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Titanic Dinners
Jacob killed his little brother a year ago. The fire was an accident, of course, but an eight year old cannot process
that level of guilt. He would only bathe with the door open because he believed his brother would rise from hell
through the drain and murder him. To Jacob’s left stood Davey. Davey had been here the longest. Some of the
kids claimed he was born here, but that was hogwash. He had only been here since he was four. Five years
later he was still the meanest kid here and apt to bite your fingers should they come too close.
To Davey’s left stood Tyler, and next to him was John Polly. They were all here for different reasons,
but they had one thing in common: their hearts hurt. Some terrible thing brought them to Red Chapel
Children’s Home, the residential treatment facility where I was a counselor.
Red Chapel housed over fifty kids, but I was in charge of only four: Jacob, Tyler, Davey,
and John Polly. Other counselors pitied me for it. I had the rotten bunch – the guys nobody
else wanted to touch.
They stood in mock military formation: hands to their sides, heels together, eyes straight ahead.
They loved to play army, especially Tyler. He stood with his thumbs precisely along his trouser
seams and his chin perfectly perpendicular to the floor.
I’d put them “at ease” (Tyler loved that military term) in a moment. First they had to pass inspection.
John Polly’s eyes followed me left and right. Tyler would have reprimanded him for breaking concentration,
but I pretended not to notice.
Each child was dressed in his Sunday best. Only John Polly looked awkward. He had just arrived the week
before and didn’t have slacks or a button-up shirt. I sent him to the storage closet where we kept
clothes left by children who had come and gone. He returned with a pair of wrinkled gray pants
at least two sizes too small. The shirt had stains under the pits and I’m not positive his shoes
even matched.
Tyler’s hair looked like Alph Alpha’s. It always stuck up in the back, no matter how much water he put on it.
His hair was still damp and smelt like Purell shampoo. I washed each child’s hair that afternoon;
I told them it was to make sure their hair was clean, but mostly it was to give them attention.
“About face!”
Four bodies turned semi-simultaneously. They looked like the three stooges attempting a military maneuver.
They nearly knocked each other over and tumbled in the process. One of them snickered. I suspect it
was John Polly. I ordered a salute and Trevor’s fingertips reached his brow with impressive speed.
I looked at him and winked. Trevor had been practicing his military maneuvers and he was extremely proud.
I gave my boys a final once-over. I straightened Jacob’s tie and centered his belt buckle.
I grabbed a sock lying on the floor and dusted off their shoes. John Polly looked a bit silly
with his ankles three inches below his trouser seams, but what of it? He looked good.
He looked proud. He didn’t have much to be proud of – none of them did, not the rotten bunch
– but right then he felt special.
“I’m proud of you,” I said to them.
John Polly blushed and fidgeted with his necktie. His picked at an imaginary stain on his breast pocket.
I told him to stand proud. “Do you know what you are?” I asked him.
“A gentleman, sir.” He put his hands to his sides, the imaginary stain quickly forgotten.
“That’s right. And do you know where you are going?”
John Polly saw the sea that day; its waves rose and fell in the pupils of his eyes. “The Titanic,”
he said. His voice was small and dreamy.
“That’s right, John. Tonight you dine with us on the Titanic.”
Titanic Dinners began as something I did with my guys once a month. I’d let them dress their best,
even style their hair and splash on a touch of cologne, as if they were going to dine aboard the
mighty Titanic. For an hour each month they forgot they were orphans. They forgot all about the
institution. For that one hour they were gentlemen, statesmen aboard a beautiful vessel.
I miss those boys. It’s been years since I left that place, yet their faces haven’t aged.
I remember the smiles and the tantrums and even John Polly’s scrawny white ankles.
I remember Jacob’s scars and the skin grafts which covered his whole body. I remember
him asking me to rub those scars with lotion, and how he instructed me to knead the
scar tissue just as the doctor had instructed him. I remember Tyler’s cowlick and
the hours he spent in front of the mirror practicing his salute. I hope they remember
me, that I left an impact on their lives. I’ve got no delusions that life turned out
well for all of them; some hearts mend too slowly. But I hope they have their good
days still; I hope they have their own Titanic Dinners.
John Long: 2nd place recipient, Scott Christianson Essay Award: Dawgs for Life.
A brief synopsis: Red Chapel is the pseudo name John gives to the institution wherein he was a counselor for many years. At its entrance is a rod-iron gate; beyond that is a windy gravel road; beyond that is the village of Red Chapel, home to children who either had been orphaned or who had gone insane. Children wore shirts with their initials stamped on the breast pockets and swallowed psychotropic meds taken from plastic cups with their initials stamped on the bottoms. They ate dinner in assigned seats, rotating turns at saying grace according to a chart on the wall. Once in a while, he would shed his boys of their rags and dress them in button-ups and slacks. He would dab their hair with gel and their necks with cologne. They would pretend the dining hall was a ship – the great Titanic. Those were nights for magic, for dreaming; those were Titanic Dinners.
His essay, Titanic Dinners shows that magic.
Email: John Long
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