road followed by my partners in crime. We turned at Mt. Carmel
Church and down to Kenyon Diner.
152 G. Bradley Davis

“Choo-Choo, put the sack in that dumpster on the side of the

diner,” I said as we watched Choo-Choo quickly obey the order.
“Now, we go across the street, sit in the grass and wait.”
And wait we did. As cars would pull up to the diner, the
occupants would get out of their car and before making it to the front
entrance, would turn around and get back in their car and leave. It
wasn’t long before patrons started exiting the diner, waving their
palms in search of fresh air. A heavy-set man with an apron and paper
piss-cutter hat came out to investigate the source of the foul odor.
Walking behind the diner, the man disappeared for a few minutes,
then returned to the front door never having looked in the dumpster.
“This is better than the Saturday matinee,” Hunchback howled,
followed by his co-patriot’s laughter.
The 5 o’clock whistle sounded and the three of us, as if Pavlov’s
canines, jumped on our bikes and headed to our respective homes.
Dasha yelled something about feculent, a word I had never heard
before and ordered me to take off my clothes in the breezeway and to
head to the bathroom. After explaining that I was walking through
Chollie Mollies when I surprised a skunk, I was subjected to a bath of
tomato juice, hydrogen peroxide, vinegar, and douche.
 Bellamy 153

CHAPTER NINETEEN
Murder’s out of tune,
And sweet revenge grows harsh.
—William Shakespeare

I
t took nearly a week before anyone could no longer smell the
skunk on me. I had kept my distance from Perry, weighing my
interest in the relationship. The more I refrained from going over
to see Perry, the more difficult it would be to explain to him why
I had alienated myself from my new friend. I had no reason to go over
to see Perry, but the truth is that I had missed him. I stood in front of
his door, staring at the comedy-tragedy proscenium mask
doorknocker, the verdigris exposing the green pigment in the natural
patina from the weathered brass. While contemplating whether or not
I should knock, the door suddenly opened.
“Cal! What a pleasant surprise. Come on in. I was just taking these
old coke bottles to the garage. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Entering the house, I was immediately hit with the delicious
fragrance of cinnamon. On the kitchen counter was a wooden hot plate
and a pan full of warm cinnamon rolls that were twisted like Nautilus
shells. I stood over the delectable cinnamon treats when I heard the
front door shut.
“Do they smell scrumptious, or what?” asked Perry. Placing a bun
on two plates, he handed me a knife and motioned toward a glass
butter dish. “Make sure you smother it in butter.”
I sat at the kitchen counter and took my first bite. A sweet festivity
of decadent pleasure pirouetted within my mouth.
“This is the most incredible thing I’ve ever eaten,” I mumbled
with my mouth half full.
154 G. Bradley Davis

“And the butter. It’s incredible! So creamy.”

“Don’t you have butter at home?” asked Perry.
“No. We only have margarine,” I replied.
“Ugh! The ugly butter-in-law! That yellow block of artificial lard
should be outlawed in all 50 states.”
“You’re telling me,” I said agreeably.
“Hey, have you ever played backgammon?” Perry asked.
“No. Never even heard of it.”
“It’s a boardgame much older than chess. Chess is only 1,500 years
old. Backgammon has been traced back nearly 5,000 years to its origins
in Mesopotamia, which is now Iraq. Today, it’s a very common game
in European coffeehouses. Sit down, I’ll teach you to play,” Perry said
as he pulled a slender wooden box from the bookcase that resembled
a briefcase more than a game box.
Perry opened the beautifully ornate board. “One summer,
between college semesters, I traveled across eastern Europe playing
backgammon for money.”
As I listened to Perry explain the rules, I scanned the four sections
and the multiple triangles painted on the board. It did not take long
before I was hooked; in fact, I won the third game, even though Perry
probably let me win.
“You’re a fast learner,” Perry said as they put the backgammon
stones back in the box. “You know, Cal, people actually gravitate to
you, but for some reason you seem oblivious to that fact.”
I looked up at Perry and simply thought he was blowing sunshine
up my skirt, but there was something gnawing in my gut. Why is it that
I am so slow to learn whatever is being taught at school, yet when Perry
teaches me something, I pick it up quickly and often excel at it?
Perry may have been right, but it is so very difficult to see through
the smoke when your life is on fire. I think, as a child, I lived under of
fog of misconceptions and misconceptions are both dangerous and
destructive.
“A fast student? Not really. You should see my report card,” I said
with a sight chuckle in my voice.
 Bellamy 155

Perry never mentioned what had happened at the Texaco gas

station, not that afternoon, not ever. He was darn good at keeping
secrets, unlike Choo-Choo. I guess that is what good friends do.

The weather had turned as cold as Dasha’s smile and with it came the
first frost. No matter how long you live in the north, you are never
prepared for the first real cold front. Just a few days ago it had been in
the 60s, now there was that sting in my throat whenever I took a deep
breath. The temperature was dropping as quickly as my hope for
getting good grades in school. The sky promised it would bring snow
as soon as the clouds caught up with the wind. The ground was hard
and the rhododendron leaves brittle.
Snow really is a beautiful thing. The pre-snow winter with its
various shades of grey and brown, absent of foliage and colorful birds
and dragonflies and butterflies, waits for the snow to blanket
everything with a cleanness. Everything would be beautifully white,
at least for a day or two, until the cars and footprints make it dirty. I
pity those who must endure an entire year without seeing the white
blessing.
I had yet to give Simone the framed butterflies, thinking it was an
intimate gift and not wanting to scare her off, but now, now things
were different. Grabbing my peacoat and a blue and yellow Beanie
cap, I headed down to Simone’s house.
When I was a block away from Simone’s, Mongrel and his sidekick,
Benny spotted me. Mongrel’s real name was Matthew Brodzinski, but
other than teachers at school, everyone had called him Mongrel, a name
he actually preferred. Unfortunately, I had thought it was too cold to ride
my bicycle, but now I wished I had. There would be no quick getaway
from my nemeses. I tried to hide the frame inside of my coat, but it was
too late.
“What ya got there in your coat, Cowgirl?” Mongrel said with a
snide chuckle.
“Nothing,” I said while quickening my stride.
156 G. Bradley Davis

“Yer lying to me, punk. We saw you sticking nothing down your
coat.”
I had my hand in the coat pocket to hold the frame against my
body, but Mongrel grabbed my elbow and pulled, causing the frame
to drop and the glass to shatter on the macadam. All three of us
seemed temporarily immobilized, but for different reasons. I was
heartbroken, which was quickly followed by a sense of horror.
Mongrel and Benny were trying to comprehend what they were
looking at. The silence was followed by hysterical laughing, by only
two of us.
“Butterflies! Butterflies, Benny! Hey butterfly boy, where are you
heading with your butterflies. Are you a faggot?” roared Mongrel.
“You cannot let them find out about Perry,” whispered Bellamy. “Do
whatever you have to do!”
“He has to be,” laughed Benny.
“Leave me alone,” I said, knowing there was no chance of that
happening.
“What a minute. Were you heading to Simone Arnett’s place? You
had to be! There’re only two more houses on this street.”
I said nothing.
“Are you a nigger-lover?” screamed Mongrel.
“No!” I yelled. “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t be caught dead
with her.”
My lie must not have been convincing because before I knew it,
Mongrel grabbed the back of my collar and pulled violently causing
me to fall backwards smashing my back against the curb. Trying to
absorb the agonizing pain in my back, I then felt Mongrel’s fist,
snapping my head back until it hit the ground. I hardly felt the next
two punches as I instinctively curled into a fetal position to prevent
any further damage.
“Come on, Benny. Let’s leave this Wigger to his pretty
butterflies,” Mongrel said as he stomped his foot on what was left of
the butterflies, making them unrecognizable.
 Bellamy 157

I turned around and headed home, my back sending a throbbing pain

down my legs. Every step was like walking throw wet sand. There was
no sense in going over to Simone’s. On the way home from the
obliteration of my act of love, I stopped by Perry’s house. Perry was
just putting a quiche Lorraine into the oven when I lifted the ornate
knocker and let it fall upon the door. Looking at the masks, I knew the
play I was cast, a tragedy, not a comedy.
“Hello Calvin! Come on in,” Perry said with a smile that quickly
disappeared. “Dear God, what happened to you?”
“Nothing. I just tripped on the sidewalk. The root of a tree pushed
it up, and I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Perry wasn’t buying what I was selling. “Let me get my first aid
kit.”
“No. No. Really, I’m fine,” I blurted out. The last thing I needed
was to come home with bandages on my arm and head. Once my
parents saw the condition I was in there would be enough explaining
to do.
“Well, let’s at least clean up those open wounds,” Perry said as he
walked back to the bathroom. He returned quickly with some gauze
and hydrogen peroxide.
The thing about Perry was that he never pushed. If I did not want
to share, he let things be.
“Well, I am glad you dropped by. I just put a quiche in the oven,
and I was about to do a little reading,” he said as he dabbed the wet
gauze on the back of my head. “Nasty cut, but it doesn’t look like it
needs stiches.”
“Hey, I guess all the butterflies have left, now that it’s getting
cold,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“Ahhh, yes. This time of year is always a downer for us
lepidopterists; that is, those of us who love butterflies and enjoy
raising them at home. Butterflies will not fly when temperatures fall
below 55 degrees. Most will leave before the temperatures drop so
they can roost in the mountains of Michoacán for the winter.
I know it sounds funny, but I always believed people can be
butterflies. There is a special type of person who is a butterfly. I am
not referring to the phrase social butterfly that I’m sure you’ve heard.
158 G. Bradley Davis

Not those whose personality is charismatic, and personally

gregarious. I’m referring to the person who is emotionally delicate.
They are fragile entities, much like the butterfly who is dependent
upon the weather. These individuals need the uninterrupted sunshine
of another’s love. Of course we all need love, but these human
butterflies are more sensitive to life’s temperature changes and the
external heat of a sun that shines from someone who truly loves them.
It fuels their muscles used to flap their wings and fly.”
I soaked in the words and descriptions my friend had shared as
Perry opened the backgammon board and began to place the stones
into position.

It is funny how the obvious escapes you, especially when you are
young. That was the case with Choo-Choo. It was not so much our
naivety, or that we were oblivious to what was happening around us.
I think it was more that we wanted to believe that our suspicions
couldn’t be true…that evil couldn’t take residence in North Hills. That
was big city stuff. In hindsight, it was all so obvious.
Muskrat and I were walking back from Hunchback’s one day
when we approached Choo-Choo’s home, a two-story white house
with a closed-in porch that always seemed to need a coat of paint.
Before we got to his driveway, we could hear his stepfather yelling in
the backyard. Muskrat and I looked at each other and without either
of us saying anything, we began slowly walking up the driveway,
stretching our heads around the corner of the house, hoping we could
see what the commotion was about. We could hear what his stepdad
was saying before we could see him.
“Get down on your hands and knees, you worthless piece of dog
shit! I said get down! If I have to make you get on that ground, I
promise you you’ll never get back up! Get down!”
Petrified, we inched our way up the driveway until we could get
a glimpse of the backyard. We were dumbfounded at what we saw.
Choo-Choo was on all fours and had a dog collar around his neck. His
 Bellamy 159

stepfather was pulling so hard on a leash attached to the collar that

Choo-Choo’s neck looked like it would snap.
“Now bark, you little turd. Bark!” the man ordered. “Even Max
knows how to follow orders He sits when I say sit. He comes when I
say come. A damn dog is smarter than you! If you can’t obey my rules,
I’ll start treating you like a dog. Now bark!” he said with another jerk
on the leash.
“Woof,” responded Choo-Choo sheepishly.
“Again!”
“Woof. Woof.”
“Now stay out here until I whistle for you to come in.”
Muskrat and I were so frozen in place by the shock of what we
saw that we were almost seen by Choo-Choo’s stepdad when he
turned to walk back to the kitchen door. The broken arm, the back eye,
the fat lip, the burn on his arm and all the bruises; Choo-Choo was not
clumsy or accident-prone. He was a victim of both physical and
emotional abuse that he had desperately tried to hide from all of us.
Choo-Choo’s stepfather was a man driven to violence. I knew he
was capable of anything. Anything! He had Quick Draw McGraw
anger, and he had no restraint.
A few weeks later, Choo-Choo had to be taken to the emergency
room at Abington hospital with a broken nose and broken orbital
socket, which Perry told me was the bone around the eye. He had told
the emergency doctor that it happened by being hit in the face by a
baseball, but the doctor did not believe it. No one was playing ball in
early December. There were three round bruises on his cheek that the
doctor suspiciously thought were caused by knuckles. The doctor
called the “authorities,” but nothing ever happened. Of course not,
Choo-Choo’s stepfather was a cop. How could a man who was sworn
to serve and protect not even protect his wife’s son? The man was a
blood-sucking parasite, like a tick practicing its domestic skills on the
belly of field dog.
I was reminded of the time an off-duty cop was drunk and hit a
pedestrian who was crossing Easton Road in nearby Glenside. There
was an investigation, but the victim’s family was basically told he
should not have been crossing the street wearing dark clothing at 2
160 G. Bradley Davis

am. Cops take care of cops, I learned. They are never wrong and, when
they are, the fraternity will swear he’s not wrong. And my parents
wondered why I have a problem with authority.
 Bellamy 161

CHAPTER TWENTY
The seasons know their time and place; people, not so much.

I
was dying to share with someone that I had fallen hard for
Simone. Isn’t that the way love should be? You want to scream
from the highest mountain top that you were in love with the
most wonderfully, beautiful girl that ever walked the earth? I
thought about sharing my feelings for Simone with Perry, but I did not
want to discuss intimate matters with him. I could not tell Hunchback
or Muskrat about Simone. I was pretty sure they would not make fun
of me or say anything bad about her, but I also knew that things would
never be the same if I did. They had both said derogatory things about
black folk, and the comments they had made about Perry was enough
to keep my special relationships to myself. Bellamy was right when he
told me that the word friend is used loosely. People may have
thousands of acquaintances, but few have even one true friend. I
knew, deep within myself, that Muskrat and Hunchback were not
friends, but when friends are in short supply, you settle for whatever
you can get.
There were so many holes in my life that it looked more like
honeycomb than it did a middling teenager’s experience. I did poorly
in school, and yet I absorbed everything Perry would teach me. I had
more secrets than the Pentagon and would only share them on a “need
to know” basis, which almost always resulted in sharing them with no
one, but Bellamy. I had sorted the areas of my life like a
compartmentalized lunchbox, so that my friends, my church life, my
girlfriend, my job, would never touch. I contemplated the closest
relationships that I had, Perry, Bellamy, and Simone. Each were all
people outside the walls of the community that had been built for me.
162 G. Bradley Davis

My peer group was safe. They may not have thought as I did, but they
looked like me, talked like me, spoke like me.
To venture out of this protected municipal life was to risk
alienation from my peer group. I was not gay or black, yet I never
labeled Perry as gay or Simone as black, even though each were. It was
inconsequential, and yet I feared turning my back on my people; afraid
that when the smoke dissipated, I would find myself all alone and
rejected by both camps.
But I did have a realistic interpretation of my relationships, thanks
to a reality check from Bellamy. No one had ever really known me. I
would judiciously select which portion of me I would allow any one
person to see, so fearful to ever reveal my entire being. Like a sage fly
fisherman, I would read the water, cast my line, tucking a hopper at
the precise spot the trout lay waiting. I knew when to let more line out,
when to reel in and when to swing a soft hackle as the hatch began.
Some people earned the right to perceive more of me, but no one could
see the leader, let alone the line. If they did, I was convinced they
would be spooked and swim away.

It began to be embarrassing delivering newspapers at nearly 15 years

old, so I got a job as a short-order cook at a local pub called Baker Street.
I would cook burgers and strip steaks on the grille and throw frozen
fried chicken into a basket which would go into sizzling hot grease. I
did just about everything in the restaurant but pour wine and beer.
You had to be 21 to do that.
There was a middle-aged waitress named Mora who took a liking
to me. In fact, when I went into the restaurant, cold calling, and asking
for a job, the manager had said no, but Mora overheard the
conversation and said, “Aw, come on, Paulie, hire the kid.” And he
did.
I worked there several days after school and on the weekends
making more money in a few hours than I did in a month delivering
newspapers. Baker Street would also become the avenue for losing my
virginity.
 Bellamy 163

Hunchback was grounded for a week for getting caught exploring his
mother’s underwear in the top drawer of her dresser, so Muskrat
invited Boner and Mouche to join us for a game of street football, 3 on
3. Thin, with thick coke bottle glasses, Mouche was the prototypical
nerd and not overly athletic, but on this occasion, he was invited to fill
the void left by Hunchback. We met at the corner of Short Lane and
Hamel. Muskrat was already there when I arrived. Mouche was
habitually late and while we were waiting, we saw Choo-Choo madly
peddling between the wheelies he was popping. No one had seen him
since him since Muskrat and I had witnessed his forced canine
imitation.
“Who invited him?’ Muskrat barked.
“Not me,” I answered without taking my eyes off Choo-Choo.
And I think I have it bad. No one deserves the crap that Choo-Choo puts
up with. And all he wants from us is to belong. We should be easier on him.
“I swear, Mouche better not have. I’m not playing football with
Choo-Choo. You know how he is when he scores a touchdown. He
runs for blocks and does that stupid dance of his, and it takes us
forever to get the ball back.”
Forgetting the, “We should be easier on him,” I quickly came up with
an idea to lose Choo-Choo. “Look, if he asks what we’re doing tell him
we’re all going to divide up, go in different directions to find
returnable bottles, meet back here in an hour to cash in our bottles,
then go to Plockies and Jack Frost. Got it?”
“Got it,” Muskrat agreed, knowing that Choo-Choo would crawl
under anything for 5 cents.
“Hey guys,” Choo-Choo said as he skidded his bicycle sideways,
leaving a rubber trail on the street.
“Hey, Choo-Choo. Where’ve you been?”
“I’ve been grounded for a week, because I got a tattoo at Sailor
Eddies down in Philly,” he said as he rolled up his sleeve.
Mouche arrived just when we huddled around Choo-Choo as he
proudly displayed a
Superman logo on his skinny bicep.
164 G. Bradley Davis

“You should have gotten a Super Chicken tattoo,” Mouche said,

between bouts of laughter.
“When did you get that?” I asked.
“Last Saturday. My mom and her jerk off husband got real pissed
at me. I’ve been grounded till today, that’s why I haven’t been around.
What are you guys doin’?”
“We’re waiting for Boner, then we’re going to separate and cover
the whole town for bottles to cash in at Joe’s Market. Then we’ll either
go to Plockies or Jack Frost.” I explained.
“Ever see that crying Indian on TV? He’s cryin’ because of all the
trash and litter. That’s wrong. Can I join you?” Choo-Choo said
seeming to plead more than ask.
“Sure,” I responded. “Why don’t you go down to Floaties pond in
the cemetery. Kids are always leaving Coke and Yoo Hoo bottles on
the shore. We’ll meet you at Joe’s in an hour, okay?”
Just then Boner could be seen riding down the steep hill that was
named Short Lane.
“Well, go on, Choo-Choo. Remember, Joe’s Market in an hour.” I
wanted Choo-Choo to leave before Boner arrived knowing that he had
no idea what was going on.
“Hey, guys. Sorry I’m late,” Boner said.
“Hey,” I had my back toward Choo-Choo and gave Boner a look
of follow my lead.
“You take the playground around the school. Muskrat’s going to
follow Jenkintown Road, Choo-Choo’s covering Floaties, and I’ll go
down to the railroad tracks. Remember, only the bottles that we can
cash in. Let’s go.”
And with that, Choo-Choo was pumping his peddles standing up
as he headed for the iron cemetery gate across from the Gulf gas
station.
“I thought you were going to call some other guys,” Muskrat
asked. “We can’t play with just the 4 of us.”
“You mean the three of you. I forgot that I had to return this
library book by today or there’s 5 cent fine,” explained Mouche.
“Forget it,” I said disgustedly. “I’m going home.”
 Bellamy 165

On the way back, I decided to stop by Perry’s house. When I was

only a few blocks away, I spotted Mongrel and his associate before
they had seen me. Changing my route, I took a detour, not wanting to
be my nemeses’ heavy bag. The longer route took me to Perry’s front
door undetected.
“Calvin, I’m glad to see you! I have a surprise for you! Let me take
off these oven mitts.” As he walked towards the kitchen my attention
was captured by an old sled fastened to the kitchen ceiling, used as
rack for copper pots and pans to hang from.
Perry motioned for me to follow him into the dining room. “Just
look at this beauty!” I had never seen him so excited as he picked up a
small branch from an Omphalea plant. Under the leaves was a greyish
mass.
“What is that?” I asked while pointing to the mass. “Is it a
cocoon?”
“Ahhhh! Very good, Grasshopper! It is, in fact, not just any
cocoon. It just so happens to be the cocoon of a Urania Rhipheus!”
“An Iranian what?” I replied.
“Not Iranian, Urania. A Urania Rhipheus, better known as the
Madagascan Sunset Moth, a stunningly beautiful moth. Perhaps the
most beautiful moth in the world. More beautiful than many
butterflies. I would show you a photo of one, but I do not want to spoil
the fun of you seeing it in person when it hatches.”
“You mean a real live moth is going to come out of that cocoon?”
I asked.
“Yes, in fact, in the next hour or so,” answered Perry. “The pupal
stage lasts between 17 to 23 days. It took a week for it to be shipped
here from Madagascar, and I’ve had it here for two weeks. I thought it
would hatch this week, but just before you knocked on my door, I
checked the cocoon, and look!”
I could see that there was slight movement in cocoon. A subtle
chipping away from within.
Perry continued to explain. “Within the chrysalis, the old body
parts of the caterpillar have undergone a remarkable transformation,
called metamorphosis, to become the beautiful moth that will emerge.
Tissue, limbs, and organs of this moth have all been changed by now
166 G. Bradley Davis

and the pupa is finished. It’s still about an hour away from hatching.
Would you like some iced tea?”
“Yes, please,” I answered as my eyes was transfixed on the
cocoon.
The sound of the oven door opening caught my attention and as I
turned, I caught the smell of something baking which made my
stomach remind me that the cream cheese and jelly sandwich I had
devoured hours ago was not going to suffice. Whatever Perry was
pulling out of the oven smelled delicious.
“You’ve got to try one of these as soon as they cool. They are to
diiiiiiiiie for.” Perry said as he slid a metal spatula across the cookie
sheet and placed a cookie on a brown paper sack which had been cut
on the seams to lay flat. “They’re Persian Saffron Raisin Cookies. I
picked up the recipe when I was in Iran.”
“You were in Iran?” I was completely fascinated by this refined
globetrotter who was introducing me to some of the finer things in life.
I was captivated, not only by the museum Perry called his home, but
also by the uniqueness of Perry. I had never met anyone like him, and
more importantly, Perry treated me with respect, as if we were equals,
and with no obvious theatrics.
“Yes. In the Kerman Province about 3 or 4 years ago.”
“What is saffron?” I asked.
“Ahhhhh…saffron is the creme de la creme of spices. It is the
costliest of all spices by weight. It is derived from the flower of the
Crocus sativus. The threads within the flower are collected by hand
and dried,” Perry explained. “I think the cookies should be cool
enough by now. They are always better warm, right out of the oven.”
Perry took two plates out of the glass cabinet and opened a drawer to
get two cloth napkins. He sat the plate in front of me and with a grand
smile on his face, waited as I took a bite of the first cookie.
“Oh! Ohhhhh!” I mumbled between bites. “I have never tasted
anything like this! They’re incredible. I can taste the vanilla and the
raisins are awesome. They’re so moist and light.”
“I’m glad you like them,” Perry said with a feeling of pride.
“They’re my favorite, too. I have an idea. Since we still have some time
before the moth hatches, why don’t we play Backgammon.”
 Bellamy 167

We had finished our first game and had started the second when
I jumped out of my seat, startling Perry. Turning to the cocoon I
shouted, “It’s hatching!”
It was apparent that the hatching was imminent. Slowly, the
sunset moth began to emerge. The moth was black with iridescent red,
blue and green markings. There was a fringe of white scales on the
wing edges. I was astonished at the sight.
“This is so unbelievable! Beautiful!”
Perry and I shared observations and appreciation for the creature
until the Fryksdall Mora Grandfather clock began chiming,
announcing it was 6 o’clock.
“Shit! Is it 6 o’clock?” I shrieked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Man, my parents are going to kill me! I’m supposed to be home
5 or 10 minutes after the 5 o’clock whistle blows.”
“Just tell them you were with me, and we were waiting for this
rare moth to hatch.”
Without thinking, I blurted out “I can’t tell them that! I’m not
allowed to associate with you.” The words were out of my mouth with
no way to retrieve them. I realized that I had hurt my friend even
though there was a gentle smile on Perry’s face.
“Oh. Yes, of course. I understand.”
I could tell that he understood. He knew that.
“See ya,” I muttered as I sailed through the front door.
“See you,” Perry said softly as I pushed open the front door.

I decide not to go directly home. An hour late. Two hours late. It really
did not matter. My hope was that the later I got home, Dasha’s anger
might possibly turn to fear for my welfare. Maybe. I rode around on
my bike trying to find a place of solace.
When I opened the kitchen door my sisters were finishing the
dishes from supper, and Ted came in to happily announce, “You’re in
a world of shit, you know.”
168 G. Bradley Davis

On the way home, I had thought of the choices for an excuse, as

to why I missed supper. The truth was not an option. The fact that I
had not heard the 5 o’clock whistle was a given, but that had to be
accompanied with where I was and what I was doing that caused me
to not hear the siren. Saying that I did not hear the whistle was always
a lame excuse because the siren was so loud it could be heard easily in
the neighboring towns. Nonetheless, it had to be included in the
excuse, otherwise my failure to show up at the dinner table would
have been deliberate. Mentioning Perry was an impossibility, so my
lie had to be believable. There was also the possibility that if I used a
friend as an alibi Dasha might just call that friend’s parents to confirm
my story. That was taking a chance.
“Calvin,” Dasha appeared exactly as I had envisioned, irate.
“Where were you?”
Not knowing exactly how sound travels, I thought it might be
good to include a geographical aberration in my story. “I was catching
frogs and tadpoles in the stream behind Jack Frost. You know, in that
deep gulley by the railroad tracks. I didn’t hear the whistle down
there.”
“Who were you with?” My stepmother asked as she continued
her interrogation.
That was a tough one. I decided to play it safe. “No one. I was
going to play football with Muskrat and Mouche, but we didn’t have
enough guys so I ended up catching frogs.” After it came out of my
mouth, I thought it really had a tone of authenticity to it, but
apparently my wicked stepmother had not bought it.
“I know when you’re lying, Calvin! Your hands are too clean to
have been down at the stream. Wash up. Your dinner is on the
counter…and don’t make any plans for tomorrow morning. You’re
pulling dandelions.”
I went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror above the
pink sink. The beating I had taken at the hands of Mongrel left a small
scar beneath my left eye. I could tell by the royal blue water the Ty-D-
Bol disinfectant made in the commode that Dasha had just cleaned the
bathroom. I stood above the pool of water, unzipped my fly and
watched as the color turned from blue to a bubbly green, with great
 Bellamy 169

satisfaction. When I was finished, there was a realization that I had to

take a seat. After finishing my business, I pulled the toilet paper off the
roll and saw handwriting in ink that read:

BELLAMY WAS HERE

More lame comedy at the hands of my brother.

I went back to the kitchen a few minutes later to find a glass of
lukewarm milk, room temperature mixed vegetables and tuna
casserole, a dinner I had trouble swallowing even when it was served
hot. Mixed vegetables are now called a melody of vegetables. Funny
how a name change can change people’s perception. Maybe I should
change my name.
We were at a time between dog ownership, having had to put
Cookie down a few months’ past, so feeding my dinner to the dog was
not an option. I poured the milk down the kitchen sink and put my
dinner in a napkin which went in into my pants pocket which would
end up in the toilet. Thankfully, I had a box of Crackerjacks in my desk
drawer.
I sat in my bedroom contemplating all that happened that day.
Bellamy was there as well but had little to say. Sometimes, just
knowing he was there lent comfort to an ever-present uncomfortable
environment. My thoughts went dark, in that, my thoughts were not
good. I was one who, I can only admit now, had sinful thoughts.
Another of the many things I could share with no one…save Bellamy.

After a breakfast of leftover creamed dried beef, I went into the garage
and found the dandelion weeder and a basket and headed to the front
yard to start the chore Dasha had assigned me. I knew she would
inspect the basket to see if I had gotten the roots. I simply filled the
basket with flower heads; the wrath of Dasha would be inevitable. I
moved from one pretty yellow, disrespected weed to the next, filling
my basket before noon. Dasha inspected the basket, shrugged
tentative satisfaction with the work, and then reminded me that she
170 G. Bradley Davis

did not believe the frog story and wanted to know where I had been.
Normally, when Dasha would not let an alibi go, she either already
knew where I had been or had some evidence that I had not been
where I said I was. I had no choice but to stick to my story.
I was grounded for a week but was allowed to fulfill my work
commitments at Baker Street. I loved working at the restaurant and
getting a real pay check, that is except for having to pay taxes and
smelling like a walking French fry when I got home.
When I was not at Baker Street, I spent the week with Bellamy,
playing wall ball and throwing horseshoes. The fact that neither
Muskrat or Hunchback had called to see why I hadn’t surfaced was
more proof that I was the third wheel. Bellamy had become my solace.
A dwelling where I would be safe, accepted, approved; so was Perry.
After finishing the daily chores, I knew the kids in the
neighborhood would be hard to track down by noon, so I decided to
catch a few butterflies behind Jack Frost, and then treat myself to a
medium soft serve twist. Just behind the wall behind the ice cream
shop was a cluster of blooming chickadees that had attracted some
eastern tiger swallowtails and a few painted ladies. Making quick
work with my net, I had captured three beauties, placed them in a jar
and decided I had earned the ice cream. As I sat on the wall enjoying
my frozen treat, I looked down the steep embankment to the small
stream by the railroad tracks and got an idea. Why not really catch some
tadpoles? After all, the butterfly net would make it easier to commandeer
them, and it would lend legitimacy to the story I had told Dasha the night
before.
The embankment behind Jack Frost Ice Cream Stand was steep,
and I thought it would be better to slide down on my rear than to risk
dropping the net and the jarred butterflies. I made quick progress
down to the creek and it did not take long before I spotted several
tadpoles swimming in irregular patterns. I chuckled to myself,
thinking how they looked like giant versions of sperm I had seen
photographs of in my human biology book that we were studying in
school.
 Bellamy 171

“They do look like sperm,” Bellamy said with a laugh. “Hey, look!
There’s a paper cup and down by the railroad tracks is a coffee can.
Use the cup to scoop up the tadpoles and put them in the coffee can.”
Bellamy always had good ideas, and I always seemed to follow
them. He always came up with creative solutions to my problems. He
had my back and always wanted the best for me.
Commandeering the two containers, I walked over to the creek.
Thinking five would be enough, I washed the vanilla shake residue
from the inside of the cup and began collecting the larval, gently
dropping them one by one into the cup filled with creek water.
It took me longer than I expected to climb back up the steep bank
with my hands full, being especially careful not to drop my new five
swimming pets. Making it back to the ice cream stand, I headed home
with my butterflies and tadpoles.
As I approached my house, I could hear the beautiful melody of
Debussy that my brother was perfecting on our Baldwin upright
piano, the music dancing like a butterfly through the open window
(we had no air conditioning in those days). I lean toward rock and
blues, but there is no replacement for the brilliance of classical music;
music which has lasted the ages. It is complex and yet easy for the ears
to follow. How I wished I could play like Ted. It seemed as though
each of my siblings excelled at something that made my parents
proud. Me, not so much.
I went into the garage and found the watering can which I filled
up with the garden hose, gently placing the tadpoles into it so they
would have a little more room to swim till I secured their more
permanent home. They seemed a little shaken from the bicycle ride,
but otherwise fine. In the corner of the garage, I found the aquarium
underneath a folded tarp, the same one that had housed Mable. I
washed it out with the hose and filled the bottom of the aquarium with
washed gravel, a multicolored rock, water, and the tadpoles.

I heard Dasha scream with that piercing voice. “Calvin!”

172 G. Bradley Davis

I knew she was still pissed-off about my late arrival for dinner the
week before and she her suspicions, but I assumed this time she was
infuriated with my new amphibian roommates. I took my time
walking to my room where she was waiting.
“What is this?” She asked while holding the spreading board
Perry had given me.
“It’s a spreading board.”
“A what?”
“A spreading board for insect wings to dry in a slightly elevated
position.” Since she had no idea what it was, I thought I would sound
a little intellectual.
“Where did you get it?” She asked.
I was not about to get into a discussion about Perry with the witch.
“A friend gave it to me.”
Turning the board over to reveal Perry’s inscription, she asked,
“Is Perry Strathmore that florist who lives down the street?”
“I don’t know, is it?”
With that, Dasha slapped me hard and quick across my face. My
anger swelled up within me with an intensity I could not contain. As
if instinctively, I grabbed both her wrists and pinned her against the
wall. Pressing up against her, I looked directly in her eyes and said, “If
you ever put even a finger on me from this day on, I will kill you!”
And she never did.
 Bellamy 173

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
One does not learn how to die by killing others.
—François-René de Chateaubriand

A
beautiful dream is rare; the type of dream where
impossibilities melt away and desires are fulfilled. I was in
such a dream staring Simone when I felt an unwelcome
shaking of my arm. I reluctantly opened my eyes to see my
father, although it took a few seconds to realize it was he. I was more
upset that I was kidnapped from nirvana than I was curious as to why
my father was waking me.
“Cal, wake-up.”
“What? What time is it?” I mumbled. In my grogginess I saw the
light of the streetlamp shine across half of my father’s face.
“It’s a little past two. Were you with Charlie Cardin at all
yesterday?” My father asked.
I could tell by both by the tone in my father’s voice and the fact
that I was being awakened in the middle of the night that something
was wrong. “What? No.”
“You didn’t see him at all yesterday?” My father wasn’t
convinced.
“We saw him yesterday afternoon down by the ballfield. He told
us he was going to Hillside Cemetery to collect bottles to turn in at
Joe’s Market,” I said, hoping the answer would be sufficient to allow
me to go back to sleep. “Why?”
“He’s missing. He never made it home last night.” And with that,
my father left the room. I could hear him repeating my answer to
someone he was talking to on the kitchen phone.
174 G. Bradley Davis

I did not sleep well the remainder of the night and the next morning I
felt a melancholy that was difficult for me to explain. Although, never
really close to the pain-in-the-neck, Choo-Choo’s disappearance had
pulled a jalousie over the window of my heart allowing only a sliver
of the morning light to creep in. It surprised me that I would be that
shaken by the pariah’s misfortune. It was as though I knew that
something very bad had happened to Choo-Choo.
Choo-Choo deserved better. Better from me. Why is it that when
a person who finds themselves on the bottom rung of the social
acceptance ladder, when meeting an individual who is surprisingly on
a lower rung, they join in the mass ridicule? Wouldn’t encouraging
and accepting that person make more sense? It is as if they are saying,
“At least I’m not as bad off as this poor slob.” It is no surprise that a
closet alcoholic is the first to criticize a drug addict. Now that Choo-
Choo was gone, I felt guilty.
Not feeling like hanging around with Muskrat and Hunchback, I
decided to head over to Perry’s house. I wanted to clarify my
statement about my parents not wanting me to associate with him. I
had left him dangling like a party balloon that had been caught on a
tree limb. I decided to offer some explanation. Perry deserved that
much.
“How are you, Perry?’ The type of greeting was not typical of me.
A possible sign that I was beginning to care more about Perry’s life
than, perhaps, my own.
“Everything is copacetic,” responded Perry with a wide smile.
“About yesterday…my dad forbade me to spend any time with
you,” I blurted out without any prelude.
Without hesitation, Perry replied, “I understand,” and left it at
that. Perry did understand. There would have been clusters of people
within Philadelphia that accepted homosexuals. There was safety in
numbers and there were micro-communities of queers popping up in
the city, but in the conservative suburbs? Not a chance. Our
relationship would have to be keep secret, at all costs. Plain and
simple. I would do anything to keep anyone from knowing Perry was
 Bellamy 175

my friend. This would have to be a clandestine relationship if our

relationship was to continue. We both knew that.

As Muskrat’s father continued to deteriorate, Muskrat became more

and more withdrawn, not quite sure how to reconcile what he was
feeling. After sprinkling some breadcrumbs into the tadpole
aquarium, I went over to Muskrat’s house to see if I could cheer up my
friend, but no one was there so I went over to Simone’s. There was no
one there either, so I headed home. When I got to my driveway, I saw
the evening paper, The Philadelphia Bulletin whose slogan was “In
Philadelphia, nearly everybody reads The Bulletin.” Other than
checking the sports section, getting an update on the Vietnam war, and
reading the funnies, I had never made reading the paper a very high
priority, but ever since Choo-Choo’s disappearance, I was obsessed
with keeping up with the latest developments in the case.
My curiosity was amplified by outlandish rumors that had been
spreading around town like thick strawberry jam on a slice of Dasha’s
homemade bread. My growing inquisitiveness had me running to the
edge of the driveway to retrieve the more official and accurate news. I
flew through the breezeway, into the house and slid on a throw rug
into the living room, coming to a stop at the base of the couch. I pulled
the rubber band off the rolled newspaper but was disappointed once
again with more articles of speculation on my friend’s disappearance.
I did the few chores Dasha had scribbled on the back of an
envelope and left on the kitchen table. I made quick work of the tasks
and jumped on my Schwinn (my parents had not let me get my
driver’s permit, because they thought I was too immature and
irresponsible). I headed down to Chernoff’s Pharmacy to make a very
special purchase. Normally, I would go to Chernoff’s for candy bars
or a Mother’s Day gift, but my mind was on something else I had seen
on one of my previous visits.
Entering the drug store, I immediately went to a glass case
containing rings and pendants on narrow shelves that automatically
rotated. The potential buyer would have about 10 seconds before the
176 G. Bradley Davis

shelf moved down and a new shelf appeared. I needed to find the
perfect ring to give Simone, to secure our relationship. I thought she
was mine, but if she accepted and wore a ring that I gave her, it would
solidify the bond between us.
I scanned the rings that were on each shelf, ignoring the Timex
watches and ID bracelets, and patiently waited for the next shelf to
appear. Some had faux diamonds, others faux rubies or emeralds and
each sparkled brilliantly under the fluorescent light inside the case.
Suddenly, it appeared. The perfect ring; an amethyst with neighboring
diamonds on either side; all for the acceptable price of twelve dollars.
Sure, the ring would have cost fifty times that in a jewelry store, but
Simone would not know the stones were replications. I was delighted
when the lady at the counter asked if I would like the ring wrapped. I
selected a reflective pink foil paper and watched as the woman
expertly curled the ribbon by sliding an open scissor blade quickly
across the ribbon.
“She’s going to love it,” Bellamy said as I put the small box in my
pocket, jumped back on my bike and peddled towards Simone’s.
Knowing the criticism I would receive from adults, I hoped that her
mother would not be home as I knocked on the multi-plane door.
Unfortunately, as I was peering through one of the small glass
windows of the front door, I saw Simone’s mother walking toward the
door.
“Hello Calvin.”
“Hi Mrs. Arnett. Is Simone home?”
“She’s in the kitchen doing her homework,” she said as she
motioned for me to enter.
“Thanks,” I said while walking toward the kitchen.
Simone saw me before I entered the kitchen and jumped up and
locked her hands around my neck. Apparently, her mother did not
mind the display of affection. “Hey, now this is a pleasant surprise.”
“Hey. What are you doing?” I asked.
“Studying for a chemistry exam. I need to get those tables
memorized.”
“Want to go for a walk?” I asked in an attempt to find a better
location to give Simone the ring.
 Bellamy 177

“I can’t Cal. I have to prepare for this test, and I’m waitressing at
the Kenyon diner this evening. Did you hear about Charlie? I’m
worried about him.”
Crap! Choo-Choo can even ruin a good moment when he’s not even here!
“Yeah. That’s all anyone is talking about. I can’t believe it. Since
you can’t take a walk, can you at least come outside for a minute? I
want to give you something,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“What? Sure,” Simone said as she opened the kitchen door that
led to the side yard. Walking over to the bench swing, she sat down
and patted the seat next to her for me to join her.
“What do you want to give me?” Simone said with excitement in
her voice. “I love you,” I said, reaching deep into my jeans pocket and
retrieving the shiny pink box.
“And I love you, Calvin Lloyd! Oooooooh! Did you wrap this?”
“No. I had the store wrap it for me. I’m not very good at
wrapping,” I confessed.
Suddenly I became nervous as Simone began to unwrap the small
box. Is it too much too soon? Will I scare her off? Will she think it is a cheap
imitation and laugh in my face?
“I love it!” Simone screamed. “It’s beautiful,” she said as she tried
to slide it onto her ring finger. “It’s a little small. I’ll have to get it sized
at the jewelry store. Did you buy it at Sexton’s or Rubenstein’s
Jewelers?”
Now, I had a dilemma. Certainly, Chernoff’s would not size a
twelve-dollar ring, and I couldn’t admit I had bought the ring at a
drugstore. I had to think, and quickly.
“I think it is a pinky ring,” I suggested. “Try it on your pinky.”
Pulling the ring off her ring finger, Simone slid it onto her pinky.
“You’re right! It fits perfectly,” Simone exclaimed to my great
relief. “You are the best Calvin Lloyd! I want to spend the rest of the
day with you, but…”
“I know. I understand.” I said while hiding my disappointment.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Simone jumped off the swing, gave me a kiss and ran toward the
kitchen door, staring at her hand the entire way.
178 G. Bradley Davis

The news traveled around the neighborhood long before the evening
paper was delivered or the 5 o’clock news was broadcast. Choo-
Choo’s nude body had been by the Floaties pond in the cemetery.
There was a photo of Choo-Choo on the front page of the Philadelphia
Bulletin. The caption read:

Body of Missing North Hills Boy Found.

Picking up the paper, I began to read:

A sixteen-year-old boy, whose body was found in a pond

located at Hillside Cemetery, Roslyn, PA., has been identified
as Charles (Charlie) Cardin.
The boy left his home to play with his friends around
12.30 pm on Tuesday, but had never returned. His body,
marked with stab wounds and burn marks, was found by a
groundskeeper on Thursday morning. An autopsy will be
performed tomorrow by Montgomery County Coroner, Jacob
Cohen, to determine the cause and time of death.
According to Robert Dalton, Abington Township
Homicide Detective, the boy was found without any clothes
on, arousing suspicion that he may have been sexually
assaulted.

The article went on to say that detectives were focusing their

investigation on known sexual deviants living in the North
Hills/Glenside area, but what was not yet revealed to the press was
that Choo-Choo’s tongue had been cut out, most likely a symbolic
gesture that the perpetrator wanted to silence his victim, the detectives
later thought.
As I have said, Floaties pond was a popular place for catching
bluegills and pumpkin bellies. There were also goldfish that had been
released by children who had won them in the “ping pong ball in the
fishbowl” game at the town fair. It was the location of where the
neighborhood kids would blow-up their model ships, and it was also
 Bellamy 179

a quiet place couples went to neck. I remembered sending Choo-Choo

down to Floaties to retrieve discarded soda bottles. Did he end up
meeting someone he knew? I rested the paper in my lap. You mean there
are known perverts living in North Hills?
“Cal,” Bellamy whispered. “Let’s go outside and throw the
football around.”

Dasha never mentioned a word to me about my threat and apparently,

she had not mentioned anything to my father. He would have had
words with me if she had. It almost seemed that she was walking
barefoot on broken glass when around me. Dasha had even made
Spam, because my dad had to work late. Having spent four years in
the marines, my dad swore he would never eat another plate of the
military staple, but I loved the salty pork shoulder. That evening
everything seemed right in the world.
After dinner I went into my room and walked over to the
aquarium to examine the progress my tadpoles had made and the
inspection did not disappoint. The back legs started appearing as the
tail began shrinking and the body was becoming less oval. Satisfied, I
turned off my night lamp and went quickly to sleep.

The summer seemed to be going quickly, as it always had. The

milkweed began to wither, and the maple, cherry and birch trees had
already begun to change color. I needed things to look forward to,
often at the expense of not appreciating the present. I planned a date
with Simone but had waited weeks before actually asking her out.
Now, I am ashamed to admit this, but I had always worried who might
see us out together. The black-white thing was always hanging in the
back of my mind like a cobweb on a screen door; it was too sticky and
not easy to remove. There was a constant struggle between letting my
heart be free and keeping my feelings captive, suppressed from
180 G. Bradley Davis

expressing its true desire. But it was her birthday, and I decided to take
her to Rizzo’s Restaurant and risk being exposed. A small step for man…
Unfortunately, I still did not have my driver’s license. A few
months before the date my parents had decided I could get my permit.
I had borrowed my brother’s dark blue Nova without him knowing it.
Ted was home from college for the summer and working the
graveyard shift as an orderly at a retirement home, and so he would
sleep till mid-afternoon. I saw Ted’s car keys on his bureau and
decided to take it for a spin. While cruising down Easton Road in
nearby Glenside, I was pulled over by a cop for going 50 mph in a 35-
mph zone. The result was that I would not get my license till I was
seventeen. Simone and I would have to take the train over to Rizzo’s.
Simone was waiting on the steps outside her house dressed in
Kelly green hip-huggers and a white bodysuit that was as tight as a
sailor’s knot. I made a concerted effort not to keep looking at Simone’s
nipples protruding from her top, but they were simply eye-magnets.
As we walked towards Ardsley train station, I pointed out a large
monarch that seemed to be following us, much to Simone’s delight.
“Monarchs are also called common tiger, wanderer, and black veined
brown,” I said in a successful effort to impress Simone.
It was a short train ride to Glenside and just as short of a walk to
Rizzo’s. As we turned down Glenside Avenue, Simone grabbed my
arm and prevented me from stepping in a pile of dog junk. Shortly
thereafter, a man dressed in a business suit passed us on the sidewalk.
As if orchestrated, both of us stopped and turned our heads to see if
the man would notice the mound of turds. We didn’t have to wait long
to see the man’s left foot plant squarely in the pile causing his leg to
slide to the point where he could have pulled a groin muscle. Simone
and I looked at each other and exploded in hilarity.
We got to Rizzo’s just before the 5 o’clock crowd started arriving.
By 6 there would be a line of people spilling down the sidewalk for
nearly a block. A middle-aged woman with a much-too-tight-for-her-
age-or-body waitress uniform brought two glasses of water, looked at
Simone, then at me, and back again toward Simone. “What do you
want to drink?”
 Bellamy 181

“Two vanilla malts,” I answered, knowing what was going on

inside the woman’s head.
Before either of us could say anything, Simone’s stomach began
growling a rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. As we turned to
look at each other, my stomach joined in, as if on cue. We both had a
look of surprise on our faces which only lasted a second or two and
was interrupted by more hysterical laughter. People at the other tables
starred, but neither Simone or I cared. Why should we? We were part
of a fairytale story which we refused to exit from. Why come back to
the ugliness and hatred of the “real” world. Our stomach’s duet
continued until the Italian bread and salad arrived.
Dinner at Rizzo’s consisted of veal parmigiana, spaghettoni, garlic
bread, house salad and the vanilla malts. The fact that Simone ordered
the exact thing that I had ordered gave me more confirmation that our
relationship was “meant to be.” Things couldn’t have been more
perfect.
We finished our dinner and left the restaurant. As we walked
towards the train station, I felt that the evening was one of those few
moments in time and space when all is right with the world. Planets
align and moon dust is sprinkled over your head like confetti. The
troika of happiness, contentment, and purpose combine to make life
as flawless as it can be. I recognized the moment and basked in it.
Nothing could ruin the moment; nothing, that is, but Ricky Maddox
and his brother Mark.
Ricky was a head taller than the other kids in our class, thanks to
his having repeated both the second and fifth grades, and he was
always quick to use his size to abuse others. Closely cropped hair,
unusually small ears, and darker skin than Simone, Ricky lived to
“knock the white” out of any white kid he did not like, and it took little
for him to dislike you.
“What do we have here?” Ricky asked as he forced himself
between Simone and me, wrapping an arm around each of us. “Are
you two going out together?” Ricky threw his head back and began
laughing hysterically. “Calvin Lloyd. Do your mommy and daddy
know you love some nigger girl?”
182 G. Bradley Davis

I tried to muster the courage to respond with confidence. “Cut it

out, Ricky.”
“You gonna make me?” Ricky shouted as he pushed me as hard
as he could.
I nearly caught my balance, but the shove was so unexpected that
I fell backwards and cracked my elbow on the curb. “Simone, baby,
come with me and I’ll show you what a man can give you,” he said as
he wrapped his long arms around her waist.
“Go to hell, Ricky, and leave us alone,” Simone said as she
released herself from his grip.
“Go to hell, Ricky, and leave us alone,” Ricky mimicked in a sing-
song melody which brought laughter from his brother Mark. “What
you doing with this cracker? Ain’t a brother good enough for you?”
Ricky grabbed Simone’s breast and squeezed hard.
“Ow! You pig! You’re hurting me!” Simone shouted while
slapping him on his arm.
Even though I knew that the consequences of standing up to Ricky
would be painful, I had to try and protect Simone. I charged towards
Ricky and lowered my head, grabbed him around the waist and
tackled him. It didn’t take Ricky long to compose himself, flip himself
on top of me and began swinging his fists. The first punch connected
with the right side of my nose and cheek. The pain stung high into my
forehead. The second punch hit the left side of my jaw and the third
cut my lower lip. I felt a warm stream tricked out of my nose. After the
first two punches, I did not feel any of the other cuffs that connected.
Had it not been for a man coming out of Rizzo’s who told Ricky he
was calling the cops; I would have suffered much worse.
It was not the beating that bothered me. I was used to that; it was
the humiliation. And in front of Simone, no less.
“Are you alright? You’re bleeding,” Simone said as she opened
her purse and grabbed a tissue. “Ricky is such a jerk!”
I had little to say. What was there to say? I had gotten my ass
kicked in front of my girlfriend, and I had not landed a punch. There
was little conversation on the walk to Ardsley train station, and even
less as I accompanied Simone to her house. Dejected, I simply told
Simone that I would see her later as I turned and went home.
 Bellamy 183

My dad was in the kitchen when I got home. “What the hell
happened to you? What does the other guy look like?”
“He’s fine,” I mumbled. That was the wrong answer. My father
threw the paper down and walked away in disgust.
I had understood what the question meant. Had I inflicted at least
as much damage on the other guy as I had received? Not only had I
gotten beat up on the street, but it seemed that I had also gotten beat
up at home.
I walked down the dark hallway into my room and sat on the floor
with my back against the bed. I did not know what part of my body
hurt worse. It all did. Bellamy sat next to me and didn’t say a word, he
just placed his arm around me, and watched as a lonely tear rolled
down my cheek.
Courage, or lack of. Where does it come from? Dad fought the Japanese
with the 1st Marine Division in Guadalcanal. That took courage. Is courage
hereditary? If dad had it, why don’t I? The familiar sense of failure and
worthlessness overwhelmed me. Would I ever be able to reach deep
within myself and do the right thing, no matter what the cost, no
matter how difficult, should the time come? I had not that evening and
had no idea if I could in the future, but soon I would soon have a
tangible opportunity to find out.
184 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Killing a person’s hope is emotional murder.

I
felt the cold steel rub up against my legs. The soft clanging of the metal
had long since been ignored, for it had been a very long journey. The
blood and sweat from past battles had dried, but were still visible
through the small gaps in my armor. Somehow, I knew that without the
many trials and testing that have come my way, I would never be prepared
for the greatest fight to come, yet, how could I know what awaited me?
As I rode to the crest of the hill, my courser stopped, as if instinctively,
allowing me to survey the fortress which lay in the valley below. I pulled back
my face shield and felt the cool breeze against my hot face. I could smell the
sweet perfume of the orange and white wildflowers growing in the meadow
just east of where my horse and I stood. The massive ivory beast that stood
nearly 20 hands tall had been with me for as long as I can remember. His
name was Espoir.
As I gazed upon the castle, I knew the time had come. This was the
moment that everything that had happened earlier prepared me for. All the
pain…all the battles…all of the perseverance; the victories and the
defeats…there was a reason. They had existed only to bring me to this place.
My courage was true, my focus sharp and my mission clear. It would be
now that I would gather all my resources for the charge. If I failed, then I
would die, but should I be victorious, then my life would forever be changed,
well worth the risk. I would then accept the scepter and drink from the silver
goblet.
When I reached the fortress, I saw the grand tower where I thought the
damsel would be held. After scaling the outside-wall, I entered the courtyard
just below the tower. It was from a small, single window that she peered out.
Our eyes met at a distance—no words were spoken, but her smile said all I
 Bellamy 185

needed to know. Her eyes seemed familiar, and her gaze was as if she somehow
knew how the story would end, and although I believed that I would free this
fair maiden from the dungeon that held her captive, it dawned on me that it
was she who was freeing me.
I felt empowered. My weariness was replaced with new strength and a
wave of confidence washed over me. I was ready for what lie before me as I
entered the heavy wooden door.
The enemies Fear and Self-Doubt swung their swords at me. I stepped
aside as they lunged and with a swift backhand brought my sword across their
necks. They fell dead. Around the corner appeared Rejection and Humiliation
bearing weapons of destruction. The one had a large-link chain with an iron
ball and sharp spikes protruding out of it. He swung it towards me but as I
ducked, I leaped forward with my sword sinking it deep into his chest. The
other guard drew back his bow, but before he could release his deadly arrow, I
swung my sword and watched as his head rolled in a bloodstained trail to its
rest.
I walked through the cold and damp passageways until I came to a door
that had a sliver of light shining from under it. I knew this was where I would
find her. Forcing the door open, my heart pounded with anticipation and
immediately, I saw her. The light from a small window poured a single narrow
beam into the dark chamber and she stood in its light, her beauty illuminated.
She ran towards me, my knees too tired to move. Her arms were open and
when we embraced my armor mysteriously disintegrated. She kissed me, lifted
her head to say…
“Calvin, get up. You’re going to be late for school,” Dasha yelled
from my half-opened bedroom door.
The remainder of the fantasy would have to wait. I envisioned
placing Simone on Espoir and riding along the rolling green hills,
fording streams and reaching high peaks…and although there was a
beautiful sunset, the sun would never go down. Dreams!

I was excited about going over to Simone’s, but Dasha had other
plans. She announced we would be going to Muncy, PA for the
186 G. Bradley Davis

weekend…wherever that was… to take Ted to a special one-week

music camp. The chosen one strikes again.
“This weekend?” I tried to hide my look of dismay. I had
promised Simone I would spend the day with her and was looking
forward to the lunch she said she was going to make special for me.
Our relationship was entering another phase, a critical phase, that
required me to articulate my feelings, and Saturday was going to be
the day to share what was on my mind. “Can I stay home?” I said
knowing the answer before Dasha spoke.
“No, you can’t stay home,” Dasha said very matter-of-factly.
“I’ve got stuff I need to do. Can I stay with Hunchback?”
“Bobby,” she said correcting me once again, “and there’s nothing
you need to do that’s that important.”
How does she know what I have to do?
I was told to pack my sister’s overnight bag, as I owned no such
thing, and to do so in short order. I desperately wanted to call Simone,
but every time I went near the phone either my father or Dasha were
monopolizing it.

The entire drive home I could think of nothing but Simone. I needed
to explain disappearing for three days and breaking my promise of a
romantic day and a lunch she had prepared for me. I knew that Jack
Frost would be closing, and Sunday was its last open day for the
season. As soon as the Chevy pulled into the driveway, I grabbed my
sister’s red and green, Scotch-plaid bag, tossed it on my bed, and went
downstairs to the more private phone in the rec room to call Simone.
Instead of ringing, a recording came on the line which stated the
number I called had been disconnected. That’s odd.
I needed to speak with her. I had to explain that parental
prerogative had pulled rank, and I was forced to go away for the
weekend. I had no say in the matter; it all happened so suddenly, that
I had no opportunity to call Simone to let her know. It all sounded so
lame. I had to explain in person, and quickly, so I grabbed my bicycle
and flew down Hawthorne Road to Simone’s house.
 Bellamy 187

When I reached her house, the first thing I saw was the FOR RENT
sign in the front yard. That had not been there before. I had a heavy
plummeting feeling in my gut. It was like watching a movie you had
seen before; one with a sad ending. You know it is coming, but you
wish someone had changed the script. I had to be wrong, I hoped I
was wrong, but somehow, I knew I was not. I knocked. And I knocked.
I rang the doorbell, which I knew did not work. And I knocked again.
An elderly woman with white hair that fell to her waist came outside
the house next-door in a blue and white housecoat and a lipstick-
stained cigarette dangling from her fire engine, red lips. “They
moved,” she said matter-of-factly.
“What? When?”
“Yesterday. One of those big U-Haul trucks came. They spent the
morning loading up and they left. They were nice people. Never gave
me a bit of trouble.”
“Do you know where they went? Did they leave a phone
number?” I tried not to sound desperate, but I knew I was not
successful.
“Nope. They wouldn’t have left me with anything like that,” she
said while walking back inside her house and closing the door.
Gone? I sat on the front step and pulled my coat collar high around
my neck. I watched as a cold wind blew some late autumn leaves in
an imaginary cylinder, around and around. One rebel leaf broke free
and my eyes followed it as it ascended high above the telephone wires
and beyond the splintered pole. I had a sinking feeling of what just
happened. I could not reconcile what, if any, options I had. It was like
the time I grasped the brass ring on the merry-go-round at Willow
Grove Park only to find that all you got was a free ride. It was a sense
of utter disappointment. Having flown too close to the sun, the wax
melted from my wings. My inevitable fate must be that I would fall
out of the sky, plunge into the sea, and drown.

Everyone remembers their first sexual experience and partner.

Unfortunately, I still do. Baker Street was an oasis in the middle of my
188 G. Bradley Davis

ocean of problems. I was well-liked and the manager would often

compliment me on how hard I worked and how well I did my job. He
even gave me a raise after only working there a few months.
As I have said, the middle-aged waitress, Mora, took a liking to
me. Now, when I say she took a liking to me, I mean she took a liking to
me. A woman in her late forties with dyed blonde hair and large
breasts, she still had much of the beauty that had easily attracted men
in her younger years. When no one was looking she would
nonchalantly pass me and grab my ass whispering, “Mora needs mora
of you,” and give me a broad smile while walking away. I really did
not mind her flirtations as they fed my prurient interests.
One day, while in the walk-in freezer retrieving some frozen ham
steaks, Mora snuck in behind me and, while I was bent over to get the
box from the bottom shelf, took a handful of my left butt cheek and
said, “Yummy!”
Dropping the box, I put both hands on her waist and said, “It’s
time for you to back up your words, Mora. Take me home with you
after your shift is through, and we’ll see if you’re just all talk.” I think
both Mora and I were startled by what came out of my mouth, but she
smiled and said, “I may just do that,” and walked back to the lunch
counter to fill-up the ketchup bottles. I got back to the grille and threw
the frozen ham steaks on to the hot griddle like a discus. I tried not to
think of that possibilities that could come from being alone with Mora,
but I had to keep close to the grille so that no one would see the bulge
in my pants.
The lunch rush was over and only a few patrons remained in the
dining room when Mora walked up to me and whispered, “Okay.
We’ll go to my place, and then I’ll give you a ride home.”
Anticipation is both a wonderful and torturous thing. Visualizing
what something would be like; something you fantasized about for
years, can drive even a pious man to hard liquor. I was a virgin, and
although I had been a bibliophile of borrowed Playboy and Penthouse
magazines, I had never been with a girl.
Mora drove an old white Rambler. She lived in a small Cape Cod
in northeast Philly. When we entered her house, she threw her keys
into a candy dish that sat on a small table next to the front door and
 Bellamy 189

said with a smirk on her face, “I’m going to take a shower. Come into
my bedroom and make yourself comfortable on the bed.”
The bed was neatly made with a pale-yellow bedspread and
plenty of canary yellow pillows. I got undressed and laid on her bed,
waiting in anticipation for my first copulation. It would not be
romantic. It was not making love. It was carnal lust with an older,
much-too-willing, lady who wanted her ego stroked.
A short while later she came out of the bathroom with a towel
wrapped tightly around her. At the edge of the bed, she let the towel
drop to the floor and climbed next to me. We kissed, we had sex, and
that was that. Instead of having a feeling of conquest or satisfaction, I
was left feeling regret and polluted.

At the end of my junior year, I had accumulated 103 detentions in the

180-day school year. Like every beginning of a school year, I started
my senior year determined to play the game and be compliant, which
worked through September, but come October the inevitable
happened. Detentions. The purpose of detentions was to, one, punish
bad behavior and, two, to change that bad behavior. Problem was, I
was not mentally, physically, or emotionally able to change my
behavior. I wanted to change, badly, but no matter how hard I tried,
the results were always the same.
The detentions were mostly the result of daydreaming, talking in
class, unfinished homework and being a disruption in class. My first
detention of the year came in the second week of October because I fell
asleep in Physics class. The teacher, Mr. Renshaw, was a body-builder
with massive arms and a half dozen long, wild hairs sporadically
spaced on his otherwise bald cranium. Walking over to my desk, he
slapped me upside the back of my head so hard that my eyes filled
with tears and all I could hear was the ringing in my ears and the faint
chuckles from my classmates.
“Lloyd, you pathetic loser, you’ve got detention! Get out of my
class!” Renshaw said as the class broke out in laughter.
190 G. Bradley Davis

Once again, I was made to be the fool. Embarrassment is an

emotional rejection that no one enjoys, but for a teenager like me, it
was devastating. It erases any popularity points I worked so hard to
achieve and even worse, it chipped away at any self-esteem and
confidence. Without confidence, a teenager wilts under the desert sun
of expected performance and adolescent acceptance. Even the cute
goody-goody girls turned to look at me with disapproving eyes. The
embarrassment I felt was more than humiliating. Me, the social
outcast.
I served the one-hour detention and began the 3-mile trek home.
The school buses that ran in the late afternoon were for those
participating in sports or extracurricular activities and school clubs,
and so I walked the walk that I had done so many times before. It was
not the distance that I dreaded, nor the possible punishment that was
to be handed down by the Superior Court of Lloyd, it was the self-
abasement and disparagement I would self-inflict.
My hatred for Mr. Renshaw boiled over like a pot of stewed
tomatoes that burned on a hot stove. I thought of ways I could seek
revenge; ways I could inflict physical pain on the pathetic creature. I
even thought of hiring a bigger, stronger guy to give him a mula
bandha bitchslap, but I knew that would never happen, but I would
spend the following days scheming some type of creative retaliation.
People like Renshaw never get what they deserve.
When I was approaching my home, I thought about heading over
to Perry’s place to receive some sympathy, but there would not be
enough time before supper. All I needed was for someone to tell me it
would be alright. Someone to insinuate that I had value. They didn’t
even have to come out and say it. Bellamy was in my room waiting for
me.
“Was it that asshole, Mr. Renshaw?”
“Yeah. I was so bored with his lecture that it lulled me to sleep.
The next thing I knew I felt this tremendous pain in the back of my
head, and Renshaw calling me a loser and everyone was laughing. We
should figure out a way to kill him. I’m not kidding! I hate that some-
of-a-bitch!”
 Bellamy 191

“Well,” responded Bellamy, “We could come up with something

to accomplish that. Ideally, we want to hurt him physically, but maybe
embarrassing him in front of the class would be just as good. Let me
give that some thought.”
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt
me. That is wrong, of course. Lips have killed millions of people
slowing chipping away at one’s self-worth insistently, like waves
grinding a stone into sand, slowly, wave by dependable wave.

The next afternoon my father brought a full-grown yellow Labrador

Retriever home, much to Dasha’s chagrin. Someone he had worked
with had to get rid of it because his wife had terrible allergies which
were augmented by the dog’s long coat. It quickly became apparent
that it is, in fact, difficult to teach an old dog a new trick. He was
undisciplined and ornery. The name Woody, as previously named by
the former owners, bothered my siblings. That is, after I told them that
“woody” is slang for an erection, which, of course, I thought was
hilarious.
The following day I was back at school staring intently at the
number 2 pencil cradled in the grove on the desk, my mind at some
distant place too far to hear any of the lecture on stoichiometry my
chemistry teacher was explaining in a monotone. It was not until I
heard my name, repeated a second time, that I was brought back to
reality.
The Vice Principle’s secretary, Mrs. Bachman, had come into the
classroom and called my name.
“Here,” I responded, knowing that although Mrs. Bachman
looked and walked like a pigeon, it was improbable that she was the
carrier of good news.
“Please follow me. Your presence is requested down at the office.”
Something was awry. The Vice Principal was really the school
disciplinarian, and you were never summonsed to his office for
anything good.
192 G. Bradley Davis

Entering Mr. Latimore’s office, the Vice Principle spoke in a

surprisingly pleasant tone. “Please, have a seat Calvin,” he said as he
motioned to a burgundy leather chair that was positioned squarely in
front of his desk. He wasted no time getting to the point. “Your
teachers had a meeting about you on Tuesday. They are concerned
about your behavior. Specifically, your inability to sit still and listen to
the teacher and your frequent inappropriate outbursts. We have
decided to have you meet with the township psychologist.”
Township psychologist? All of my teachers had a meeting to discuss my
sanity?
“So, they think I’m crazy?” I asked forcefully.
“No, no, Calvin. It is nothing like that. Your teachers are
genuinely concerned about you. They want to help you.”
“Sure they do.” I mumbled.

As I had said, I was racking my brain to come up with some type of

retaliation against my physics teacher who assaulted me in class. One
day, while in the school library, I found myself in front of the rack of
periodicals and picked up a copy of National Geographic to see if there
were any photos of nude women from some indigenous tribe. While
holding the magazine, a subscription card fell onto my lap. That is
when the idea hit me, but before I put my plan into action, I needed
one critical piece of information.

When I got home from school, I headed straight to my room. Walking

over to the aquarium, I noticed that the tadpoles had developed front
legs. Although I had seen Bellamy lying on my bed with his back
against the headboard, I sat on the floor with my back toward him
knowing that Bellamy was waiting for me to share the latest upsetting
news.
 Bellamy 193

“They all think I am crazy. All my teachers got together to discuss

me. How did that happen?” I pondered out loud. “Everyone thinks
I’m insane; retarded. I am a freakin’ reject.”
Had I only known that most grownups live in silent fear I would
have been able to digest the situation. They are afraid that they will be
found out…that they are frauds. Their fears persuade them to act in
ways that help shield them from being exposed. I was the product of
being a round peg that society keeps trying to fit in a square hole. Most
adults simply can’t think outside the box. They expect every kid to
learn the exact same way, as if they are clones. Just as some people are
gifted athletes, others are gifted artists, and still others have a keen
mind for analytics, people are all different and they learn differently.
Everyone—everyone is afraid of being exposed for being a fraud.
We all hide behind some façade. We all have a secret that we would
do anything to keep hidden. Not our spouse or closest friend know
these secrets. No matter how much we try to bury them, they are there,
deep within our minds. They surface and remind us whenever they
desire, as if they have their own will.
Jack London and Hemingway, case in point. The two would write
grandiose tales glorifying the epitome of what a real man should be,
while themselves living an exaggerated lie of being every man’s
definition of an adventurer. In both cases, the facade was too much to
bear, and its weight led each of them to die by their own hands. I am
sure that the fact that Ernest Hemingway's mother forcing him to dress
in gingham frocks and crocheted bonnets for his first two years did
not help.
There are people who abhor the idea of abortion, but when they
get pregnant out of wedlock and are facing the horrifying prospect of
shame by those they love, they secretly have an abortion. As
horrendous the elimination of a fetus is to them, the idea of being
alienated and criticized by family and friends is worse. Rejection is an
incredibly strong influence—a paradox of sorts; but so is regret.
“Go into the testing with your head up. There is no need to feel
ashamed. Answer the questions. Take their tests and do not worry
about the results, because what’s the worst that can happen? They can
kill you but they can’t eat you,” Bellamy said.
194 G. Bradley Davis

The batteries of tests were scheduled for Thursday, two days

away. Although I felt anxious, a feeling of apathy settled my nerves.
My greatest fear was that I would be left behind and must repeat 12th
grade again. I just wanted out of school. The type of occupation and
career I would pursue was still a mystery to me, but I had always been
able to earn a dollar, so making a living and survival was never a
question.
The testing was supposed to be administered in a conference
room next to the cluster of school offices, but because of some last-
minute SNAFU, I was to meet the shrink at an office attached to his
home, located a block from the hospital. Dasha drove me to my
appointment in complete silence. Neither of us had anything to say.
Dasha slowed the car as she looked at the addresses along
Woodland Road. Picking up a business card that was on her lap, she
announced, “Here it is, 793.”
We stopped in front of a two-story brick colonial topped with a
Mansard roof. Dasha stayed in the car as I got out and walked toward
a carriage house that a sign directed me to. The yard was well
manicured with not even a fallen leaf to blemish the immaculate lawn.
I rang the doorbell and within seconds the door opened.
“You must be Calvin. I am Doctor Strickland. Please, come in,”
the man said with a pleasant look on his face.
Doctor? Yeah, that makes sense. Of course, I need a doctor, I am sick!
Dr. Strickland was younger than I expected, perhaps in his late
thirties or early forties. His short-cropped, mouse-brown hair was
neatly combed, and he sported a painter’s brush mustache. He wore
blue and white stripped button-down oxford shirt and dark blue
slacks. Boring!
“Why don’t you have a seat over here,” the doctor said as he
extended his arm as an invitation to sit on a contemporary asparagus-
green velvet couch.
While the doc retrieved the “test” I was to take, I surveyed the
room to see if I could make any important observations. I ignored the
Psychobabble, or pre-test small talk. After a quick scanning of the
decorations and relics ornamenting his office, this was my assessment:
The poor doc was putting up a facade. He was probably an orphan with an
 Bellamy 195

Oedipus complex. He decorated his office with no less than fourteen ceramic,
wood and glass giraffes and a China cabinet filled with long neck champagne
glasses and other obvious phallic images in an unhealthy, obsessive
compulsion of excessive penis worship. Perhaps it is true that those who delve
into the field of psychiatry do so with a desire to uncover their own psychiatric
disorders.
Throughout the testing, my thoughts kept going to Simone, where
is she? Why hasn’t she called? Does she think I deliberately blew her off for
that entire weekend I was forced to accompany my brother to band camp?
The testing was less intrusive than what I had expected, and I
found Dr. Strickland tolerable. The entire evaluation took nearly an
hour and a half and, of course, I was not told about the results.
196 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Killing isn't free. It takes something out of you every time
you do it. You get their life; they get a piece of your soul.
It's always a trade.
—Paolo Bacigalupi

A
s I write this, I have been thinking of all the violence in the
world. Of course, there is so much more of it now than
when Choo-Choo was murdered. With the growing
entitlement mentality that so many people have, could it
simply be a case of “I want it, and if you are not going to give it to me,
I will kill you?” And of course, I am not referring to strictly material
things. The things a person wants may be mental, physical, or a
combination of both.

I made sure I got to physics class before anyone entered the classroom.
I waited outside for the previous class to empty after the bell rang.
Thankfully, there were no stragglers. Quickly, I walked over to Mr.
Renshaw’s desk and began rummaging through the drawers looking
for something with my physics’ teacher’s home address on it. I struck
gold when I saw a letter from the teacher’s union addressed to my
teacher in the second drawer. I scribbled down the address in my
notebook and took my seat just as the first students arrived for class. I
had what I needed to implement my plan of revenge.
 Bellamy 197

There had been nothing new reported about Choo-Choo’s murder or

the ongoing investigation. Hunchback, Mouche, Muskrat and I had all
been questioned by two detectives and there were a lot of police and
unmarked detective cars seen around North Hills, which was out of
the norm, yet no arrests had been made. Parents were much more
attentive to where their children were and with whom. All the
neighborhood kids were forbidden to go anywhere near Hillside
Cemetery.

That afternoon Dasha got a call from her sister, Aunt Anastasia,
informing her of their hermit brother’s surprise visit. Uncle Yaroslav
was a wonderfully talented wood sculptor, twice married, twice
divorced, and now living as a hermit in the Adirondack wilderness.
He once owned a studio in the Greenwich Village section of New York
City. Overgrown locks of black and gray hair, crow’s feet dancing
from his dark eyes and a terrifically thick black mustache made him
seem almost as mysterious as he actual was.
My fascination with Uncle Yaroslav was expansive. I loved the
man, and yet, I hated the man. He was, to say the least, different from
anyone I had ever met. I get different. His lifestyle was one of freedom,
unknown by anyone I knew. He had no job, thus, no boss. He had no
wife, therefore, no need to compromise with anyone. He was one who
could never express himself in word, yet he spoke volumes in wood.
It made sense to me why he would retreat into the woods and discount
people and civilization.
The area of his two-room cabin where he worked faced east and
brought the morning light through the dirty window exposing the
wood shavings which covered the wide-planked floor. Women and
cervids were his favorite. Impalas with tall and slender legs in various
poses were scattered about his cabin along with a slew of smooth
curved female nudes. He would visualize his subjects; never using
models or photographs. I was busy visualizing the life I wanted to
carve out for myself. Whatever we create reflects how we interpret life.
198 G. Bradley Davis

My uncle had a tattoo on his right bicep of a lightning bolt

breaking through dark clouds, striking a broken heart and purple rain
that poured from the clouds. I had asked about its meaning once, but
my uncle only said that it was a long story. I assumed that the story
was as long as the man’s peculiar life. It was obvious to me that
someone, or perhaps someones had broken my uncle’s heart.
Sometimes it is not one person or one thing, but rather a collage of
happenstances that cannot help but mesh together to create a weight
that is difficult to carry for some sixty-plus years. Something cracks
under that kind of pressure. It just happened to be his heart.
Uncle Yaroslav had a romance with bourbon and, when he
ventured into town, would win bets in bars by using flies as props. He
would catch a fly in the bar and bet fellow drunks he could kill the fly
and bring it back to life. A dollar a bet. At first, only three or four
dollars would be placed on the bar.
Soon after he arrived at our home, he invited me to the local
taproom to observe his scam. He ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey
while I was served a coke. After boasting his resurrection claim and
gathering a small audience, he asked the bartender, a fifty-something
bleached blond with large gravity-yielding breasts and heavy make-
up, to bring him a glass of water. Walking over to the fog-glass
window, he promptly caught a fly in midair, and returned to his
barstool with his buzzing prop in hand. Dropping the fly in the glass
of water, he placed his palm on top of the glass, then turned the glass
upside down. The fly quickly stopped flapping its wings and succumb
to drowning, or so it seemed. By this time, a larger crowd gathered in
curiosity behind his bar stool. He retrieved the fly from the glass of
water and placed its lifeless body on a napkin upon the bar.
Turning to a half-inebriated patron behind him, he asked the gent
to play The Association’s Requiem for the Masses on the juke box which,
without comment, the man obliged. By this time the dollar bills were
stacked on the beer-soaked wooden bar. While the juke box was
playing the appropriate background music, he motioned for the
bartended to bring him a shaker of salt which was sitting at the end of
the bar.
 Bellamy 199

The music played as he shook salt on the corpse and waited. This
gave Uncle Yaroslav an opportunity to hold court. Where the common
housefly is considered a commensal by humans, my uncle would
explain that the fly is simply misunderstood. He shared that the fly
willingly offered itself to research for the advancement of mankind by
aiding in the study of aging and sex determination. He would then
begin reciting Aesop's The Impertinent Insect, as The Association
continued to sing.
The sprinkled salt began to absorb the water and resurrect the fly.
In about 30 seconds there was a twitch from the winged dung-eater,
then another, and then, abruptly …it flew away. Throwing his head
back and laughing, ol’ Yaroslav swooped up the pile of money with a
cupped hand, got off his stool, took off his sweat-stained hat and
bowed to a mumbling, yet amazed, crowd. Yaroslav instantly became
known as the Ukrainian Fly God.

A week had passed since my “Let’s-see-how-mentally-ill-Cal-really-

is” test. Dr. Strickland, my guidance counselor and the township
mental health coordinator met with my parents. It was another
unexpected day off from work my father had not planned for. The
psychologist told my parents that I suffered from hyperkinetic
reaction of childhood, a condition that is characterized by restlessness,
distractibility, and a short attention span. These deficiencies normally
disappear or lessen as a child grows older. In other words, the highly
paid township psychologist put a title on what everyone knew were
the symptoms I was displaying. ADHD was not a common diagnosis
back in the 70s. What he said next stunned my mother and father.
“Cal is a very bright child. Very bright. He has an IQ of 131 which
is classified as very superior intelligence. Not genius, but pretty darn
close,” he said as while closing my file.
Fueled with this information, my parents lit into me when I got
home from school that afternoon. They were furious with the results
from the testing. If my IQ was below average, I would have a reason
200 G. Bradley Davis

for my learning deficiencies, but with an IQ as high as it was, the only

explanation for my poor grades had to be laziness and lack of effort.
I felt as though I was damned and expected to be sentenced to a
year of hard labor.
Insanity/genius—I am having a hard time distinguishing fact from
fiction, reality from fantasy. Thank God I am almost out of here.

Normally, I dreaded every school morning, but not this specific day.
Muskrat had been driving to school ever since he got his license and
not having to ride the bus was a better way to start a school day.
My third class was study hall, and I had planned on spending the
time in the library, thanks to another brilliant idea Bellamy had.
Walking past the rows of books, I went to the periodicals section of the
library and scanned over what appeared to be hundreds of magazines.
Who would have thought there were so many? Sports Illustrated,
Esquire and Time, I was familiar with, but who ever heard of Arizona
Highways, Harlequin, Desert Magazine, The Libertarian Forum, or Pacific
Rail News? I had not, but I was overjoyed by the selection.
Calculatingly, I began to tear out every subscription card for each of
the magazines. which took me hours. I then filled them out with Mr.
Renshaw’s hone address marking the “BILL ME LATER” box in each.
I was even more delighted to find offers from Franklin Mint, Time-Life
Music Collections, The Bradford Exchange and many others offering
monthly shipments of everything from Norman Rockwell plates, coins
with every president imprinted on them, vinyl records with music
from each year of the 50s and 60s, and statues of Elvis. I ordered them
all for my physics’ vilipender. BILL ME LATER, BILL ME LATER,
BILL ME LATER.
“I love it!” Bellamy said in a library whisper. “Physical retaliation
would have been a bit challenging, but this? Renshaw is a prick, and
we are not going to stand for this crap anymore!”
I am guessing that he is still trying to cancel all of those
subscriptions. Revenge achieved; satisfaction complete!
 Bellamy 201

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything
that one cannot talk about after dinner.
—Oscar Wilde

T
he next day Muskrat, often moody from the stark reality of
his father’s dwindling health, pulled up to my house in his 70
SS Chevelle. I loved that car. Classic body-style, smooth lines,
and one boss engine! Muskrat’s brother, David, had come
back from Nam, and they were having a big bash at his house that
evening to which my family was invited. By the time we got to
Muskrat’s house, the place was already hoping. David seemed even
taller than his 6-foot 4 frame and his physique was tight. He did not
talk much about the war; in fact, he did not talk much about anything.
He had been noticeably quiet since coming back from southeast Asia.
There were bowls of chips and onion dip, cheese doodles, and
potato stix scattered about on a card tables. Muskrat’s dad insisted on
doing the grilling, even though he needed a walker for support as he
leaned over the smokey barbecue. Hamburgers and hot dogs were
sweating on the grill and the grown-ups were sweating on aluminum
webbed lawn chairs. Most of their loud whispering was about Choo-
Choo as they began playing a game of “Who-is-the-likely-perp?”
Mrs. Zimmerman, dressed in tight yellow slacks and a plaid top,
brought out a large sheet cake decorated with the American flag which
highlighted the picnic table which was covered with a red, white, and
blue table cloth. At the end of the table was a large bowl of spaghetti-
type noodles mixed with pieces of hot dogs that were swimming in a
red sauce.
“What in the world is that?” I asked Muskrat.
202 G. Bradley Davis

“Filipino spaghetti. David spent some time in the Philippines

when he was on R & R from Nam and got to like the stuff.”
“What’s in it and what’s R & R?”
“Rest and relaxation. You know, partying somewhere without
having bullets zipping by your head. Filipino spaghetti is minced hot
dog covered in ketchup with thin noodles.”
Muskrat’s brother had seen the expression on my face which he
read like semaphore. “Don’t knock it till you tried it,” David said as he
walked toward a girl with gorgeous strawberry hair.
“Have you tried it?” I asked Muskrat.
“Yeah. It’s not as bad as it sounds,”
David was calling all the fathers sir even though he was now a
civilian, something my dad enjoyed. I figured it was a habit that was
difficult to stop.
Muskrat’s dad only lasted an hour and a half before having to go
inside. His body was a ghost of what it had been only 14 months
earlier. The event was still going on when I left with my parents
around 9. As we approached the darkened driveway, the car’s
headlights raced across the front lawn which, unexpectedly, reflected
a dozen little morsels of light, like the star clusters of Pleiades in
Taurus. Pieces of aluminum foil Woody had eaten along with the raw
hamburger were mixed in the clusters of the dog’s droppings, which
refracted the headlight back to the car.
“How cool is that?” I said with a sense of glee.
“So cool that you’ll be picking up every last piece of that
tomorrow morning,” my father responded.

November came and with it, my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving.

Cooler weather, a portent of shorter sunlit days and white-covered
landscapes. Autumn was a time for Eagles football games, caramel
apples and, if just for a day, a hiatus from Dasha’s wrath. The entire
family sitting around a spread of a picture-perfect turkey deserving of
a Norman Rockwell cover on The Saturday Evening Post, but the day
after was like any other Friday…almost.
 Bellamy 203

With my growing interest in pyrotechnics and an entrepreneurial

nature, I decided to create my own fireworks, or explosives, to be
exact. The day after Thanksgiving being Black Friday, everyone was
out of the house, chasing after highly promoted discounts and sales or
running errands.
I rummaged through my father’s ammunition box in the
basement and found some .306 bullets. Placing a cartridge in the vise
on the workbench, I took a pair of needle nose pliers and cautiously
pried off the bullet and emptied the primer and powder into an empty
3-inch piece of narrow ABS pipe. Along with it, I added thin pieces of
magnesium I had borrowed from chemistry class, mostly for aesthetics,
knowing that magnesium burns incredibly bright. It would look so
much more impressive when the bombs were set off at night. Thanks
to an advertisement in the back of a Popular Science magazine, I had
sent away for a roll of green fuse that is commonly used for model
rocketry. Sliding the fuse into the hose that contained a mixture of the
explosive chemical compound, saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal, was the
easy part, but I had to find a way to keep the device and its contents
tight and compact.
A few days before Thanksgiving, I went to a house that was being
constructed and found some knockouts from an electrical box that
were scattered on the plywood floor of the partially constructed living
room. The partially stamped, quarter-size discs, once removed,
allowed electrical wires to pass through the electrical box and were
perfect for my use. Going back to my makeshift pyrotechnics’
laboratory, I completed my first explosive prototype and was ready to
test it.
Throwing on my Eagles sweatshirt, I went outside and walked
around the perimeter of the house, trying to find the ideal location for
the test. Eyeing the curved section of the white aluminum downspout,
I believed I had found a suitable test site. Sliding the explosive device
into the downspout, I pulled out a pack of matches advertising Pep
Boy’s, Manny, Moe, and Jack on the cover. Striking the match, I lit the
fuse and ran a safe distance away. The fuse burned evenly and
then…nothing. Thinking I had a faulty fuse, I took one step toward the
downspout when an enormous explosion occurred sending the
204 G. Bradley Davis

curved metal 50 feet in the air and getting the attention of every dog
with a 2 mile radius. When the fog of smoke cleared, I retrieved the
twisted, blackened and sheared piece of aluminum which was now
unrecognizable. The success of my creation surpassed anything I
could have anticipated or hoped for.
In the weeks following the explosive test, I produced a dozen and
a half of these Black Banana Bombs, as I called them, and began selling
them around the neighborhood for $5 a pop. Demand for the BBBs
exceeded my ability to produce the devices, mostly due to the limited
production hours, when no one was at home, but soon that problem
would be solved by unexpected circumstances.
One night, just as we were sitting down to supper, there was a
knock at the front door, the door that only strangers went to. My father
got up from the table and opened the front door to find an Abington
Township Police Officer standing there.
“Good evening, sir. I am Sergeant O’Sullivan with the Abington
Police. I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner, but does Calvin Lloyd live
here?”
With a feeling of suspenseful dread, my father answered, “Yes?”
“I have a warrant for his arrest. It seems, someone threw an
explosive device into the township fire marshal’s car and completely
destroyed it. We have reason to believe your son was involved. Since
Calvin is a minor, if you bring him down to the station right now, I
won’t take him in my squad car. I will follow you to the station.”
Looking at me with a fury equal to the incendiary devices I had
created, my dad simply said, “Let’s go!”
I felt like I was the hole in the Lloyd dike, causing chaotic water
to rush in and no one in the family had a thumb large enough to plug
me up. One family turmoil after another. There was always that fear
that at any moment the dike would give way and flood our household.
At the station, some clarity of the situation was offered by both
Officer O’Sullivan, Juvenile Police Officer, and Deputy Walter
Chisholm, Township Fire and Arson Investigator. As Fire and Arson
Investigator, Chisholm was part detective, part engineer, part scientist
and part law enforcer. I wondered if the Juvenile Police Officer was
involved in Choo-Choo’s murder investigation. The two men
 Bellamy 205

explained to my father…as if I wasn’t present…that some type of

incendiary device was thrown into the fire marshal’s car which was
parked in the man’s driveway in front of his house. It burned for over
an hour before the fire company could put it out.
When my dad asked why they suspected his son of the crime, the
officers shared the fact that two teenagers were arrested for setting off
a homemade explosive at the intersection of two busy roads. When
asked where they got the explosive device the adolescents sang like
Barbra Streisand, informing the arresting officers that Calvin Lloyd
not only sold, but manufactured the explosives.
My dad turned to me and asked, “Is that true? Did you make these
cherry bombs?”
Pausing long enough to formulate an adult response, I said, “First
off, they weren’t cherry bombs. Secondly, I had nothing to do with
what happened to the fire marshal’s car. I can’t believe anyone would
do such a thing, and thirdly, isn’t it true that more often than not,
someone within the fire department is found to be the culprit? These
guys are always pyromaniacs and love to be around fire so much that
they pursued, and got, their dream job of working for the fire
company.”
The response from the three grown-ups was fast and furious and
in unison. After the smoke cleared, Officer O’Sullivan told dad that
he’d be in touch after the investigation was complete.

Bellamy tried to put his arm around me to lend some comfort but,
welling from my customers ratting me out, I wanted none of it.
Walking over to my desk, I saw that Dasha had put two pieces of mail
on my blotter. Anytime I received mail it was exciting. Maybe there
would be a letter from Simone.
The first envelope was from an art school. It contained a drawing
of an old salt with a beard and a sailor’s cap, smoking a pipe. There
was an empty box next to the sketch where you were supposed to
draw an exact replica of the sailor and, if drawn well, you would
receive a scholarship to their art school. I placed it aside for later. The
206 G. Bradley Davis

other envelope had no return address and had something small and
hard within it. I tore the envelope open and turned it upside down.
Falling to the floor was an amethyst ring with bordering faux
diamonds on either side. The ring wasn’t the only thing that had
dropped. My heart fell and shattered somewhere within me as I
searched the envelope for a note, but there was none.
Bellamy followed me as I climbed the stairs from the rec room,
walked through the kitchen and out the door to the breezeway.
Entering the garage, I searched my father’s tool box for a hammer, and
after finding one, I placed the ring on the cement floor standing on its
end. Bringing the hammer down as hard as I could, the ring exploded,
scattering thousands of pieces of tiny violet glass across the garage and
rendering the ring into a little undistinguishable metal disc.

The manufacturing of the Black Banana Bombs was the last straw for
Dasha and Thomas Lloyd. They had run out of options, punishments
and appeals for me to conform to their, or at least society’s, standards.
They decided to consider and certainly threaten me, with the idea of
sending me off to Valley Forge Military Academy. They thought that
discipline times ten would straighten me out, whatever that meant.
Did they want me to become a clone of my brother and sisters? Did they really
want him to be a compliant, non-thinking, mindless zombie who had to be
told how to act, what to wear, how to think and what should interest me?
There is an immunity of adolescence. None of the “crimes” I
committed ever resulted in any legal punishment. I thought that
rebellion came natural to me, but then again, so did alienation.
Alienation that came from not being understood. The only people who
“got me” were Bellamy, Perry and Simone, and Simone had given up
on me. More than anything else, I thought my parents simply did not
understand me. How could they have had three children who assimilated
into their grand scheme of things and one that seemed like someone else’s
child? Conformity was not in my DNA. I saw things differently than
how the world around me did. I was the prodigal son, the lost sheep,
the lost coin.
 Bellamy 207

“You know,” Bellamy said, “There is zero chance they’ll send you
to that military academy. They cannot afford the tuition and even if
they had the money, they wouldn’t waste it on the one child they think
shows the least promise. Any money saved is for Ted.” Bellamy never
told me anything I did not already know, but sometimes it was just
good to hear it from someone else. Confirmation.
I was reminded of Bellamy’s comments about my family’s
pecking order—that I fell dead last—fourth out of four. Some of that
had to do with how much honor you brought to the Lloyd name, or,
as in my case, how much dishonor and shame you brought upon the
family. Desperate times call for desperate measures, as the saying
goes, and my parents racked their brains to find a way to get through
to their rebellious black sheep. And did they ever come up with a
plan—an ingenious one—a plan they were sure would bring me to my
senses.
208 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with
smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we
really are: a subtle kind of murder.
—Jim Morrison

B
y the time the summer arrived, my parents determined it was
time to reveal their grand plan to alter my behavior. Having
had three children who were compliant, respectful, and
studious, my parents could not believe their fourth child
could be so different; rebellious, violent, unfocused, and a horrible
student. I was one family emergency after another.
Decades before the television program Scared Straight, Dasha and
dad decided to create their own attitude-adjustment-through-culture-
shock which, they hoped, would fashion in their youngest son a
craving to become a model citizen. Their strategy was to send me to
work on a tobacco farm in Lynchburg, South Carolina. I had an aunt
and uncle, not a biological aunt and uncle, but rather, close friends of
Thomas and Dasha who treated us Lloyd kids as their own, prompting
us to call them Aunt Ellen and Uncle Harry. They were originally from
South Carolina, but had come north to find work in the 50s.
Aunt Ellen and Uncle Harry had a nephew who owned a farm
down in South Carolina. My parents thought that by spending a
summer working the tobacco fields side-by-side with black farmhands
I would change my tune and be more biddable. With a snicker, she
gave me the news a week before summer vacation.
“Cal, you are going to South Carolina with Aunt Ellen and Uncle
Harry. They found a job for you working in their nephew Blake’s
tobacco farm this summer.”
 Bellamy 209

Dasha expected a fight, or at least a reaction of huge disappointment

from me knowing I would have to walk away from trying out for the
town baseball team and hanging out with my buddies, but I would not
give her the satisfaction.
“Great! When do I leave?”
Dasha looked carefully at me and turned towards the kitchen
sink. “The Wednesday after school lets out,” she said.

I walked over to Perry’s house and knocked on the front door. There
was no answer, but as I turned to walk away, I heard Perry’s voice.
“I’m in the backyard transplanting some lily of the valley. Come
on back.”
Perry’s backyard was small, but well-manicured. The patio was
laid with blue slate stone where several canary-yellow Adirondack
chairs, a table and a hammock were positioned with purpose. Clay
pottery and potting soil were next to a stool where Perry sat as he
continued his transplanting.
“I’m going to South Carolina next week,” I mumbled.
“Wow, great! Myrtle Beach?” Perry asked.
“No, to work on a tobacco farm. My mom thinks that will make
me into an obedient, intelligent, likable son. I swear, no one likes me.
I’m a complete loser.”
Perry put down the trowel and looked up at me. He felt the ache
that adhered itself to my being. “Do you know what you need?” he
asked.
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I replied.
“You need a change in perspective.”
“Right. An attitude adjustment. You think you are the first person
to tell me that? That’s why I’m being exiled to South Carolina. That’s
old news, Perry,” I said while raising my eyes without lifting my head.
“That’s not what I said. I said a change in perspective, specifically
with how you view yourself. You have an ugly view of yourself and,
sometimes, that ugliness is the only side you allow others to see. You
are a dead leaf butterfly.”
210 G. Bradley Davis

“Dead Leaf butterfly?”

“The dead leaf butterfly is the epitome and perfect example of
animal camouflage. The underpart of its wings is dull and brown with
irregular patterns and even veins which make it look exactly like an
ugly, dead leaf. But the upper part of its wings displays a stunningly
beautiful display of striking colors including orange, white, blue, and
brown. Cal, you have a beauty that you are showing less and less to
people.”
Perry’s perspective was unlike other adults; looking beyond the
obvious, rough, and unattractive shell as he invested the time
necessary to decipher a way to pry the shell open and find the pearl
that was always there, just hidden from view.
I suffered from a sadness of not knowing that people gravitate to
me; that they actually liked me. I was oblivious to that truth because
the hypocrisy of one’s beliefs and their actions did not jive. In
retrospect, it was a misunderstanding of Everest proportions, yet one
that would motivate me to always have a ready defense; a posture
looking to protect myself that had prevented me the opportunity of
friendship and joy.

The day before I left for South Carolina, Dasha and dad had received
a call from Officer O’Sullivan to inform them that the device that
burned the fire marshal’s car to the ground was a road flare that
someone had tossed in an open window. He also told them that I
would not be charged this time for making the homemade bombs, but
should I ever get caught with anything that even resembled a sparkler,
they would arrest and charge me.
The drive down I-95 was long and I could not get Simone off my
mind, nor did I want to. How could I find out where she moved to? A
Jimi Hendrix song, Red House, kept playing over and over in my head.
His baby had moved on, too.
Aunt Ellen and Uncle Harry were the absolute best, but heading
to farm work in the brutal heat of South Carolina was not my idea of
how to spend the summer. Maybe it is all for the best. If Simone was still
 Bellamy 211

back in North Hills, the time down south would be worse. To make things
worse, when I was not thinking of Simone, Choo-Choo consumed my
thoughts. How would I keep up with the investigation?
My aunt and uncle never had children of their own, but they
treated me like their own, with kindness and generosity. Unlike my
adopted aunt and uncle, their nephew Liam, was suspect of
northerners and gave an appearance of being annoyed that he had to
show a city boy the ropes of tobacco farming. I could only assume he
was well-versed in my disruptive nature and the need for
straightening this young sapling which had grown crooked, albeit
from being trampled upon. What Liam and other grownups did not
understand was that this sapling had scarring inside, and although
nourishment and fertilizer would aid its growth into a mature tree,
and pruning would improve its outward appearance, it would always
be damaged internally.
This is where I would spend the summer, working in a tobacco
field alongside a couple of dozen African American farmhands. Little
did my parents know that working side-by-side with rural black
people did not phase me. Liam told me that I would be topping
tobacco, the process of manually breaking off the flowering stems,
properly called “suckers,” which steal nourishment from the valuable
tobacco leaves. If topping isn’t done, the plants become reproductive
seed producing plants instead of a leaf producing cash crop.
I would head out to the tobacco fields, along with the black
laborers, early in the morning under the unbearable Carolina sun.
Occasionally, we would take 5-minute breaks to drink cool water from
the ladle of a wooden pail whenever the horse-drawn wagon would
appear. Drinking from the same ladle that African Americans used
would have been a deal-breaker for most angry young men from north
of the Mason-Dixon Line. I did not think twice about it and besides,
working all day with a parched throat in the summer heat without
hydration was a much worse alternative. I was acutely aware of my
surroundings, and although I kept to myself and had little to say to
my co-workers, they treated me with kindness and respect.
The first day of work provided many a life-lesson, not the least
was the arrangement for dinnertime. Coming from Pennsylvania, I did
212 G. Bradley Davis

not realize that the largest meal of the day in the south was at noon,
and that meal was called dinner; supper was the evening meal. The
farmer would come with the wagon at noon as the workers jumped on
the back bed and headed for the farmhouse.
When we reached the farmhouse, Liam’s elderly mother, a small
woman with a grey-white ponytail and a large black woman that wore
a smile just as large, were bringing the last of the prepared dishes out
to the picnic table. Fried chicken, corn bread, collard greens, potato
salad, black-eyed peas, fried okra, lemonade and grape Nehi soda
filled the picnic table. Soaking wet from sweat, I watched the other
workers stand at the table as one of the older men took off his hat and
gave the blessing. “Lord, we thank thee for this bountiful feast you
have provided for our nourishment. We ask thee to bless this food and
nourish our bodies as you bless those who have prepared it. In Jesus
name we pray…” and everyone in unison said, “Amen.”
I quickly grabbed a seat along with the other workers, more than
ready to devour an entire bird by myself. When Liam’s mother, a nasty
old bird herself, opened the screen door and yelled “Cal, you come on
in here. You’ll be eating with us,” I was more than a bit confused. As I
looked at the farmer’s mother, over to my co-workers, then back to the
lady waiting at the kitchen door, it finally dawned on me what was
happening. Bellamy did, too.
Whispering in my ear, Bellamy said, “This may not be a good idea,
Cal. You are going to eat in the cool comfort of the white king’s dining
room when your fellow peasants eat in the heat and humidity.”
In short order I declined the old woman’s offer, however, it was
immediately obvious that I had crossed a line. The expression on her
face was both shock and anger. The old farmhand who had just prayed
for the meal, gently grabbed me by the shoulder and said, “Now you
go on in there, boy. It’s alright.” A bit naive, I was appalled that Liam
and his family would segregate the work crew and place me in a
precarious position between the two parties. There was a pecking
order on that farm. Thinking of my family dynamics, I knew where I
stood in that pecking order; dead last. In a white-boy-sort-of-way, I
understood how those black farm hands must have felt.
 Bellamy 213

After dinner the wagon took the work crew back out to the fields.
No one had said anything to me about the eating arrangements, but
one young man gave me an accusing look of privilege, which was new
to me. Privilege? Me? Laughable.
The Carolina sun was somehow more blistering than it had been
before they headed back to the farmhouse, if that was possible.
Topping the tobacco was not hard work in itself. It simply required
taking the flower off the top of the tobacco plant. It was the killing of
the horde of different species of worms that repulsed me. There were
cutworms, and budworms, and hornworms, and wireworms; some as
long as four inches. Liam made it clear to me that if I saw any worms
on the plants, and I saw numerous worms, I was to pinch them
between my thumb and forefinger. Over the weeks in the fields, I
became oblivious to the oozing of the yellowish-green juice and the
slight popping sound it would make when squeezed between my
fingers.
One day after working in the fields, I sat with my fellow dark-
skinned field-hands. They were talking about baseball, some local
man’s barbecue, and the upcoming harvest as they drank glasses of
lemonade and water from the well. I looked out over the perfectly
lined rows of tobacco, the leaves moving to the tune of the late day
breeze, as a monarch butterfly caught my attention. It danced to some
unheard melody as everyone else was oblivious to the orange and
black ballerina.
Over time, Liam began to appreciate my hard work and ability to
get work done without complaining, and I began to see him in a
different light. Prematurely aged by the extended hours of working
under the Carolina sun, Liam wore the façade of a clam; being rough
on the outside, yet he was soft on the inside, especially when
interacting with his children, but he was never quick to show his softer
side to me or his other workers.

On the way home from South Carolina, I had convinced my aunt and
uncle to stop at South of the Border so I could purchase some
214 G. Bradley Davis

fireworks. The carton of L & Ms would not be mentioned. Unlike my

first experience passing through the village of Dillon, Uncle Harry
pulled into the parking lot of the fireworks mecca and left me alone to
make my purchases as he and Aunt Ellen visited the restrooms.

It was late when we arrived at my house, but Dasha and Dad were
sitting in the breezeway watching Johnny Carson on their black and
white twelve-inch television. I held the door open for my aunt and
uncle and after the four of them did the hugs and handshake thing,
Dasha said, “Well, Cal, did you have a nice time?”
Okay. Is it me or was that one of the most sarcastic, bullshit questions
you have ever heard?
Yeah, it was a freaking blast, Mom. I love working 12-hour days in a
sauna of 100 plus degrees that was hotter than a ten-dollar pistol. It was really
fun working with twenty black dudes who looked at me like I was some kind
of cheese. My mode of transportation was an old gelding with a sunken saddle
and moon blindness that could not trot if its tail was on fire. I spent the better
part of two months in this purgatory doing penitence for my inestimable sins.
But then there were the evenings where I would spend hours rocking on the
porch with rigor-mortis-suffering-old- people who had “that smell of death”
while I was a smorgasbord for every mosquito south of the Mason Dixon line.
It was swell, Mom.
“It was fine, Mom.”
Fine is the word you use when you want to be polite, but really
replaces responses less appropriate, like: It sucked, are you kidding me?
Changing the subject, I asked, “Has there been any thing new
about Choo-Choo?”
“His name was Charlie and no, not really,” Dasha’s tone had
suddenly changed. “There’s been something in the paper every couple
of days, but nothing that would indicate they are any closer to solving
it. What a horrible thing. My heart breaks for that family.”
“I’m tired. I’m going to hit the sack. Thanks for everything Aunt
Ellen and Uncle Harry,” I said as I gave them each a hug.
 Bellamy 215

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Whoever is pregnant with evil

conceives trouble and gives birth to disillusionment.
Whoever digs a hole and scoops it out
falls into the pit they have made.
The trouble they cause recoils on them;
their violence comes down on their own heads.
—Psalm 7: 14-16

I
knew Perry’s sexual orientation, but I gave him a special
exemption from the ridicule directed toward gays that I would
participate in with my peers. In the case of my English teacher,
who was widely presumed as gay, I would look for
opportunities to make snide comments. My motivation was mostly to
gain the attention and admiration of my 12th grade classmates and
especially a pretty blonde who wore her hair long and as straight as
an Amish row of corn.
Halfway through my senior year, I knew I was teetering on a
highwire between passing and failing English. I could not commit the
time to do the required reading on Macbeth and somehow, Cliff Notes
were not sufficient to get passing grades. My teacher, Mr. Benbow,
spoke in a monotone, lectured endlessly on the literary merits of
Shakespeare’s work standing the test of time and its emotional
complexity and concern with truth. His effeminate manners alienated
his male students. We nicknamed him Mr. Bend-low, which was
unintentionally heard by the teacher on more than one occasion.
I had a particular loathing for Mr. Benbow which was
reciprocated by my teacher who despised me and made concerted
efforts to make my life miserable by singling me out in class, among
216 G. Bradley Davis

other things. Noticing my woolgathering during Benbow’s ill-inspired

homily on Macbeth’s act 4, scene 3, Malcolm’s questioning of Macduff,
he asked me to define some of the characteristics that grant or
invalidate the moral legitimacy of absolute power. I sat silently for a
minute too long, pondering my response and whether it was worth a
detention of two. “Mr. Lloyd, cat got your tongue?”
Without hesitation, I responded, “Isn’t proper English, ‘Cat has
your tongue,’ Mr. Benbow?”
“Get out of my classroom, you nincompoop! Get out!”
I was not quite sure if the laughter in the classroom was for my
witty comment or Mr. Benbow’s ridicule, but I was not going to take
any chances. I began plotting my retaliation as soon as I walked out of
the classroom. If Bend-low thinks Duncan's, Banquo's, and Macduff's
family being murdered by Macbeth was revenge, he ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

Being exiled from class, I went to study hall to kill time before my next
class, which was Chemistry. I saw a newspaper that was in disarray
lying on the table where two students were both getting their
afternoon nap. One of them, with their head on the table and arms
crossed in front, had his fingers on top of the paper. I slowly slid the
paper from under the sleeping scholar. It was open to the sports
section. The ‘74 Phillies were basically a .500 team, which was better
than many previous years. They seemed to be heading in the right
direction, but with everything else going on in my life, listening to the
games on my transistor radio just wasn’t much fun and the sports
section of the newspaper became less of an attraction.
Mike Schmidt was still belting homeruns and Steve “Lefty”
Carlton and Jim Lonborg were pitching well, but the surrounding cast
was not strong. I kept hoping for a Philadelphia pennant, but by
midsummer it was clear it would not be this year. It would be the 7th
consecutive losing season. That is how I felt about how my year was
going; another losing season.
Turning to the front page, I began reading about the war taking
place halfway across the globe. Chi Linh Camp had been defended by
 Bellamy 217

the 215th Regional Force Company along with two 105 mm howitzers
against an attack by the People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN) 7th
Division.
I was thankful the war was still going on strong, as I feared it
would be over before I reached my eighteenth birthday. I knew my
options after high school were limited, at the very least. No college
was going to accept me, and I had no craftsman skills. If the war were
still going on, I would have an opportunity to demonstrate real
courage. Perhaps even an opportunity to be a hero. Kill or be killed.
The year before, I got a punch in my gut when I read about the Paris
Agreement Treaty that stated the United States would essentially
remove all remaining US Forces, including air and naval forces. U.S.
military intervention halted and fighting between the governments of
the United States, the Democratic Republic of Vietnam (North
Vietnam) and the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam) ceased, which
concerned me. But thankfully, the ceasefire lasted only a day.
I continued my reading. The two howitzers were quickly
damaged, and the ammunition dump destroyed. The PAVN 3rd
Battalion, 141st Regiment, with the help of the division’s 28th Sapper
and 22nd Artillery Battalion overran the base with heavy losses, but the
PAVN 7th Division had unimpeded movement along Highway
14 between Chơn Thành and Đồng Xoài.
Turning the page, I almost missed the small article about Choo-
Choo. The North Hills community was demanding an arrest as
parents became more than nervous. I was stunned to read that the
police were investigating Perry for the death of Choo-Choo, calling
him a person of interest, and the longer I read, the more I saw their
investigation was cloaked with the myth of objectivism. They had no
other suspects. The fact that a homosexual interacted with Choo-Choo
the day before he disappeared was more than enough reason to
assume guilt. To hell with justice, to hell with anonymity and
confidentiality, and, obviously, to hell with Perry Strathmore. Let’s
just rush to judgement! Coercion is a very strong drug. An arrest
would need to be made, and it needed to be made soon, the article
said. The bell rang signaling that it was time to change classes.
218 G. Bradley Davis

In Chemistry class I had a friend named Susan Cummings, an

attractive girl with long blonde hair who only wore hip-hugger jeans
and t-shirts to school. I would have asked Susan out on a date, but she
had been dating Stone DuBois for as long as I could remember. Stone
wasn’t his given name, he was so named by his friends because, more
often than not, he was stoned. Susan and I had become good friends
as well as lab partners.
“Hey, Suz, do me a favor?”
“Sure Cal, as long as it’s not to take off my blouse in the middle of
our lab experiment.”
“Great! Will you take it off after we turn in our lab findings?”
“Sure, Cal. For you, anything,” she said with a smirk of a smile.
“Here’s a dollar. Buy a copy of Playgirl and give me the centerfold.
You can keep the rest of the magazine. I’m going to pull off a classic
on old Bend-low.”
“Okay,” asked Susan without hesitating. “This ought to be good.
I’ll bring it to you on Monday.”

Muskrat had been incognito ever since his father was put into a long-
care facility. I guess that was the proper name, but people called it a
nursing home. He was too young to be in there. Everyone else in that
place was my grandparent’s age. Mr. Zimmerman had become a
fraction of the man he had been. Most of his voluntary muscles had
become paralyzed, and the muscles of the mouth and throat, and those
involved in breathing, become difficult so that eating, speaking, and
breathing were compromised.
It was Friday evening, one of only two evenings my parents
would let me stay out later with my friends. Muskrat was finally at a
point where he needed a distraction, so he and Hunchback decided to
hang out at Willow Grove Park Lanes, which boasted being the
world’s largest bowling alley with 116 lanes, located next to the iconic
Willow Grove Park. I only found out that they had gone there after
 Bellamy 219

calling Hunchback’s house to see if he wanted to do something. When

I arrived, Muskrat was bragging about his hot new girlfriend, Tina.
“She let me get to second base, and tomorrow night I’ll be sliding
into third.”
Hunchback decided to give him a reality check. “Ya know, she’s
going to be as fat as hippo a few years after you marry her?”
“Screw you,” Muskrat barked. “You’re just jealous.”
“No really,” Hunchback said. “If you want to see what a girl’s
going to look like in thirty years, look at her mother. Tina’s mother has
to walk sideways through a door. She’s so fat she wears Orion’s belt.
It’s all that pasta those Italians eat.”
“Yeah, well I’m half-Italian and I’m not fat.”
“Yes, you are,” I added.
When they decided to head over to the billiards hall, I knew it
would be another night of girl watching, over-consumption of soda
and pizza, and maybe a little bowling. I wasn’t into it so I announced
I was going to head home and watch my Uncle Yaroslav do some of
his wood carving.
“What the hell’s wrong with you,” asked Muskrat as he looked at
me. “You haven’t been yourself for months. You in love or
something?”
“Yeah, he’s hot for sea cow Cleary,” Hunchback said as he threw
his head back in laughter.
“Screw off,” I retorted.
“She’s got a face like a French manicure,” screamed Muskrat over
Hunchback’s laughter.
“I’m outta here,” I said while turning towards the exit.
“Seriously, Cal, what’s been eating you?” asked Muskrat.
“Nothing,” I solemnly said.
I had no sooner pushed through the glass double-doors when I
realized that leaving at that moment was a terrible mistake. Seeing
Mongrel and Benny, I knew I should have stayed with my friends.
There was safety in numbers…sometimes.
Perhaps if I did not make eye contact, I would avoid the fury of
the half man, half beast. A full head taler than me, Mongrel’s entire
220 G. Bradley Davis

existence stemmed from his desire to find prey. I was prey. A cold
sweat beaded down my spine when I heard Mongrel’s hoarse voice.
“Where you heading, Lloyd?”
“Nowhere,” I mumbled.
“Nowhere? That is exactly where we’re going, right Benny?”
Mongrel asked as he turned to the much smaller gargoyle he called his
friend.
“Yeah, Mongrel. That is exactly where we were going, nowhere.”
mimicked Benny with a cackle.
As my nemesis came closer, he put his oversized arm around my
neck in a half-head lock, half-neck hug as I struggled to walk straight.
“You have any money?”
“No, I spent it all on skee-ball and a soda,” I lied while trying to
sound convincing.
“Don’t jack rabbit me!” barked Mongrel. “I don’t believe you!
Give me your money,” he said while moving precariously close to my
face.
I thought about getting up and running, knowing that I could
easily outrun the lummox, but Mongrel had been plotting. I was not
his first prey. With surprising quickness, Mongrel pushed me to the
ground, grabbed me by both ankles and lifted me vertically off the
ground. Loose change trickled out of my pocket and rolled aimlessly
on the gravel beneath me. Benny instinctively rummaged through my
pockets finding my wallet in short order. Confiscating the 3 dollars
that was in the billfold, Benny dropped the wallet at the same time
Mongrel dropped me. Hitting my head on the gravel, I felt my neck
snap forward as my back slam against the ground.
I thought, perhaps for only a foolish second, that I should call
Bellamy to inflict serious pain and suffering on my two adversaries
but, obviously, that was ridiculous, and I felt shame for even
considering it. Bellamy never made an appearance in public. Of course
not. I got up and shook off the parking lot dirt and gravel from my
hands, shirt and pants.
A fever of hot rage swept over me that fueled my hateful
imagination on how I would cause Mongrel’s slow and painful death
one day. My emotions teetered between self-loathing and rage, but
 Bellamy 221

there had been no avenues for me to express the rage, at least not yet.
My frustration kept repeating itself over and over as the rage would
build to a level where releasing it would be the natural conclusion, but
I would have to stifle it and save it for another time. At this point, the
camel’s back would take less than a straw to break it.
To hell with Bellamy. I wanted to inflict the anguish and suffering
myself. Perhaps trapping him in his car and burning him alive or
pushing him off the bridge behind Jack Frost as I listened to Mongrel’s
scream for 3 or 4 seconds until he reached the train tracks down below
would be appropriate vengeance. Maybe by concocting a poisonous
powder with the contents of Ted’s chemistry set, and slipping it in a
soda from Joe’s Market, I could, generously, offer Mongrel as a “peace
offering.” Yeah, that is what I would do if…

My neck still hurt the next day when I got out of bed, and I had not
slept well, which was why I got out of bed so early. It was Saturday
and apparently my parents had decided to sleep in. I threw on a pair
of jeans and an Eagles sweatshirt and headed outside to see if the
newspaper had any news about Choo-Choo’s murder. Brushing my
teeth and enjoying the habitual glass of orange juice would have to
wait. Rumors had been flying around North Hills like a dry leaf that
was at the mercy of a stout autumn wind. Perhaps today I could glean
some reliable news. Sliding the rubber band off the rolled up daily, I
received updated news aplenty.

A 42-year-old North Hills man is under arrest in

connection with the death and rape of a teenage boy,
Abington Police announced Tuesday.
Perry Strathmore was arrested in connection with the
death of 16-year-old Charles “Charlie” Cardin. The
teenager's body was found by a caretaker at a pond in
Hillside cemetery located between Ardsley and Roslyn,
approximately 14 miles north of Philadelphia.
222 G. Bradley Davis

The teen's mother, Judy Cardin, attended the

announcement. Afterward, Mrs. Cardin said she was
devasted by her loss. “Charlie was a special boy who only
wanted to belong. He was naïve; too trusting and imagining
everyone was a decent person. He did not deserve this.
The teen's stepfather was shown photos of the victim
and identified him after hearing media reports of the
discovery of an unidentified boy, according to a police
affidavit, which was obtained by Philadelphia television
station KYW. The stepfather told authorities Charlie had
failed to come home after going outside to Pembryn Park to
play ball.
An autopsy stated that "although multiple stab wounds
and burn marks litter the victim’s body, including his
genitals, asphyxiation from sustained pressure was the cause
of Cardin's death.” The coroner believes Charlies was
sexually assaulted. Time of death was between 3 – 5 pm on
Tuesday, August 17th. Detective Robert Dalton stated that
the time of death was key to the arrest of Strathmore in that
the suspect was not at his flower shop and had no alibi.
Strathmore has pleaded not guilty and will
be released on $25 thousand bail while he awaits trial
for murder. Abington Township District Attorney stated
that he will be seeking the death penalty due to the age of the
victim and the heinous nature of the crime.

I dropped the paper in my lap. The despair that swept over me

was greater than the newspaper ink that covered my hands. I was with
Perry on that Tuesday between 3 and 5. He could not have killed Choo-Choo.
Arrested? Like stepping onto a wad of bubble gum, I just could not
shake it off.

Funny, no matter what turmoil is going on in your life, the world

continues to turn as if nothing ever happened. People still went to
 Bellamy 223

work. Baseball games continued to be played. Doctor’s appointments

kept, and school still needed to be attended.
On Monday, as promised, Susan gave me a manilla envelope
containing the centerfold. Walking into the library, the one place
within the high school that had seldom seen my presence, I hid the
centerfold Suzie had given me underneath my shirt. A had not been in
the book warehouse since my magazine-revenge-project. A mousy-
haired woman with cat-eye glasses sat sorting a pile of books looked
up at me as her short Chinese counterpart was thumbing through the
card catalog, contemplating the relative location of a book by using the
Dewey Decimal System. The two librarians were known as Cheech
and Chong by the students.
Not wanting to be remembered for asking the librarians for any
one book, I walked the aisles of literary choices in search of something
very specific. The smell of old paper and leather filled my nostrils and
made me feel as if I were in a museum. Finally, next to the newspaper
and magazine rack, I found what I had come for, the 1973 Abington
High School Yearbook.
Searching the pages, I came to the English Department and found
a photo of Mr. Benbow. Pulling the buck knife from my jacket pocket
that I began carrying for “protection,” I carefully cut out the photo,
placed it on the table in front of me and replaced the yearbook. With
surgical precision, I cut the face out of the nude model’s centerfold and
replaced it with the photo of Mr. Benbow.
Sneaking into the classroom before anyone arrived, I pulled down
the projector screen and scotch taped the altered centerfold on to the
screen, then released the screen so it rolled back up into its frame.
Perhaps the only thing I had heard in the previous class was that on
Thursday we would be watching a scene from Macbeth, starring Jon
Finch.
Susan walked into the classroom seconds later wearing a skin-
tight yellow and white stripped body suit, revealing the slightest
impression of her nipples that only the most astute observer would
have noticed. We were the first two in class, but by the time the bell
rung, the remainder of the class had taken their seats, obedient to the
schoolmaster’s demands.
224 G. Bradley Davis

Mr. Benbow reminded the class that they would be watching a

scene from the most recent filming of Macbeth and for the students to
pay particular attention to Roman Polanski’s use of exaggerated
pessimism and the ugliness of the character’s natures in contrast to
their physical beauty. Benbow added that this version of Macbeth is
presented in a more realistic style.
With this introduction, Mr. Benbow pulled down the projector
screen to reveal the altered naked photo of himself. The classroom
erupted in hysterics as Benbow pulled the handle of the screen too
abruptly causing it to get jammed. He pulled and pulled, but to no
avail, resulting in a sound of thunderous applause and more laughter.
Finally, he ripped the photo off the screen and stormed out of the class.
I thought, Shakespeare would have loved this story of moral decline.
 Bellamy 225

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Murder in the murderer is no such ruinous thought as
poets and romancers will have it; it does not unsettle him,
or fright him from his ordinary notice of trifles; it is an act
quite easy to be contemplated, but in its sequel, it turns out
to be a horrible jangle and confounding of all relations.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I
desperately needed a distraction from Choo-Choo’s death and
Perry’s arrest, and I found it nine miles north of my home. Larger
than North Hills, Willow Grove offered more shopping
opportunities including a Kiddy City, an all-toy store with
everything a kid could want. What made Willow Grove special was
the park…the wonderful Willow Grove Amusement Park! The most
incredibly perfect park in the whole world!
My Mom-Mom would tell me how John Phillip Sousa would play
there every year for the first couple of decades of the century. It really
had something for everyone, but what I and every kid in the Delaware
Valley loved were the rides! It had the Tilt-a-whirl, Laff in Dark,
Fascination, The Alps, the Thunderbolt, and the Tunnel of Love, a
favorite ride for teenagers to neck as the small, painted, two-person
boat would slip into the darkness which provided temporary privacy.
Next to the park was the bowling alley, the scene of my latest beating
at the hands of Mongrel. It was a popular evening destination when
teenagers did not know what else to do with their sundown spare
time, especially on Friday and Saturday nights when there was no
shortage of teenage girls and fast cars.
Muskrat was grounded for being caught sticking a potato down
the gas tank of his neighbor’s car, and Hunchback was visiting his
226 G. Bradley Davis

grandparents, so I called Mouche to see if he wanted to head to the

park. Mouche not only agreed, but brought both a 6 pack of Ballentine
and a joint.
The entrance to the park was strategically located across the street
from where the trolley stopped. We could have taken the short train
ride from nearby Ardsley station and walk across the street to the park,
but that would have meant siphoning money from that which could
be spent on rides, games, and food. We decided to ride our bicycles
through the 425-acre Hillside cemetery, a huge spread of rolling hills
and shaded land littered with tombstones and mausoleums, the same
cemetery where Choo-Choo had met his demise. Since it would be
dark on our return home, we tied flashlight on to our handlebars for
the ride through the fields of death.
The large iron gates were locked at 5:00 pm, which would require
one of us to climb the fence to the other side and wait to catch the bikes
being passed over the steely bastion. Once on the other side of the
fence, we would jump on the bikes and pass some of our favorite spots
in the garden of remembrance. First on our route was the grave of MLB
Hall of Fame pitcher and Chippewa Indian Charles “Chief” Bender.
As was our custom, we would throw imaginary tomahawks toward
Chief Bender’s grave…out of respect, mind you.
We stopped when we got to Floaties pond, the half-acre body of
water with a small bridge where Choo-Choo’s body was found. The
pond would never again be the place we would take model ships they
had built for their maiden voyage; it would, from here on out, be
viewed as the water of death. We would no longer draw straws to see
who would have to set their ship on fire. But we were getting too old
for that kind of stuff anyway.
We sat by the broken slat bridge and drank the beer between
drags on the joint and starred at the yellow crime tape that surrounded
the spot where Choo-Choo was found.
“Who do you think killed him?” asked Mouche in a solemn tone.
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that ever since it
happened,” I said without looking up from the water. “I don’t know
if he met someone he knew, and they thought he was an easy target,
 Bellamy 227

or if it was some whack-job who was a transient…some homeless,

crazy guy.”
“The paper said that they think it was some pervert. He’d have to
be to sexually assault him, right?” Apparently, Mouche had not heard
about Perry’s arrest.
“I don’t know about that. Sometimes murderers do stuff to throw
off the police. I think it was his stepdad.” I replied.
“Muskrat told me you guys saw him beating Choo-Choo up in the
backyard.”
“Yeah, we did. But he’s a cop. You think cops are going to arrest
a cop?” I asked.
“Well, they should. What about Reverend Markey. He wouldn’t
have done it, would he?”
“Who knows. Anything is possible. That guy gives me the
creeps.”
“Me, too. Let’s get out of here,” Mouche said as he straddled his
bicycle.
We peddled faster when approaching the ghost of Billy Fox. Fox
had been a corporal in the 95th Pennsylvania Infantry during the Civil
War and recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor. As far as his
ghost is concerned, the story goes that as a private in Company A his
troop was the first to enter Petersburg, Virginia, where he bravely
assisted in the capture of one of the enemy’s guns as well as the flag of
the Confederate customhouse. While in Petersburg, he fell in love with
a maiden of the South underneath a waning gibbous moon. After
making Billy a fine southern dinner, she gave him a lighted torch and
asked him to go to the root cellar to fetch some leeks and potatoes.
While Billy was in the cellar, the lass slid a heavy board across the latch
of the door that extended to the door frame locking Billy in. She
quickly retrieved a can of gasoline and poured it down the vent pipe
where Billy was holding the torch. When they found poor Billy black
and brittle, a potato was clinched in his fist. Legend had it that
whenever there is a waning gibbous moon you could hear Billy crying
in pain. People were never sure if the crying was from being burned
alive or from a broken heart.
228 G. Bradley Davis

That story always fascinated me. I guess all murders do, but some
more than others.
We exited the cemetery on the Roslyn side of the cemetery and
rode our bikes down Easton Road’s sidewalk. While still several
blocks from the amusement park, we could see The Alps, the park’s
signature rollercoaster. Moche tried to navigate between an old black
woman wearing an overcoat, (although it was a warm evening,) and a
telephone pole, causing her to nearly drop a bag of groceries.
Outside the main gate of the park, we chained our bikes to a speed
limit sign. From the vantage point at the entrance, the buildings were
all painted pale yellow with a white trim that harmonized with
everything else, giving the first impression of being clean and
unblemished. Our eyes moved from the various signs promising birch
beer, ice cream sodas, and Sno Cones, stopping momentarily at each.
It was one thing to want to see the world’s only high-diving zebra
or even Charlie Bramble, a real-life alligator wrestler, but that is where
my father would draw the line. He would preach to me about the
foolishness of throwing away my hard-earned money to watch trained
fleas or playing the Milk Bottle Pyramid Game, where “knock-them-
all-over-and-win-a-prize,” was the promise of the swindler tending
the game. The bottom of the pins was always heavily weighted with
lead, and the softballs filled with cork to make them lighter than
regulation balls.
The prizes were worthless, of course, but they held a magnetic
power on every kid, nonetheless. Kewpie dolls, super balls and the
always popular stuffed animal were the prizes that lured the youth in.
Continued play was encouraged as multiple small prizes could be
traded in for a larger prize. The selection of prizes included a poster of
Raquel Welch in patriotic bathing suit, Sophia Loren soaking wet on
the beach or the inexplicably popular stuffed three-foot Cecil the
Seasick Sea Serpent, of Beany and Cecil fame. But that was not what
Mouche and I were there to see. The Sideshow was the Holy Grail of
forbidden fruit. If my father got wind of this field trip to the dark
corridors of human deformity, the consequences would be stiff, but
when I quickly weighed the consequences, it was always worth the
risk.
 Bellamy 229

There were only a few things that my dad was adamant about.
One of those things was clearly the carnival sideshow, or freak show
as it came to be known. It was the seedy side of dark entertainment
that would put on display anomalies and aberrations of the normal
world. My father would say that you never, under any circumstances,
find humor or make fun of someone else’s misfortunes. His righteous
anger would escalate when talking about the show’s commercial
exploitation of these people. Somehow, he once overheard friends and
I talking about wanting to check out the freak show at Willow Grove
Park. He made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that the sideshow was
off limits. Of course, that just made me want to go all the more.
What mysteries of science are being hidden from me? I wondered. So
bizarre and rare were these people that the public science books I was given at
school never addressed these biological rarities. What deformities from around
the world are there for young minds that continue to question conventional
science?
The closest Mouche had ever come to a freak show was his great
uncle Ernest who had his ear shot off in the Great War leaving a gaping
hole flush up against his head. Fruit flies and gnats would relentlessly
torment the old man in the summer as they were drawn to the waxy
hole on the side of his head.
But I was fascinated by the life of a carny; life on the road, a
small and mysterious fraternity built on “people gawking at you”
and suspicion. People would pay to be invited into the freak’s living
room, but if the tables were ever turned—the thought of the freak
sitting in the spectator’s living room horrified them. No matter how
low on the class ladder the observer was, any sense of pity for the
carny was quickly replaced with the “At least I’m not like this poor
slob” mentality.
As the sun went down in Willow Grove Park, there was an
underworld that came to life, and it was beckoning me. It was a world
of disturbing and dark truths that the rest of the world would choose
to believe did not exist. Here, one could wander about in a mystical
world where Fear and Curiosity would give birth to their daughter,
Naivety. People did not believe these freaks of nature existed because
in their sterile suburban lives, it simply did not fit. It could not be
230 G. Bradley Davis

explained away or sanitized with a bottle of Mr. Clean. As the sun

disappeared behind the Alps, Mouche and I headed toward the tent
city.
The smell of popcorn was replaced by the redolent, yet distinctive,
odor of old musty tent canvas and Ben Gay. The evening was warm
and still, the type of night that makes one’s neck pasty with sweat. The
large floodlights were replaced with a string of light bulbs hanging
carelessly at the entrance of each tent. The beautifully colorful and
intricate signs beckoning visitors to brave the new and mysterious
world that lay inside of the dark tents and to have their sense of reality
stretched. The freak show drew the inquisitive and scratched that
place in each of us that we cannot reach, or that we can reach, but
refrain from doing so. My heart beat faster as we walked toward the
forbidden, fearing my dad might be right, and wondering if I even
wanted to see what was behind the curtain. The sounds of laughter
and gawking were drowned out by a beckoning for us adolescents to
enter the hootchie-kootchie tent. If time and money allowed, we
would end our evening in there, admiring the scantily clad beauties.
The decision needing to be made at that moment was whether we
should go into the “Ten-in-One” or be more selective and chose the
“Single-O.” The “Ten-in-One” offered ten sequential acts under one
tent, all for a single admission price. The problem with the “Ten-in-
One” was that, for a wannabee Sideshow connoisseur like me, at least
half of the ten acts were deemed bogus. The tattooed man, fat lady
who was married to the human skeleton, an incredibly thin man, and
the various midgets, lacked the exhilaration that some of the other acts
offered. What was tempting about the “Ten-in-One, however, was the
potential ding, an extra act that was not advertised outside the tent.
You did have to pay an additional fee, but the ding was almost always
provocative and introduced as not suitable for women and children,
though they always took a young boy’s dime. After some discussion,
Mouche and I decided to go with the Single-O, single attractions that
we could select based on our strict criteria.
We paid our nickel and entered the third tent which was thick
with smoke that had no avenue for escape from the chain-smoking
hawker. In a cage was a boy who was covered with long brown hair,
 Bellamy 231

a black shoe-polish-like nose and sharpened teeth, reminiscent of Jo-

Jo the dog-faced boy, instilling both fear and pity in the depths of our
souls. We had no understanding that the boy suffered from
hypertrichosis and as a result, ignorance bred fear. The man who
brought us into the tent told a story of how the boy had been found
living among wild dogs in a cave deep within the Bialowieza Forest,
the last remaining primeval forest in Europe. On cue, the boy would
growl, bark, and howl sending sweaty chills down the onlooker’s
spines. We quickened our pace and left the tent for the relative safety
of the evening crowd that was beginning to gather.
The hot August night held the thick fog of cigar smoke between
the green canvas tents as we ventured through the forbidden forest of
abnormalities. Midget wrestling did not begin till 9 o’clock, so we
wandered through maze of tents to find that which we were searching
for. We did not exactly know what we were looking for, but it’s the type
of thing that you would know it when you saw it. We dismissed the
exhibits for the rubberman and the human pin cushion as we searched
for a show worthy of our hard-earned cash, and it did not take long
before our patience paid off. We were almost sold on the idea of
spending another five cents to see the lobster girl when next to the
“hammer and ring the bell” we saw a painted poster of a half-woman,
half-man oddity that piqued our interest.

ROBERT-ROBERTA
DOUBLE BODIED
HALF MAN-HALF WOMAN

That is when we heard the man with the stovepipe hat recite his
seducing rhetoric. “Boys, you’re in for a real treat,” the huckster
reassured us as he took a nickel from each of us. He continued his
opening bally, but honestly, it did not take much for us to be sold. We
had never heard the word hermaphrodite, let alone had ever seen one.
Walking into the dark tent was like entering into a bat-infested
cave. We were consumed with fear but spurred on by unquenchable
curiosity. Passing the huckster’s outstretched arm, we could only see
a maroon curtain to our left, illumined by a small spotlight.
232 G. Bradley Davis

“Have a seat, young men. I’ll be with you in a minute,” came a

sweet voice from behind the curtain.
Mouche and I were alone among a group of a few dozen folding
chairs, and it wasn’t long before the curtain opened with two-foot
progressions from an unseen person jerking on the cord. There
standing sideways was the profile of a middle-aged woman, wearing
bright red lipstick and dressed in a cranberry and gold paisley dress.
“Do you like what you see, boys” she asked.
“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Mouche answered.
“What, are you crazy? You like this freak,” I whispered to Mouche.
“Well, don’t get too sweet with me,” she responded in a much
lower, scratchy voice. And with that she turned 180 degrees to reveal
a bearded man with dark slacks, a brown-striped shirt, and a
weathered leather vest.
“Shit!” I shouted.
Mouche stood up and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
His eyes were as large as dinner plates as he stood stiff as a week-old
hoagie roll. He…. she, turned her entire body so it was facing us to
reveal a half-man, half-woman and, to our added surprise, began to
undress. “It” undressed down to a pair of short shorts and a Tarzan
like top which revealed a hairy man’s chest on one side and a well-
formed, hairless woman’s breast on the other with a star pasty on the
nipple. While the two of us remained in a state of shock, she, or he,
picked up a mandolin and began to sing:

You left me in misery

when you up’d and took my hosiery.
There's a fight goin' on inside me,
I don't know who's gonna win,
There a fight goin' on inside me
and it's going to end in sin.

“Damn!” cried Mouche.

When my lover decided to put me on the shelf,

I ended up making sweet love to myself
 Bellamy 233

There’s a fight goin’ on inside me,

I don’t know who’s gonna win
There’s a fight goin’ on inside me,
but I’m my next of kin.

As if on cue, we both yelled, “Ohhhhhhhh, shit.” I ran to get out

of there, turning back just in time to see Roberta pull Mouche close to
her breast. Mouche yelled at me, “Get your ass over here.”
As I approached the exit, my right foot grabbed the guy-line
sending me flying through the air, landing me flat on my face. Before
I could get on all fours, Mouche had hurdled over me and quickly
exited through the tent flap. It did not take long for me to run past
Mouche. We ran past the Two-Headed Cow and the Camel Girl and
turned down an alley that led to another tent. We took one step inside.
“Hello. Is anyone here?”
There was no response. The tent was lit by a single bulb dangling
from the tent post. In the corner was a bed of nails leaning against the
wall and to their left was an oak dresser with a half dozen jars of
pickled punk, a carnival term for abnormal human fetuses. In one jar
was a two-headed hamster and in another twin human fetuses joined
together just above the ribcage. Mouche picked it up and turned it
toward the light to get a better look.
“Damn!”
“You better put that down, and we need to get out of here!” I
whispered.
Mouche put it down at the same moment we heard a voice.
“What the hell are you doing in here!”
We turned to see a man standing in the shadows….
“Uh, nothing.”
“Don’t jackrabbit me, kids.”
We quickly left the tent and went down to the last act in the Freak
Show tent village. Shaken, we still had enough money to see the
Human Ostrich. A man who would swallow all kinds of outrageous
things, like a pair of scissors, razor blades and a broken light bulb,
which was a must-see. That would have been freaky enough but, to
234 G. Bradley Davis

our surprise, it became a regurgitation act as the objects came back up

one at a time.
Mouche wanted to see the three-legged man, but I could not see
the point in dropping cash on an extra appendage, so I told Mouche I
would meet him in front of Chang and Fang, the Siamese Twin exhibit.
Before I got to the Chinese duo, I saw the banner for Zora, the
fortune teller and stopped in front of her tent. My Sunday School
scripture memorization of Isaiah 8:19 laid heavy on my amygdala like
a brick on a marshmallow, crushing my inclinations. And when they say
to you, “Inquire of the mediums and the necromancers who chirp and
mutter,” should not a people inquire of their God? Should they inquire of the
dead, on behalf of the living? I thought of another verse from Leviticus
that stated something about being cut off from one’s people and being
unclean, but I could not recall the exact wording. What people, exactly,
would I be cut off from? I wondered. I have no people. Is it worth a quarter
of my hard-earned money? The suspense of Perry’s trial and the fear of
the unknown was enough motivation for me to pull the canvas tent
cover back and enter the dark chamber.
It was disturbingly dark, except for a small light directly above a
crystal ball that had small bubbles rising within it. I began to question
my decision when I was startled by the gypsy who grabbed my hand
and led me to a seat in front of the illuminated ball. Tenderly, she put
her hand on my shouldered and sat me down while gently removing
the clenched twenty-five cent piece I held in my fist. A stream of
jasmine perfume lingered behind as she walked around the small table
and spoke softly as she faced me. She was younger than I expected;
not as old as my mother, yet clearly past forty.
The gypsy was painted with heavy makeup which included black
lipstick and wore a long purple scarf tied around her head with the
end trailing down halfway her back and a long skirt that came down
to her mid-calf which was of many colors. Of eastern European
descent, the woman spoke with a heavy accent, but slowly enough so
I could understand.
“You are troubled, my son,” she whispered with an aura of
mystique.
I said nothing.
 Bellamy 235

“The crystal ball detects anguish within you which is causing

static which prevents me from seeing your future clearly. Let me see
your palm, my dear one,” the mitt-reader whispered.
The gypsy took my hand and explored my palm with her long
index finger when suddenly I heard a sound from somewhere behind
her. Fearing that we were not alone, I squinted to see something
moving on a floor lamp. It did not take long for me to identify the
squirrel monkey dressed in little green suit jacket and a straw hat as it
moved into the light and sat on a stool next to me.
“You are a friend of misfortune. There’s trouble that is brewing
like a typhon that rises from the sea. Escape is not that easy when there
is nothing to hide behind. My child, it is only going to get worse. You
need to avoid this friend, or you will drink the same poison that made
him ill. There is no cure for him, but there is for you, if…. you keep a
safe distance between you and him.”
I massaged her words and knew she must be giving me the
credence to refrain from testifying as Perry’s alibi. Looking back at the
monkey, I saw that it was masturbating while smiling it’s crooked and
dark-stained teeth.
“Don’t mind, Mihai,” she said as she viewed the disturbed look
on my face. “He only strokes himself to get an erection. He does not
spill his seed.” It was clearly time for me to leave.
Again, I remained quiet. I have always been suspect of mystics.
The question has always been, what percentage of these sorcerers are
nothing but swindlers and what percent actually believe what they are
doing? Or, perhaps, have some kind of power to tell fortune or fate? My
concern was, if this woman did possess some kind of supernatural
power, was it satanic?
The woman’s facial expression suddenly changed. “You have
betrayed a friend. That is what this is about. Yes, you have betrayed
someone. No. There are two people you have betrayed! You must
leave at once!”
And leave, I did. Mouche was waiting by the entrance to the
Siamese Twins, clearly disappointed by the three-legged man when I
walked up to him.
“Let’s get out of here.”
236 G. Bradley Davis

As we were walking out of the Freak Show tent with our heads
turned away from the direction we were walking, I walked smack dab
into some woman’s chest, knocking her over.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said while bending over to help the lady
up. It was then that I felt a horrible pit in my stomach. The woman I
had knocked over was Mrs. Sharp, the piano teacher who taught my
sisters and brother, and who just happened to live next door to
Mouche.
“Donald Garnier, do your parents allow you to go into that House
of Sin?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” Mouche responded, knowing that before he
would get home his mother and father would know he had ventured
into the dark underworld of freaks. What I feared was that they would
phone my parents. If so, I was screwed.
“Well, I’m sure they wouldn’t approve,” the woman said.
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. We didn’t see nothing. We won’t do
that again,” Mouche said, trying to defuse the situation.
“Anything.” Mrs. Sharp corrected.
“What?”
“Anything. The correct word is anything. You didn’t see
anything.”
“Exactly!” Mouche said as we walked away.
Before leaving the park, I wanted to stop by one game of chance
and spend my last fifty cents. “Shoot the Star” was a game where you
are handed a Tommy Gun replica, one similar to the guns the 1920s
gangster would pull out of a violin case; this one shooting BBs. That
alone made the game worthwhile. The object of the game was simple,
shoot the one-inch red star completely out of the small piece of paper
hanging on a line with the help of a clothespin. If any red remains on
the card, you lose. If successful, you win the prize of your choice,
including a black & white TV, a set of walkie talkies or, what I had my
eyes set on; a magenta-colored Rupp minibike! I was an excellent shot
with a BB gun, so I thought my odds were significantly better at this
game than the others the park offered.
I placed my two quarters on the counter and chose one of the guns
that looked as though the barrel was straight. Being an excellent
 Bellamy 237

marksman, I figured I had a better than 50-50 shot at winning the mini
bike. Instead of holding the trigger down and having all 100 BBs
exhausted in 6 or 7 seconds, my strategy was to fire only a few pellets
at a time in a circle, carefully eliminating any red that was visible. my
focus was as keen as a heron stalking a frog, and as I began shooting,
the star began disappearing. By the time the last BB left the barrel of
the Tommy Gun, there was no red visible on the white paper!
Exuberant, I screamed, “I did it! I won the minibike!”
“Unbelievable!” Mouche chimed in. “You did it, Cal!”
“Not so fast, Cowboy,” the carny said as he interrupted the
celebration. Taking the paper off the line he turned it over to reveal a
small hanging chad of red paper.
“But there’s not a spec of red on the front of the paper. The game
is to shoot the red star off the front of the paper, and I did that,” I
argued.
“Look kid, I didn’t say the front of the paper. The sign says to
shoot all of the red star out. You didn’t do that, now scram.”
“You’re a lying, cheating piece of monkey shit,” I responded.
Turning around at people who began to gather at the sound of the
commotion, I said, “Folks, steer clear of this game. This Communist
Carny reneged on my prize! Don’t waste your money. He’ll rip you
off!”
As people turned to walk away from the booth, the carny lifted the
end of the counter to come over to the front where we were standing.
“Why you little creep,” he yelled while reaching for me.
“Let’s get out of here,” screamed Mouche as he ran for the exit. I
was only a step behind him.
Exiting the park, we walked over to where our bikes were. As
Mouche was unlocking the chain, he turned to me and said, “You got
screwed.”
“I know I did. Pisses me off. I won the minibike. How cool would
that have been?”
“Very! answered Mouche.
238 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It's harder to kill people. The empathy is so much stronger
that the mind must invent new reasons. But, if we can
somehow link it to our own survival, the mind will make
the devious twists and turns necessary to rationalize it.
We're very good at that. Prejudice is a disease created by
the acceptance of ignorance, the fear of the unknown and the
hatred of God.
—Jean M. Auel

W
ord of my adventure to the sideshow had reached Dasha
before I got home, and this time my dad had decided on
my sentence. I knew it was more about how he detested
people taking advantage of those who had an
abnormality; however, I did not feel like I was taking advantage of
anyone. I paid the asking price, and I figured that no one forced them
to participate in that line business. Punishment from my father
amounted to being grounded for a week, and his disappointment in
me. The latter was much worse than not hanging out with the guys.
Obedience was a God-given commandment, but I always seemed
to learn better the hard way. Disobedience brought discovery, and
discovery, knowledge, but, of course, you never had control over that
which you learned. You can control what you learn by asking
questions or by reading a book you select on a desired subject, but
what you learn from ignoring instruction from one with a hidden
agenda is uncertain. It can be enlightening or problematic. Sometimes,
you really do not want to know the truth. Falsehood is often more
palatable.
 Bellamy 239

I walked into the kitchen where Audrey had just finished

warming up a can of Campbell’s alphabet soup. She was home from
grad school for a few weeks. As I sat down to my bowl, I stared at the
steam rising as my mind was fixed on Perry, not hearing my sister ask
me if I wanted some saltines.
“What’s the matter with you,” she asked.
“Nothing,” I mumbled.
“Are you grounded again?”
“Aren’t I always grounded?”
“What did you do this time?”
“I went out and had a good time. You know, that’s against the
rules. I’m not allowed to have a good time,” I responded.
I never heard what Audrey said next. She was busy trying to spell
words with her alphabets while I devoured the floating letters, fearing
they would spell disaster.
That Perry-thing was bothering me. Surely, they would figure out
that it could not have been him. Geez, Perry did not have a mean bone in his
body. They would release him any day now, wouldn’t they? A deep sense of
dread passed over me like a cool, wet wash cloth. What if Perry told the
police that he had an alibi… that I had been with him most of the afternoon?
What will I do? I would have to deny it. I cannot, I will not, admit to having
a friendship with Perry. Afterall, everyone would think I was queer. Who
would believe that we had a platonic, normal relationship? No one! Damn,
Perry. Why did he have to put me in this spot?
No matter where I went in town, the talk was about Perry’s arrest,
and the public consensus was that Perry was guilty. His soft, friendly
demeanor was simply a façade that he used to lure the poor boy to his
death. Choo-Choo’s murder was the biggest tragedy to ever transpire
in our parochial village. Other than Jacob Rainer, who had shot his
wife’s lover while the adulterer was still on top of his wife, North Hills
had never experienced a murder. This was even bigger than when
Randi Lopez took off for the Bahamas with her high school English
teacher. That court trial was a circus, but the one to come would make
that look like Romper Room.
240 G. Bradley Davis

My mind began forming justification for not coming to my

friend’s defense; rationalizing why I could not come forward. Even if
they went to trial, they would never find him guilty… would they?
It was obvious that the police and D.A. knew that Perry was a
homosexual. That alone would be enough to convince an antiseptic,
suburban jury that Perry was more than capable of any number of
sexual deviances. Even murder was conceivable since there would be
an obvious motive; the need to cover up the assumed sexual assault.

After my latest detention, I walked to the nearly deserted east wing of

the school where my locker was located. After retrieving my notebook
and a paperback copy of Lord of the Flies, required reading, I walked
down the long hallway and pushed the heavy metal double-doors and
heard them slam behind me. I had not taken two steps outside when
the cool Autumn breeze reminded me that I had forgotten my jacket.
I went to the door, but it was locked. It figures. I cannot do anything right!
Stepping aside to the tall glass window I cupped my hands and looked
inside pressing my nose hard against the glass. There was no one
there, so banging on the door was worthless. I would have to walk
clear around the other side of the school where the gymnasium was
located to find an open door. I felt fortunate to find the door by the
pool entrance unlocked, perhaps my luck today was changing, I
thought as I headed back to the southside corridor toward my locker.
My fingers made short work of the combination lock and I opened
the locker, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the nearest door. As I
approached the exit, I faintly heard someone talking at a distance, a
mere whisper. It was a girl’s voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but
it was the familiarity of the girl’s perfume that brought awareness;
having notes of jasmine, freesia, and apple blossom.
As I got closer, my eyes widened. I knew who that voice and
perfume belonged to. Who is she talking to? I deliberately walked
even quieter, so I could sneak up and ease drop on the conversation.
Positioning myself adjacent to the blue glass pane across the hall, I
 Bellamy 241

could see Simone’s reflection in the glass. I could not decipher exactly
what I was feeling, whether I was angry or elated.
“…and they said they were my friends. What is wrong with me?
Really? What the hell’s wrong with me.” There was a short moment of
silence, and then the voice continued. “Oh, stop it! You always say
that, and I know you’re just trying to make me feel better. Is it too
much to have just one friend? One?”
There was no answer to Simone’s question. I pressed my shoulder
against the wall and got as close to the corner as I could without being
seen.
“I hate it here. I want to leave this place, but that is a dream, isn’t
it? If I really wanted to get out of here, I would need money, and I
don’t have zip.”
I could not resist. I had to see who it was she was speaking to. I
slid my face up to the crease in the wall and allowed my left eye to
peek around the corner. Simone. Just as beautiful even with a frown
on her face. She was sitting on the steps and …there was no one else.
Unpredictably, I completely understood. Simone was a dandelion.
“How about that?” Bellamy whispered, having just appeared.
“Maybe I could have a special relationship with her imaginary friend,”
he continued with a chuckle.
“Should I let her know that I heard her conversation? Me, more
than anyone in the entire world, got it. I could tell her that I truly
understood what the world never would.”
“Yup,” responded Bellamy, “but will she be devastatingly
embarrassed?
I walked back the way I came, about a third the way down the
hallway. Then, turned around and made enough noise with my
sneakers so Simone would realize that someone was approaching.
Deliberately pushing the toe of my sneakers into the tiled floor, a
squeaking sound announced my arrival.
“Simone?”
“Baby!” She said as she jumped off the step and put her
outstretched hands around my neck.
“I thought you moved.” I said with a somewhat raised voice.
“What the hell? You could not call me? Write me a letter? You didn’t
242 G. Bradley Davis

even have the decency to tell me you were going to move?” I regretted
the words before they even had a chance to pierce Simone’s heart. I did
want her to hurt as much as I had been. My conflicting emotions were
a battle between complete delight to have been reunited with Simone
and anger fueled by rejection and abandonment.
“I didn’t know we were going to move. My Mom lost her job
when they closed the Sears catalog store, and she couldn’t afford the
rent, so we moved in with my aunt in Crestmont. She did not want me
to worry, so she never told me until the day we moved. And I did call
you, a million times!” Simone’s voice had changed, unveiling an
anger. “Your mother always answered and said she would tell you
that I called, that is until the last time I called. That time she said that
you instructed her to tell me that you had a girlfriend, and to never
call again. Besides, the Friday and Saturday before we moved, you
never came by, like you promised. Remember?”
I did remember. Like Simone, that had not been my fault. My
parents had kidnapped me for that stupid surprise trip to Muncy to
take my brother to music camp. I remembered how I tried to slip away
to call her and when I finally had, there was only an operator’s
recording that the line had been disconnected.
“My parents forced me to go with them to take my brother to
some music camp in the middle of nowhere.”
I opened the heavy door and held it for Simone. I walked over to
the small-roofed area where students boarded their bus after school.
Simone followed. Standing there, I gazed out to the parking lot.
“That is not true. What my mom told you is a lie! I don’t know
why she told you that. I did not have a girlfriend and I certainly didn’t
tell her that I didn’t want to talk to you. The complete opposite is true.
That weekend, I did try calling you, but the phone was never free and
by the time I got back home and called, all I got was a message saying
the number was disconnected. You were gone.” There was no
response from Simone. It was as if she was weighing the legitimacy of
the explanation to see if the scales would tip toward fallacies or truth.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“I am now that you’re here. I was just upset because a group of
girls that I thought were my friends decided to head over to Carvel’s
 Bellamy 243

for ice cream. I assumed I was invited, but they said there wasn’t room
for me in Anita’s car, even though there were only four of them. I
swear I never seem to fit in.”
“Fit in? I’m the one that doesn’t fit in. I don’t conform. Never have.
You’ve always had plenty of friends at school.”
“You haven’t seen me in over a year. How would you know who
my friends are? What you think you understand, you don’t, Calvin!
Let me tell you about not fitting in. I’m adopted. My teenage mother
deserted me when I was born. Who the hell knows where my father is
or who he was, for that matter? Every click in this school accepts me in
some superficial way, but when it comes down to being a friend, when
it’s not beneficial to them, I don’t exist. The blacks at school refer to me
as Mrs. Uncle Tom, Betty Crocker, or School Girl and the whites use
me as their token to appease their consciences.”
I felt myself at a crossroads that needed a decision. Should I simply
get up and walk away without another word, reciprocating the pain and
confusion I had felt when Simone had moved without warning, or should I
take her into my arms and tell her how incomplete I had felt without her. Do
I really need this on top of everything else that is going on in my life. Do I
even have time for her?
It started to rain. Not the type of rain that would accompany dark
clouds and a sense of loss, but rather a steady drizzle through some
lingering sunshine that I hoped would wash the dirt from the memory
of unacceptance and inadequacy. The kind of rain that makes things
clean. I didn’t have to make that decision.
Not knowing what my response would be, she took a chance and
leaped at me, locking her hands behind my neck and kissing me with
delight. I responded, somewhat reluctantly at first by placing only one
hand on her waist, but I could not resist her touch. Relenting, I
wrapped my hands around her freely. I relaxed the embrace, holding
her by her shoulders, and looked fixedly at her face and kissed her
again. I had missed Simone terribly. A plethora of maturity, both
physical and emotional, created a beautiful change in Simone from the
last time I had seen her. What was once a natural prettiness of a middle
school girl had morphed into the exquisiteness of a young lady. I was
244 G. Bradley Davis

transported to my earlier dream where she was a fair maiden and I,

the knight in shining armor.
She could not contain her smile and glee. That smile would have
lighted the darkest of ocean storms, and it was exactly what I had
longed for as I had become lost in one such gale. Simone was the
beacon of light that brought me safely to shore. There was always
something about my relationship with her that was covert, at least
back then when I was dating her. It was a forbidden love that was so
enticing. It seemed as though everything was more attractive when I
wasn’t supposed to have it.
Unannounced, Simone ran toward the parking lot with her arms
outstretched as if she was welcoming the rain, trying to dance between
the rain drops without getting wet. Her hair glistened as raindrops fell
upon it, and she laughed as she threw her head back, lighthearted, and
mirthful, as if to say that everything was going to be alright.
I, however, felt a happy kind of sad. I wanted everything to be
alright, but I knew better. I knew that even Simone could not fix the
situation with Perry, only I could do that, and the trepidation of the
situation prevented me from truly enjoying the moment. My fear of
coming forward as Perry’s alibi dampened everything, my happiness,
my contentment, my purpose, my hope.

The following morning was beyond beautiful, with a hint of a warm

breeze, and large puffy clouds. It was the type of day that could just
about make you forget about all your troubles. To make the day even
better, as if that was possible, word had spread around town of
Mongrel’s arrest on assault charges. Sometimes three 7’s come up at
the same time on a slot machine. An argument over a parking spot at
Willow Grove Bowling Lanes ended with some poor guy in a coma at
Abington Hospital. Mongrel had spent the weekend in jail but was
released on bail.
Bellamy had given me a brilliant idea. I jumped on my Schwinn
and peddled over to Hillside Cemetery to find new burial sites. I had
gotten my driver’s license but access to the family car did not happen
 Bellamy 245

frequently. Being in the cemetery alone was more than eerie, and I
knew I had to make quick work of my idea before a caretaker, or a
burial took place in this necropolis. Before I could do that which I came
to the cemetery to do, I needed to go by Floaties Pond to see the scene
of the crime once again. The yellow police crime tape that had
quarantined a large portion from the wooden slat bridge to the large
sycamore was sagging, as if to say that the murder was old news. I
walked over to where Choo-Choo drew his last breath and stood there
with thoughts rushing through me like water through a dike. A fear
overcame me that I had only felt once before.
I heard a car approaching and quickly jumped back on my bike
and continued my original search. It was not long till I saw a
rectangular patch of fresh brown and red dirt. Letting my bicycle fall
on the soft grass, I walked over to the heap of fresh flowers. Gladiolas
were too funeral-like, but there were plenty of chrysanthemums,
daisies, and carnations. Taking out my pen knife, I cut a selection of
flowers and assembled them into a bouquet.

Crestmont was a small black community that overlooked Willow

Grove Park. Simone had given me directions and when I approached
her house, I saw she was outside, anticipating my arrival. She wore
purple hip-huggers as tight as a Chinese finger trap and her skin-tight
body suit accentuated her small but flawlessly shaped breasts.
“Here, these are for you,” I said while extending my clenched
hand of flowers.
“They are absolutely beautiful! You are the absolute best, Calvin
Lloyd,” Simone said with a brightest of smiles. “My mom is at my
aunt’s house. She will not be home till 5 at the earliest.” Simone said
as she took my hand and directed me into the house. “Let’s go to my
room.”
Immediately, my mind began racing as to the possibilities. Alone
with Simone? Dreams do come true! I thought as she led me by the hand
up the wooden stairs to the second floor.
246 G. Bradley Davis

Simone’s room was bright, with two large windows trimmed with
sky-blue drapes which faced the street below. The hardwood floor was
partly covered by an oval rug the shade of cornflower. An Earth, Wind
and Fire poster was mounted above the single bed which was unmade.
Simone slid in an 8-track tape of The Stylistics into the
Montgomery Ward stereo, setting the mood which needed little help.
You are Everything flowed out of the stereo as she sat on the bed,
pulling me close to her and began kissing as if to devour me. Our lips
and tongues impulsively danced together and as we rolled one way
and then another, our clothes became cumbersome. Simone wore a
flowered turquois bra, and she turned on to her side to allow me to
unfasten it. I cupped her breasts and held them, stroked them deftly
as if they were fragile. Simone’s nipples responded to my touch as my
body responded to hers. Simone’s breathe quickened as she felt my
hands glide down the hollow of her back.
We were novices at love making, and our innocence had no
discomfiture as we taught each other what felt pleasurable while the
stereo serenaded us. The intensity of the moment was beyond mere
verbal expressions or cliches, and yet it was over much faster than
either of us had expected. Making love with Simone was everything
my earlier “Mrs. Robinson” experience was not. I looked tenderly at
her serene contentment and gently ran the back of my hand down her
taffeta-soft cheek. We ignored the 8-track’s mechanical click as it
switched programs, and Simone rested her head on my chest as we
both fell into a deep, contented slumber.
We were awakened by the sound of Simone’s mother tossing her
keys into the glass bowl on the Centeno accent cabinet that stood by
the front door.
“Shit, my mom’s home! Get dressed!”
“Simone? Honey? I’m home, Baby,” came a voice from down
below.
“Hi Mom. I’ll be down in a minute,” yelled Simone, with hopes of
delaying her mother’s inevitable trip upstairs; however, Simone’s
hope was short-lived.
“Don’t bother, I have to put these bags in my bedroom. Went
shopping with Aunt Rhonda.”
 Bellamy 247

I was already opening the window to Simone’s bedroom while

trying to get my second leg into my jeans. I was out of the window
quickly but soon realized getting to the ground would be a challenge,
the distance was just a bit too far to land safely. I thought of hanging
off the gutter, then dropping to the ground and rolling, but I feared
the gutter would give way. I shimmied myself along the eave of the
roof and slid my buttocks towards the downspout. Reminiscent of
climbing the rope in gym class, I grabbed the downspout and began
my descent.
All was going well until two of the rusted brackets gave way and
the top of the downspout gave way. As if in slow motion, it made its
way toward the ground like a felled tree,
forcing me to let go of the downspout. I hit the ground and felt
my ankle turn as I rolled across the grass. A moan came from my
mouth as I laid there withering in pain. Not wanting to hear an
ultimatum from Simone’s mother, I struggled to my feet and hobbled
toward the neighbor’s bushes.
Inside the house Simone’s mother had heard the downspout
release from its perch but thought the sound came from within the
house.
“What was that noise?” Mrs. Arnett asked with a quizzical look
on her face.
“What sound?” responded Simone.
“Girl, are you telling me you didn’t hear that? It sounded like the
Titanic hitting an iceberg.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard that. I thought it was those old water pipes.
Where did you go shopping?” Simone said trying to steer the
conversation away from the obvious.
“Gimbels,” answered Mrs. Arnett as she leaned over the kitchen
sink to look out the window. “I do believe the rain spout fell off the
house. That was the sound I heard. Unh unh,” she said as she slowly
shook her head from side to side. “Must have been that hard rain we
got last night.”
248 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Prejudice is a disease created by the acceptance of ignorance,
the fear of the unknown, and the hatred of God.

A
t Sunday’s church service, Reverend Markey had preached
on 1 Corinthians chapter 13, the love chapter. He often
spoke about love. The sermon kept repeating in my head as
I tried to settle on some elusive level ground. Love is
patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does
not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no
record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It
always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
I saw the implication this scripture had on my relationship with
Simone. It doesn’t delight in evil…it’s not self-seeking…it is not easily
angered. I felt the coward in me take control of my mind like aliens had
done to a man in a recent episode of Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone. If I
truly loved Simone, I would push aside my cowardness and stand-up
to the inevitable ugly remarks. It always protects, always trusts, always
hopes, always perseveres. If I truly loved her, I would not care what
people said about me dating a black girl, and I would protect her from
all the consequences of my decision. If I truly loved her, I would share
with her the truth about my careworn dilemma about testifying at
Perry’s upcoming trial. If…if…
On the way home from church, my father said he needed to stop
for gas. I suggested we go to the Texaco station so I could spend five
cents on some grape balls at Plockies, but I knew that he would dismiss
that idea. My parents always filled up at the Sinclair station; their gas
was two cents a gallon cheaper and they gave away S & H green
 Bellamy 249

stamps. Too bad I can’t redeem them for a new life; a carefree life somewhere
Simone and I can live alone.

Ever since our midsummer’s night faire l’amour, Simone and I were
consumed with when and where our next dalliance would occur.
Finding an appropriate location that was private, yet romantic, was
difficult for the amorous couple we had become. I had considered
Hillside Cemetery since it was quiet and there were plenty of spots we
could be hidden from view, but I was not sure how Simone would
react to making love in a boneyard… no pun intended. New housing
construction was another, but the idea of one of us getting a splinter
in the ass axed that idea. The quandary would preoccupy my mind for
the majority of my waking, and non-awake, moments that Perry’s trial
did not occupy.
The next day, before I headed to the bus stop, I checked the small
metal box which, twice a week, would contain three bottles of milk left
by the invisible milkman. Apparently, he would come in the wee
hours of the morning. Each time I checked the metal box, I hoped to
find at least one bottle of rich, chocolate moo juice, but to no avail. Just
the white stuff. I even tried to use my flair of persuasion and
salesmanship on my stepmother. I told her that I had read that
chocolate milk is more nutritious than its white cousin, delivering 11
grams of protein and double the carbohydrate content, ideal for the
muscles of growing youth. She quickly obliterated my pitch with a
short retort that it cost more. I figured that Dasha did not believe I had
read it anywhere since my reading habits were basically nonexistent;
Spy vs. Spy in Mad magazine, did not count.
As I rode the bus to school, I stared out the window contemplating
my masculinity, or lack of, and what it would take for me to assimilate
into being a man. I struggled with what should have been my loyalty
as a friend to Simone and Perry, and my insecure reluctance to do the
difficult thing. There was a constant bickering in my mind, like the
iconic angel on one shoulder and the demon on the other. I hoped it
250 G. Bradley Davis

was simply a case of teenage cowardice that I would soon outgrow,

but the demons were too familiar and I had often yielded to their lure.
My first class of the morning was English. Ever since my Playgirl
centerfold escapade, Mr. Benbow would always have a scowl on his
face whenever he looked at me. We were still studying Shakespeare,
to which I responded with condescension, that is until we came to
Sonnet 130. Unexpectedly, Shakespeare had captured the essence of
my heart. I had to look up some of the words the celebrated poet used,
so I could fully comprehend its meaning, and when I did, I wondered
if Shakespeare had not fallen in love with a dark-skinned princess as
well.
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun. Her beasts are dun?
What in the world does that even mean? Webster described dun as
brownish gray. “Yes!” I thought. If snow is white, then her breasts are
a brownish gray. If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. “Yes! Yes!
Of course,” I thought with exhilaration. I became thrilled with the
discovery that one of Britain’s greatest authors was in love with a lady
from the dark continent! And 400 years before I did!
I had memorized the entire sonnet and kept repeating the last few
lines:

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

This validation of my relationship with Simone by the classic

English author of an interracial love affair was further reinforced when
I brought home Diamond Girl, the most recent album by Seals and
Crofts. I had bought it the day before at Woolworth’s 5 & Dime. I did
not have the time to open the album the day before, let alone play it.
Looking at the photograph of the pop stars, I slid my thumb nail across
the plastic film so I could open the album. The album jacket opened
like a book and inside were photographs of both Dan Seals and Dash
Crofts with their wives. To my amazement, I saw that Dan Seals was
married to a black woman.
 Bellamy 251

Scandalous, I thought, but then I was reminded of the courage

that love can generate. Maybe 1974 had ushered in a social awakening
that the turbulent 60s never could. Maybe, just maybe, my relationship
with Simone would be accepted by my family, but any chance of
fanning the flame of hope was quickly extinguished. I knew better
than that. Those kinds of thoughts were more those I would live in my
dreams late at night, but those dreams had recently tried to morph into
reality so that I had difficulty differentiating between the two.
I slipped the vinyl disc onto the Radio Shack Realistic turntable and
listened to track one; the album title song, Diamond girl.

Another exhausting day of school had come to a close, another day

that made me feel like I was doing time in prison. I had even began
crossing off the days till graduation by drawing tally marks on the
small bulletin board in my bedroom. The magic number would be 180,
the number of days in a school year. I preferred counting up the
number of school days rather than counting down to graduation.
Again, my mindset was that I was doing time, serving a sentence.
Hunchback and Muskrat were waiting for me when I left the
school building.
“What do you wanna do?” asked Hunchback.
“I don’t know. I don’t feel like anything,” I responded.
“I’m gonna go see Tina,” Muskrat announced.
“Didn’t you see her last night?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Did you get a little trim?”
“I’m getting all I want,” Muskrat said with a smile as he turned
and gave a halfhearted wave while walking away.
“I’m going home,” I said. “I’ll catch you tomorrow.
My thoughts regarding Perry’s predicament continued when I got
home and were only interrupted by my stepmother who was calling
me to the kitchen. Dasha told me to set the table for dinner, and I was
mindful to position the silverware in their proper sequence; folded
paper napkin to the left of the plate, knife with teeth facing toward the
252 G. Bradley Davis

plate was on the right, with the spoon on its far outside shoulder.
Dasha, with her back to me and facing the sink, nonchalantly
mentioned that Simone had called.
“That colored friend of yours called the other day. What’s her
name, Sarina?”
“Simone,” I responded. I Felt the anger rise within my being, but
not wanting to get into an argument with Dasha over her habitual
reluctance to tell me when Simone would call.
“What?”
“Simone. Her name is Simone, Mom,” I barked.
“Well, whatever. I heard her mother was arrested for driving
drunk. Apparently, she hit a utility pole while under the influence.”
“Where did you hear that from? And why didn’t you tell me she
called?”
“Seems it slipped my mind. Why are you so upset? Do you like
her, Calvin?”
My heart sank as thoughts raced from unanswerable questions to
a dreaded hypothetical answer. This cannot be true, but Dasha never
spoke this badly about anyone, did she? I remembered what Hunchback had
said about Muskrat’s girlfriend, Tina. If you want to know what a girl is
going to be like thirty years from now, look at her mother. I wonder if that
applied to a woman’s character as well as how she will look. Does the apple
fall far from the tree? But her mother isn’t her biological mother, so that theory
does not apply, does it? I should have known it was too good to be true.
“You can’t keep things like that a secret in a small town, Calvin,”
Dasha counseled. “If you don’t have high morals, then you can expect
a life full of problems and heartache.” There was no winning this
conversation. I retreated into the depth of the bilge—that dark area of
the rec room where light could not find its way, and sat on the cool,
hard tiled floor. Picking up the moss green telephone receiver from the
wall, I dialed Simone. No answer.
“I’m sorry. I am truly sorry.” I recognized Bellamy’s voice, but did
not turn around to acknowledge him. “You never know, do you?
Everyone’s got secrets. Wonder what Simone’s are?”
“What the hell are you taking about, Bellamy? Simone hasn’t
ditched me,” I interrupted with a good bit of anger.
 Bellamy 253

“Really?” Bellamy responded, sprinkling a little doubt for me to

breathe in. “Have you considered that Simone is toying with you? You
see, unfortunately, the vast amount of people in this world view love
as a tool to acquire a “feel-good” sensation. A sensation like a drug, or
sex, which is fun, while it lasts. To them, love is simply a means to an
end, not the journey itself. That is why it doesn’t last for them. It has
no substance. That which has no foundation cannot stand when the
winds blow, and Cal, they always blow, sooner or later. Remember
this, my friend. Love is not a feeling…it is an action. Feelings are
temporary. Do not give up. Never settle for second best.”
I looked up at Bellamy and knew, somehow, that he was speaking
the truth, but I asked, “You talk like Simone deliberately tried to hurt
me when she moved. It was not her decision to move, and she tried
calling me. If that bitch in the kitchen would have told me she had
called, we would have never broken up. Why are you attacking
Simone?”
For the first time, I began to wonder if I had become a modern day
Neville Chamberlain, having had misguided trust toward Bellamy. I
started questioning Bellamy’s motives. Something did not seem right,
but I could not put my finger on exactly what it was, or maybe it was
nothing. I lay on my bed and stared at the late afternoon shadows of
the oak tree outside my bedroom window. The tree limb was
elongated across the bedroom ceiling looking like the outstretched
arm of that Grim Reaper, ready to pluck me out of my bed and throw
me into oblivion.
Ten years earlier the shadow would have filled me with fear, but
now I gazed at it as if a premonition of what was to come. My thoughts
wandered to something Mr. Benbow had talked about that week,
specifically, Alfred Lord Tennyson. He was best-known for saying
"'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” This
guy is an idiot! You don’t get hurt if you don’t love.
I toyed with the paradox in my mind. Would I rather have loved and
been loved by Simone and now live without her love, or have never been
known and loved by her? The aching of my heart was only matched by
the torment of my mind. I had regret and self-humiliation for not standing
up to those boys who harassed Simone. I felt anger towards Dasha, who clearly
254 G. Bradley Davis

didn’t approve of our relationship, and falsely judged Simone’s mother. It was
the constant “what ifs” that haunted me. What if we stayed together and got
married? What if we ran away together? What if, what if, what if?

The change of seasons could not keep up with the speed by which my
life was changing. Physically, I had gone through a two-and-a-half-
inch growth spurt in less than a year. My vellus hair that had rapidly
multiplied was removed by occasional shaving. My perspective on life
was being challenged daily, as well as the seriousness of the
consequences that would inevitably surface if I were to be Perry’s alibi.
They were all moving at warp speed.
The end of the school year brought finals, but by this point my
academic career was over. All I cared about was passing, which was
not guarantee. I thought that even if my grades were below the
threshold of passing, my teachers would probably make sure I would
graduate, so that I would leave and never come back. Having Calvin
Lloyd for another school year petrified all my teachers.
It seemed that my suspicions were correct as I was told that I did,
in fact, qualify for graduation. But I had a bigger problem than
graduating. The senior prom was only a few weeks away, and I had
not asked Simone to be my date. That would present a multitude of
problems. Photos taken at Simone’s house would be fine. Photos at my
house, well, need I say more? I was expected to attend the prom. All of
my siblings had. It was all my friends were talking about. Nearly
everyone went to the prom, even if it was with a friend and not
someone they were dating. Simone had even hinted that she and her
mom went to Strawbridge’s department store, and she had bought a
beautiful dress that she was just dying to wear somewhere special.

There are rare moments in life when you walk into a room and you
know, instinctively, that something is awry. No one has to say
anything, you just know. That was the first sign that something was
 Bellamy 255

not right; the second was that when I entered the kitchen, everyone
stopped talking. My dad and Dasha were there, but so were Mr. and
Mrs. Pollard, a couple from church, and Mrs. Zimmerman.
My mind raced like a Pontiac Trans Am with a 455 under the
hood, trying to think of what I could have done to piss off this many
people. Before I had enough time to narrow that field down, my father
broke the silence.
“Cal, come into my bedroom. I need to ask you something.”
Oh, crap! Whatever I did, it must be bad. Real bad!
My dad closed the bedroom door behind us. My heart felt like
Gregory Hines was tap dancing on it.
“Sit down, Cal.” I sat on the edge of my parent’s bed as my dad
stood directly in front of me.
“Cal, I am going to ask you a serious question, and I want the
truth. You are not in trouble, no matter what your answer is. I want
you to know that. You will not be punished.” The tap dancing slowed
down. This changed everything. “Has Reverend Markey ever touched
you inappropriately?”
“What? No!” I blurted out.
“He never asked you to undress or tried to kiss you or touch your
penis. Anything like that?”
“Hell, no,” I relied, knowing that I should have never inserted the
“hell” part. “I would have punched him in the face! Why?”
My father stood there, obviously pondering whether to let me in
on the secret everyone but I knew. “There have been several
accusations against Reverend Markey from parents of several boys. He
may have been involved in some terrible things.”
Okay, vague, but I more than got the picture.

The next day, Dasha told me that Uncle Yaroslavl’s health was failing
and that it would mean the world to him if I went to pay him a visit.
Translated, she meant, “I don’t want to visit that insane brother of
mine, but someone should, so, to appease my conscience, I’m making
you go.” Reluctantly, I went.
256 G. Bradley Davis

My uncle had spent the last sixteen months in a nursing home on

Edge Hill Road for the senile as his overall physical and mental health
had quickly declined. A man who had spent the majority of his last
fifty years outside in the mountains, found himself confined to a walk-
in closet they called a bedroom.
The nursing home was a building that, although not that old, had
the feeling of a much older structure. Built in the late 60s with dark
yellow bricks, the windows were dark and stained with rust from the
downspouts. I walked up the ramp to the front door which opened
automatically. Immediately, I was hit with the stench of nonenal. To
me, it smelled like week old urine that had dried in the sun.
A large black woman in a white uniform sat behind the front desk.
“Hello, may I help you?” she asked with a pleasant tone.
“Yes. I’m looking for Mr. Uvorvykishki.”
“Who?”
Fearing the last name was confusing, I tried another approach.
“My uncle Yaroslavl.”
“Oh, Super Fly,” the lady said with the largest of smiles and an
unrestrained laugh.
“Yeah, well, Curtis Mayfield he ain’t,” I said with a dead pan face.
“He’s in the rec hall, second door on your right,” the woman said
while raising her eyebrows. “But he may not recognize you, baby.”
I decided not to ask the obvious question and walked down the
beige and white tiled, antiseptic hallway into the dark rec hall.
Entering the poorly lit room, I perused over the fog of depression and
despair. An Asian man was playing checkers by himself while arguing
at his imaginary opponent that “You can’t double jump on a different
diagonal! No! No, you cannot!”
A woman with nylons rolled up to just below the knees sat with
her legs spread wide open and her dress pulled up to expose her left
thigh that she was scratching. She looked hopefully at me. “Danny?
Did you come back for me, Danny? I’ve been waiting for you, Danny.
Are we going to the dance?”
Like someone who had been hit in the head by a foul ball, I found
it hard to look away. Scanning the remaining residents in the room, I
didn’t recognize my uncle at first. His hair had been cut shorter than I
 Bellamy 257

had ever seen it and combed back to where it began to curl behind his
neck. Surprisingly, it still had some of the dark gray I remembered.
Uncle Yaroslavl’s beard was longer and unkept.
“Hi, Uncle Yaroslavl. How are you?”
My uncle looked up, but straight through me, as if I was
cellophane. There was no confusion on his face, as if he was trying to
figure out who this person was, just complete obliviousness. I sat
down on the ottoman in front of him and drew a deep breathe, which
I quickly regretted. A strong union of Ben Gay meets day old urine
burned the back of my nostrils and caused me to dry-heave. Lifting his
head to look at me, Uncle Yaroslavl spoke.
“My balls dangle so low that I need a rake to scratch them.”
“Yeah, well, sorry about that,” I responded, but my uncle had
already lowered his chin to his chest.
I got up and walked over to the magazine rack that stood near the
entrance of the room. I was trying to decide whether to grab the Sports
Illustrated or the Argosy magazine which had a picture of Bruno
Sammartino on the front cover. When I saw Perry’s picture on the front
page of the Philadelphia Inquirer, I picked the paper up instead and
began to read the article.
Most of the article had been regurgitated news reworded in an
article to keep, what had become an old story, alive until the long-
awaited trial began, but there was something new in this write-up. It
appears Perry had hired Choo-Choo to rake his leaves, but the
reporter, Cynthia Gomes, changed her reporting to an editorial when
she added that witnesses had said that Perry asked Charlie to do the
work, so he could lure the boy onto his property. I could hear Sergeant
Joe Friday in my mind; “Just the facts, ma'am.”
I made sure no one was looking as I carefully tore the article from
the newspaper and placed it in my pocket. I still have those newspaper
articles, cut, and saved, the corners curling and the scotch tape now
yellowing.
When I looked up, I saw my uncle who was now grabbing at
flying insects that were not there. Of course, he was.
258 G. Bradley Davis

I knew that if I headed straight home Dasha would give me a hard

time for such a short visit with my uncle, so I decided to ride my bike
over to Simone’s and see what her demeaner was like. Rather than ask
her about her mother’s arrest, I would let Simone volunteer the
information. When I arrived at her house, Simone was sweeping the
front porch. As soon as she saw me, she dropped the broom and ran
down the cement steps to greet me.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she said with convincing
cheerfulness. “I didn’t know you were dropping by.”
“I didn’t either,” I replied. “My mom made me visit my crazy
uncle in that nursing home up on Edge Hill Road. I feel like I need a
shower. A half an hour in there is like a month and a half. It was brutal!
I needed a sweet reprise of you.”
“Sweet reprise. Look at you,” Simone said jokingly. “You sound
like a poet. Are you a poet, baby?”
I felt a little embarrassed and wished I had not used the phrase,
but it had come out so quickly I had no opportunity to lasso the words
before they galloped from my lips.
“Hey, let me finish sweeping the porch, and then let’s go for a
walk,” suggested Simone. “I bet you have something to ask me.”
Here it is! The time has finally come. The prom question and a walk.
Ugh!
The last time I made a public appearance with Simone it did not
end well. I had already heard some talk around town that I was dating
a black girl. Even though Simone had moved several towns north of
our community, I figured that is how Dasha got wind of it. North Hills
was a small bedroom community where most of the fathers worked in
Philly, and the mothers were housewives. It was difficult, if not
impossible, to walk a few blocks without bumping into someone, or at
the very least, be seen by someone who knows you as they sat on their
porch or worked in their yard. This day seemed to be pretty quiet
around the neighborhood so, reluctantly, I agreed to take the walk
with Simone.
Simone emptied the dustpan in a plastic trash can and told me she
would be right back, as she needed to wash her hands. My fear of
 Bellamy 259

being exposed as Simone’s boyfriend reared its ugly head, and I could
feel it chewing deep within my gut.
“Okay, you ready?” Simone asked.
As we walked down the steps, Simone grabbed my hand. That
fear within my gut multiplied tenfold. If I pulled my hand away, it
would be a clear sign to Simone that she had mistaken where our
relationship was and where it was headed. But on the flipside, if I
should be seen holding hands with a black girl, well, I would have a
lot of explaining to do. I decided to take my chances and keep my hand
clasped in hers; after all, who knew me in Crestmont? If I could shorten
the walk and escape being seen, all would be fine.
“Well, are you going to ask me or not?”
“What”” I said knowing well what the question was.
“Are you going to ask me to the prom?”
I really want to, Simone. More than you know, but I can’t. I just can’t.
“I can’t dance,” I said knowing the answer would not suffice.
“I’ll teach you, baby,” she said with hope in her eyes.
“Proms are lame. I really don’t want to go.”
“Calvin, this is a special event. Something I’ve been looking
forward to all year. I really want to go. You’ll do it for me, won’t you?”
“No. I can’t,” I said, knowing that I shouldn’t have included the
second two words.
“Can’t? What do you mean, you can’t?” Simone said with an
unusually angry tone. “Is it the black white thing you have a problem
with?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Fine. Then we are going,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I am not going. Don’t bring it up again,” I said, knowing I just
sealed my fate.
“Calvin, you are a huge disappointment,” Simone said with tears
rolling down her cheeks. “No need to explain. I understand. Oh, do I
understand.”
Turning around, she ran back to her house. My reluctance to take
Simone to the prom was fueled by a necessity to choose self-
preservation over her. I knew I had failed the test once again, cowering
by putting my needs before the needs of the girl I said I loved. I stood
260 G. Bradley Davis

watching Simone rush into her house and with her, the relationship I
valued the most. I had been careless with her love.
This was bound to happen. She was too good for me. What was I thinking
that I, a pearly white boy, could ever have had a long-lasting relationship with
a colored girl. What a joke! What was I thinking? I was so afraid of anyone
catching us together that IF we ever had real love and got married, I probably
would not even have the stones to invite anyone to the wedding. I am a loser!
I am ugly! I am stupid! I am worthless! I am a disappointment!
 Bellamy 261

CHAPTER THIRTY
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.
“King Henry VI, Part 2”
—William Shakespeare

W
ith a graduating class of over a thousand, each student
was given four tickets to ensure there was enough room
for every student’s family to get a seat in the stands at the
football field where the ceremony would be held. The
“brighter” students were asking around for extra tickets, and I saw an
opportunity to make a buck, so I sold my 4 tickets for five dollars
apiece.
I did not attend graduation, nor the celebratory parties I had been
invited to. There was little to celebrate when finishing 997th in a class
of 1013. The only celebration I could muster was seeing high school in
my rearview mirror. No college applications went out. No rejection
letters came in. As far as my future was concerned, those decisions
would need to be delayed until the Perry-thing was resolved.
Even Bellamy could not shake the depressed state I was in.
Nothing was going well in my life…obviously. My mandate for
survival had proven stronger than the love I had for Simone. The fact
that I had carelessly caused the breakup with Simone haunted me, but
that haunting had lots of company in that crowded room within my
bodily-residence. The funny, or not so funny, thing was that word had
leaked out and swept around town like the plague that Simone had
been my girlfriend. Even Hunchback and Muskrat questioned me
about dating a black girl. I accepted the fact that I would no longer be
asked to join them in reindeer games.
262 G. Bradley Davis

I guess I got used to being by myself; entertaining myself. It made

sense that Bellamy and I would find each other. There is a nothingness
that comes from abandonment. It is an emptiness that leaves a void, a
black vacuum. The difficulty in moving beyond such a state is that you
are left with nothing, no tools to build a bridge to a better place. And
so, you are banished to some uninhabited island dependent upon
someone to sail by and, possibly, with a little luck, see the coconuts on
your beach that spell S.O.S. But who was left to sail by? Both Simone
and Perry’s boats were in drydock, thanks to me.

I had noticed that things around me were changing, and not

necessarily for the better. The situation at church was a mess.
Reverend Markey denied the accusations, but he resigned, and the
church had hired an interim clergy, a follower of Markey from Kansas,
or Nebraska, or someplace out there. The church was split over
believing, or not believing, that the good reverend had been a
pedophile, causing a large group of Markey-defenders to leave the
church, but other changes were happening around me as well.
Even the mundane things around town had changed. I heard that
a 7-Eleven store was opening next door to the firehouse.
Unfortunately, it was also located across the street from Plockies
penny candy store. The unexplained excitement of having a 7-Eleven
in the small hamlet of North Hills had the neighborhood kids flocking
to the bright red and green sign to purchase the store’s calling card,
Slurpees, the juvenile gossip being what the new flavors of the week
were. It did not take long after the 7-Eleven opened that Plockies
closed its doors for good. Not a big deal in the universe of things going
on around me, but it was representative of how everything in my life
was dying. It is an odd thing to see your youth ebbing away.

The terms of Perry’s bail were that he could not come within 1000 feet
of any childcare facility, school, public park, church, recreation facility,
 Bellamy 263

playground, skating rink, neighborhood center, gymnasium, or school

bus stop, and was to have no contact with minors. Adding to the
avalanche of commiserations that had buried him alive, Perry had
been delivering a floral arrangement to a grandmother who was
celebrating her eightieth birthday when the next-door neighbor
spotted him knocking at the elderly woman’s door. It just so happened
that this neighbor was hosting a Cub Scout Meeting in her house at
that very moment. She promptly called the police, and they responded
by escorting Perry out of his floral store in handcuffs. The judge stated
that the conditions of his bail were broken, and now bail would be
denied both for the safety of the public and for the safety of the
accused. He was to be held at the county jail awaiting trial. Fear,
shame, desperation, and terror brawled within me for governance.

Perry was certainly not the “prison” type. I feared for his survival. I
knew he would be easy prey for the prison-yard hierarchy and could
be both physically and sexually abused. Six months after his arrest, I
was introduced to Perry’s cellmate, Bobby McCoo, by Hunchback. It
just so happened that Bobby was Hunchback’s second cousin. Bobby
had done a short stint in the joint for check forgery. He told me what
Perry’s first day in jail was like. As I recall, it went something like this:
Perry got off the grey painted prison bus and entered the holding
room, a cold, painted cinder block room in the same grey measuring
30 x 20. He got in line with ten other men, most who were no strangers
to the bastille. Two guards were tasked with preparing the men for
incarceration. The younger of the two did not say a word, observing
the ordeal. The other guard was a middle-aged man who looked like
he could have been handing out textbooks to first year college
students. It was routine for him. His mundane existence made his
cadence robot-like.
“Empty your pockets of all personal belongings and place them
in the manilla envelope,” the guard said as he handed out the
envelopes. Most of the men did so instinctively as if they were asked
to zip up their fly, but clearly Perry stood out like a priest in a disco.
264 G. Bradley Davis

The man behind Perry in line was shuffling his feet trying to stay
warm. Sensing Perry was a newbie, he whispered in Perry’s ear.
“CO Moretti is a faggot. Here comes the fun part.”
“Line up and take off all your clothes,” the guard ordered in a
monotone voice. The other ten other men did so mechanically, as if
Pavlov’s inmates. Perry watched as the other men stood nude in front
of the strange guards, hesitating for just a minute.
“Are you hard of hearing, sweetheart?” questioned the guard.
“Get your damn clothes off…now!”
A convict bent overturned to another inmate in a similar position
and mumbled, “From what I’ve heard, Strathmore shouldn’t feel
nervous at all undressing in front of a group of men.” The two men
laughed.
“You find this funny, asshole?” the older guard hollered. “Spread
them, girls.”
In almost perfect unison the men bent over and spread their butt-
cheeks, allowing the guards to inspect them for contraband. Perry
quickly followed suit. Clear plastic bags were then handed out, and
the men put their street clothes into them as they were handed their
prison attire. Perry looked at the orange jump suit with the letters
MCCF printed on the back and as he put the clothing on, realized it
was at least a size too large,
“Welcome to Montgomery County Correctional Facility.”
Perry kept his mouth shut. One at a time each man was escorted
to his cell. As Perry walked the cell block corridor, cat calls and
whistles were directed at him by the jailed inmates. He noticed that
everything was in a cage, even the clock on the wall, as if it was
hanging in a gym and needed a cage to prevent a ball from
inadvertently striking and breaking it.
Perry’s cellmate was a short, thick man in his 20s, with light
brown hair cut in a shag.
“Yo. I’m Bobby. What are you in for?”
Perry was more than relieved to see who he’d be rooming with,
having seen the alternatives who mostly looked vicious and
aggressive. He assumed that his cellmate had not yet heard the
cellblock gossip about his arrest.
 Bellamy 265

“Murder, but I didn’t do it. I don’t belong in here,” answered

Perry.
“Yeah, everybody in here is innocent,” Bobby said with a chuckle.
“Who did you not murder?”
“No, I am serious. I have no idea why I was arrested in the first
place.” Perry didn’t want to reveal his sexual orientation, nor answer
who it was he was supposed to have killed, especially in this place, but
nothing is a secret for very long on a cell block. Some of men had
known of Perry’s imminent arrival a day before he appeared. He
feared that as soon as the entire cell block found out the details of his
case, he would be in danger of being beaten, raped or even worse.
News of a high-profile inmate traveled through the jail faster than
prune juice through an old lady’s body.
“Okay. Whatever,” Bobby said as he laid back on his rack.
“You’ve got the top bunk.”
Perry took his sheets, pillow case and blanket and laid them on
the mattress as he surveyed his six by eight-foot home. There was not
much too survey. The walls were cinderblock, and Perry could not
discern whether the walls were painted a pale yellow or if they had
turned that color due to age. He opened the small plastic bag which
contained a toothbrush which was half the size of the one he had at
home, a small tube of toothpaste, a bar of soap and a roll of toilet
paper, what would be his earthly possessions for, at least, until his trial
was over.

As the days passed, I tried not to think of Perry, but that was like
ignoring that place in your mouth that you had inadvertently bit. I
would go through stretches where I was able to wipe the thought of
Perry and his predicament out of my mind, but inevitably, something
would spark a memory or experience, and I was forced to contemplate
the ugly truth. I did have thoughts about visiting Perry in jail, but I
never did for two reasons. First, for the same reason I did not come
forward as an alibi witness; I was afraid someone would associate me
with Perry. Second, I could not look into Perry’s face with him
266 G. Bradley Davis

knowing I had refused to testify that we were together at the time the
murder was committed.
Back in North Hills, the upcoming trial was all that anyone spoke
about. It did not matter if you were in Joe’s Market, Chernoff’s
Pharmacy, or any of the three gas stations in town, someone would
bring up the murder and how they hoped Perry got what was coming
to him. Down at the local taproom, the smoke-filled talk was about the
queer who had molested the simple kid that everyone in town knew
and what these half- inebriated men would do to the creep if they
could get their hands on him. Castration was a popular suggestion.

The months leading up to the trial seemed to go quickly, for everyone

but Perry. His attorney, Tim Larsen agreed to a lie detector test,
believing in his client’s innocence, and Perry passed the test with ease.
Although the polygraph results would not be admissible at trial due
to their unreliability, Larsen was hoping to mention the results in
passing while cross examining the witnesses. Objections by the
prosecution would be moot once the jury had heard the results of the
test.
Perry’s lawyer, Tim Larsen, a successful Philadelphia attorney
who had represented many gay men and women, was best known for
a civil suit brought against the city. Two of Mayor Rizzo’s policemen
had brutally beat Robert Stizler, a gay man, for parading down 9th
Street Italian Market with nothing on but a pair of leopard print bikini
underwear, and a yellow boa. Intoxicated, the cops dragged Stizler by
his shoulder-length hair down to Washington Avenue where they
kicked and beat him with billy-clubs, targeting hinged joints and nerve
clusters till he was unconscious. The city eventually settled out of
court in excess of a million dollars. Having a gay lawyer represent him,
Perry felt as relaxed as he possibly could, knowing his life was
teetering like a stack of children’s books.
Attorney Larsen had tried to receive a change of venue, arguing
that Perry could not and would not receive a fair trial in Montgomery
County, but the motion was denied. During voir dire, the opposing
 Bellamy 267

counsel objected to any prospective jurors that had any family

member that was gay or lesbian. Larsen, being gay himself, had a
feeling that some of the potential jurors may have, in-fact, had a
relative or friend who was gay by carefully observing their body
language as they answered the question. Better to deny any association
than to have others know that homosexuality lurked a little too close to home.
At the completion of voir dire, the jury consisted of seven men and
five women. Two of the men and one woman were African American,
one woman was Hispanic, and the remainder were white.

The wait for the trial to begin was a lesson in patience. It was evident
that the long-awaited spectacle was what all of Montgomery County,
if not the entire state of Pennsylvania, had been anxious for, if only to
see justice served. The anticipation, amplified by months of newspaper
articles reaching for any interesting angles, even if a bit exaggerated,
had finally arrived.
The trial began on the second Wednesday of October in
Norristown, the county seat. It was a gorgeous autumn day with
bright sunshine illuminating the splashes of red, orange and yellow
that the oak and maple trees provided as they formed an umbrella that
lined the streets of the small city. The air was filled with the natural
fragrances of damp, moss-covered bark, and the faint aroma of
burning leaves whose ashes floated aimlessly in the air. The trifecta of
the trial, Simone, and my unknown future were all like heavy soot that
covered my emotions.
I had hoped to take the train from Ardsley station to Norristown,
but SEPTA did not have any direct lines. That meant I would have had
to go to center city Philadelphia and then back out to the western
suburbs, so I decided to ride my bicycle the thirteen miles. No matter
what, I had to be there for the beginning of the trial. The trip took
longer than expected, because I had to stop twice to ask for directions,
but I arrived at the courthouse well before the trial began, knowing
that getting a seat would not be easy.
268 G. Bradley Davis

The courthouse was built in the mid-1800s and stood with six
large, majestic columns and a dome that was added at the turn of the
century. An institution representing justice and impartiality, in a
perfect world, but the distance between neutrality and reality was as far
as the war in Nam was from Park Avenue. Lady Justice’s allegorical
personification of moral vigor was as flawed as her blindfold had
slipped below her eyes allowing a glimpse of guilty until proven
innocent to blemish Perry’s reality. So much for the sixth amendment
to the Constitution.
Stopping at the front desk, I asked the guard at the podium where
the Strathmore trial was being held.
“Courtroom five,” responded the guard as he pointed to a
hallway that was to his right.
Hurrying down the large hallway, I looked at the numbers on
each door, until I came to the large carved wood door with the number
five above it. Pushing it open, I entered the courtroom, taking one of
the few remaining seats.
The courtroom’s public gallery had quickly filled up as a queue of
people jockeyed for the opportunity to get a seat for the show. A crowd
also gathered outside the courthouse for news they would receive
from friends who would update them during the few breaks the judge
would give throughout the day. Reporters from The Philadelphia
Bulletin, Philadelphia Inquirer, Glenside News, and The Gay Dealer were
present in the gallery as an attractive redhead courtroom sketch artist
had her pad of vellum paper on her lap.
The room was aged, with high ceilings, three large windows and
plenty of dark, polished wood that looked rich and impressive. The
room was larger than the ones I had seen on the Perry Mason episodes
that Dasha watched. As I surveyed the courtroom while waiting in
anticipation for the trial to begin, I noticed Perry’s brother sitting
directly behind the defendant. I had never spoken to the man and
knew next to nothing about him, other than the fact that he dressed
normally, much less flamboyant than Perry. I also saw Mongrel and
his mentee, Benny, sitting in the next to the last row. Why were they
here?
 Bellamy 269

Attorney Larsen entered the courtroom with Perry, dressed in a

double-breasted suit made from paisley brocade, complimented with
a maroon and gold bow tie. Larsen had asked Perry not to dress in a
flamboyant style and to embrace understatement so as not to antagonize
the jury and their prejudices. Perry agreed, however, neither of them
had informed those who would attend the hearing. An assemblage of
the Philadelphia gay community gathered in the courtroom to offer
moral support and to make certain the trial was free from the public’s
prejudice and prejudgment. Before the judge entered the courtroom to
begin the trial, Perry was approached by his mignons, who
scandalized the spectators by their effeminate manners. Exactly what
Larsen was afraid of.
The Assistant District Attorney, Robert Fitzpatrick, was a man in
his mid-50s; short and stout with blue eyes and dark receding hair that
was slicked back with Brylcreem. He was replete with a WC Fields-ish
nose that was perpetually red so one could not tell if it was caused by
rosacea or his habitual drinking. Long days in court had made him a
sugarholic, as his body craved the sweetness he received from his
vodka martinis. His protruding belly had been the victim of a regular
breakfast diet of Tastykake butterscotch krimpets and coffee with 3
sugars with half and half, which made him a borderline diabetic.
Having the state behind him to prop up his spineless posture,
Fitzpatrick’s arrogance filled the courtroom like smoke in a flue-closed
cabin.
The ADA strutted around the courtroom barking accusations and
showboating reminiscent of the sideshow huckster at Willow Grove
Park. His opening statement painted a picture of Perry as a quiet local
businessman with dark secrets…secrets which, he warned, were
repugnant and would likely seem unnerving and dirty to the well-
sanitized jurors. He described the charges against Perry, and they
were as sordid as they come.
“Perry Strathmore is being tried for oral copulation with a minor,
forced oral copulation of a minor, forcible penetration with a foreign
object, rape and murder. We will be seeking the death penalty in this
case.”
270 G. Bradley Davis

There was no reaction from Perry, who apparently, had played

the scenario repeatedly in his mind so that he would not succumb to
emotional outbursts. It was important to him to act like a sensible,
calm individual, one that any of the jurors would feel comfortable
with.
As the Assistant District attorney spoke, Perry glanced at a
window just beyond the ADA’s head. I followed his line of vision and
saw a Monarch butterfly dancing in a carefree manner, as if
improvising its flight pattern as it moved along. It must had been
dawdling, as most butterflies left Pennsylvania a few weeks before
due to a lack of nectar sources. The sun illuminated its orange wings,
laced with black lines, and bordered with white dots. As the traumatic
courtroom drama played out, I could see that the butterfly gave Perry
an indescribable peace.
ADA Fitzpatrick had an ability to talk endlessly without saying
anything. Without an original thought, sounds came from his mouth
like a mockingbird that chirps out a dozen stolen songs from other
birds. It was not until he began describing Perry’s frequent visits after
dark to Philadelphia that I began listening in earnest.
“Mr. Strathmore had secrets. Many secrets. Ladies and gentlemen
of the jury, you’re about to hear a side of Mr. Strathmore that he
doesn’t want you to hear. Several times a week, Mr. Strathmore would
drive to Philadelphia late in the evenings. Not all that unusual for a
single man to frequent bars in the city of brotherly love, but, ladies and
gentlemen, that is exactly what he would search for…brotherly love.
Mr. Strathmore did not go just anywhere in Philadelphia. No! He
would explore the area around Chestnut, Pine, Juniper, and 11th
Streets best known as “The Gayborhood.”
Tim Larsen’s objection could hardly be heard over the chatter that
erupted in the gallery. The judge had to bang his gavel four times as
he raised his voice.
“Order in the court! The gallery will remain silent during these
proceedings! Objection overruled.”
The prosecutor continued. “If Philadelphia’s Gayborhood is
strange and foreign to you, let me explain. This area within
Washington Square is a large concentration of small business,
 Bellamy 271

restaurants, services, and bars that are very friendly to the gay
community and by “gay” I’m not referring to people who are happy
or who are full of mirth. I am specifically referring to those who are
prone to decadence and promiscuity. This lifestyle is an abomination!”
“Objection, your Honor,” Mr. Larsen shouted once again over the
gallery that had become disorderly causing the judge to caution them
that the next time he had to warn them, he would clear the courtroom
of all spectators. “Your Honor, I strongly object! The prosecution has
repeatedly used derogatory language that exhibits bias and prejudice
based on my client’s sexual orientation.”
“Ah ha! So, you admit the suspect is queer!” shrieked ADA
Fitzpatrick.
“That’s it,” shouted the judge. “I want to see both of you in my
chambers…now!”
Ten minutes later the three men came back into the courtroom.
ADA Fitzpatrick continued. “Your Honor, I apologize to Attorney
Larsen and to Mr. Strathmore.” Turning to the jury, the prosecutor
continued.
“Within this red-light district of Philadelphia are bathhouses.
What exactly are these bathhouses, you may be wondering? The
bathhouses are quite frankly a place where homos perform and
discuss sexual acts in secrecy behind closed doors. That is their sole
purpose and why they exist.”
“Your Honor,” interrupted the defense, “Your instructions to the
Mr. Fitzpatrick have fallen on deaf ears. The term homo is derogatory
and insulting, and there has been no proof that Mr. Strathmore is gay.”
“Objection sustained. Mr. Fitzpatrick, I’m warning you for the last
time. You will refrain from any slang or improper terms referring to
the defendant.”
“I apologize, your Honor.” Once again, the ADA continued.
“Although our investigation revealed that Mr. Strathmore was a
regular patron of several of these bathhouses, his favorite seemed to
be Drucker’s Bellevue Health Baths and Saunas located on the 4th floor of
the Hale Building at 100 South Juniper Street. Ladies and gentlemen, I
cannot describe the depravity and self-indulgence that goes on in these
immoral houses. Our evidence will show that over the past few years,
272 G. Bradley Davis

the defendant’s field trips to these houses of ill repute became more
and more frequent. When he could not fill his insatiable appetite for
illicit sex, he preyed upon a neighborhood boy, raping, and then
killing him, so he could eliminate his only witness. He did not want
Charlie to tell anyone how he solicited sex from an underaged boy and
so, symbolically, after murdering the boy, he cut off his tongue. The
tongue was never found. Mr. Strathmore probably kept it as a
souvenir.”
The gallery of spectators gasped as the press had not been
informed of the dismemberment. The ADA proceeded to pass out
photographs of the badly abused body.
“The defendant has no alibi. He has no one to confirm his
whereabouts for the afternoon of the murder. Not one.”

According to the conversation I had with Mr. Larsen after the trial,
Perry did not need his attorney to tell him that the first day had not
gone well. The conversation went something like this:
“You need an alibi,” Larsen explained. “You had told the police
that you were at home the afternoon the murder happened, but you
have not been forthcoming about the details of that afternoon. We
have gone over this before, Perry, but I need to ask you again, were
you really at home?”
“I was,” Perry responded softly.
“Can anyone collaborate that? Were you alone?” asked his
attorney.
“No, I wasn’t alone.”
“Great! That is not what you said the first time I asked you that
question. The person you were with can present evidence that they
were with you on the afternoon of the crime. Your friend can testify
that you were not at the scene of the crime. Perry, an alibi defense is
based on witness testimony and if the witness is the credible, we have
an excellent chance of having you acquitted. Is your friend credible?”
“Very,” muttered Perry.
“And honest?”
 Bellamy 273

Perry hesitated, as if pondering how exactly to answer the

question. “With me he is.”
“Then what is the problem. Tell me who your friend is, and we
will get him to testify.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t. This is your life you are talking
about,” insisted Larsen.
“I think he’s afraid to come forward,” Perry said while staring at
Larsen’s briefcase.
“Is your friend still in the closet? Is he married and afraid to come
out?” asked Larsen.
“No, it’s nothing like that. I think he is afraid for others to know
we were friends. We were platonic friends. He’s straight. We had a
true, pure, and honest relationship. There were no ulterior motives.
Neither of us wanted anything from the each other. We both simply
needed a friend. It was an unlikely friendship but one cut from outside
our circle of acquaintances. The normal formalities and prerequisites
that traditionally precede any peer relationship were not obligatory.
We were two lonely people who needed acceptance outside our peer
group.”
Attorney Larsen contemplated what Perry had said. “Let me at
least talk to him. Maybe I can convince him to come forward. Perry, if
he truly is your friend, he will see how imperative his testimony is. He
may be your only hope.”
“He’ll come forward if he wants to. I do not want anyone
pressuring him,” responded Perry, knowing that even if I did come
forward to testify, my age would raise doubt in the jurors’ minds of
his innocence.
Larson leaned forward and touched Perry’s hand. “Perry, I did
not want to bring this up now, but they are offering a plea deal. Second
degree murder. Twenty-five years to life, but the death penalty would
be taken off the table, and you could be paroled in possibly ten years.
I think it’s a good deal.”
“Good deal? No!” Perry said sternly. “No plea deals! I am
innocent, and I will never admit to something I didn’t do! If they
execute me, so be it! Maybe one day the truth will come out.”
274 G. Bradley Davis

“It’s a matter of betrayal. Perry, this person is no friend of yours.

A friend in need is a friend…”
“Indeed,” interrupted Perry. “Enough!”
 Bellamy 275

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I think everyone should go crazy at least once in their life. I
don’t think you’ve truly lived until you’ve thought about
killing yourself.
—Pete Wentz

B
efore I turned my bicycle on to Hawthorne Road, I could
smell the unmistakable odor of cabbage cooking. Had I been
on Pine Avenue I would have thought corned beef and
cabbage was on the menu at Sean Donahue’s house, but as I
was a few houses away from my house, it could only mean that we
were having halupki for dinner. I still hate the smell of cabbage, but
I love the Ukrainian dish of rice, beef, and pork encased in cabbage
and yet, this night it would not matter what Dasha was serving for
dinner. As I opened the kitchen door, supper was just being served
at the table. “Calvin, wash your hands and come to the table,” my
stepmother said.
“I’m not hungry,” I said as I headed to his room.
“You’re not hungry? Are you sick?” asked Dasha.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Well, do not come into the kitchen later looking for something to
eat and don’t forget that you have a few chores to do tomorrow,”
Dasha said as I left the kitchen.
There was no one else I could pawn the ever-increasing list of
chores off to. My siblings had all grown wings and left the Lloyd nest,
leaving me to do all the household tasks. I grabbed the newspaper
sitting on the living room couch and headed to my room, jumped on
the bed, and stared at the ceiling till the shadows became
indistinguishable from the evening darkness. I turned on the lamp
276 G. Bradley Davis

next to the bed and began reading about where things were at in
Vietnam.
President Nixon assured South Vietnam’s President Nguyen Van
Thieu that any violation of the peace settlement that Secretary of State
Kissinger and Le Duc Tho had agreed upon would result in a
recommitment of B-52s to combat. President Thieu rejected the
settlement, being adamant that he would never accept any settlement
which left North Vietnamese forces in South Vietnam.
In a different article I understood that President Nixon was facing
his own war at home. Congress had become reluctant to escalate the
conflict, and the Watergate scandal was gaining speed. Economic
restraints also joined the offensive on the President. As I continued
reading, the article stated that the five men that were arrested for
breaking into the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the
Watergate hotel had no alibi.
No alibi. Perry had no alibi, I thought. Motivated by self-
preservation, I knew that I could not, would not, testify. Why me? Why
did I have to be Perry’s only hope? Why did Perry have to be queer? So many
questions, but there was only one question that haunted me. Could I
somehow find the courage to testify?
Courage. That was the real question, wasn’t it? Where does it come
from and what does it look like? Is it instinctive, hereditary, or a
learned trait? There are no text books that teach the art of courage. Is
it simple reacting to a given situation with selflessness and a disregard
for one’s own consequences? Is it as drastic as running into enemy fire
while dragging a wounded comrade to safety, or can it be as subtle as
taking the witness stand to give true testimony for an innocent person
with no regard for what others may say about me? If one cannot have
the courage to disregard what others think of them, would they ever
have the courage to run into a barrage of fire to save another man’s
life? We are who we are today because of the choices we made
yesterday.
I was taught to always be honest, to always tell the truth. But here
I faced a conundrum. The people who taught me the importance of
being trustworthy would be the same people who would question my
relationship with Perry. I had been self-taught in the art of avoiding
 Bellamy 277

rejection and ridicule, not that I was immune to it. The blindness that
comes from self-justification was the fuel I had used to energize
questions that I already had answers to. Not coming forward is not the
same as lying, is it?

The trial was the biggest news that hit North Hills in decades. In fact,
the entire Abington Township was following the case, which meant
that if I were to testify, every kid that I knew would find out about my
relationship with Perry. They would never believe our relationship
was platonic. People prefer to believe the worst about others. It would
be just like what happened to Mrs. Evans who lived less than a block
from us. She was accused of cheating on her husband. The newspapers
never reported that dirty laundry, but every soul in town heard about
it. She was called awful names like harlot and the grownups kept
talking about some book and a scarlet letter written by a guy named
Hawthorne, whom I assumed my street was named after. Later on, it
came out that she had taken a part-time job babysitting, something her
controlling husband forbade, in order to help her family meet their
rising financial obligations. There was a legitimate reason for her
sneaking out at night, but the false allegations had been laid, like
unmovable bricks that had been cemented in place.
I looked down from the ceiling to see Bellamy sitting on the bean
bag and wished he was Simone instead. I did not know whether I had
spoken my thoughts out loud, or if I was simply daydreaming, not that
it mattered. Obviously, Bellamy knew my thoughts.
“What are you going to do?” Bellamy asked.
“I don’t know. Why should I take the risk when Perry may be
acquitted?”
“He may be acquitted, but what if he’s not? Do you really want to
take that chance? His life is literally in your hands.”
“Thanks! Don’t you think I know that?” Bellamy did not sound
very convincing.
My fear was consuming my entire being. Again and again, I
thought of truth, that I had always been taught that telling the truth
278 G. Bradley Davis

was non-negotiable. But my situation was more complex than that. I

was not lying; I just was not providing the truth that would greatly
benefit another person. The obvious consequences of saying that I was
with Perry that day were enormous. I would be the laughingstock of
the entire high school and neighborhood and they, and perhaps my
family, would alienate me. But high school is over, and I will probably
never see those people again. Would I? Contradictions conflicted with
reality. It simply was too great a risk.
Bellamy moved closer to me. “Decisions. This one is a lot harder
than whether you should order chocolate or strawberry at Jack Frost,
or whether or not you should steal second base.”
“No shit,” I mumbled.
What I did not understand then is that life is all about three or
four, maybe a half dozen decisions that will alter your life. These
decisions are so crucial that they will decide what direction your life
takes. Certainly, the person you marry and what career path you want
to pursue are two of those decisions, but there are always a few
unexpected ones. Whether or not I should have testified was one of
them. Make the wrong decision and it will haunt you for the
remainder of your life. Make the right one and it can cause pain and
grief in the short run, but you will have peace for the rest of your life.
Do not choose poorly.
Bellamy continued to encourage me, but he never told me what to
do. He looked fixedly into my eyes and began retelling a story I faintly
recalled. I could not remember where, exactly, I had heard it.
“Let me tell you a story. There once was a young lion lost in the
jungle. He walked in the sweltering tropical heat day after day trying
to find water. Finally, when it seemed like he would perish from
dehydration, he came upon a fork in the road. One of the paths was
nearly hidden by overgrown brush; trees and large rocks were
scattered on the path. The second path was clear of brush and
appeared to be smooth and so the lion chose the easier path.
He had not walked far when suddenly he stepped into a hanging
snare employing a counterweight on a tree which lifted both the noose
and the lion high into the air. The lion hung by his foot upside down
for quite a long time, but from that vantage point the lion could see
 Bellamy 279

that the overgrown path led to a crystal-clear pond of blue water.

Calvin, never mistake a clear view for an easy journey.”
I could not recall Aesop having ever told that story, but I did
understand that it conveyed a moral which I really did not need any
illustration for. I knew well what my dilemma was. I was being sucked
down the rabbit hole. It was a dark, ominous cloud with deep-seated
eyes of a feared detestation that I had come to know too well. The fear
of making yet another bad choice was crouching like a chilling
gargoyle, pointing its accusing finger of failure, depression, and a lack
of value. It was a measuring stick bought at the five and dime store
called Adult Expectation which reminded me that I came up short, like
the measuring stick at Willow Grove Park that determined if you were
tall enough to go on the rides all the others kids were on. I was always
just a little short.
“You know,” Bellamy said while interrupting my kaleidoscope of
thoughts, “on second thought, I think you must let this one go. There
is nothing you can do. Strathmore is a big boy. and he’s got Larson by
his side. They will figure it out. Let things be.”
The reality of being a coward, failing to step up and do what was
right, not caring about the consequences that would inevitably surface
from doing the difficult, but right thing, consumed me. A wave of
depression drenched me. What kind of friend am I if I am not there when
Perry needed me most? A friend in need is….
Leaving my bedroom, I went down to the rec room. Walking over
to my father’s gun rack hanging over the fireplace, I reached up for the
JC Higgins 12-gauge double-barrel shotgun, the same one I had taken
to Aunt Polina’s to hunt pheasant and rabbit. I entered the back room
which contained my father’s tools and workbench as well as the
washer and dryer and a pantry of shelves storing canned goods. I
knew that my father had the ammo in a wooden box concealed in the
rafters above his workbench, the same hiding place I had found the
bottle rockets. I pulled a chair over to the workbench and stood on it.
I could just about reach the wooden ammo box. A ruler on the
workbench helped me slide the box off the rafter. I was surprised at
the weight of the box as I caught it before it hit the floor. The lid opened
and .306 and shotgun shells scatter over the cement floor. I jumped off
280 G. Bradley Davis

the chair and, on my hands and knees, began gathering the shells and
putting them back into the box.
Having returned the shells to their wooden coffin, I kept one in
my clenched left hand and returned to the rec room and sat in the
overstuffed chair. Furniture that made it to the paneled basement was
too shabby to make a presentation upstairs. I sat in the chair and felt
my backside fall lower in the sagging seat due to the worn foam in the
cushion.
I pondered my existence. Who would grieve, who would miss me?
There is a place that I dreaded, yet a place I felt I had to be. A place
that I wanted to be, that is, in a warped kind of way—a place called
pain. It is warm and familiar and the only place I knew to be
welcoming. My agony opened that lock box where past pains were
meticulously kept. They never really go away, they are just saved for
the next time heartache pays a visit, the accumulation of which makes
each future occurrence a little bit more painful. It always leaves a
residue like an empty glass of milk. Oh, the glass may be empty, but
there is never a doubt what had been in there. It is like pushing a
bruise.
I possessed a haunting fear. I dreaded that I would never die, that
I would be forced to live in this world forever. As if in some type of
warped humor, God removes morality from me and makes me live in
this horror show for eternity. Once was more than enough for me,
thank you very much!
I placed the barrel of the shotgun in my mouth and extended my
arm as far as it would go to see if I could reach the trigger. I could.
Sliding my thumb against the top lever that caused the break-action, I
slid one shell into the first chamber.
The accusation was always the same. Coward. How could the son of
a marine who battled the Japanese in godforsaken Guadalcanal be so gutless?
I feared that when a critical time came, and it had come, I would reach
into a cavern void of courage. I longed for the opportunity to prove to
the world that I had moxie, but I was petrified of the same
opportunity. A paradox of wills.
The barrel of the gun remained in my mouth, the metallic taste of
death strong upon my palate, my finger gently caressing the trigger.
 Bellamy 281

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
All who are lost do not necessarily want to be found.

I
had no idea how long the barrel had been in my mouth, only that
the gun was getting heavier. I lowered the shotgun and rested it
in my lap. The taste of metal and failure lingered in my mouth as
I lowered my head and wept. I cannot even do that right.
Sometimes I think I am crazy. Okay, often I think I am crazy.
There, I said it! Not going “postal” crazy, going out and killing a bunch
of people. I guess I would have to have a very good reason to take
someone’s life. Crazy like, not “normal.” But what the hell is normal?
If society is normal, I have no desire to be normal. I have finally
embraced my individualism…it only took me some sixty plus years. I
feel at peace with who I am, but I continue to feel like an outsider.
Someone standing in the snow while observing through a living room
window the world dining on Christmas goose and Chardonnay. It’s in
my genes, you know. My Aunt Olena went crazy. My uncle Yaroslav
joined her. All from the same gene pool, the Ukrainian bloodline. I am
not insinuating that Ukrainians have a greater number of insane
people. Lord knows, every ethnicity has their fair share.

I guess I had always known that I would not testify. It is a strange

game you play, perhaps to appease your conscience. You convince
yourself that you really did struggle desperately with what to do. I was
disappointed in myself, and that disappointment fueled my self-
deprecation and anger which manifested itself in my growing anger
towards others. I loathed myself and wanted everyone to join in. I
282 G. Bradley Davis

picked up the phone to call Simone, stopping short of dialing. Am I

beyond anyone’s reach to be loved. Is it even possible for a severely wounded
heart to love or be loved? Am I damaged beyond repair and is the best I can
expect a mundane and/or sexual relationship with someone to ease the pain?
I began disappearing for days at a time, sleeping in parked cars,
waking up early to slip out of the vehicle before the owner would head
to work in the morning. That is, until one day I overslept. I was
awakened in the wee hours by the sound and jarring of the car door
being slammed shut. Thankfully, it was still dark outside. Startled and
scared, I quietly slid to the floor of the back seat, lying on my back with
my knees bent just enough for them to rest upon the bump from the
drive shaft. When the driver reached his place of employment twenty
minutes later, I decided to wait nearly an hour before slipping out the
door. I knew I was in Cheltenham, a town sitting on the border of
Philadelphia, by the trolly stop, a shopping center, and a cluster of
stores lining Ogontz Avenue. Farther down the street there was a
nightclub, a Crown fried chicken joint and a barbershop with its
signature rotating red, white, and blue rotating pole, but the pole
wasn’t rotating, it was too early. Crossing the busy street, I hitchhiked
north and got a ride from a man in a box truck.
It did not take me long to realize that new house construction
would be a safer place to rest my weary head rather than parked cars.
To this day, whenever I smell the fragrance of fresh cut pine, I
immediately associate it with those memories. But those memories
also include abandonment, isolation, and loneliness. There is a core
need in all of us to be loved, especially when we need it most. It is
criminal not to be loved. It is painful not to be loved.
The next night I found a new home that had been framed and the
electric and plumbing installed. Entering it, I found a corner away
from the streetlights and wrapped a patchwork blanket I had salvaged
from someone’s trash tightly around my shoulders as I listened to the
rain hitting the tar paper the builders had nailed earlier that day. The
sound was oddly comforting, like the sound of popping bubble wrap.
I knew that the builders would be putting the asbestos shingles on the
roof early the next day, and I was mindful that I needed to be out of
there at the first sign of dawn.
 Bellamy 283

I did not sleep well on the hard floor, so vacating the house before the
builders arrived was not a problem. I headed home to take a shower.
As soon as I closed the door, Dasha entered the kitchen.
“Where in the world…” I extended my hand out as a stop sign.
She said no more. Making my appearance at home after a two-day
absence, I found my parents concerned and scared rather than angry.
I needed to get away to clear my head. Anywhere but North Hills.
I thought Aunt Polina’s farm would be the perfect spot to do just that.
Only three hours away, yet thousands of miles from my problems.
Taking the opportunity while they were vulnerable, I asked my dad if
I could borrow his car to spend the weekend at Aunt Polina’s and do
some pheasant hunting and, to my surprise, he said yes. I knew that
meant cleaning the chicken coop for my aunt, but that was a small
price to pay to get reinvigorated.
Aunt Polina spoke only Ukrainian but her son, Dasha’s cousin
Marko, spoke perfect English. Marko received an all-expenses paid
amusement ride to Girard College, an independent college
preparatory five-day boarding school located on a sprawling and
beautiful 43-acre campus in Philadelphia. A professional student at
heart, Marko excelled, and although he received several scholarships
to reputable universities, he returned home to the farm as Aunt
Polina’s umbilical cord had stretched as far as it could, barely reaching
Girard College.
Marko was a confirmed bachelor who became nothing more than
a well-educated chicken tender. If you call owning a hundred birds
farming, then Marko was a farmer. He spent his days putzing around
the farm, but not really accomplishing much. He would stay up late at
night spending hours with his shortwave radio talking with people
from the Ukraine and the western fringe of the Soviet Union. He
would explain that the reflection characteristics of the ionosphere are
better at night, and therefore reception and transmission were much
better than during the daylight hours. That would explain the
inexplicable; that a farmer could sleep till noon. My father suspected
284 G. Bradley Davis

Marko of espionage for the Commies, but that would have required
minimal travel, and Marko simply never left the farm.
Cousin Marko avoided the war by complaining he was the eldest
child, specifically, the only son of a widowed farmer and he was the
only one able to physically run the farm. Apparently, it worked
because the only action Marco saw was when he would shoot the
occasional racoon that would stage an attack on his henhouse, looking
for a cheap dinner of Chicken Cordon Bleu. Why he never got a job
and felt he was entitled to government welfare was another question
altogether.
That next morning was beyond beautiful as I walked through the
apple grove with my father’s JC Higgins Double-Trigger Side-by-Side
12-gauge shotgun. The same gun I had almost eaten. My senses were
keen, and I was acutely aware of everything around me. The apples
were just beginning to turn from green to a blush of red, like a young
girl’s cheeks when told by an adoring boy who thinks she is the most
beautiful thing in the whole, immense world. I watched as a robin
finished his carnivorous breakfast, the end of the worm protruding
from its beak, as I weaved through the grove, rambling between rows
of trees like I belonged there. For a boy that never seemed to belong
anywhere, the simplicity of nature always seemed comfortable to me.
I have always felt most at home in the fields, forests, and mountains.
Beyond the grove was a large field of hay. Soon the neighbor who
leased the land would do the second cutting of the summer, when the
hay was tall and dry. They would sell it as animal fodder. I watched
as each stem bent in unison with the wind like a choir bowing to
applause. The early morning dew clung to the seed head as the sun
reflected off each droplet making the field look like a million
diamonds and making me feel as though I was king of the bounty. For
only a moment I had forgotten my troubles and lived in this moment
of bliss.
A rabbit jumped up in the high grass just to my left. Instinctively,
I lifted the shotgun to my shoulder and aimed. Leading the rabbit
perfectly, I was sure to make the kill when, slowly, I lowered the gun
and watched the game slide safely within some brush. There would be
no killing today.
 Bellamy 285

I walked over the crest of the hill and found a fallen tree to sit
upon. Looking down into the valley, I saw a pond and watched as
three mallards circled its edge and gracefully glided to the water.
Simone would have loved this spot, I thought to myself.
I looked out upon the mountain filled with Eastern Hemlock as
far as the eye could see. Little did I know that 50 years later 80% of
Pennsylvania’s state tree would be eliminated by the non-native
invasive hemlock woolly adelgid. There has always been death where
something that does not belong is introduced into an unsolicited
environment.
My stomach began to growl as I walked back to the little
farmhouse. Aunt Polina would be cooking breakfast and expecting me
back soon. Passing the outhouse, I nearly lost my appetite from the
stench, but as I came upon the springhouse, I could smell onions
cooking. Thick slices of scrapple, eggs and perogies with onion were
frying on the cast iron stove. Aunt Polina shouted something in
Ukrainian and motioned for me to wash my hands outside at the well
where a bar of homemade soap sat next to the hand pump.
Having cleaned my hands, I walked into the tiny kitchen and
watched as Aunt Polina poured a glass of goat’s milk and placed it in
front of me. It would be Aunt Polina and me for breakfast. Cousin
Marko was sleeping off a late night of meaningful conversation with
someone he had never met and who lived some 4,900 miles away.
After breakfast I headed out to the chicken coop without being
asked, grabbed a rake, shovel, and wheel barrel, and began the task of
cleaning the chicken commune. I made sure to close and latch the
flimsy door, having learned the hard way that you do that first, and
very quickly. Once I had taken the time to lean the tools against the
fence before securing the door to the coop and a half dozen hens saw
their opportunity at freedom and made a run for it. Aunt Polina had
seen it from the kitchen window and ran after them with a broom in
her hand cursing me in Ukrainian.
I was not in the henhouse for more than a few minutes when a big
ol’ cock came cautiously strutting toward me. He lifted one paw at a
time and holding it in the air for what seemed to be at least a minute
or two. Clearly, this was the top cockerel, being unequivocally larger
286 G. Bradley Davis

than the rest of the brood. The rooster had a mean look in his eye as he
extended his neck in obvious intimidation. Calculatedly, the bird
puffed up his feathers, clucked, then crowed loudly, and aggressively
approached me. I got the impression that this nasty cock was not fond
of me. The cock would run to my left and then to my right, never
taking its eyes off of me. The rooster flapped his wings and started
dancing in a tight circle. This is not going to be an easy job, I thought.
Having survived the few pecks I received on my shins, I thanked
Aunt Polina with gestures, a kiss and a hug, and drove up the gravel
road. The short retreat did not do what I had hoped it would. Perry
was on my mind and haunting my conscience. Nothing seemed to
work as a distraction. Well, almost nothing.
On the way home my stomach began that Oh no! feeling one gets
when something you ate wants to get the heck out of your
body…quickly. Whatever it was had proceeded from the vomit stage
and was now screaming inside the walls of my intestines, begging for
an exit. I could not decide if it was the goat’s milk or the scrapple that
was in rebellion, but it really did not matter what the culprit was, I
needed to find a bathroom, and fast. Thankfully, I saw the familiar
dinosaur sign indicating that I was approaching a Sinclair gas station.
Never had I been more enamored with wanting to be a paleontologist.
Knowing I had the green apple quick step, I headed straight to the
restroom, which, regrettably, was locked. Hurriedly, I went to the
counter inside the station, interrupted the attendant who was giving
change to an elderly lady and begged for the bathroom key. The
attendant, sensing that I had the backdoor trot and not wanting to
have to clean up the liquid stool all over his grease-stained floor,
quickly handed me the key which was attached to a large piece of
wood by a brass-colored chain. The elderly lady had beaten me to the
oasis and was trying the handle to the only restroom the gas station
had, when I pushed her aside, unlocked the door and took a seat. The
lady, upset by the rude actions by the clearly bad-mannered teenager,
waited outside the door preparing to give me more than a “piece” of
her mind. However, upon hearing the explosion of anal blasts and
clatter, she thought better of it and, at a remarkable pace, got in her car
and drove away.
 Bellamy 287

Monday morning arrived earlier than usual, or at least that is how I

perceived it. The trial was to resume at 9 a.m. that morning, but I could
not get the previous day’s news out of my mind. The Sunday
newspaper had a large section dedicated to the trial, and it had me
worried that Perry was beginning to be tried by the press. Tried and
convicted. Back then we believed that everything the press wrote was
factual. Today we know better.
I came to understand the evil power of accusations. Something
does not have to be true to have a long-term, destructive and
cancerous effect. It does not take long for the accusation to be caressed
in the public’s mind, where it is nurtured and fed until it gives birth to
some warped edifice of “truth.” The sad and sobering truth, I realized,
is that people prefer to believe the bad rather than the good. Dirty
laundry. It is bad news that people tune in to hear. That is what sells
newspapers; the power of accusation. Guilty until proven innocent,
and even when proven innocent, the strong concrete foundation of
assumed guilt is so strong that a shadow of doubt always lingers in
people’s minds.
Muskrat had decided to take a day off from his job at Joe’s Market
and join me at the trial, albeit for a different reason. One of Muskrat’s
favorite movies was To Kill a Mockingbird. Ever since he first saw the
flick, and he had seen it seven times, he wanted to become a lawyer
and emulate Atticus Finch. He saw this as an opportunity to observe
a real murder case that was too good to pass up. He also wanted a
diversion from watching his father slowly deteriorate before his
family’s eyes. He picked me up in his Lucerne blue 70 GTO, a
possession more precious to him than his girlfriend, Tina. By the time
we found a free parking space, four blocks from the courthouse, the
trial had already begun. Luckily, we found the last two seats in the
gallery.
The prosecutor talked endlessly layering each piece of
circumstantial “evidence” upon the last. I listened carefully to the
ADA’s rhetoric feeling more and more confident that Perry would be
288 G. Bradley Davis

acquitted due to the weak case that was being presented. There would
be no need for me to come forward with Perry’s alibi.

It had been a little over a month since I had last seen Simone when I
found out that she had begun dating the star running back on the high
school football team. But of course, she has! Serves me right!
I mentally critiqued my new competition by visualizing Simone
kissing him. He had an athletic build and a perfectly shaped afro. He
is taller, stronger and better looking than me. What the hell does she see in
him? The comical thought made me laugh out loud. Just like my Uncle
Ernie. My uncle would buy a new Cadillac every year, and I felt that I
had been traded in for a newer, shiner model. After all, who wants to
be seen in last year’s model.
I went home and immediately went down to my dark and damp
bedroom. I turned on the Realistic stereo and listened to the first song
that came on WIFI, the local pop radio station. The Chi-Lites began
singing Have You Seen Her?
“How could so much go so wrong so quickly,” I thought. “I
should go get Simone back.” But I knew I simply did not have the fight
in me. It seemed as though my heart had been sucked out my chest, as
if I no longer had one.
Bellamy had been on my bed, laying on his side. “To hell with her.
You don’t need her.” I was taken back by Bellamy’s harsh response. It
was not Simone’s fault; it was my culpability. I had discounted her. I
had painted a masterpiece for her. A painting of a safe, respected,
loving relationship, but when the paint dried, nothing was left but a
counterfeit relationship. One based on my conscious fear of failure to
comply with social norms and that others would never view me as
highly as they had before. The comical thing was that people did not
view me very highly. I was kidding myself. Thanks to my actions,
Simone went from feeling she could dance on the petals of a sunflower
to feeling like a rusted sardine can. The questions she would have for
me had no answer. She was left to fill-in the answers for a test she
 Bellamy 289

never studied for. There is no way to receive a passing grade in that

scenario.
“Come on, let’s play wall ball,” suggested Bellamy.
Wall ball was Bellamy’s favorite game. He liked it because the two
of us could play alone. It did not need more than one…or two to play.
I knew he was trying to distract me from the Perry-Simone dark cloud,
but I had no desire to play. Not only had Perry’s trial taken any desire
to have any fun, but Bellamy’s rude attitude towards Simone
eliminated any chance of me wanting to be with him.
I needed to be alone, and I knew the perfect place. Floaties, the
cemetery pond, was always my haven. A safe place among the shade
of the black alders, hedge maples and sycamores. Bellamy was not
invited.
As I was approaching the pond, I saw a car parked just off the
road. I got of my bike and walked it slowly to get a better look. It was
Choo-Choo’s stepfather. He was inside the yellow police tape and was
putting something in his pocket. With a quick pace, he walked back to
his car and drove away in the opposite direction from where I was
standing.
I propped my bicycle against my favorite tree, an old and large
sycamore with its bark peeling off in large chunks. I took a seat on the
bridge, my feet dangling above the still water. Why was he at the pond?
Returning to the scene of the crime? Possibly, it was nothing more than
curiosity, but why would he even care? He had no regard for Choo-Choo.
Two eastern painted turtles sat as if frozen on a half-submerged
limb that had taken a swan dive from its elevated home months before.
I watched as a grey catbird landed on a stump and offered its
repertoire of sounds, from meowing to confirm its name, to whistles
and then chirps. I spanned the perimeter of the pond spotting frogs
who mistakenly believed they were camouflaged.
Everything was linked together out there, the pond, the fish, the
birds, the trees, the turtles, the frogs, the snakes, the lily pads. One
needed the other for survival. But the circle of life that was present at
the pond also included death, of course, but not only the obvious
gravestones and above ground tombs that resembled a sarcophagus.
The dried skeletal remains of a fish that a racoon had enjoyed for a
290 G. Bradley Davis

predawn meal was lying at the edge of the pond. A sparrow that, at
first, appeared intact, was the centerpiece for a congregation of ants. It
was probably the victim of an herbicide the cemetery groundskeeper
had spread to keep the field of death alive and green. The aesthetics of
a mirage, masking what it kills, only so it can provide the gravestone
visitor subliminal beauty while mourning.

Mr. Larsen sat with Perry explaining how he was going to continue
presenting their case for the upcoming day. Instead of concentrating
on Perry’s innocence, he thought it best to show the jury that the
prosecution literally had no proof. He would take each argument that
the prosecution had made and, step-by-step, show how that argument
had either no evidence to support it or that it was simply irrelevant.
He felt strongly that he could discredit several of the state’s witnesses
as well, beginning with the lead detective.
“Perry, I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to
say. I think we have a strong case. In fact, this case should have already
been dismissed. But that the fact that it has not is the point I’m trying
to make. We are fighting an invisible enemy; one that can be identified,
but not seen, and it’s nearly impossible to fight an invisible foe. You
are accused of a heinous crime. You are fighting both prejudice in the
jurors’ minds as well as preconceptions about homosexuals. They think
that because you are a homosexual that you are also a pedophile. Their
perception of homosexuality is that it is a perversion that is prevalent
in impulsive men. To think that a gay man would then sexually assault
and murder a teenage boy is not that far of a jump. You need to know
that.
You are the accused. You are suffering enormously from the
stigma created by a dozen intolerant and ignorant people who have
tremendous power to decide your fate. You have been under a lifelong
suspicion long before Charlie Cardin was murdered.
You need one solid piece of evidence for the jury to not be able to
get out of their minds. Perry, I know I sound like a broken record but,
 Bellamy 291

you need an alibi. We are down to the two-minute warning. We are

desperate. We need your friend to come forward.”
As if he had not heard one word that his attorney just spoken,
Perry changed the subject and asked, “Do you think I should take the
stand?”
“No, Perry, that seldom goes well,” answered Larsen.
“They need to see that I am not a monster. Someone needs to
expound to the jury who exactly I am. That I could never have hurt
that boy. They need to see me as a person who cares for the youth of
this town. I am a respected business owner. I have always supported
this town. A few years ago, when they did not have the funds needed
for that year’s Little League, who was it that donated the money so
they could buy uniforms and equipment? It was me.”
“Yes,” responded Larsen, “and they would not allow your flower
shop to be printed on the uniforms. Sure, they took your money, but
they did not acknowledge you. Look Perry, the simple truth is that
there is a deep-rooted prejudice against gay people. I am alienated by
other lawyers because I am gay. When the members of the Union
League found out I was gay, my membership was terminated. The
other men at our table would not speak to me and Mort Dexter, the
Real Estate mogul, was livid when he found out. I thought he was a
friend, but he has not spoken to me since.”
Perry looked aimlessly beyond Larsen. “At this point, what choice
do we have? What harm can it do? I realize that we are rolling the dice,
but if I do not testify, we will certainly lose the case.”
Looking off and pondering the choices, Larsen reluctantly agreed.
“Unfortunately, you may be right. Okay, let’s spend some time
preparing you for the inevitably difficult cross examination.”
292 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
History has proven that “Majority Rules” is dangerous,
simply because the majority is senseless.

M
y second wife would tell me that I am an introvert who
expresses himself as an extravert, which is to say, I can be
quite gregarious in a crowd of people. But I prefer to be
by myself. I am not sure if that is the result of years of
disappointments from others, if not disappointment in myself. I do
find it curious that I hated my loneliness as a child, and yet now,
embrace it. My first wife would tell me that no one could ever love me
enough, and my third wife simply said I was insane. Perhaps all three
were correct. All I know is that my desire for self-isolation became
more than attractive as I went through this stage in my life and even
more so as I got older. The combination of events and experiences back
then caused withdrawal, and I began to retreat from the masses.

Perry entered the courtroom dressed in a cream-colored dickey and a

beige corduroy jacket. His appearance was tired, and his face drawn.
Clearly the trial was having a draining effect on the gentleman florist.
“I’d like to call Dr. Jacob Cohen to the stand,” Mr. Larsen stated.
After being sworn in, the tall, balding man with a comb-over took
the seat in the witness stand. The doctor wore a poorly fitted gray
suitcoat and a white shirt that, apparently, he had forgotten to put the
collar stays in as the collar points were curling up. Mr. Larsen began
his questioning.
“Dr. Cohen, would you please state your occupation?”
 Bellamy 293

“I’m the First Deputy Coroner of Montgomery County. I am also

acting pathologist for the county until Dr. Nicholas returns from a
short leave of absence due to a health issue.”
“And what is your responsibility as First Deputy Coroner?”
Larsen asked.
“To deliver high quality professional forensic and laboratory
services to the citizens of Montgomery County,” responded Dr.
Cohen.
“And in a murder case, what else might that entail?”
“To establish the cause and manner of death.”
“Were you able to determine the time of death?”
“Between four and six o’clock the day before the body was
found.”
“How accurate is your analysis of the time of death, doctor? Could
it, say, have happened at 3 o’clock? 7 o’clock?”
The coroner clearly was becoming increasingly uncomfortable
with the questioning. “That is possible. The time of death is an
approximation.”
Attorney Larsen walked back to his table and looked at some
notes he had written on a yellow legal pad. From his table he looked
up and asked, “Did you determine that Charlie Cardin was sexually
molested?”
“Yes, I did,” answered Dr. Cohen.
“What made you come to that conclusion, doctor?”
“Semen found on the victim’s body.”
“Was any semen found in the victim’s anus or mouth, doctor?”
“Well, no,” the coroner reluctantly replied.
“Where was this semen found?”
“On the boy’s pants,” Dr. Cohen responded.
“Couldn’t that have come from the victim having masturbated at
some point prior to his death?”
There was no response from the coroner who was pondering the
question as if he had never thought of that possibility.
“Doctor Cohen, I ask you again. Couldn’t that semen have come
from the victim himself and isn’t it true there was no evidence of a
sexual assault?”
294 G. Bradley Davis

In a softer tone, the doctor answered, “I suppose so, but….

“Just yes or no, Doctor Cohen. Was there any evidence of anal
penetration on the victim?”
“It was inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive? Wouldn’t that be easy to ascertain, doctor?”
Larsen asked as he walked closer to the witness stand.
“The victim had been in the water for at least twelve hours. He
had goose flesh. Decomposition changes advance more slowly in the
water, primarily due to cooler temperatures and the anaerobic
environment. Once a body is removed from the water, putrefaction
will likely be accelerated.”
“That’s all fascinating, doctor, but I don’t presume any of our
jurors have a medical degree. Just to clarify, the goose flesh, as you call
it, is a marked wrinkling of the skin and eventual sloughing of skin,
also known as washerwoman changes.
“Correct,” responded the doctor.
“Doesn’t that goose flesh make it impossible to tell whether or not
any penetration had taken place?”
“The anaerobic nature of decomposition for a submerged corpse
may result in adipocere formation, a unique process that results from
incomplete transformation of lipids by bacteria.”
Pushing the doctor for a concise response, Larsen, placing his
hand on the edge of the witness box, asked, “Please answer simply
yes, or no. Could you tell, with certainty, that Charles Cardin was
sexually assaulted?
“Not with 100% certainty.”
“In fact, establishing sexual assault and even the cause of death is
difficult enough without adding the postmortem changes that
naturally take place. So, we have absolutely no evidence or proof that
Charlie Cardin was sexually assaulted. Was it you who gave the press
the misinformation that the Charlie Cardin was sexually assaulted?”
Larsen asked with a bit of anger in his voice.
“Objection, argumentative,” barked the ADA, the words coming
out of his mouth before he stood.
“Objection overruled,” stated the judge. “I’d like to hear where
this fabrication of the truth came from.”
 Bellamy 295

“I don’t remember,” answer Dr. Cohen.

“In fact, it did come from your office, doctor. Wasn’t it the
Assistant Deputy Coroner, John Tyson who provided those lies to the
press, and wasn’t it a friend of his, a reporter from the Philadelphia
Inquirer, that helped him shape this web of lies?”
“Objection!” shouted ADA Fitzpatrick. “Hearsay and
argumentative!”
“Withdrawn,” responded Mr. Larsen. “I have one more question
for you, Dr. Cohen. Is it not true that many of the bruises found on
Charlie Cardin’s body were old injuries that occurred days or even a
week before his death?”
“Yes,” answered the doctor.
Mr. Larsen paused, as if thinking how exactly to proceed with the
corner’s agreement. “An accurate interpretation of bruising at
necropsy is essential to understanding how a victim was injured. This
helps the pathologist in a reliable reconstruction of the events leading
to his death and whether there were older injuries consistent with
being habitually abused, say at home, by a parent?”
“Objection, your honor,” the ADA repeated.
“I have no further questions. Your witness.”
ADA Fitzpatrick briskly walked close to the witness stand and
asked, “Doctor, have you ever performed an autopsy on a body that
was submerged in the water?”
“Yes, at least a dozen times,” answered the Dr. Cohen.
“And haven’t you received praise from your colleagues on the
work and conclusions you documented in several of these cases?”
“That is true.”
“No further questions, your honor.” Larsen stood and stated,
“The defense would like to recall Detective Jorge Herrera to the
stand.” After the judge reminded the detective that he was he still
under oath, Mr. Larsen began his questioning. “Detective, you were
the lead investigator in this case, were you not?”
“I was,” answered Detective Herrera.
“What was it about my client that made him a suspect?”
“He was the last person who saw the victim alive,” answered
Detective Herrera.
296 G. Bradley Davis

“How did you determine that?” asked Mr. Larsen.

“We found a note in the victim’s pocket written by Mr.
Strathmore.”
“Could the note have been written and received on a day other
than the day Charlie was murdered?”
“It could have been, but we assumed the victim wasn’t wearing
the same pair of shorts two days in a row,” responded Herrera.
“You assumed? As a detective, do you make it a habit to make
assumptions?”
“Objection!” barked the ADA.
“I’ll reword, your Honor. Detective Herrera, isn’t it dangerous to
make assumptions in an investigation? Can’t that lead to false
conclusions?”
“It can,” agreed the detective. “However, in this case it didn’t.
Your client admitted to writing the note. He lied about when he wrote
it, and he lied about which day it was that Charlie Cardin raked his
leaves.”
Attorney Larsen continued to remove the detective’s confident
and arrogant outer layer to the real person beneath the façade, like an
apple peeled back to reveal its flesh.
“How do you know he lied about what day Charlie did the work
for Mr. Strathmore?”
“His neighbor, Mrs. Buettner, said she saw Charlie Cardon in Mr.
Strathmore’s yard the same day he was murdered.”
“Didn’t she say it was either that Wednesday or Thursday, she
couldn’t remember?” asked Perry’s lawyer.
“I don’t recall,” answered the detective.
Attorney Larsen walked back to his table and picked up a yellow
legal pad, looked at it briefly, then tossed it on the table. His head hung
low, as if pondering whether he should state what was on his mind.
He decided to.
“Detective, is it not true that you have a hatred for homosexuals,
and you are repulsed by the idea of intimate contact with a member of
the same sex?”
“Excuse me, your honor, objection on the grounds of irrelevance.”
Mr. Fitzpatrick said as he got up from his chair.
 Bellamy 297

“Which part of the statement was irrelevant?’ asked the judge.

“The detective’s personal opinion on homosexuality is irrelevant.
Mr. Herrera is not the one on trial here.”
Mr. Larsen took a few steps toward the judge and responded.
“Your honor, I am attempting to expose the detective’s paranoia and
bias towards homosexuals in general and my client specifically. This
bias led to the hasty arrest of my client which led to the district
attorney’s office charging him with this murder. The District Attorney
was the one who opened the door regarding my client’s sexuality.”
“So, he did. Objection sustained, but Mr. Larsen, you better tread
lightly,” the judge said.
Mr. Larsen nodded his head to the judge; acknowledging that he
understood. “Let me reword the question. Mr. Herrera, do you believe
all homosexuals are pedophiles?”
“Not all,” answered the detective.
“Do you believe most homosexuals are pedophiles?”
Detective Herrera did not hesitate to answer the question. “It’s
been proven that a lot of homosexuals are pedophiles.”
“Really,” responded Larsen with a louder tone. “And what
legitimate statistics do you have to back-up that preposterous
statement?”
“I can’t remember where I read it.”
“You cannot remember, because it’s not so. Detective, this is an
article written by the University of Pennsylvania Psychology
Department based on seven years of research. Would you please read
the highlighted section?”
Detective Herrera glanced over the article Mr. Larsen handed him
before beginning to read it out loud. “The conclusion of this study
shows there is no evidence that gay men or lesbians are any more
likely than heterosexuals to molest children than heterosexual
individuals. In fact, research proves that the vast majority of child
molesters target children in their circle of family and friends, and the
majority are men married to women.” The detective took off his
glasses and looked up with a look of defeat.
“Detective, Dr. Cohen testified that Charlie’s tongue had been
removed. Did anyone ever find the tongue?”
298 G. Bradley Davis

“Not that I know of.”

“Wouldn’t you, as lead detective, know if it had been found?”
“Sure,” the detective answered.
“So, the tongue was never found at the defendant’s house when a
thorough search was conducted by your detectives?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
After the trial I had spoken to Mr. Larsen and he told me that the
tongue had been mailed to the detective’s office in an empty box of
Good & Plenty. What we did not know was when exactly it was
delivered. One thing is for sure, Perry could not have mailed it.
“Thank you, detective. I have no further questions for this
witness.”
ADA Fitzpatrick stood and said, “I have one question for this
witness. Detective Herrera, was the relationship between Mr.
Strathmore and Charlie Cardin known to anyone else?”
“Not that we could gather,” responded the detective.
“If no one knew of this relationship, wouldn’t you say that Mr.
Strathmore would do anything, even murder Charlie, to keep their
relationship secret.”
“Objection!” called Mr. Larsen, “That’s a leading question
requiring a conclusion.”
“I’ll withdrawal the question,” responded the ADA.
My mind was running sprints through the lanes of thoughts as I
tried to segregate them and concentrate on only one. For some reason,
my thoughts came to Choo-Choo’s tattoo. Charlie. If only you could have
put on your Superman cape and flown away from your assailant or, better
yet, had beat him up.

The following day, Mr. Larsen called Perry to the stand as planned.
He asked questions which were intended to bring credibility to his
client’s integrity. He illuminated Perry’s generosity towards the
community. Specifically, that he had no prior arrests, not even a
parking ticket, and his flower shop had provided flowers free of
 Bellamy 299

charge for a funeral of an elderly gentleman in the community whose

family had no money to purchase them on their own.
I looked at Perry sitting on the witness stand, thinking how he
should not be up there on display. Perry is my friend. There, I said it. He
was the only one who really tried to understand me without wanting
anything in return. He saw something in me that others had not. He never
talked about his sexuality to me. Why would he?
When the cross examination came, it came with despicable bias
and false assumptions and, the ADA saved the best for last.
“Mr. Strathmore, I would like you to take a look at this torn
envelope with Charlie’s name on it. Is this your handwriting?”
“Yes,” answered Perry.
“Now open the envelope and tell the court, was that note also
written by you?”
“Yes, it was,” Answered Perry
“Please read it out loud.”
“Charlie, I am grateful for the job you did for me. You are a beautiful
young man. Please never forget that!”
Whispering and chatter from the gallery filled the court room. The
judge banged his gravel and demanded order be restored to the
courtroom. ADA Fitzpatrick leaned over the banister and looked
closely at Perry.
“Mr. Strathmore, what were you referring to when you said you
were grateful for what Charlie did for you?”
Perry turned from the prosecutor and looked directly at me, not
with an accusatory look, but one of sympathy. Thinking that it was
impossible for me heart to sink and lower, I pondered whether Perry
could see through me and understand that I lacked the courage to live
an authentic life. Most people do lack that ability, of course, but my
lack of authenticity was going to suffocate Perry.
“For the good job he did raking my leaves. He was a boy who
lacked confidence and approval. I was simply trying to encourage
him. He needed a friend, that’s all.” Perry’s words fell limp on the
banister that stood in front of the witness chair.
“A friend? A friend? And why does a grown man want to be
friends with a teenage boy?” the prosecutor asked.
300 G. Bradley Davis

“Objection!” Perry’s attorney shouted. “The prosecution is being

argumentative.”
“Sustained,” the judge responded. “The jury will disregard the
last question.”
Muskrat leaned over to me and whispered, “Strathmore’s
screwed.”
“I’ll withdrawal the question.” responded Fitzpatrick, “Is
beautiful an adjective that a grown man uses to describe a boy?”
“Like I already said, Charlie was insecure and felt unwanted. He
may have been a little slow, but he did not need to be constantly
reminded of it. At home, at school, by the neighborhood kids. I believe
that if someone starts hearing compliments and positive
reinforcement, they eventually begin to believe it.” It appeared as
though Perry felt like one of his butterflies pinned to a spreading
board.
“I’m glad to see that you are a self-educated psychologist as well
as a florist, Mr. Strathmore.”
“Objection!” Shouted Mr. Larsen. “The question is sarcastic and
argumentative.”
“Withdrawn, your Honor. I have no further questions for this
witness,” the prosecutor said as he walked back to his chair.
The judge looked at his watch then proclaimed the court was
adjourned until Monday morning at 9:30, when closing arguments
would be heard.

After the prosecution regurgitated the inferred evidence and their

clumsy attempt to “connect-the-dots” with the evidence they did have,
it was Attorney Larsen’s opportunity to give his closing arguments for
the defense.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your service and sacrifice
in this case. Circumstantial evidence, bias, false information that had
been leaked to the press are all you have heard from the prosecution.
The prosecution had the burden of proof, a burden they still possess.
They still have this burden because nothing at all has been proven by
 Bellamy 301

them during this entire trial. They certainly have not proved beyond a
shadow of a doubt that my client did anything wrong, let alone
murder Charles Cardin. The Abington Police Department and the
county District Attorney’s office never pursued leads or questioned
any suspects other than Perry Strathmore. They never considered the
victim’s stepfather, who had frequently abused the young man.
Charlie Cardin’s pastor, although not arrested yet, resigned his
position due to allegations of improper contact with young boys. Both
individuals should have been viable suspects, but the police decided
Mr. Strathmore was guilty long before this trial began and by doing
so, never performed a thorough investigation. Shame on them!”
And what about Mongrel, I mused? He was arrested for assault and had
a reputation for beating up neighborhood kids.
Mr. Larsen continued. “The district attorney has not proven that
Perry Strathmore murdered Charlie Cardin. He proved that Mr.
Strathmere is a homosexual and that is not what he’s on trial for. He
will gladly plead guilty to the charge of homosexuality. What a
horrible offense! The prosecution has done an atrocious injustice to
this man. Do you find homosexuality to be a sin and an abomination
under your eyes? Fine, but so is bearing false witness and punishing
an innocent man. They are sins, as well, ladies and gentlemen.
You are charged with the responsibility to find the defendant
guilty only if there is proof beyond a shadow of a doubt. Ladies and
gentlemen, there was not only a shadow of a doubt that Mr.
Strathmore never hurt Charlie Cardin, but there is also an eclipse of
doubt causing a darkness to fall upon this courtroom. Bring just
sunshine into this courtroom and make a statement that this charade
of a case and the false accusations brought against my client, will not
be tolerated. With courage, find Mr. Strathmore not guilty. Make a
statement here today that regardless of a person’s skin color, ethnicity,
or even sexual orientation, they deserve decency, fairness and the
pursuit of happiness. Thank you.”
Yes…courage.
The jury never heard about a similar murder that had taken place
a few days earlier in Lansdale, a semi-rural town 12 miles northwest
of North Hills. The local newspaper in the North Penn area reported
302 G. Bradley Davis

that a young boy, labeled as retarded, had been sexually assaulted and
strangled. The body had been found in a farm pond. There were too
many similarities to Choo-Choo’s murder for the connection to be
ignored. A hog farmer, the same one who had been delivering
butchered hogs to Joe’s Market, had been arrested and was sitting in
the same jailhouse Perry was in. But the jury had been in deliberations
at the time of the arrest and never heard about this case. No one
brought up the name of Reverend Markey. Choo-Choo’s stepfather
was briefly questioned and released. His alibi? He had been in his
patrol car with his partner.

The next day a large crowd had gathered outside the courthouse
anxiously waiting the much-anticipated verdict. Those who had been
lucky enough to secure a seat in the courtroom had arrived at sunrise
and formed a line outside the building.
The jury had deliberated for only three hours when they were
ushered into the courtroom. I knew Perry’s stomach resembled a ride
down Philadelphia’s pot-hole-riddled Front Street. It appeared that he
had not slept at all. Perry looked pensive as he stared out at the
window to see if the Monarch had returned. It had, but its appearance
was weathered. With wings closed, it slowly walked up the wired
glass, glass which had a grid of thin metal wire embedded within it,
but the butterfly seemed lethargic. Within minutes, the Monarch
started to deflate, and its chrysalises began to turn dark brown and
pupate.
“All rise.” stated the Bailiff in a sturdy tone. “The District Court
of the State of Pennsylvania is now in session. The Honorable Judge
Hoskins presiding.”
“Please be seated,” the judge said.
The jury foreman walked deliberately to the Bailiff and handed
him the verdict, who then gave it to the judge. The judge read the
verdict and returned it to the bailiff who then gave back to the Jury
Foreman to read to the Court.
“Have you reached a verdict?” asked the judge.
 Bellamy 303

“Yes, your honor,” answered the foreman.

“Will the defendant please stand?” Looking at the jury the judge
continued. “What say you?”
“We the jury, in the case of The State of Pennsylvania versus Perry
Strathmore, find the defendant guilty of the charge of first-degree
murder.”
A choir of applause flowed from the gallery. Perry made no
visible reaction to the verdict as his eyes were transfixed on the
butterfly which was dangling by one fragile leg that was still attached
to the window. He never heard the judge thank the jury for their
service, nor announce that the sentencing phase of the trial would take
place the following week. He did not hear the judge adjourn the court
as he was led by two sheriffs out of the courtroom. He never felt his
attorney’s arm around his shoulders, nor him saying that they would
appeal. He heard the nothingness that accompanies the injustice of
being tried for who you are rather than what you did or did not do.
Perry had become just another victim of the ignorance and prejudice
that comes from a preconceived fallacy and fear of the unknown.
304 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
There is no such thing as common sense. There is only rare
sense.

M
uskrat and I left the courthouse from the rear entrance
and got into his car.
“You wanna do anything?” Muskrat asked.
“No. I’m beat,” I said, trying to give some kind of
excuse why I did not feel like talking and had no desire to be in
anyone’s company. “Just drop me off at home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After I got home, I went into the garage and grabbed my bicycle
and rode aimlessly. I found a park bench near the Glenside Library
and sat down. There was no one within sight. I sat emotionless and
watched a panting dog lift his leg to pee on an azalea bush. After what
seemed like a very long time, I jumped on my sunset orange Schwinn
Super Sport and headed home in bemusement, the words banging
repeatedly against the walls of my mind…guilty!
I did not notice the neon ice cream cone that was perched above
Jack Frost and had not seen the canary yellow De Tomaso Pantera, my
favorite car at the time, parked at the Kenyon diner. I also failed to see
the UPS truck that nearly hit me as I crossed Limekiln Pike that was
heavy with traffic. I peddled imprecisely in a fog.
Guilty! The verdict came as no surprise to many, yet it took me off
guard, leaving me with a perplexity of emotions. I had convinced
myself that Perry would undoubtedly be acquitted. I had failed my
friend; I had failed myself. The demon of cowardice had won, but I
knew that it would never stop harassing me unless I made some
drastic changes and started doing what I knew should have done all
along.
 Bellamy 305

The sad truth is, when one places themselves in a situation which
would expose their inner secrets, most will choose the cowardly way
out. People who have disdain for abortion will often have one
themselves when discovering they are pregnant, rather than face the
rejection and criticism of loved ones. A person will join along with
those who criticize and ridicule a person, or will remain silent, rather
than opposing the group and defending the individual being attacked.
Safety in numbers? No one likes to be the Lone Ranger. Truth is, most
people are cowards.
I could not quiet my thoughts. There were dozens of times in the
past when I assumed I had reached the lowest place possible, but now
I found myself at a new cellar. It seemed like someone had opened the
trap door at the floor of a bottomless pit. I had no one to share my grief
with. Hell, no one knew all the intricate details of the situation, so how
could they empathize? There was no one to purge the pain that rotted
deep in my soul. No one who could comfort me. As so many times
before, no one to understand me, that is, except Bellamy, and I had
become increasingly distant from him. I was beginning to question
both his empathy and his authenticity. The more I questioned
Bellamy’s existence, the less Bellamy had come around.
Bellamy was so much apart of me, so much so, that I had difficulty
distinguishing him from me. He always appeared wiser than me, more
confident that I was. He increasingly encouraged me to act on my
impulses; impulses that I had always stifled. He wanted me to react to
situations. He told me that by withholding my desired reactions to
things, I was becoming anxious, and it was chiseling away at my
already low self-esteem. He was right. It was time to act.
I knew what I had to do, and I was now willing to proceed, but I
needed to determine how I would do it. I had feared that when a
critical time came, and I knew it would come, that I would reach into
a cavern void of courage and that is exactly what happened. I longed
for the opportunity to prove I had a backbone, but was still petrified
of that same opportunity. A paradox of wills…and I had failed. Not
again! This is where things change, beginning now!
Like the lion in The Wizard of Oz, I believed that my fear made me
inadequate, but that fictious lion was, in fact, brave; he simply doubted
306 G. Bradley Davis

himself. I certainly lacked that kind of confidence. I was still searching

for that moment when I would be brave. I needed to start anew. A new
life, a new location and environment where my history was unknown
to others. College was not an option given my low high school GPA. I
knew there was only one option: the military.
I was torn between joining the valiant ground troops of the
Marines or enlisting in the Navy and becoming a River Rat in Nam,
the only men in the history of the Navy authorized to wear the black
beret. These men patrolled the brown water of the Mekong River Delta
and the numerous distributaries in southwest Vietnam. These were
the men who fought the Viet Cong, who used thick vegetation along
the water to their advantage. There would be no place for me to hide.
Kill or be killed. That is where I could prove I was a man.
Four or five blocks before I reached Hawthorne Road, I saw a few
bicycles propped up against a large Maple tree. Approaching the street
corner, I saw it was my nemesis, Mongrel and his faithful sidekick,
Benny. As I slowed to make my turn on to Hawthorne, I caught a
blurry glimpse of the rock Mongrel had thrown, perfectly leading the
bicycle. Before I could react, I felt the sting on the right-side of my knee
as the stone cut deep against my flesh. As if instinctively, I swung my
injured leg over the crossbar and balanced myself on one pedal as the
bike glided to a stop.
Laying my bike on the grass at the corner of the intersection, I
walked briskly toward the now laughing Mongrel. Without hesitation,
I threw a right hook as hard as I could, landing squarely into Mongrel’s
nose, shattering it. Sensing the danger I was in, I followed with a
vicious uppercut, dropping my tormentor on his back. With blurry
eyes from the tears caused by the broken nose, a stunned Mongrel
placed his hands behind him in an attempt to get up and gather
himself. Before he had a chance to, I dove on to his chest, unleashing
a rapid series of jabs to Mongrel’s bloody face that were fueled by a
lifetime of built-up anger. The self-hate, the repeated failures, the
disappointments, and the numerous ridicules joined forces to create a
right cross with incredible knockout power.
A dumbfounded Benny, finally realizing that his mentor needed
help, pulled me by my shoulders and freed the large bully, but
 Bellamy 307

Mongrel’s face was bloodied and his confidence had been

traumatized. Once Mongrel got to his knees, I began kicking hard into
the beast’s ribs until I was utterly exhausted.
“Get up, you piece of dog shit! Get up,” I yelled.
After a few minutes when it was clear that there was no fight left
in Mongrel, I got back on my Super Sport and slowly pedaled home.
The house was reverently quiet when I got home. Olivia had
gotten married to a softball-playing engineer. Audrey was in Europe
working on her Masters’ in romantic languages, and Ted was
beginning his junior year at university. Woody had walked into the
kitchen from his nap under the dining room table, shook, and walked
next to me waiting for the customary massage.
“You’re not going to see me here much longer,” I said to Woody
while continuing to rub his neck. “I’ve gotta get out of here. I’d take
you with me, buddy, but you wouldn’t be happy where I’m going. I’m
not sure I’ll be happy there either, but at least no one will know me.”
I was still feeling the anger simmering within me, but I was more
than ready to put that person I was to death and start anew.
Walking into my room, I glanced over at the aquarium. The
tadpoles had disappeared and in their place were a half dozen frogs. I
scooped each one up with my hands and placed them gently into an
empty shoebox that had a half dozen ventilation holes I had punched
through with a pencil. Securing the lid with masking tape, I grabbed
my bicycle and headed to Hillside Cemetery.
Riding the curvy roads within the graveyard, I approached
Floaties Pond, laid the bicycle down, and sat on the bank. A remnant
of yellow crime tape was still wrapped around a large sycamore. I
opened the shoebox and watched as one by one the frogs hoped over
to edge of the pond and disappeared under the water. I leaned against
the tree, much of its mottled bark had flaked off in large irregular
masses exposing gray and greenish-white areas that made the tree
look hauntingly beautiful.
I threw a stone into the pond, watching the ripples run away, just
like I was planning to do. Run away from all of this, but not before I
finished the task I had been avoiding. Starring at the water, I
contemplated the obvious. I had depleted my arsenal of arguments for
308 G. Bradley Davis

not coming forward as Perry’s alibi. Now I had no choice. An innocent

man would be executed or spend the rest of his life in prison. I would
go tomorrow to see Mr. Larsen in person.

Over the phone, Larsen ecstatic and told me there would be some
standard questions I would need to answer and some papers to sign.
He said that this changed everything and would most likely lead to
having Perry released on bail, and there would be a motion for a new
trial. He did not ask the obvious questions as to why I had waited to
come forward. I assumed he did not want to do anything to scare me
off, but the tone in his voice clearly displayed his excitement and
delight with my decision. It was too late for him to go and tell Perry
the good news that evening, but he said he would go to see him first
thing in the morning, as soon as the county jail allowed visitors.
Perry will forgive me for taking so long to come forward. He will
understand. That is the type of guy he is. I will be his savior. He will think he
was born again. I know he will be over-the-moon happy, and it will be because
of me! I had been working on convincing myself that Perry’s reaction
would not be undesirable. That just is not who Perry was. I also knew
it was time to step-up and begin this long-neglected transformation
into becoming that which I had so longed to be, but there was
something I had to do before I went to see Perry’s attorney. I needed
an exit strategy after testifying.
I had been teetering on the balance beam between an innocent
juvenile life of blissful ignorance—a life absent of consequences—and
the life of adult maturity, one where every decision has
consequences—a life that requires sensibility and responsibility. When
I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child;
but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
I rode my bike down Jenkintown Road and turned on to Keswick
Avenue, located in the heart of Glenside. I passed the Keswick Cycle
Shop where I had purchased the Schwinn Super Sport and stopped in
front of the Recruiting Station, securing my bike with a chain by
locking it to a parking meter. Life is all about decisions. Life is about three
 Bellamy 309

or four, maybe as many as a half dozen decisions that will drastically alter
your life, depending upon how you choose.
I only had one decision to make: was I going to enlist in the Navy
or the Marines. The Marines would probably be a fast track to seeing
action in Nam. The few times I had mentioned my thoughts of entering
the Corp, my father, having survived four horrid years in the Pacific
Islands during the Great War, strongly tried to persuade me against
the Marines and for the Navy. Afterall, the conflict in Vietnam was still
alive despite media reports that it was winding down.
Walking into the building, I had made up my mind to enlist in the
Marine Corp, but when I looked at the recruiter’s desk for the Corps,
it was empty. “Corporal Shaw had to leave for the day,” a sailor in
navy blue and white crackerjacks said from his desk that was facing
the marine’s desk. “Why not join the Navy and see the world?”
Was it large enough to disappear in and reinvent one’s self?
“Where do I sign?” I asked.
310 G. Bradley Davis

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
This is the law: blood spilt upon the ground cries out for
more.
—Aeschylus

I
could feel the months of stress evaporate from my life like rain
drops on a hot windshield. I would come to Perry’s rescue, and
it would be me who set Perry free. Better late than never, right? I
would be in Great Lakes Training Facility—far away from the
inevitable innuendos and sarcastic remarks by the time the folks in
North Hills heard the news of my relationship with Perry, but I really
didn’t care much what they thought of me anymore.

Having scheduled an early morning meeting with Mr. Larsen to share

my decision to come forward on Perry’s behalf, I left the house before
my parents had gotten out of bed. I knew that the attorney would ask
me why I had waited so long, and I was prepared for that. As far as I
was concerned, Larsen should be grateful that I had the courage and
decency to right a wrong. That should be all that mattered.
Larsen’s office was a few short blocks from the courthouse, a
converted white spacious home from the glory days of Norristown. I
walked up the wide steps and opened the double-wide green door
and immediately, to my right, was a receptionist who appeared to
have been crying.
“Hi. I’m Calvin Lloyd. I have an appointment with Mr. Larsen.”
 Bellamy 311

The lady stood up, wiped her nose with a tissue and walked
toward a set of doors. “Mr. Larsen is expecting you,” she said as she
opened the door.
Tim Larsen stood up from behind his desk and motioned to the
oversized chair facing him. “Hello Calvin, please have a seat.”
Without hesitation, I began explaining how Perry could not have
murdered Choo-Choo, because I had been with Perry all afternoon till
nearly 6 o’clock and shared the embarrassing reasons why I had not
come forward during the trial. “Mr. Larsen, I’ll do anything you tell
me to do just so that we can get Perry out of jail.”
Expressionless, Larsen leaned forward placing his palms upon his
desk and looked directly into my eyes. “Calvin, Perry was found dead
in his cell this morning. He hanged himself.”
I sat there trying to comprehend the words that lingered in the air
like smoke on a still August night. I said nothing, for there was nothing
to say. It is a sobering thing to be exposed to an unexpected scenario
after thinking you have solved an insoluble problem. “I believe this
note was written to you,” Larsen said as he handed me an unopened
envelope with the lone letter C written on its face.
I do not remember getting up and leaving Larsen’s office, but I do
remember that the sun was bright and steam was rising from the
streets after a brief shower had washed the filth from the city. Yet,
there was the stench that remained from which the legal process
brings. Trash was piled high, waiting for the garbage-eating trucks to
devour it and make the city clean again, but I knew that this town
could never be sanitized. The rats that wandered those streets wore 3-
piece suits and worked at the courthouse looking for cheese. They
would never feel comfortable traversing their way through the heaps
of debris that littered the streets.
Sitting on the park bench that was sparsely shaded by a wide
maple that had lost most its leaves, I opened the enveloped and
unfolded a narrow piece of paper.
312 G. Bradley Davis

C,

If one cannot step into the light for fear they will be exposed, is this
reason alone to lose another’s friendship? Not my friendship, I assure
you.
Always remember that one must be truthful with oneself, before
they can ever be truthful with others.

Forever your friend,

Bellamy droned on for an hour or more even though I hardly heard a

word, but I clearly remember him saying, “I told you that I would
never let anyone take advantage of you again. I would take matters
into my own hands if I had to, and I had to. I could no longer sit idly
by and see you coward….”
“What do you mean?” I mumbled.
“Your entire life you’ve been getting your ass kicked, and I don’t
just mean physically. People have treated you like dog shit that they
scrap off the bottom of your shoes! No one treats you with respect, so
you have to stand-up and demand it! If people do stupid stuff that’s
going to cause you grief, you have to stop them!”
I looked deeply into Bellamy’s eyes. They seemed darker.
Harsher. The brightness was gone. “Why did you do it, Bellamy? Why
did you have to kill Choo-Choo? Were you jealous of my relationship
with Perry? Were you?”
“You are pitiful,” Bellamy said as he looked at me with disgust;
as if he hated me for my accusation; or maybe for my ability to transfer
my blame to him. “You don’t get it, do you? I had to. Choo-Choo was
walking past Perry’s place when you were leaving his house that day.
You never even noticed him, because he was walking his bike up the
hill and your vision was blocked by a parked car. He knew that Perry
was queer. All the kids know that. When he saw you coming out of
 Bellamy 313

Perry’s house, I guess you became guilty by association. He was going

to tell everyone. You know how he is. He has always told everyone
everything! I lured him to the cemetery promising him that I had a girl
for him who wanted to get laid. Choo-Choo was so simple. I tried to
talk some sense into him, but he kept saying over and over ‘That man
kisses boys and licks their dicks. I’m telling your friends.’ Cal, I had to.
Oh, and that coroner got the time of death wrong by an hour. We had
left Perry’s house at six, remember? You didn’t get home until after
eight.”
Bellamy was a murderer. A murderer! But he only killed Choo-Choo to
protect me. Wouldn’t any true friend do that? He took risks. He acted, when
I could not, all so that my reputation would not be completely destroyed. I
turned my back on Bellamy, and he was gone.
314 G. Bradley Davis

EPILOGUE
I first killed an ant with a magnifying glass. Years later, a
sparrow with a slingshot. Then, I progressed to killing a
deer with a rifle. Now I prefer
killing man.

J
ust about everyone has forgotten about Choo-Choo’s murder by
now. There are only a handful of people living in North Hills who
were there when it all happened. Time tends to do that. But I
reminisce a lot.
I once was called for jury duty on a murder case. How funny is
that? I was selected as the foreperson and did an incredible job…if I
say so myself…of convincing the other eleven jurors to convict the
defendant. During the sentencing phase, we were split on whether to
give him a death sentence. Again, by my gift of persuasion, or
manipulation, I did just that. He was executed just a few years ago. I
was obsessed with finding the man guilty and allowing the state to
snuff out his life, not because he was guilty, I thought he had a good
reason to kill the person, but rather that he was so pathetically stupid
for getting caught. If you are going to commit a crime, do it by
yourself, or have an imaginary friend do it. Most people arrested and
convicted had a co-conspirator rat them out, often to receive a plea
deal. Believe me, your mother would testify against you to keep
herself out of jail. There is no honor among thieves.
I find it interesting that people’s opinion of others suddenly
improves when that person dies. I guess you should not speak ill of
the deceased. Those who elevated Choo-Choo to some elite status
when he was dead were the same people who viewed him as a
nuisance and with little value when he was alive.
 Bellamy 315

For what purpose can a civilized society justify the taking of

another’s life? That is the question, isn’t it? War? State sanctioned
punishment? Self-defense? Ah, yes! To defend oneself from harm. But
I ask you, why should self-defense be limited to physical harm? Is not
one’s emotional and mental health just as important than their
physical health? I would argue that it may be more important. You can
live with physical limitations, but you can never live with deep
emotional injuries. Not really. I believed that I killed Choo-Choo in
self-defense.
The truth is often hard to swallow. You may argue that if Bellamy
murdered Choo-Choo that, in fact, it was really me. I will not deny
that accusation, but at the time it was much more palatable to believe
it was Bellamy. My hands were clean. Blame fell on Bellamy. Trust me,
it was a much better way to live. Those who would have ridiculed me
for having Bellamy as a friend lack the advantage I held. Bellamy
willingly took that which I preferred not to handle. That is what I
would call a prefect relationship!
All these years later, you should know, I do feel the weight of
guilt, but you may wonder whether that guilt accompanies having
regrets. Not really. I did go to Perry’s attorney’s office to offer an alibi,
didn’t I? Considering the time all of this took place, the prevailing
environment in which I lived—that which influenced me and what I
had experienced—what other options did I have? I ask you this: Was
there any other way this could have turned out? I am not sure there
was. You may wonder why I made sure Choo-Choo’s body was found
naked. Well, I certainly did not sexually abuse the kid. My thoughts
were that the police would think some child molester was the culprit—
maybe Pastor Markey. On the other hand, I would have much rather
had Choo-Choo’s stepfather been convicted of the murder. Not being
convicted of the crimes he did commit, but being convicted of a crime
he did not. Now that would have been poetic justice!
So, why have I decided to share this lengthy confession with you?
Why, indeed. After so many years, I could have let things lie, and I
would have, but even now, after all these years, Perry deserves his
name and reputation to be cleared. I do not like unfinished business.
Never have. And I do believe in God and sooner or later I am going to
316 G. Bradley Davis

face Him. Sooner, it turns out. You see, I am now sitting on death row.
I have been given a death sentence; the execution date about three
months from now. This judgment was not handed down by the State,
mind you. It is a sentence that cancer has given me. Terminal, the
doctors say.
I had given my lawyer a manilla envelope with instructions not
to open it until my death. Within the envelope is this confessional story
on a thumb drive, along with a few documents. This is kind of my last
will and testament.
I cannot remember who it was that said, once a man dips his
hands in another man's blood, he will always have the desire to do it
again, or that it is easier the second time. Well, whoever it was, they
were correct.
 Bellamy 317

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is truly a “life-work,” not that it has taken me 66+ years to
write it, but that many of the stories are, in some shape or form, an
experience I had growing up. That is not to say that this body is not
fiction, because it certainly is, and with any fiction work, I have greatly
exaggerated or invented much of what is written. North Hills,
Pennsylvania is an actual town located in the suburbs of Philadelphia,
where I grew up. It is a wonderful town, and I have many good
memories growing up there. My description of it in this book is not
accurate.
I did, in fact, have an imaginary friend when I was young. Thank
you, Jock-a-Conti, for being a good friend when I needed one!
Virtually all books are influenced by other books and people who
have crossed the author’s path, and Bellamy is no exception. There are
several people who have contributed greatly to this book, and I am
extremely grateful for each of them.
Special thanks to my editor, Kevin Smith, who is also an author of
several books and, more importantly, a great friend. His insight,
thoughtful criticism, and suggestions helped make this book a much
better read. His encouragement spurred me on and my endless
questions were always received with patience and kindness.
The story about Coy and Johnny was inspired by a story my
friend, Gary Slish, had told me years ago. Gary is a wonderful
storyteller in his own right.
To my four children and three grandchildren, thank you. You will
never know how much I am blessed to have all of you in my life.
Love and gratitude to my wife, Carolyn who has listened to my
life stories endlessly. I do not know anyone who reads more than she
does, averaging a book a week. Both her extensive reading and her
318 G. Bradley Davis

experience as a high school English teacher gave me invaluable advice.

Her encouragement and love gave me what I needed to cross the finish
line.
To all the friends, relatives, and acquaintances, and to the “gang”
from North Hills, a heartfelt thank you!
My publisher, Steve Himes at Telemachus Press, patiently
answered my numerous questions about how best to present the book
to you, my readers. My daughter, Bayley Ramos, was wonderful to
work with in creating the front and back covers, even with me
changing my mind countless times. Their help made this book more
aesthetically pleasing.
 Bellamy 319

AUTHOR’S BIO

Before turning to fiction, G. Bradley Davis was the CEO of Apex

Packaging Solutions, and earned a BA in Communications from
Temple University and a Master of Arts in Theological Studies from
Bethel University. Bellamy is his second book; his first work of fiction.
An avid fisherman, he also enjoys playing golf, softball and pickleball.
He is the father of four children and three grandchildren and
currently lives on Marco Island with his wife and a vizsla named,
Clark, where he is working on his next book.

Visit the author website: www.GBradleyDavis.com