Promises – based on a true story

When Jeannie, Gil’s wife died, he stopped going to church. He’d take his son, Cliff, to the twenty-minute Mass at the French church on Christmas and Easter. 

Gil preferred watching the ducks in the early light from atop the bridge in Cass Park. That was his place of worship. It felt more real. From that vantage he sensed the whole world arising as sunlight shone through the treetops.

Before they married, he and Jeannie threw stale bread to the ducks and laughed at their jostling for morsels. Meadowlarks sang arias from the trees. It felt like heaven to him.

He’d take Cliff to the bridge each morning, before dropping him to school, and working at the bank. Standing over the still water, they’d talk and watch the world awaken. He never forgot that Cliff was all he had left of Jeannie.

Gil pointed. “See that ripple, out past the lily pads…?”

“Yeah. What is that?”

“A snapping turtle. I call her Hilda.”

“Hilda?

“She’s huge. Has a sharp beak and a ragged dinosaur tail. Wouldn’t want to swim with her.”

“Wow.”

“Been here since before I was born.”

“She’s old!”       

They’d watch Hilda make her rounds. The ancient turtle lurked beneath the dark water stirred by the ducks. The big old turtle terrified him when he was Cliff’s age. Now, they were old friends.

The ducks dispersed.

Gil said, “My dad used to tell me about hippos out there.”

“Really?”

“That’s what he told me.”

Gil’s brother, Roger, called Cliff ‘the Wanderer.’ When he got lost in the woods, they found him napping atop a slab of granite. A sun beam shone down on him. A fawn was licking his ear.

A few days later, Cliff and Gil visited the bridge for their morning ritual. A flock of ducks took flight and wheeled over the placid water.

The boy admitted he’d given up. “I didn’t know what to do, dad. I wished I was a bird.”

“Cliff, when you get in a jam, you can’t just fly away.”

“Birds do.”

“But you’re not a bird. Birds don’t think. They react. We buckle down and find a solution.”

“But how…?”

“Ducks swim. You don’t see crows swimming. Each does what’s intended. You’re not made to fly.”

“What am I made for?”

“Good question. What are you good for?”

Wide eyed, Cliff had no answer.

He felt Jeannie watching. He ruffled Cliff’s hair.

“Right now, you’re made to run and play. Soon, ideas will capture you and you’ll chase them far as you need to.”

Cliff needed structure. Gil signed him up for the local peewee football team, the Canucks. Cliff preferred soccer. But being old school, and the team coach, Gil prevailed.

He watched Cliff sulking, but safe on the bench. Cliff chafed at Gil’s control but didn’t protest.

Another kid, Frankie, and Cliff became friends. Frankie was agile and threw well. Cliff ran fast and knew how to catch the ball. Gil started using him in games.

One game, near the end of the fourth quarter, the Canuck defense collapsed. Trapped, Frankie threw the ball away. Cliff made a spectacular catch. His touchdown won the game.

Frankie said the priest at the French church, congratulated them for their Hail Mary.

Cliff asked Gil about it. “Dad, why don’t we practice that play from the game?”

“Because it’s last ditch. A miracle, desperation play… To keep from getting sacked.”

“But it worked. We won the game…”

“There’s no way to practice it, Cliff. It’s random, unpredictable. No one wants a Hail Mary play. If you need it, someone didn’t do their job. The defensive line failed.”

“Why did we win if everything went wrong?”

“Drills let us know what to expect. Follow the rules, stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. The center snaps the ball, and the quarterback catches it. Like at the bank, you don’t fudge the figures.”

“I know, Dad. But Friday?”

“Steady practice gets you to know each other’s moves. Then, if you need to improvise, you can. But you can’t plan it.”

The next week, they stood on the bridge, huddled in their jackets. Their breath lingered in the chilled air. The ducks had migrated south. Gil watched for Hilda’s ripples.

Cliff said, “Dad, I wrote a poem.”

“Let’s hear it.”

He unfolded a paper,

“’They say hippos swim in the lake at Cass Park.

And if you dive deep enough you could find Noah’s Ark.

There the ducks live in trees,

The crows do as they please.

The light’s beautiful and it never gets dark…’

He looked up.

Gil chuckled and said, “That’s awful.”

Cliff laughed. “It is?”

Gil felt Jeannie’s nudge. “Is it for school?”

“No. I just wrote it.”

“Then I love it.”

“You do?”

Gil nudged his shoulder with a smile. “You have a great future, kid.”

The following Friday morning, Gil prepared for the day.

He called out, “You ready, Cliff? Let’s head out.”

The house was silent. Cliff wasn’t in his room. Something felt wrong. Never an early riser, Cliff always rode with Gil. His backpack was gone, but his schoolbooks sat on the table.

He called Cliff’s friends. No one knew anything. Frankie’s mother said they left together, at dawn.

“I heard them talking about the train.”

“The train? They’re kids. Where would they take the train?”

“Not sure. What’s three hours away?”

Gil saw the newspaper on the table. He stopped at the announcement of the NY Jets’ planned appearance at Madison Square Garden. Their quarterback, Chase Hopkins, recently made news with a Hail Mary pass.

Gil called his brother, Roger. “Drop everything, Rog. Need some urgent action.”

“What’s up?”

“Cliff and a buddy skipped school to go into the city. Need help finding them.”

“Alone? To New York? What is he, ten? Crazy...”

“That’s Cliff. I’ll pick you up in ten.”

Traffic wasn’t bad until they reached the outer boroughs.

Roger and his wife, Donna, rode along. They were regulars at church, Sundays, holidays and holy days. Donna attended Mass every morning. Sitting next to Gil, Roger yammered about kids lacking responsibility. Donna prayed in the back seat, non-stop and loudly.

When the traffic backed up, Gil reached his limit. “Will you pipe down? You’re talking to yourself. Cut the volume.”

“I’m praying, Gil. Asking God for help.”

“And God can’t hear silent thoughts? I’m trying to think, here. Pray for an open lane.”

Roger and Donna exchanged looks. 

He felt responsible. ‘I’m under water, here… What if… I’d let Cliff play soccer? Or Jeannie’d stayed behind instead of me? The kid would’ve thrived with her.’ No answers came. Nothing could solve this.

‘Why? Why? Why…?’

Gil took an exit and made his way to Madison Square Garden. ‘So many people!’

He pulled over, got out, and gave Roger the keys.

“Drive around. I don’t know… Look between here and Grand Central… I’ll scout the Garden.”

He ran up the steps and across the plaza to the entrance. A maintenance man came out.

Gil stopped in front of him. “When will the Jets be here?”

The guy brushed by. “This morning. Been and gone, man… freakin’ tourist…”

Dead end.

He had been so sure. Now what?

Gil fell to his knees. Putting his hands together, he did what he hadn’t done since he was a kid. And never in public. He prayed.

People milling about stared at Gil kneeling by the Garden’s entrance.

“Mary. I barely know you. It’s been so long. Too long… I need help finding Cliff, Jeannie’s and my son. He’s a good kid. But lost. I don’t know if… or what you can do. But please, help us find him. Keep him safe… You can’t… please don’t leave me alone. He’s all I’ve got… I’ll return to church. Do a rosary every week… every day. Just bring him back safe. Please…”

Sobbing, Gil slumped against the wall, head in hands.

His cell phone rang. It was Roger.

“We got Cliff and his friend. Safe. They crossed right in front of us on 42^nd, at Bryant Park.”

Gil couldn’t speak. Tears ran down his face.

Roger said, “You there? Pick you up in five.”

The kids denied knowing anything about the Jets event. “That would’ve been cool. Should ‘a done that…”

Cliff said, “Always heard about New York. Wanted to check it out…”

The ride home was relaxed, once they got past the scolding.

Cliff got a clue. He wasn’t much trouble after that.

Gil faithfully said his rosary every day. When tempted to skip it, he’d tell himself, ‘Follow the rules. Stick to the plan. Don’t wing it. Keep your promises…’

He kept his promise. Standing on the bridge every morning, he’d feed Hilda and the ducks. He’d think of Jeannie and tell her all about it.