The Digger's Rest Read online

  She opened her bag and took out two brushes, three combs, a spray can and a large white tube. Simon was too stunned to speak as she went to work, combing his hair through, at first with the big comb, then again with the smaller one. Before he knew it, she had her hand full of whatever was in the large white tube and was running her fingers through his hair, pulling at it to straighten out his curls.

  Next she took the smallest of the combs and drew it through his hair from front to back, slicking it back so it stayed away from his forehead and face. Once she was pleased that the curls were gone and his hair would stay where she put it, she grabbed the spray can, and shielding his face with her left hand, sprayed his whole head from top to bottom and side to side with the can in her right. When she finally stopped, she said with a flip of her hand, “Voila!” and pointed for him to look in the mirror.

  He hardly recognized himself. The curls he’d worn all his life that always made him look boyish and immature were gone, and now he looked…grown up, like a man…and not a bad looking man at that.

  Before he’d even had the chance to absorb the change in his hair, Madame Duvalier was at it again. “Get dressed,” she said, “I want to see how it all looks.” He obeyed her command without hesitation, taking the clothes into the bathroom along with a new pair of unwashed blue jeans he’d gotten just before they left.

  When he came out, Madame Duvalier looked at him discerningly and clapped her hands, “Oui, yes. Very handsome. Perfect, your eyes have never looked more blue,” she said, looking sincerely into his eyes and nodding her approval. “You are now ready for your public, ma jeune Monsieur Yeux Bleu…and no one will be embarrassed,” she said waving her finger back and forth, “You trust your Madame. You go and have a good time…and keep the clothes. My grandson does not have such eyes as yours. They don’t look so good on him. I will get him others,” she said with another flip of her hand, kissing him on both cheeks and handing him a small tin can.

  “And don’t forget to put a shine on your shoes before you go,” she said smiling with satisfaction as she rushed out the door.

  A few minutes later there was a knock on a second door, the adjoining door, and a voice calling through it, “Hey are you ready in there? We still have to see what kind of tickets we can get and grab a bite before the show.” Simon was very ready as he opened the door, anxious to know what Mitch thought of his new nighttime look. When he saw the expression on Mitch’s face, he knew it would be alright.

  “Wow!” Mitch said, looking Simon up and down and nodding, then jokingly, “Is my Simon in there somewhere?”

  He loved it when Dr. Bramson called him my Simon, and as was his nature Simon blushed, replying shyly, “Yes, he’s still in here… somewhere.”

  “Simon, your hair looks great,” Mitch said, nodding his approval again, the similarity to his own slicked hair combined with the earrings not passing his notice.

  “Thanks, I wasn’t sure what to wear. I’ve never been to the theater before,” Simon said, thinking to himself, Thank you so much, Madame.

  “Well, come on, we gotta get going.”

  When they got downstairs, Mitch went out and hailed a cab telling the driver to take them to Leicester Square. He pulled out the theater section of the London Times. “So what would you like to see?” Mitch asked and started to rattle off the names of the shows playing, “Phantom of the Opera? Guys and Dolls?” He’d already decided that, in the absence of something classical, Simon’s first theater experience should be a big, splashy musical. “Blood Brothers? Les Miserables?”

  “That one…please!” Simon blurted out.

  “What one?”

  “The last one, Les Miz. It seems everyone’s seen it but me. Can we see that one?”

  Mitch had already seen it twice, but since it was the first time Simon had expressed an interest in anything outside of school and work, he decided to try and make a go of it.

  “Sure, I think we can arrange that,” he said as the cabbie pulled up to the curb outside of the alley where all the ticket booths were lined up. “Stay here and hold the cab.”

  Simon watched through the cab window at how effortlessly Mitch seemed to move. Unlike himself, saddled with a short leg and a heavy brace, Mitch had an athletic quality and easily dodged through the passer bys. He watched excitedly as the booth man and Mitch exchanged cash for an envelope and Mitch came trotting back to the cab, “Done!”

  Next Mitch had the cabbie drop them off on Old Compton Street at the edge of the theater district. They walked a few blocks before Mitch stopped in front of a homey, cramped looking little restaurant called The Stock Pot, then walked in. The manager saw him immediately and smiled, “Long time no see, Dr. Bramson. What’s it been, a year?”

  “At least, but it seems like a lifetime,” he said smiling, taking the manager’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Think you could have a table for us, Eddie? We’re kind of in a hurry this time. Theater tickets, you know,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, Dr. Bramson. I’ll have a corner booth for you in just a minute. Consider yourself bumped up,” Eddie said smiling and pointing to the bar. “Just give me a minute.”

  Mitch and Simon worked their way through the line and the crowded space to the bar. While Mitch ordered drinks, a Coke for Simon after his recent hangover, Simon took the time to absorb all his eyes could see of everything around him, the hustle and bustle of what seemed to be an endless array of tall blonde waitresses rushing around, serving customers and speaking to each other in what sounded like to him to be Polish.

  When he brought his attention back around to the front of the bar, he saw row after row of unframed signed 8x10 glossy photographs tacked to the wall, celebrities who apparently favored the place. What he didn’t expect to see there was the signed cover of Time Magazine with the caption, “Dr. Bramson’s Bayeux” among them. He understood then, even if only for a fleeting second, what it must be like to be Mitch, and in that moment Simon Holly from the Holy Family Foster Home felt like he stood just a little bit taller.

  Once they were seated and the waitress came over to them, Mitch ordered his usual, country pate for a starter and Frutti Di Mare for his entrée, then he looked at Simon. “So what’ll you have?” Simon’s head reeled, Wow! Pate? Frutti Di Mare? He had no idea what that was. What do I do? flashed through his head.

  Mitch picked up on it like he could read his mind, although his eyes that did all the telling, and he handled it. “My friend will have the smoked mackerel to start, pot roast with mash and root vegetables. I’ll have another beer and he’ll have another Coke. We’ll finish with cheese and biscuits and…an apple crumble and a custard tart. Oh, and, Miss, if we could have a few extra small plates, please,” Mitch said.

  The waitress smiled and nodded as she took down the order in short hand, “Ja.”

  When she was gone, he shook his head and smiled at Simon, “Don’t worry. I got some of everything and the extra plates are so you can test all of it. I never want you to forget this trip, Simon. It’s going to be your introduction to the world,” Mitch said, a replay of Simon’s words from the night before echoing though his mind.

  “Oh, I don’t think there’ll much of a chance of that,” Simon said smiling back brightly, and blushing.

  The meal was a resounding success. Simon found out that he liked both the pate and smoked mackerel, loved the pot roast and would definitely give that Frutti whatever another try. Feeling on the verge of full, he passed on the cheese so he would be sure to have room the desserts. He couldn’t decide which he liked best, the crumble or the tart, so Mitch let him eat all of both of them and ordered himself another beer. Then it was on to the theater.

  The walk of the four or five blocks to the theater refreshed them both and they took their time, the benefit of immediate seating for dinner. They strolled along, leisurely taking in the sights of the theater district until they came to their marquee.

  The similarity between the big eyes of the figure in the poster and Simon
’s didn’t dawn on Mitch at the time but would be unmistakable later.

  Simon was fascinated by the posters and the lights outside, getting more and more excited with each step as they went in. His mouth dropped open when he saw the sumptuous art nouveau carvings and plaster work, gilt cherubs adorning the entire outline of the stage, shimmering in the glow from an enormous crystal chandelier, dangling with what seemed to be hundreds of intricately bowed teardrop crystals.

  Around the chandelier, the rest of the ceiling was divided into quarters by more gilt cherubs, each quarter panel containing a gloriously drawn and executed tempera mural of a seminal scene from Greek mythology. He recognized all of them: Orpheus descending into Hades to rescue Eurydice; Icarus flying into the sun; Medea lamenting her dead children with the bloody dagger still in her hand; and Echo pining away for Cupid among the flora and fauna of some mystical forest.

  He was only pulled back to the twenty-first century by the sound of Mitch’s voice laughing as they arrived at their seats. “Hey, you’re gonna get a stiff neck that way,” he said, handing him a program and pointing to their seats. They were twelfth row center on the aisle. The best seats in the house made easy since it the show was over twenty years old; a perfect position for a panoramic musical like Les Miz.

  When the curtain went up, Mitch looked at Simon who all of a sudden seemed to turn into a child again. His eyes went wide when he saw the sets and his mouth fell open again when the overture started and the cast began to take the stage. At first Mitch felt the satisfaction he usually got with a job well done, but it was somehow mixed with a nagging reservation of…what? The impact of seeing Simon turn into a child again brought him back to that snowy day at Holy Family. It worried him, reminding him that Simon hadn’t had the benefit of an ordinary childhood, far from it.

  Everything seemed to be going well at first. They both were enthralled by the compelling story of injustice, the scope of the visual staging of pre-revolutionary France and most of all the sweeping beauty of the music. Then Eponine, the orphaned waif from the poster, took the stage for the show-stopping musical number, “On My Own.” The girl who sang the role had an incredible soaring voice that raised the rafters of that theater.

  “And now I'm all alone again. Nowhere to turn, no one to go to. Without a home, without a friend, without a face to say hello to. But now the night is near. And I can make-believe he's here.”

  Halfway through the song, Mitch felt a slight trembling and heard muffled sounds next to him. He turned his head to find Simon shaking, huge droplets falling from his eyes, streaming down his face, his chest heaving with restrained sobs.

  “All my life I've only been pretending. Without me, his world will go on turning. The world is full of happiness that I have never known.”

  In that moment Mitch knew he’d made a terrible mistake. As he looked at that heartbroken, sobbing boy, the horrible know-ledge of Simon’s unforgivable childhood came rushing back to him with the same intensity he had felt when he first found him. He could feel Simon’s pain reflected in his own, like a mirror held up to both their pasts. He must have looked just like him that day at his mother’s funeral when Jack showed up. Somewhere in the back of his mind his conscience spoke to him, Do not let him suffer, Mitchell. Do something! But what? he asked his conscience—and it came to him. He thought about Jack. How he’d come to him at the funeral home that day and held him close while he cried his heart out on his shoulder. How his kind voice comforted him, his strong arms making him feel safe and secure; reassuring him that he wasn’t alone, and he acted on it.

  He reached over and took Simon’s trembling hand, holding it tightly, wiping his own eyes with his other until the song was over and the scene had changed.

  “But only on my own…”

  When the final curtain came down, they both leapt to their feet, clapping and wiping what was left of the dampness from their faces; Simon with an almost rapturous look on his.

  Out in the lobby afterwards, Simon excused himself with his usual politeness and went to the men’s room to wash his face, giving Mitch the time he needed to think of something to say. Back a few minutes later, Simon looked better, composed and… refreshed, having let his demons out of their cage, at least until the next time.

  “I’m sorry, Simon. Maybe we should’ve seen ‘Guys and Dolls’ instead. I wasn’t thinking…” Mitch said, feeling guilty for having taken the kid on such an emotionally charged rollercoaster ride so unnecessarily. After all Simon had been through in his life before he’d found him, he’d rather cut off his own hand than hurt Simon or let him be hurt.

  “Oh, no! Please don’t be sorry, Dr. Bramson. I’m not. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. I’ll never forget it as long as I live,” Simon said, a poignancy in his voice Mitch had never heard before, making sure Mitch saw that his eyes were clear to know that he meant it. Then Simon pointed to the concession stand to change the subject. “Can I?”

  Satisfied for the moment that maybe he’d done a good thing after all, Mitch nodded and followed him. “We’ll have a CD, two tee shirts, one extra large, one large, a poster and a coffee cup,” he said, pushing out a fifty pound note over Simon’s shoulder and taking the bag. “Don’t worry. English sizes run small and they shrink,” he said as they headed out the door into the street. “And now for something completely different…”

  “Huh? Simon asked.

  “You didn’t think we were going straight back to the hotel, did you? Ooooooh noooooo!”

  They grabbed another cab, Mitch telling the driver, “The Tower tube station, please, driver.”

  When they got out again at the tube station across from the Tower of London, Simon saw a man dressed dramatically in a cape and top hat standing on a box, waving around pamphlets in his hand, surrounded by a group of people. Mitch intentionally went ahead and handed the man some money. The man handed him two pamphlets in return. Simon was only just approaching the group by then. Mitch met him half way and handed him a pamphlet. Simon looked at it in the glow of the lamp light. A chill ran down his spine, “The Jack the Ripper Walking Tour,” and he looked back up at Mitch, comic alarm written all over his face.

  “I told you it was something completely different,” Mitch said, making his eyes look crazy and putting on a sinister, devilish smile. “So…are you up for it?”

  “Oh, yeah, totally,” Simon answered excitedly, thinking to himself, I would not have missed this ride for anything in the world.

  As they did the walk, Mitch paid particular attention to Simon’s reaction to the story teller, the tales and the surroundings. It was a clear enough night after a short Londonesque rain during the show that made the cobblestone streets wet, and very dark. As he watched Simon’s eyes, he found they had an ability in common, one he hadn’t noticed, or had no reason to before.

  When he was younger and first getting into the historical art and archaeology field, he used to set his mind to take him back to wherever it was he wanted to experience. Part intellect, part imagination and part visualization, he could block out modern world stimuli and realistically reconstruct whatever period he was experiencing whether it was Renaissance Italy or Ancient Egypt, the Court of Charlemagne or the world of El Cid.

  He could imagine the sights and smells, the manner of dress and the language. There were times he even thought he could get into their minds, their thought patterns and processes based on the knowledge available to them at the time. Many times he could feel their superstition and their ignorance of science to uniquely understand why they acted the way they did, most times in ways that horrified the modern mind; the source of plagues and the burning times of witches, the worshipping of many gods and the sacrificing to them. He was seeing it in Simon’s eyes then, as they walked through the wet cobblestone streets of Old London, his eyes wide and wandering, taking in everything he could grasp, synthesizing it into forms and language, dress and economics.

  He was visualizing and understanding how
the squalor of Victorian London forced women who wanted to live respectable lives into doing things they wouldn’t have ordinarily done in order to feed themselves. He was visualizing and understanding that there was no such thing as birth control or condoms and that these women lived their lives in danger of brutality and disease every day, finding no other solace than in the cheap gin that took them away from it all for a short time, and he understood the violence. That was when it dawned on Mitch that he’d made another huge mistake in taking Simon there. He had momentarily forgotten that Simon knew that world all too well, first hand, and would carry the scars of it with him for the rest of his life. But unlike his reaction to the show, Simon’s reaction to the Ripper Walk was one of fascination, hesitating in his analysis only when the speaker described the neighborhood church as ‘The Prostitute’s Church’ because they were known to stroll around it looking for trade.

  Mitch tried to make light of it as they came to the notorious pub known as ‘The Ten Bells’ where Jack the Ripper apparently hunted for his women, pulling Simon out of his 1880s world by asking him if he wanted to go in and get a little bit of the hair of the dog that bit him the night before. Mitch could tell by his expression that Simon wasn’t ready to try it again so soon, so they went next door instead and grabbed some fish and chips wrapped in paper for a midnight snack before hailing a cab to go back to the hotel. It was getting late, after all, and they did have an early start in the morning with a very long train ride ahead of them.

  ***

  The next morning did, indeed, come early, and when Simon came out of the shower at 5:00A.M., his big black curls had returned and he dressed quickly. He knew that they had to be at the train station by seven, so he couldn’t dawdle too long. They hadn’t even had breakfast yet. When he got downstairs, Mitch was already waiting for him in the entry hall with all the bags but Simon’s and talking to Madame Duvalier. Just as he was approaching, Madame was speaking to Mitch in English, “You are doing a very fine thing with the boy,” she said, then switched to French when she saw Simon coming close enough to hear.