[This series has five chapters and will post by the middle of March 2016]
*****
"Hi ya," Mr. Leighton.
Rob Leighton looked up from helping his daughter, Muriel, climb up onto the dock from his fishing boat and waved at the tall, lumbering young man walking south on Lafayette Street back toward Cape May proper.
"Hi to you, too, big guy," Rob called back. "Hot day. You have to walk all the way back to the antique shop? If so, maybe we can give you a lift." He looked around with a questioning look at his wife, Madge, who was about to hand the younger daughter, Maia, up to her husband on the dock. She was frowning slightly, but she nodded her head imperceptibly.
"Naw, thanks, Mr. Leighton. Only going as far as the house. The bosses didn't want me at the shop today. They were getting some china in and said I was needed to do something at the house."
Rob could almost hear Madge let out a breath of relief.
"Well, you be careful now," Rob called back. "If that's where Tim and Alfred want you to be, guess you should be there."
"It's OK. They said I could come and see the whale-watching boat come in. I like that boat. I like your boat too. It's—"
"That's good to hear, Luther. The
Spirit of Cape May
is a nice boat. We've got to get the girls back to the house now. It's been nice talking to you."
Luther stood there, big feet on strong legs planted firmly on the Lafayette sidewalk separated from the Cape May Harbor wharf by a parking lot where Rob and Madge were now bundling their daughters and Rob's fishing gear into an old station wagon. The young man's jaw was working like he wanted to say something else but couldn't think what it was—and thought that maybe it was something he shouldn't say. He swayed a bit back and forth, at least in front of Rob's wife and his daughters. He didn't want Mr. Leighton to be mad at him.
As the station wagon drove away, Madge looked at Rob, started to say something, seemed to think better of it, but then did speak. "I'm sorry to say I'm glad he didn't take the ride, Rob. He frightens me."
"He's harmless, Madge. And he's a good kid; he means well."
"He isn't a kid anymore, Rob. Something needs to be done about him. He's a young man now, and he's nearly on his own. What's going to happen when he gets older? He can't cope. And there's been talk. I don't want the girls—"
"The talk is just because he's always been slow, Madge. And he's so big. Tim and Alfred have taken him on at the antique shop and have let him live in those rooms behind the workshop behind their house. He's being taken care of. I think he's coping just fine."
"Tim and Alfred are hardly the influence anyone would want for that young man. If his mother were still alive—"
"She's not alive, though, is she? And she probably was too protective of him. Someone should have been working with him from the time he was young. But she wouldn't let anyone near him. I don't think he's even that retarded. Just slow. He'll be OK."
"Well, all the same, I'm just as glad we didn't have him in the car with the girls," Madge said. She crossed her arms tightly on her chest. "And mark my words, something's going to come to a head with that young man. I don't like some of the rumors I've heard. Not at all."
As the station wagon drove past him, Luther turned his head south and started the trudge to Tim and Alfred's house on Washington Street. When he passed the H&H Seafood House before approaching the bridge over the waterway to the inner harbor and before turning east on Texas Avenue, the vision of his mother, Sally, rose into his brain as it always did when he passed where she'd been a waitress for thirty years, and Luther smiled.
His mother had always been very good to him. When they'd told her Luther was different from other boys and needed to go to a special school, she'd shamed them into keeping him in the Cape May school and giving him extra help. It wasn't her fault the extra help hadn't been enough, and when everyone at the school sighed with relief the third time he didn't get into the eighth grade and Sally just pulled him out and set him to refinishing furniture at home, he'd stopped worrying about life. The kids at the school had made fun of him. He was always big and clumsy. He wasn't ugly or grotesque. Far from it. He was much too good looking and well built for his own good. Part of the sigh of relief at the school was that girls were noticing him—and a boy or two also—and were getting entirely too interested in the big-bodied, older boy in their classes.
He had developed quickly and it soon became apparent he had an attribute that could get very embarrassing at the school and that, although he would be a natural at football when—no, if—he got into middle school, it might not be the best idea if he was in locker room conditions with the other boys—and certainly not where any of the girls could see him.
Luther's name came from his father, who hadn't been around for more than a couple of days of Luther's life, having been not-too-gently convinced to leave town by dock workers in the harbor who were none too pleased with a big, strapping black man courting a white woman so intensely. He stayed around long enough for Sally to have gotten pregnant, however. You wouldn't have known that Luther had any black in him, though—unless you saw him undressed, which became a challenge for his schoolmates to accomplish. The one attribute that Luther inherited from his father was male equipment that was decidedly darker than the rest of him. And the ease with which Luther's father had gotten his way with Sally might have resulted from the size of his equipment, a trait that Luther also inherited.
It was upon this unusual attribute that many of the rumors about Luther as he grew older were based, although, despite the fears of many Cape May parents, as yet none of their daughters had come forth with news they didn't want to hear.
When Tim and Alfred had agreed to take Luther on at their Pink Poodle antiques store in a pink Victorian house in the tourist area on Decatur Street, more than one father had told them in no uncertain terms to keep a tight rein on the young man. The two store owners, who lived together in a white Victorian house in the less-touristy area of Washington Street, stepped up to the task.
Because he was big and a little clumsy, they had been reluctant to let Luther near their antique store. But they were careful to keep the lumbering giant away from their rooms filled with more delicate antiques. And in spite of the dangers of having him around, Luther had learned well the craft of furniture refinishing, so they put him to work in the workshop behind their house and in the storerooms at the antique store.
* * * *
"Luther, Luther, Lumbering Luther."
The taunting litany started as soon as Luther turned onto Texas Street. He was only four blocks from home, though, so he tucked his chin in, set a slight scowl on his face, and kept walking.
"How ya hangin', Luther? Show us how you're hangin'," the taunting continued.
There were four of them, young guys walking back toward the town from the technical college that was located near where Ocean Avenue split off from Lafayette. They had attended the elementary school where Luther had been a student for a couple of years longer than the standard and still hadn't moved up, but they weren't the brightest bulbs in the chandelier either. He'd failed to get into the eighth grade, but they had barely managed to get out of the twelfth.
There were actually five of them, but the fifth young man was hanging back. He'd been walking several paces behind the other four anyway, but when they started taunting Luther, he stopped in his tracks and just watched.
One of the youths picked up a rock from the side of the road. And then another one did. Looking at each other, wanting the other youth to initiate that attack, they both went into a grin. "One, two, three."
Only one of the rocks hit Luther, but it hit him in the chest as he turned to see what they were doing, and it was sharp-edged, tearing his shirt and making blood start to seep across his white shirt front.
"Hey, watch out," the fifth youth called out. "There's a police car coming."
The four taunters evaporated, and Luther swiveled his head, looking for the police car. He liked watching the police cars cruising around. He preferred watching fire trucks, but they didn't cruise around much.
"I don't see no police car," he called out, his voice full of disappointment.
"There isn't one. I just wanted the guys to stop throwing rocks at you." The young man was approaching Luther. He put his hand on the giant's arm when he reached him. "You look like you're hurt."
"I go home now anyway. I have bandages. I have a real first aid kit in the workshop." Luther was beaming like someone had just given him a hospital.
"I'll come with you and make sure it gets bandaged properly . . . if that's OK with you. It will be a little difficult for you to bandage your own chest, I think."
"Well, OK. Tim and Alfred don't like me to have people at the house. But OK, I think."
"My name's Keith," the young man said, as they turned and branched off south onto Washington Street from Texas.
"My name's Luther."
"I know," Keith said. "I've wanted to meet you."
When they got to Tim and Alfred's house, Luther guided Keith around to a building in back. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. With the rhythm of each step on the way to the house, Luther's mind was repeating "No visitors," the litany that Tim and Alfred had drummed into him for months when he'd first come there. He was afraid that someone might see Keith and him and tell Tim or Alfred—especially Alfred, who got angry so easily—that he'd let someone in the workshop without their permission.
From the kitchen window of the house just to the north of Tim and Alfred's house, old Mrs. Watson watched the two young men going to the building at the back of the house and took note of Luther looking furtively around. She pursed her lips and shook her head. She had been very displeased when she'd heard those two men—she always thought of them as "those two men" with a little sneer when she said the word "men"—were bringing the young man to live with them. She'd known there would be no good coming from that. And now that retard was bringing young men home himself. Well, she thought, at least it wasn't young women. That would really be something nobody would want.
* * * *
"There, it's not too bad. But I don't think you could have wound this bandage around your chest very well yourself."
"Thanks . . . Keith," Luther answered in a half whisper. Keith had been standing very close to him and had moved his hands on Luther's well-muscled chest perhaps a bit more than was required to clean and bandage the wound. Keith remained close in, standing between Luther's beefy thighs, as Luther perched on the stool in the kitchen-dining-living room area, with a double bedstead peeking around the corner of the L-shaped room attached at the rear of the workshop. Luther had been reluctant to let Keith in this room; he'd wanted to have the dressing done in the workshop on the driveway side of the building, but Keith had insisted that it was too dusty in there to treat a wound.
"Luther."
"Yes, Keith?"
"Those other guys. What they were saying to you?"
"I didn't listen to them. My mother told me not to listen to words like that."
"They wanted you to show it."
After a brief pause, with Luther looking sheepish. "Yeah, I guess."
