Jr.’S Angel: The Woman He Loved

© 2015 Victor C. Brown, Jr. and Joan L. Brown . All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/29/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3612-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3611-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014915155

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter One The First Week

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten The Final Year

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to friends, those special people whose love sustains and encourages us. My husband and I were best friends before we were spouses. We’ll remain friends forever.

Friends listen and offer support. My gratitude goes out to four special friends: Ma, Anna, Colleen, and Elaine whose advice and wisdom helped me not only with the proofreading of this book, but also with life’s challenges.

Three doctors helped our family when our world was especially bleak: Dr. Springer, Dr. Gu, and Doc Adams. Each man went above and beyond the call of duty to bring compassion and understanding, as well as medical expertise, to help their friend and patient.

Friends offer love that is never selfish, always inspiring. And that love is what life is all about.

CHAPTER ONE

The First Week

* Monday *

Wolfie! Knock it off! I don’t need that cold nose of yours this morning. I was warm under the covers and didn’t want to face the crisp autumn day. Except Wolfie had other ideas. The two-year-old husky knew his routine: it was time to get up and face another day. He didn’t realize that this day his master—my husband—was to undergo open-heart surgery.

Wolfie persisted. When I ignored him by pulling the covers over my head, he proceeded to Strategy Number Two: nibble on the master’s nose, a move that always woke Vic up.

Mission accomplished. Wolfie was put outside and his humans began their day.

I had slept lightly, listening to the nighttime noises, wondering if this was to be our last night together.

Now morning had intruded. The hospital required Vic to be admitted by 6:00 A.M. Things needed to be done: call upstairs to the second floor of the two-flat to rouse our son, Moe, so he could send Cody, Wolfie’s brother, downstairs; feed both dogs; and then walk them. That was the easy part.

Vic’s suitcase was already packed. No cigarettes this time. My face brightened as I remembered a previous hospital trip in the olden days when smoking privileges were granted to very few, select patients.

I reminisced how Dr. King had secured permission for his patient to indulge his nicotine habit in order to reduce Vic’s anxiety and nightmares. Vic trusted Dr. King so he pensively packed his suitcase, gingerly placing a carton of cigarettes where it wouldn’t be crushed. It was a late Sunday night check-in. Once settled in his room, Vic emptied his suitcase, opened the carton, and discovered he had forgotten a lighter. Like a madman, he frantically searched every pocket of his clothes and every nook of his suitcase. Since he was in his gown and robe, he sent me to rectify his omission and somehow secure matches. There were no open neighborhood stores or restaurants. So I made my way to the hospital lunchroom. A seated group of nurses and technicians was talking at a table. I smelled cigarette smoke. Yes! I reasoned that where there’s smoke, there are matches. I approached their table. Excuse me, I was wondering if, perhaps, you had an extra book of matches. I must have looked pathetically in need of a drag on a cigarette.

The chunky smoker pulled from her pocket some matches. As she extended them, she admonished me, Now dearie, I know what it’s like to need a cigarette. I’ll give you these matches if you promise to give up the weed.

I couldn’t believe my ears. What a hypocrite she was to tell me to change my ways while she was indulging her nicotine hunger. Being a non-smoker, this was an easy oath. I’ll do my best to quit. Thanks for your help. As soon as I got on the elevator, I looked at my treasure: six matches. Hopefully they’d be enough until morning.

Those were the good old days. Now the rules have changed. No one smokes in the hospital. Will Vic take this in stride? He’s used to having things his way, whether through conniving or cajoling. I’m hoping World War III doesn’t break out.

Vic and I completed the daily rituals and were on our way to the hospital. By Moe joining us a couple of hours later, the dogs wouldn’t be alone too long—a worriment for Vic because from the time they were puppies, they had never been alone for an extended period of time. We both loved the dogs; they were essential members of our family.

Vic sat quietly in the car. As I drove, I tried chitchatting; nevertheless, he was deep in thought, taking long drags on his cigarette. Was he thinking about the fantastic life he’s led? We’ve been together ten years and I still don’t totally understand him, but I know him better than anyone else. He didn’t allow many people into his thoughts. Not even his psychiatrists or doctors from years past. He has been and remains a man of mystery and secrets. Some people have called him a cruel man, but I know he is kind-hearted. He doesn’t brag about the good he does; he almost seems ashamed of being a nice guy.

I thought it ironic that many of his doctors told him that although he had gone through a lot of injuries and trauma, at least his heart was good.

As I drove, my thoughts focused on the immediate past. A week ago Vic’s heart attack happened. Moe had given his Dad a wonderful gift: a basketball hoop, set up on the driveway. From the time Moe was a tot, the competition with his Dad has never stopped. Vic and Moe were on the driveway shooting hoops when our African-American neighbor, Eddie, saw them and joined in the game of H-O-R-S-E. After his first turn, Vic felt chest pains and was short of breath. Not wanting to admit anything was wrong, he sat down and let the youngsters continue. He tried to deal with the pain by focusing on the game in progress. When the men came in, their bravado was unceasing. Vic was covering up his pain.

That night he tossed and turned. The next morning, he mentioned it was hard to breathe. I nagged him that he should have worn a jacket during yesterday’s basketball game in the cool air. He joked that he wasn’t a wimp. He insisted I carry on and go to my job to teach my second graders. He figured he needed to simply rest and all would be well.

When Moe came downstairs to drop off Cody, he saw his Dad was in bad shape. Moe called in sick to work, but Vic forbade him to call me at school. That afternoon when I arrived home, I saw Moe’s car in the driveway and knew something was wrong. Within an hour, the three of us were at the Emergency Room. Vic was immediately taken into a cubicle. I dealt with the paperwork. Finally Moe was called in from the waiting area. When I joined them, Vic was worried about the dogs and wanted Moe to go home to look after them. I promised Moe I’d call him the minute we knew anything. The ER doctors and nurses worked quickly and efficiently. As we waited for the tests to be analyzed, Vic told the nurse, I just need a few more minutes on the oxygen. I’m feeling a lot better. I’m ready to go home.

Hard as he tried, Vic couldn’t talk the ER people into releasing him. He had to stay in the hospital for more tests. He wasn’t happy to be admitted. He admonished me that once the doctors admitted him, his stay wasn’t going to be the one or two days they promised. It was always longer, much longer.

Once admitted and in his room, as long as Vic had oxygen, he felt better and soon boredom set in. There weren’t many interesting programs on television. Whoever chose the cable package didn’t realize that some men want to watch sports rather than soap operas, talk shows, or the home improvement networks. And Vic was too vain to wear his glasses and read.

On the third day, a nicotine craving hit him, and hit him hard. When I came to visit, he insisted that he could go without oxygen for short periods. He was going stir crazy in his room. He situated himself in a wheelchair, sans oxygen, and we headed to the Nurses’ Station. He implored the nurse to let him go for a little spin in his new chariot around the hospital with his wife pushing him. His secret objective was for us to go outside so he could light up. Permission was denied.

Vic was still in need of a cigarette. We returned to his room. He headed for the bathroom where he lit up and enjoyed himself. He flushed the evidence down the toilet and scampered back into bed.

He turned on the oxygen and had just adjusted it when Atilla the Hun burst into his room. The nurse screamed, Who’s been smoking? Don’t deny it, I can smell it!

Vic knew this woman had to be a non-smoker; she had a nose like a bloodhound. Vic innocently pointed to me as the guilty culprit. I was speechless. I had to take the rap.

Don’t you realize what a stupid thing you did? This man is on oxygen. You could have blown up the room. If I ever catch you or anybody in this room smoking, I’ll call the police and you’ll never set foot in this hospital again. Do I make myself clear?

Sheepishly I promised never to do it again. In Vic’s eyes, I had observed the Number One Rule from his days of old: never rat.

When we met with the newly assigned cardiologist, Dr. Lou, I explained what I knew of Vic’s past medical history, but I didn’t know it all. The doctor was amazed by the number of breaks and injuries Vic had experienced. His physical life-style had caught up to him at last. The tests showed that he had experienced multiple heart attacks. Vic wondered why he hadn’t noticed. Afterall shouldn’t he have felt tremendous pain in his chest? The only problem he ever had was feeling a bit winded after carrying bags of stuff to the second floor of our old apartment on Hamilton Avenue near Chicago’s lakefront.

Dr. Lou informed his patient that without an immediate operation, the next heart attack would kill him. He could give no guarantees regarding the open-heart surgery scheduled for Monday.

Vic was recuperating and had regained some of his strength and stamina. There was nothing more the hospital could do for him so he was allowed to return home for the weekend. Vic was overjoyed to go home for forty-eight hours. Upon entering the car for the drive home, his first act was to light up a cigarette. Indeed, normalcy seemed to be at hand.

The dogs were excited that their human leader of the pack was home. It was good to be reunited. Moe, too, was relieved his Dad came home, but he was concerned about the up-coming operation.

An undercurrent of trepidation invaded the two-day respite from the hospital. The house was quiet. Vic surrounded himself with everything precious to him: he stared at his trophies, the dogs lay at his feet, Moe kept him company, and I stayed near. His thoughts cut us off from his world, but his love was closer than ever. That love tried to shelter us from the reality of the danger involved in the operation. Vic refused to show us his pain.

Now, Monday had arrived all too soon. As I drove us to the hospital, Vic smoked a few more cigarettes, figuring they might be his last.

Because Vic was pre-registered, we proceeded to the third floor to be checked in. The nurses prepared Vic. To them it was an everyday occurrence. To our family, it was a life-and-death situation.

As Vic and I waited, Moe arrived. Thus far no one came to escort Vic to the surgical suite. Later we discovered that a more at-risk emergency patient had bumped back Vic’s surgery. The anxious waiting began. Hours slowly ticked by. At noon, Vic sent Moe home to take care of the dogs.

Finally at 3:00 word came that Vic should proceed to surgery. It had been a long wait. I wondered if the surgeon was the same doctor who performed the morning procedure. I hoped he was still fresh enough for the present challenge.

On the gurney, Vic looked up at me with those strange brown eyes and said, I love you. That word love is so overworked and overused that it’s come to be meaningless to society. Nevertheless, love was a word I had brought into Vic’s life and it represented all that was good in our marriage. Leaning over, I kissed him and whispered, I love you, too. I hoped Vic would behave and not cause any problems. Surely they’d administer enough anesthesia so he didn’t get up and walk out of the hospital.

The nurse suggested that if I went to and remained in the fifth floor Waiting Room, I’d be kept informed of Vic’s progress. On the way there, I detoured to the hospital’s chapel. In that small, deserted House of God, I poured out my heart to Him. I also implored anyone I thought was in heaven to watch over Vic and keep him safe. I especially asked my Dad to put in a good word for his son-in-law. On the wall, a picture of a guardian angel hung. Being a product of Catholic schools, I recited the prayer to a guardian angel. After that, it was in the hands of God and the surgical team.

The next eight hours were the longest I’d ever gone through. No one kept me informed of Vic’s progress. I figured that no news was good news. A sign in the hospital’s lobby admonished visitors not to use cell phones. The Waiting Room had pay phones, but I had only three quarters. I phoned Moe every couple hours to report there was no report. With my last quarter, I told him to come to the hospital and bring me some food. I hadn’t eaten all day. Even though the sign above my head read, Eating and Drinking Are Prohibited in This Area, I didn’t care. I was hungry and nobody had updated me. If they didn’t live up to their promise, I didn’t need to obey their rules. Vic wouldn’t have been concerned about that sign; he did what he wanted, when he wanted.

My bravado didn’t last long. When Moe arrived with some chicken, I quickly ate it and carefully concealed the bones and cardboard box in the plastic bag. I sealed it tightly so no odors could escape. I had learned a lesson from Atilla the Hun. Then I excused myself and headed to the rest room, eager to deposit the incriminating evidence in the garbage can.

As Moe and I continued to wait, the silence was deafening. Moe was like his Dad: still waters ran deep. Finally I broke the quiet by turning on the television. Some late-night talk host was blabbering when a nurse came in. She didn’t look like she had bad news. We turned off the TV, she sat and told us that Vic was about to leave the Recovery Room and be brought to Intensive Care. She warned us that when we saw him, Vic would have eighteen tubes in him. This was normal and we shouldn’t be upset by the tubes and wires. Forty minutes later, we were brought into Vic’s room. I saw a few tubes; the rest were hidden under the sheet. What shocked me was how puffy and swollen his face had become. He looked like a marshmallow. Moe said nothing; he stared as though he couldn’t believe that anything could hurt his Superman Dad.

I spoke softly, Vic, it’s Joan. Moe and I are here.

Vic struggled to open his eyes. Finally through the cat-like slits, he recognized us. The strain was too much. Abruptly, the monitors’ relentless screeching pierced the relative quiet. Vic had gone into cardiac arrest. Nurses and staff came running. One escorted us out of the room. She kindly said, Not to worry. We know what to do. We’ll get him stabilized and then call you. Can you return to the Waiting Room for just a bit?

As Moe and I complied with her request, we continued our vigil and I thought, Oh God, what happened? The man comes through all that surgery and then his family that loves him causes him to stress out. God, watch over him. We love him. We want him to live.

Finally a nurse came for us. She tried to allay our fears. Sometimes the patient gets excited when he recognizes his family is there. Right now we have everything under control. A short, couple minute visit would be best. You can come back tomorrow at any time. Before you go, stop at the Nurses’ Station and I’ll give you the direct phone number. You can call at any time. I think it’s been a long day for you and you need some sleep. I promise we’ll call you if anything changes.

The visit was short. Moe kissed his Dad’s forehead and said, I love you, Dad.

I did the same and added, I’ll be back here early in the morning. The dogs are okay. You rest. I love you.

Moe and I went home, each driving our own car. When we walked into the house, we knew the dogs had been sleeping as evidenced by their warm, dry noses. Cody went upstairs with Moe. Wolfie climbed onto the bed and had the audacity to sleep on Vic’s pillow.

I ran my bubble bath and struggled to stay awake. When I crawled into bed, I discovered how hard it was to sleep without my best friend. Finally sleep overtook me until 6:00 when Wolfie woke me up. To him, I had over-slept. He wanted to go out, have his brother join him to eat, and be walked.

* Tuesday *

Slightly before 7:00 A.M., I was standing at the foot of Vic’s bed in ICU. He was agitated. I tried being cheerful, but he was too angry. I knew better than to upset him. I approached his head and tried to find out the problem. He could hardly talk due to a tube down his throat to help him breathe. He whispered that it was painful and he felt as though he were choking. The nurse had promised to take it out at 5:00, but she hadn’t kept her word. There was a clock above the foot of his bed, so he knew what time it was.

I tried to convince him that the nurse knew best and there had to be a good reason for it still being in place. I headed to the Nurses’ Station to discuss the situation with his nurse who explained that since Vic was a smoker, it would be best to have all the doctors present when the tube was removed. I explained that Vic was a man who expected people to honor their word. She remained inflexible.

When I returned to tell Vic the tube had to stay in a while longer, he grabbed it and tried to pull it out. I held down his hand and yelled, Nurse!! She came running and saw Vic was serious about getting that tube out. I told her she would be responsible if he pulled it out and caused damage.

Within fifteen minutes the nurse and a slew of hospital personnel safely removed the tube. Vic was still ticked off. He was annoyed with me for not letting him pull the thing out himself. Out of anger and frustration, he gave me the bird. He had never spoken or gestured like that to me before. Then he went to sleep, exhausted by his morning workout. Thank God, he had a lot of drugs in him that not only eased the pain but also kept his strength down.

Vic rested peacefully. There was a television, but no phone in the room. I dozed until a nurse came in and told me that my sister had called. I didn’t understand because I hadn’t told anyone in my family about this operation. My dumbfounded expression reinforced my question, Which sister? I have three.

Colleen. Was it okay that I discussed Victor with her?

I smiled, closed my eyes, and thought. Colleen, although one of my close friends, was not really my sister. I didn’t want the kind nurse to get into trouble by revealing the patient’s status over the phone. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and reassured her, Yes, thanks. I should have called her, but I was a little tired.

That’s perfectly understandable. Mr. Wolf has gone through a lot and so have you. Would you like me to put a phone in the room?

Yes. Thank you. It would make life easier.

She smiled, obtained a phone, and showed me how to access an outside line. She emphasized that Vic shouldn’t have any excitement. As she placed the phone out of his reach, I thought that he was so weak he could hardly raise his hand. I knew he wasn’t coherent enough to carry on a conversation. The phone was more for my convenience than his. The nurses in ICU were the cream of the crop. They not only took care of the patient, but also helped the family deal with the stress of a loved one’s hospitalization.

After she left, I called my principal to inform him about Vic’s condition and that I would miss a few more days of school.

Being at the hospital was more stressful than teaching. Holding Vic’s hand and being at his bedside were all I could do for him. He squeezed my hand, as though he were holding on for dear life. It was his way of letting me know how much he loved me. Once in a while he opened his eyes, but he remained groggy. The confidence of his doctors helped settle my fears about Vic getting better. He was healing slower than normal and the road to recovery was going to be a long one.

Vic was worried about the dogs. He had always been with them. He mumbled, How are my boys? Every two hours or so I went home to feed them and let them out. We played for a while. When they were alone, they behaved themselves and slept in the hallway where they kept an eye on the back door.

At night when I came home, although the dogs greeted me, it wasn’t the happy home it had been. The boys waited for their master to return. They sniffed his spot on the couch. His scent was there, but where was he?

It was hard to sleep even though I was tired. The house stayed straightened since no one was around to mess it up. I needed something to occupy my brain and not let me think any dire thoughts. I decided to paint the front room closet with paint that I had bought during the summer but hadn’t found the time to apply.

Although my hands were now busy, my mind wandered to one of the books we wrote about Vic’s childhood.

Then, as though someone had grabbed the remote control, my thoughts switched to how different this marriage was compared to my first that had brought only unhappiness. I thought about my current family—Vic, Moe and the dogs—as well as my childhood memories of my relatives. I was born the second of four girls: an older sister, Elizabeth; myself and my younger twin, Rita; and thirteen years later, my youngest sister, Nan. I had a wonderful father, Max: kind, soft-spoken, committed to his family, friends, and church. His only two leisure activities were enjoying a beer after work with his boss and his weekly bowling games. My mother, Maria, was a hard worker, but she didn’t get along well with people. Her favorite pastimes were complaining and being headstrong: everything had to be her way. She was happiest when she kept up with the Joneses.

For the first eight years of my life, my family lived on Lincoln Avenue in Chicago, a very German area. My parents owned a shop, Three Diamonds Cleaning and Tailoring, on the first floor; we lived in one of the eight apartments above it. My Dad had named the shop with his then-three daughters in mind; we were his jewels. He enjoyed his little girls, but wished he had a son so they could root for his favorite baseball team, the Cubs. My mother ran the shop during the week, doing the tailoring jobs as she raised three kids. Dad helped out at night and on Saturdays. Sundays were for sleeping a little late, going to church, and family dinners. We didn’t have much money, but we had love.

A nickname, O.B., short for Obediah Pig, a character I imitated by grunting, was bestowed on me while I was still in my high chair. The label persisted until I was ten. We were visiting my aunt, Sr. Richard, at the hospital where she was a pharmacist. She addressed me as O.B. and I refused to respond. I was too old to be saddled with a pig’s name. My Mother sniggered, Joan won’t allow anyone to call her O.B. She says her name is Joan! They laughed. I was humiliated, but I stuck to my guns. My Mother enjoyed this bit of bullying—from that point on, she never called me anything but Joan. My Dad ignored everything and called me Joannie. It took fifty years for another person, Vic, to lovingly address me as Joannie.

Because he was a Lutheran and my Mother a Catholic, in order for the marriage to be performed in the Catholic Church, my Dad had to swear to raise any children as Catholics. On Sundays, our Mom and we girls attended early Mass together. Later my Dad picked up his mother and sister to drive them to their church services. Afterwards, they came to our apartment for Sunday dinner. This was the usual time for feuds to break out, always after everyone had eaten. My Dad and Grandmother, as well as we three girls, saw some first-class battles between my Mother and Aunt Frieda, usually verbal, but sometimes things got thrown. My Mother enjoyed browbeating my Dad. He must have truly loved her to put up with her ill treatment of him and her one-sided, superior view of other people. She enjoyed telling and retelling embarrassing stories. One of her favorites was how I was being potty-trained and I ran down Lincoln Avenue with the potty-chair strapped on me. Or when I jammed a fork above my twin’s eye. I don’t remember doing it or why, but it was good fodder for her.

My thoughts returned to real time. The first coat of paint was on the walls. Time to stop reminiscing and welcome the sandman.

* Wednesday *

The next morning at the hospital, Vic was still intensely sedated. He was healing slowly, very slowly. Although he was pale, his throat was better and his voice wasn’t as raspy. As I held his hand, I wanted to believe the doctor’s optimism. But I wasn’t sure. Some tubes had been removed; nonetheless, the monitors’ screeching continually pierced my eardrums. I blocked out their incessant beeping by fixing my eyes upon my husband and remembering how we met more than a dozen years ago.

Way back then, McFetridge Ice Arena ran an ice hockey program. I came home after school one day and was informed by my then-husband, Harold, that he had enrolled our teenage son, Charles, in the hockey clinic which meant I would have more chauffeuring to do. Between our two kids and their extracurricular activities, I was always on the go. What was Harold doing with all his free time? It seemed every moment of my day was dedicated to my job, home, or family.

The only time I escaped the pressure was when I did my ceramics. It began when my friend and co-worker, Dolores, wanted to finish a ceramic Christmas tree she started long ago. I drove her to the shop and thought I’d give it a try. I soon became hooked. After Dolores finished her tree, I knew I had found a haven. When I brought home my first piece, my daughter, Edie, then wanted to go to the shop as well. Of course I took her with me. For a while it was fun, but eventually, Edie developed an attitude. I didn’t know why, I figured it was her hormones kicking in or just growing pains. Once my little retreat had been invaded, I had no place or time to be alone. Yet Harold came and went as he pleased. He imagined himself not only as a Don Juan but also as a politician—a man of power and prestige, but he was only a precinct captain—the bottom rung on the ladder of political life.

My daughter always tagged along to her big brother’s hockey practice sessions at the ice arena. After a few times, she became bored and occasionally invited her good friend to accompany us. The two girls giggled and whispered as they eyeballed the boys. As we waited for the practice session to end, I noticed that although Charles’ coach had only a small group, the man didn’t seem to know what he was doing. He basically let the boys have a free skating session. I didn’t see him do much instructing. He wanted to be the boys’ friend and enjoyed being addressed as Coach. But he didn’t appear qualified to teach the necessary skills. He had on skates, but it didn’t seem he knew how to skate. He walked on the ice. I thought that there must be a shortage of trained coaches; or perhaps he finagled the title because he was a close friend of the President of the Parents’ Hockey Association. Regardless of how he got the job, he was unimpressive. Many of the parents pulled out their boys and enrolled them in suburban hockey programs.

As the boys changed in the locker room, Edie and I went to the lobby to warm up a bit. When the next group of older boys came onto the ice, their coach looked tough, as though he didn’t permit any nonsense. He was unshaven, gruff, and yelled a lot. Yet, those boys were obviously well coached by Coach Wolf.

I eavesdropped on the other mothers’ conversations. I had to listen hard as the voice of the coach was booming and echoing in the ice rink. The ladies were saying how mean and nasty Coach Wolf was. Yet their eyes followed his every move, much like a teenager with a crush on a handsome athlete. They gossiped about his ex-wives, especially the second one. She was a real hillbilly, straight from the mountains of Kentucky. One mother giggled as she added that Coach Wolf was about to go hunting for water moccasins. I wondered if the man was nuts. Water moccasins were deadly poisonous snakes.

The timing was right! In my class at school, the science topic was snakes. How cool would it be to show the kids a real snake’s head, complete with fangs? It would bring home the fact that the tongue wasn’t poisonous. The fangs were to be feared. I wanted to ask Coach Wolf if he’d bring me a little souvenir.

When Charles came out of the locker room, he was dehydrated. I never realized that skating was so physical. Charles and his sister bummed money from me for their trip to the Snack Bar. All the clinic skaters and their siblings socialized.

Half an hour later, I noticed that on the ice, Coach Wolf gave his boys a water break. Those boys really needed it. They were soaking wet from sweating, even though they were in an ice-cold skating rink.

Finally the session was over. Coach Wolf came into the lobby. As he walked by me, the aura of alcohol enveloped him. He looked grubby. Nothing could help those blood-shot eyes. Everybody crowded around him, parents and kids, from the youngest Mites to the oldest Midgets. The crowd thinned as the exhausted skaters emerged from the locker room. They bought soft drinks and left quickly. I wondered if they were too drained to get into trouble. Maybe hockey was a deterrent to teenage difficulties.

A few parents, mostly moms, remained and continued chatting. They were out of the coach’s earshot. One woman was fixated on his eyes. She felt he had x-ray eyes that could see through a person. Others were annoyed that the coach was going to take off a week to go downstate for snake hunting. As much as they complained about his roughness with the boys, they didn’t want another coach. Because the repartee grew a bit louder, the coach heard the women discuss his abuse of referees. His language towards most officials was offensive yet colorful.

As Coach Wolf finished his coffee, I got up my courage and approached him. Excuse me, Coach. My son is a Bantam and as I was waiting for him, I heard the other parents say that you were about to go snake hunting. I’m a schoolteacher.

He interjected, Oh really? Like I couldn’t tell that?

I was miffed. What did he mean by that? Was he making fun of me?

He continued, I’m not into your son’s grades. All I do is teach hockey.

No, no, no. I heard you were going snake hunting and I was wondering if there’s a possibility that you could bring back a snake’s head? My students are only seven years old. They don’t believe me that a snake’s tongue isn’t dangerous. I’d like to show them a snake’s skull with the fangs. Seeing is believing.

The coach thought to himself, There’s a lot of tongues wagging in some neighborhoods that are more dangerous than a water moccasin. He became surprisingly soft-spoken, Okay, Mrs. Schoolteacher. I’ll bring you back one. But it won’t be for a while.

Then I knew he wasn’t making fun of me. Why was my being a schoolteacher so important to him? I wouldn’t know the reason until later.

The next time I saw him was two weeks later at the ice rink. His arm was swollen and black-and-blue. Could it have been the result of a bar fight? Alas no, the parents were buzzing how Coach Wolf had been bitten by a snake because he was doing some schoolteacher a favor.

Feeling guilty that my request had been the cause of his problem, gingerly I approached him and prayed he wouldn’t fly off the handle. He was a perfect gentleman, never mentioning his arm. I apologized for causing him such pain. He was so polite that I couldn’t resist bugging him. Innocently I inquired, So where’s the snake’s head?

He looked up, rolled his eyes, and said, I didn’t get him.

We laughed and my apologies flowed. He sarcastically ended the conversation, I hope you have a bunch of Einsteins. Maybe they’ll grow up to be hockey players. Instead of hitting their opponents, they’ll bite them. Who knows, with all the marijuana in their mouths, the bites would be as bad as snake venom. Then he chuckled to himself.

What was his problem? I was trying to thank him. What a jerk. The hockey moms mentioned he was a Native American. Were all American Indians like him? He started me thinking of a Native American boy in my class, Michael. The coach stared at his cup of coffee, signaling the conversation was over. Once again I got up my courage and broached the subject of an underachieving student in my class. Coach Wolf, the other moms say you’re a Native American. Can I ask your advice about an Indian student in my class?

His eyes looked at me as he listened.

He’s very bright, but he simply won’t do his homework. He’s being raised by his grandmother and is so quiet. He’s very selective about making friends. I don’t know enough about American Indians and their culture. Any suggestions as to how I can reach him?

The coach wasn’t annoyed with my question. He explained that when an Indian boy is in trouble, it’s a sign of respect not to look at the adult. Indian culture demands that the prize must be earned: an Indian doesn’t accept an outsider’s gift. Since most Indians are artistic, art may be the means to turn him around.

I mentioned that the little boy had the most horrible handwriting and didn’t draw at all. But he loved music and I was teaching the class musical theory and to play the recorder. Do you think if I make a deal that he can play the recorder only if he does his homework, he might go for it and actually do his assignments?

The coach started laughing as he remembered that as a boy, his handwriting was the worst in the class, and that stigma stayed with him all his life. I know it will win. I changed my mind about you. You’re not one of those modern schoolteachers. The old ways are the best ways. The coach respected me for trying to help this little boy.

Michael went for the deal. He wanted to play the recorder and did enough assignments to qualify. His grades slowly rose and at the end of the year, he made the honor roll. I never suspected that Coach Wolf had the same problems, and then some, as a boy.

Vic stirred and I snapped back to the present. Why was I thinking about the past? Is it because I feared I was going to lose this man who so changed my life. One of his sayings to me rung in my head: the world is not made of roses. I wiped his forehead with a cool, wet towel. He smiled and went back to sleep.

As I adjusted his blanket, my brain thought about one of the books we had written, Jr. Lied: Perception or Deception. Vic had gotten me so annoyed with my naïveté that when we went to a local thrift shop, Am-Vets, looking for costumes and props for the yearly plays we produced for my school, I found an old bottle and filled it with change so it looked like a waitress’ tip jar. I stuck a rose in it. When I showed it to him, he told me it was great, now I was learning about the world. I finally had listened and learned how deceptive roses were.

Those annual productions were important. Another of our books, Jr. Smiled, reinforced how tough, poor kids needed school. Yet school was a hostile environment for many of them. Something had to be done to make it tolerable, if not exciting. Growing up, my family valued education as a way to get ahead, along with hard work and a good attitude. We were far from middle class economically, but my parents inculcated those values and ambitions that would help us achieve our dreams. My parents provided us with food, decent clothing, and a warm place to live. We might have eaten ethnic, cheap to prepare food, but we did eat. We might have gotten our clothes at rummage sales, but we were always cleanly and properly dressed. We might not have had the most luxurious house, but we had a home in a good neighborhood. They did the best they could for us.

There are some self-centered parents who are unfit to have children. Vic’s biological parents, Buster and Carol, were cruel to the point that Vic wished he had never been born and he never felt love from them or for them. His parents felt no need to raise their son; they were rarely concerned about his food, clothing, or education. Vic ran with a gang on Madison Street that substituted for his parents; it imposed a structure and discipline. His grandparents, aunt, and uncle tried to intervene, but his parents’ cruelty and abuse were overwhelming, leaving an indelible mark on him. He didn’t know he’d meet me one day.

The students in my school came from every neighborhood and socio-econonmic level that’s found in a big city. Some were well-to-do areas on the Northwestside of the city, but others were living in poverty on the Westside. The faces of poverty brought many different problems: anger, gangs, abuse, drugs. The musical productions we staged helped us reach these children. They were talented. They didn’t need money or social connections to be given a chance, perhaps their first chance, to realize success. Vic and I went to the thrift stores and bought anything that might be used as a costume: tuxedo jackets, bridesmaids’ dresses, and formals. Am-Vets was our favorite thrift store. I haggled over prices with the sales people to the point that Vic was embarrassed. When they knew it was for schoolchildren, they finally gave me a break. The kids never knew from where we got all those costumes and props. They worked hard to create a memory that would stay with them forever. Vic’s teachers had done it to him with sports. We did it to these kids through our annual musical productions.

When the last production was over, those dresses were given to the eighth grade girls because I knew how short of money their families were. Graduation fees and clothing were heavy burdens. But I couldn’t make it seem like charity. I insinuated that the fancy dresses were going to be thrown away if the girls didn’t want them. The Westside kids were like the Native American kids: their pride didn’t allow them to accept something for nothing.

Our favorite day to go to Am-Vets was Wednesday, once we discovered that was the day the new merchandise was put on display. About 3:15, carts of antiques were rolled out for restocking the shelves. Vic saw the beautiful glassware and collectibles. He had learned from his foster mother their value. Am-Vets didn’t know the treasures they were offering at such low prices. Once again, Vic felt as though he were a pirate plundering and getting away with something. Vic was strong enough to carry the bags to our second floor apartment. Some were too heavy, even for Hercules. Vic wouldn’t let me carry anything weighty. I wanted to do my share, but he wouldn’t hear of it, even though he had to make more than one trip up those stairs. I thought he was such a Jersey gentleman: he always held open the door for a lady, and he took out the garbage. I quickly became spoiled. Once we were married, every morning, he got up early and made the coffee. He served me breakfast in bed. Then we’d get up and have our morning conversations, sometimes centering on a book we were doing, other times focusing on the current school production. For the first time in my life, I hated to leave each morning, but the children needed me. Jr. Smiled showed me a different lifestyle: a gentleman had manners and valued a lady. She wasn’t a weakling because he carried something heavy. He was a protector. Our landlady had met some Jersey men and she commented that they were all arrogant and spoiled. Yes, they could be, but don’t let anyone hurt their family.

My growling stomach momentarily returned me to the present. I couldn’t understand why all these thoughts were flooding my brain. Was it the fear of losing Vic? I rummaged in my bag and found an apple.

As I munched, my brain detoured to the past. I was married to a man the world called Jr. Yet I wasn’t allowed to address him that way. Neither was his son. Once Moe did and Vic exercised extreme self-control as he explained that his son was the only person allowed to call him Dad, a word more special than Jr. Vic never hit his son. The memory of childhood beatings was enough of a deterrent against cruelty. He scared the kid with his changeable eyes and rough voice. There was only one person who would have informed Moe of the nickname and its connotations: Moe’s mother. Why would she tell Moe about Jr.? It happened after their divorce. As father and son talked, Moe let it slip that his mother also said Vic used drugs and hung with gangsters. Vic told his son the truth emphasizing that way of life was gone. The world may have known him as Jr., but Moe knew him as Dad. And Dad spent countless hours with his son: teaching him hockey, and doing fun things—learning track and field and hanging out together. In the file cabinet I had found some old movies of Moe figure skating, running hurdles, throwing the javelin and shot put, running sprints. All when Moe was three and a half years old. A few times, Vic took Moe to work with him, despite his wife’s protestations. The little shaver rode on the cranes and was impressed by the heavy equipment, just like Grandpa Wolf had done with Vic some thirty years earlier. When Vic took Moe to a restaurant, it always cost Vic extra. The waitress earned her big tip. Moe was spoiled and Vic was the spoiler. He was a great father, but a lousy husband. He accepted his wife’s label of bad guy. Vic was rarely home with his wife, but was devoted to his son. I once overheard a conversation between two hockey moms who had the hots for the coach. They had heard the reason he married her was because she was a tall woman and he wanted a big son. I figured there are worse reasons for getting married. Afterall, I had married Harold because he had blue eyes and I wanted my kids to have blue eyes. A little biology can be a regretful thing. I sighed and thought