trouble with the world, too many people grow up.
They forget. They don't remember what it's like
to be 12 years old. They patronize, they treat children
as inferiors. Well, I won't do that."
- Walt Disney
Chapter 20
Max's Choice
"He what?" Nick's eyes were luminous with anger, "You've got to be kidding me. How can you even begin to think this is a good idea for Max?" he demanded. He was standing, delirious, out of his mind. He started pacing. Pacing was what Nick did when he didn't know what to do with himself. He gripped the back of the chair he'd been sitting in and looked at Barry Williams again, "Max is six," he said, "Max has barely had time to escape, barely had time to process what's happened to him, to realize he's not to blame..." he shook his head. He paced again. He could feel Barry's eyes on him. He looked up again, "I've had seventeen years to get over what I went through," he said, "and I still would rather die than look my father in the face again."
Barry leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped in a prayer-like position. He took a deep breath and motioned for Nick to sit down again. Hesitantly, he did. It was Barry's turn to stand. He moved to the cupboard and opened it, pulling out a book, which he opened, and removed a fragment of paper from. He turned back to Nick and the desk, and returned to his seat. He stared down at the paper for a long moment, thinking, before he looked back up at Nick.
"Do you know, Nick," Barry said, "My biggest regret?"
Nick shook his head.
Barry shook the paper in his hand at Nick, "Not answering this simple, poorly spelled little letter," he answered. He unfolded it. "My father left my mother," he said slowly, "Because when he returned from war his mind was restless and he couldn't be the man he'd been before he left. I was only a toddler when he left, and I did not remember him growing up. I only knew I missed a father because the other kids had a father." He smiled sadly. "And when I was sixteen, in high school, I received a very curious letter from a man who claimed that I belonged to him." Barry put the letter on the desk. "He asked for forgiveness and for the chance to at least be correspondants. He asked what I was doing with my life, if I was a good kid, how my mother was." Barry sighed. "I didn't answer the letter. I almost tore it up." He showed a rip that sliced angrily across the page and had been taped back together.
"By the time I'd grown out of my pigheaded youth," Barry continued, "He'd passed away."
Nick stared at the paper for a long moment, processing the words Barry had spoken. Then he looked up at the man himself and asked, "But it's different, isn't it? He left because he knew he wasn't going to be able to treat you as you should've been, didn't he?" Nick shook his head, "I can't help but think that mine and Max's fathers would've been doing us a favor by leaving as well, instead of hanging around being drunk all the time."
Barry nodded, considered Nick's words, then said quietly, "Perhaps they left in the only way that they knew how."
Nick raised his eyebrow.
"Come Nick," Barry said, "You've nearly acheived a bachelor's in psychology, have you not? Do you truly not know that alcoholism is a coward's disease?"
Nick turned his face away from Barry, staring at the back of the red office door.
"It should really be Max's choice," Barry said, "Don't you agree, Nick?"
Nick was cross-legged in the cardboard box, sitting across from Max. It was raining outside and the box had been carried upstairs to the boys' room. The box was on the bottom bunk, and the flaps were open only enough to allow light to come in. Max was staring at their red Converse sneakers again. He picked at the ripping toe of his shoe and let his chin rest on his knee cap.
Nick watched Max, a strong feeling of comradarie filling him. He felt as though he and Max had been through a war together. He wasn't certain he dared to open the old wounds, therefore, and he studied Max instead of speaking the words he'd come to say.
"No imagining today?" Max asked, looking up.
Nick shook his head, "Not yet anyway," he added hastily. He took a deep breath, "Max, I need to talk to you about something really important, okay?" he asked. Nick paused. "It's really important that you think this stuff all the way through, really good, okay?"
Max's eyes connected with Nick's.
"Max, your father is in a hospital not very far from here," Nick spoke slowly, watching Max's eyes carefully, "And he would like to see you."
Max continued to stare directly into Nick's eyes, not wavering a moment.
"He - he says he wants to apologize to you," Nick added quietly.
Now Max looked away, his eyes diverting back to the sneakers where Nick's and his toes met in the middle of the box. He puckered his lips out, thinking, picking at his shoe. After a long moment, he looked back up at Nick. "I don't wanna live with my dad again," he whispered.
Nick shook his head, "You don't have to."
"Even if he says sorry?"
"Even if he says sorry," Nick reassured Max.
Max repeated the thinking process once more, then said, "Does he have to say sorry?"
Nick thought about what Max was asking. "He wants to," he said, "If that's what you mean?"
"Nobody's making him?"
Nick shook his head, "Nobody's making him."
Max returned to staring at the sneakers.
Nick put his hand on Max's red Converse, diverting his gaze back to Nick's eyes. Nick leaned close to emphasize his point, "You don't have to go see him, Max," Nick said quietly, "Nobody's gonna make you go. This is completely your choice to go or not." He took a deep breath, "But it's a choice that you can't take back because there won't be another chance to see him again -" Nick paused, "Ever."
Max nodded.
"So you can take a day or two to decide, there's no rushing," Nick said quickly, sitting up straight again. He pulled his hand away from Max's sneaker.
Max shook his head, "No. He can say he's sorry," he said.
Nick looked at Max. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Max said. "I'm sure."
