As Luck Would Have It (8 page)

Oh shit, Clifford, you're bleeding.  I think I'm OK.  God, look at your face!  Joseph, are you hurt bad? I don't know, Jamie kicked me,
my leg hurts.
 
Screw those assholes. 
I was sitting up now, Joseph holding his handkerchief to my nose, the bleeding nearly stopped.  He looked OK
;
I think they scared him more than anything, but he did have a small welt forming on his forehead where the first of the primates struck him.

This is my fault; if it weren't for me.  Shut up Joseph, this is not your fault.  If I was normal they would leave me alone.  Don't you ever say that again, you hear me?  It's true.  It's not true and if you say it again, I'll hit you harder than they did.  Are you hearing me damn it,
it's not
your fault.

Fault
is
such a strange concept to consider sometimes; a mistake, a failure, a character weakness, a lack of integrity.  Is it my fault that I'm no good at math?  Is it Joseph's fault he's not strong enough to fight off guys like Jamie?  Is it even Jamie's fault that he is such a bully?  Or is it his parents' fault for not teaching him firmer values?  Maybe it was the obstetrician's fault, pulling too hard with the forceps, or the pediatrician's fault for prescribing the wrong medicine, or no one's fault at all, just circumstance.  Maybe we don't have to
always take
responsibility or blame
someone
for everything that doesn't go the way we planned.  It's not my mother's fault that she couldn't have more children, though she blamed herself.  I
s it
Coach Galloway's fault that the team lost their first three games, or that our starting quarterback broke his ankle on the very first play from scrimmage this season
?
  What good comes from us feeling compelled to assign culpability no matter what goes wrong?  Is my incredible good luck my fault?

We were walking again, heading for Joseph's house.  We decided it would be better to have Mrs. Klein look me over first and clean me up and maybe call my mother to tell her what happened; she'd be hysterical if I just walked into her kitchen looking like I did while she was in the middle of cleaning the 22 pound bird my father brought home the day before.  He was quiet as
we walked, fighting back tears,
I knew.  Everything will be alright Joseph, I promise.  I swear to you,
I’ll take care of it.  How I was supposed to do that, I had no idea.

Our Thanksgiving dinner was to turn out a bit differently than what my mother had planned, what with me sitting at our table, my face swollen and a major black eye forming from the beating I had taken the day before.  My parents didn’t know what to
do at
first, but the Kleins had been quite upset by what had happened, so we had all sat down together at their house on Wednesday evening, Mrs. Klein still shaken and
quite
worried, with good reason, for her son.  After we told them what happened and confessed to the prior incident that had gone unreported, my father, normally composed and quite
calm about such things
, was noticeably angry and wanted to call Strickmann right then and there, but the other adults convinced him that it might be better to not interrupt his holiday, and that in any event, calmer heads would prevail
next week
and he could attend to matters when school resumed.

Well, it was Thanksgiving soon, Mr. Klein noted, and we should be grateful for what we have and for all of our blessings, which was true enough.  I was thankful that Joseph wasn’t
really
hurt
, beyond his pride anyway,
and that all of my teeth were still intact. 
Later, when we had gone home, my dad pulled me aside and said he was proud of me for standing up to Jamie and for looking out for Joseph, and my mother was beaming too
through the tears in her eyes.

By mid-afternoon on Thursday, the guests had begun to arrive and I felt pretty good
by then
.  I strutted around while everyone either doted on me or commented on the shiner that
was forming
quite prominently.  We watched the
Redskins play the Lions
and enjoyed
the snacks that my
father’s sister, A
unt Janet brought for the game, along with her two sons that were close to my age. 
My dad’s brother Sonny
was there with his wife and toddler twin girls, who loved the attention that they were getting from their older cousins
and my father, who was crazy about them
. 
My three living
grandparents were there as well; my grandpa
Williamson, my maternal grandfather,
telling stories of the old neighbo
rhood and sipping his bourbon, my
Aunt Doreen
with her eyebrows raised telling him to be quiet so the youngsters could watch the game. 
It turned out to be pretty much a blowout anyway, with
the Redskins
beating Detroit 20-0.

I loved Thanksgiving more than any other holiday; the cool air
of
the encroaching winter, the beginning of the holiday season of giving and family gatherings.  The following year, Thanksgiving would follow pretty much the same script.  I’d help my mother with some chores, we’d see the relatives and recount each in our own ways the good things we had to enjoy and be happy about.  I remember that Thanksgiving in particular, with mom beaming over the compliments her
roast
brisket
had generated and my dad playing with the nieces and nephews while we watched the Lions lose again. 
For a Bears fan, of course that was something to be thankful for.  But what made this Thanksgiving so
memorable
is that it would be our last to share together.  For in just two weeks I found myself alone with no chance of
ever
experiencing
a holiday like that
again, with just the memories
to look back on and cherish
from
then
on.

C
&C
Produce Company was painted on the side of the large panel truck. 
The C
’
s stood for Casslemond and his son Charles.  Avery Casslemond had worked hard to build his produce business from a tiny fruit stand on Michigan Avenue that he opened in 1946 to a substantial venture that had provided well for his wife and
five
children, including Charles who had been in the business with his father since graduating from high school.  By 1974, the
family run company was providing fruits and vegetables to some of Chicago’s best restaurants, catering establishments, schools and hospitals.  Now, with ten trucks and
40
or so employees,
Mr. Casslemond and his wife were
getting ready to move to a warmer climate and leave the enterprising Charles with the responsibility of
servicing
their more than 300 clients.

Mr. Casslemond
was n
ot
one to sit around and never could bring himself to manage the business from their
downtown
warehouse and office location, where each morning the refrigerated trucks could be seen lined up at the loading platform awaiting the forklifts to bring in the fresh fruits and vegetables.  Instead, he hired an office manager and secretary to help Charles with the administrative as
pect
s
of the business, while he
continued to drive one of the trucks and tend to the needs of his best customers personally.  It had always been that way; the company was built on
relationships that
Mr. Casslemond
had cultivated over the years and it was going to be hard for him to say goodbye to those customers, some of whom he had known
way back
from the
old days
.  But the decision
had been made
to
move to
Florida
the
following
year
, and
of course this would be an adjustment
for
him
, away from the business and his family,
yet
still,
he
was looking forward to retirement.  He was nearly 70 years old now and tired, not of the produce business itself, just tired. 
The long hours, the hard winters and the stress of running his own company had been enough; the
enticing
relaxation and warmth of
the
more semi-tropical
retirement community
now too much to resist.

****

For my fourteenth birthday, my parents were taking me to my favorite restaurant, Angelo’s, a wonderful Italian place downtown.
  It was a pretty good drive and it had been snowing on and off over the past couple of days, but my Dad announced that we’d manage the roads with no problem and that I could in fact order the chicken
ca
c
c
iatore
that
Angelo, or whoever was now doing the cooking would prepare.  It
was scrumptious. 
Mom and Dad always ordered veal scaloppini there because i
t
was something they never had at home
and which
I have to admit, was a close second to the chicken.

Since December 8, 1974 fell on a Sunday, there was no school on my birthday.  As things turned out, I
would not be
returning to school until after Christmas break ended in early January.  But that afternoon, Dad took Joseph, Billie and me to the movies to see
Young Frankenstein
, the humor of which partially blew past me, but caused Dad to laugh hysterically.  It was later in the evening while we were on our way to Angelo’s that the snow began accumulating on the roadways and my mother nervously cautioned Dad to be careful as he gripped the wheel more tightly.

****

Mr. Casslemond
left the warehouse after calling his wife to let he
r
know he had a late delivery
and that he would be home before dinner in any event,
and hopefully in time to catch at least the second half of the Bears game against the San Diego Chargers; it was being played in California and wouldn’t start until late in the afternoon.  Since it was Sunday,
he was alone in the warehouse since they were technically closed.  Charles had helped him load a few crates into the truck earlier, as he promised the nursing home that he would make an unscheduled delivery that afternoon.  But when
Mr. Casslemond
pulled the truck out of the driveway, he regretted not
calling the
home
ahead of time
,
and
to expect their order first thing
on Monday morning
instead
.
  It was snowing again and very cold for this early
in
the winter.  Well, it was only a few miles out of his way actually and as long as he could find a parking space on their block big enough for the
Ford panel truck, it
would be OK.

Mr. Casslemond
finished with the nursing home
delivery
and headed back to the truck to go home.  He’d been up a long time and was tired and cold.  He imagined the palm trees and warm breezes in
Pensacola
where t
hey ultimately decided their new home would be.
 
As he drove,
Mr. Casslemond
fantasized about a life in
retirement where he
could play golf all year
and be free from at least some of life’s worries.  His wife would organize parties, play cards at
the
club they would join
;
they’d go
to watch
the
White Sox or Cubs
play during spring training. 
Mr. Casslemond
kept picturing the future, even as in the present in the snowy Chicago darkness, the truck entered the sharp curve where the highway turned nearly 90 degrees just a
half
mile from the intersection where he would have normally turned into his neighborhood.

He’d driven this stretch
easily a thousand times
, in all kinds of whether, but this time, th
e pull of the wheels grabbed
Mr. Casslemond's
attention and he realized suddenly that he needed to slow down.  As he braked, the rear of the top-heavy
Ford began to fishtail slightly. 
He
jerked the wheel to the right
and
the truck seemed to want to
cooperate at first, but then it suddenly began to slide onto the right shoulder, which caused
him
to panic as he tried to coax the big vehicle back to the left again. 
He knew he had to slow down somehow; he was going much too fast. 
He focused his attention completely on what he could see of his lane markers ahead; sure he could le
vel it out, but for some reason
on this night, whether from the snow or his weariness, or just from
some
bad luck, the truck
kept sliding more until
Mr. Casslemond
lost control of it completely and it began to
move
perpendicular to the highway, across the center line, blocking both his and the oncoming lane
as it continued to slide
at a frightening sideways angle, as if guided by some invisible auto pilot that was unmindful of his back and forth pulling on the steering wheel.