Connor Wells

Three snippets of one life.

Father and Son

"No."

"But Dad..." the skinny boy pleaded. He was tiny for his age and appeared younger than his seven years and delicate. He looked as if he would shatter if shoved too hard. But his baggy pants were torn at the knees, suggesting a tougher personality than met the eye.

"I said no." Jacob Wells looked at his son, trying to be fierce and intimidating, though it hurt him to see the boy's face fall in disappointment. He was older than one would suspect for a man with a seven-year-old son; his hair and close-cropped beard were gray and a carved wooden cane lay near at hand, leaning against the huge mahogany desk.

Looking at his son, he saw disappointment turn to stubbornness and was not surprised by the next question: "Why not?"

He sighed, quietly. Even though he had anticipated the question, he did not find it any easier to answer. He spoke slowly; each word and meaning carefully though over before it left his lips. "We are a very private family, Connor. I would like to keep it that way. I will not have some stranger—some journalist”— The word was spoken with such bitterness and scorn that Connor, whose thoughts had been focused solely on his own annoyance, looked up in surprise—“invade our home and interfere with our lives and what is really none of his business." He had been getting progressively louder as his tirade went on, but cut himself off before he ended up yelling at his son, something he never wanted to do.

Connor seemed cowed but remained stubborn. "He just wants to ask questions is all. And he wants me, not you. It's not about you."

Jacob took a careful breath. "Your life is here, Connor." He didn't say 'you are seven years old', even though he thought it, because he felt that wouldn't be treating Connor fairly. "Whether you like it or not, whether we like it or not, your family will be talked about. I don't want that."

"I don't care," insisted Connor. He formed his face into the most determined expression he could manage, but he was wavering.

"No," Jacob repeated. He had explained himself, out of guilt perhaps, and that was more than he needed to do. 'No' meant 'no' and Connor had better learn.

"Fine," Connor snapped.

Despite the tone, Jacob was relieved. His son might not like it, but at least he had stopped fighting. "I could interview you, if you want," he added, feeling generous and wanting to give something back to his son, since he had to deny him the pleasure of the interview and the fame, real or imagined, it would grant.

Connor gave him a look, one of those looks that every parent dreads, the look that says 'you've completely missed the point, but I won't tell you what the point is because it's so obvious only an idiot wouldn't understand.' He didn't know how all that could be conveyed in one look from one seven-year-old, and he wondered why he can read that look so easily, when the really important information eludes him.

"I'll take that as a no," he quipped, to hide his hurt. Connor trotted out of the room; there was nothing more to say. Jacob was left wondering how, after five children, the pain and the astonishment never lessened each time at how much a casual glance could wound.

 

Age Fifteen

Long and lanky with dark hair, he had a face that might have been attractive, save for the perpetual scowl. It is even deeper now. His door slides shut, so he has just been denied the pleasure of slamming it and is curled up on his bed, long arms pulling his legs to his chest, in a sulk.

He pulls his Walkman close, intending for a second to drown out the world with music, but shoves it away after a moment's thought. He is too angry even for that. He picks up a comic book that it sitting near his bed, but throws it aside after flipping through the pages at such a pace it would be impossible to read anything.

It lands on bare floor. He is neat, mostly, when he's not so angry, and his rather extensive collections of books, movies, CDs, and comics are double-shelved but neatly organized in racks along one wall and half the closet.

He buries his feet in the green bedspread, wrapping himself in his anger like a protective coat. But the comic book remains on the edge of his consciousness. He faces the wall hoping that if he puts it out of sight he will be able to push it out of his mind. But no, it keeps fighting its way into his thoughts, annoying him with the need to put it away. That makes him angry, even more angry than he is with his father, which he hadn't thought possible. But anger is never rational.

He gives up with an exaggerated sigh and flings himself off the bed and scoops up the comic roughly, but puts it neatly back on the shelf in between issues 10 and 12 where it belongs.

“I hope you’re happy,” he snaps, sliding it into place with more force than necessary (but not enough to damage it). And he’s not sure who he’s talking to.

“Talking to yourself again,” comments Kyle, strolling into the room.

“Get out!” yells Connor, turning away to hide the flush that spreads across his face at that all-too-true accusation. Normally he gets along best with Kyle, as they are closest in age, but he’s hardly in a normal mood.

“Can’t make me,” Kyle grins. “It’s my room too.” Connor finds it impossible not to notice that Kyle is in a relentlessly cheerful mood for some reason, and this naturally serves to fuel his anger further. It seems like Kyle is laughing at him, and he can’t stand that. He needs to hang onto the illusion that he isn’t ridiculous.

 

One Fiancé and Four Siblings

“What is it?”

Her eyes are wide and concerned as I hang up the phone. She had entered the room just in time to catch the end of the conversation and knows something has happened.

“It’s Victor. He’s—“ and I struggle to get the word out, as if by refusing to say it I would keep it from being true. “He’s dead.” I force the word past my lips.

I pretend not to see the flash of relief in Hannah’s eyes, which she quickly covers with a look of horror for my sake. After all, why shouldn’t she be relieved? She never met my oldest brother. She never met any of my family.

But whatever she feels or doesn’t feel, I can’t move. I can’t move and I don’t quite understand why. I thought I was resilient, I thought I could be tough and unfeeling, yet here I am, utterly frozen in place, with my fiancé hovering over me with all the concern she can muster in the hideous teal kitchen of our apartment.

She sits me down in one of the white, wooden barstools and watches me closely as I remind myself who I was. When she figures I have recovered myself enough to be able to speak, she perches on the other stool and asks, “What happened?”

I struggle to organize my own thoughts. “That was my sister, Jessie. There was a car accident. The other driver was drunk. You know how it is. Not a scratch on him. You read about it all the time in the papers, but I never imagined…” What do newspapers have to do with my life? “He was 46.” That sounds like something they would say on the news, so I try to change to something personal. “I hadn’t talked to him—to any of them—in nine years. Nothing in particular happened; I just wanted out, I guess. Jessie said she’d been trying two days to get my number. There’s a funeral on Thursday. I should fly out.” I stop. I don’t want to think about how painful and awkward that would be.

“Do you want me to… I mean, should I come?” Hannah asks. It will be awkward for both of us, especially with her there, but I can’t imagine going without her and without her support.

“Of course.” I should have said ‘I need you,’ but I am feeling lost enough that I can hardly be concerned with good communication.

“I’ll see to the plane tickets and things.”

I manage the barest hint of a smile. Thank God, or whatever is out there, for Hannah.

I let myself stop thinking as I deal with practicalities: helping Hannah with the travel arrangements, calling work to let Rob know I’d be gone. But all too soon we were seated at the dinner table eating Hannah’s cleverly disguised microwavable food, and I know she wants to talk.

“Tell me about your family,” she requests. “I know there are a lot of you, but that’s about it.”

“Well…” I start somewhere less painful. “My father’s name is Jacob. My mom’s name was Mae. She died when I was two. There were five of us and I was the youngest.” It bothers me how easily I used the past tense. I wonder if I had for a while and only the loss of Victor made me aware of it. “Victor was the oldest. Eighteen years older than I was. He was…” No, I shouldn't say it. I shouldn't say that I thought Victor was boring. I shouldn't even think it. Why not? Convention. There was nothing wrong with me thinking it while he was alive. Thinking it doesn't mean I loved him any less. He was my brother, after all. “He was… a truly good person. I know everybody says that about… people who’ve died, but that’s not being nice; that’s just how it was. Sometimes I hated him for it. He ran a youth shelter. His wife was equally good; she worked for the district attorney.” I pause. Short statements of fact I can handle, but if I stop to think… well, I don’t want to think about that.

“What was her name?” Hannah is storing away all the information she can, wanting to prepare herself as much as possible for the inevitable strangeness of meeting my family for the first time with the added stress of a funeral.

“Kathryn.”

She nods, filing the name away for future reference.

“Next is Michael. He’s autistic, but he’s brilliant with machines. I don’t know where he ended up, but I’ll bet he’s putting his genius to good use.” It feels almost as if I’m talking about characters in a book, using only the bare essentials. Somehow I find it hard to say the other things. How Michael had kept a pet raccoon for three weeks before anyone found out about it, how he built a kaleidoscope for Dad from scratch. “Jessie’s next, close to Mike’s age. She’s a doctor; I saw that in the paper.” Maybe that’s why I sound like I’m reading from a book. All the recent things I learned from newspaper clippings. Fine, I’ll admit it. I miss them. But I was too proud to go back home. I knew Jessie would be the one to call me; she was always the organized one, Michael’s self-appointed protector. “Kyle is closest to my age. I don’t know what he’s doing now. Last time we talked, he was still in college. He didn’t know what he was doing then, either. And then there’s me,” I conclude. Me. After this litany of productivity and talent, there’s the one black sheep, the one who never went to college, who became an electrician through, essentially, sheer willpower. The one who didn’t stay in touch, didn’t remain a part of this close-knit clan. They will all be together now, in Sacramento, rallying around each other for support, becoming even more of one cohesive group. I know I left by my own choice, but I have to keep reminding myself, because right now all I want is to go home.