The Forest of Trees

The Forest of Trees

Anita Kovacevic

First edition

Copyright © 2017 Anita Kovacevic

All rights reserved.

ISBN : 978-1-387-24978-7

Paperback ISBN 978-1-387-24976-3

This work is licensed under Standard Copyright Licence

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Any similarity to a person or place described in this book is purely coincidental.

Published by Anita Kovacevic

Edited by Anita's Haven

Distributed by http://www.lulu.com

Dedication

To family and friends – past, present and future

Foreword

Our lives always consist of beauty and ugliness, and if we are lucky, we get to keep the balance of the two. The good and the bad start from within us, and spread all around us. It is what weaves this world, and, I believe, all worlds everywhere and everywhen.

All fairytales consist of magic and horror. Not everyone is always good, and not everyone is always bad. Snow White faced the evil Witch Queen, Cinderella her step-family, the children and parents the Pied Piper…

In a way, this story is also a horror fairytale, but it is not for children. You may feel like reading some parts to your children, but those were the parts told by my own inner child, the one who still hopes and believes in magic. The horror in the story has nothing magical about it – it brings out the harsh reality I hated to write, but had to write out of me.

To paraphrase the words of two fascinating authors, we must write even that which we don't want to write, because it must be said (S. King). And it is up to us which side we choose – the good or the easy (J. K. Rowling).

For myself, I admit to having both sides, but I intend to always feed the good in me – always.

Anita Kovacevic

Introduction

You are probably wondering why this story has such a silly title – The Forest of Trees. Well, of course it's made up of trees! What else would a forest be made of – a forest of frogs, a forest of cabbages? I really don't think so.

The name probably has something to do with the fact that this particular forest was indeed made up of trees and trees alone. There were no bushes, no flowers, no mushrooms, no little forest animals, nothing but the ground and the trees.

A big forest it was, for there must have been hundreds of trees living there. All shapes and sizes, all species and all ages… So many shades of the light and the dark.

Especially the dark.

And the people? Oh yes, there were people, too. So many kinds of the good and the bad.

Especially…

CHAPTER 1 – THE FOREST

The Forest of Trees had once been just a simple forest, a beautiful, rich one at that, until slowly but steadily, trees changed for some reason.

No two trees were alike and for hundreds of years their variety had been the source of joy and beauty. All the trees had something in common, yet each of them was unique. Their singularities were intricately woven into the tapestry of The Forest.

Oddly enough, all the beautiful years and shared experience hadn't brought wisdom. In time, the trees became disagreeable and lost compassion or patience for each other. They started to push each other and over-shadow each other's light. They stole each other's humidity by extending their roots. Some scared away their neighbour's treetop dwellers – birds, bats, squirrels and bugs, pretending that their branches only got caught up in their neighbour's treetops due to strong winds. Branches grew winded at night, and then curled up to hide during the day. Veiled by darkness, they would stretch out their coils, steal and smash their neighbour's fruit in sheer malice. In daylight, dried up twigs were discarded, thrown in the faces of other trees. Only the sun and the moon witnessed the conflicts.

The Forest War for territory was just as stupid and pointless as any other war in history. There was quite enough room for all the existent trees, their offspring and then some, not to mention all kinds of creatures scurrying and flying around. However, enough is never enough where bad blood is concerned, even when it is not blood at all.

In time the place became known merely as The Forest of Trees. People avoided it as haunted; animals fled to other forests, less noisy and more serene. Along with creatures, plants disappeared; most withered away, sending their seeds elsewhere with the help of bees and butterflies.

Only the trees remained – cold and detached, their treetops high up in the air with no interest in other life forms. Scents gave way to stale air, a ghostly silence veiled The Forest and only the occasional snapping and murmur would buzz through the leaves.

From a distance, the landscape appeared like an unfinished sketch of a forest, the dark ground, decaying trunks and clingy leaves outlining The Forest of Trees.

***

Another lovely autumn day hovered above The Forest hoping it would rediscover itself.

Suddenly, in the quiet, suspended routine of the Forest, there was a shift, a tiny energy surge, like a transparent wave coming from the edge of the Forest. The grumpy murmur of leaves, in its numbing rhythmical pattern, was suddenly disturbed by unusual sounds.

First, dry leaves began rustling on the ground in an erratic manner. Then a pause.

Eyes in tree barks popped open, their minds pulsating with curiosity. Their trunks remained perfectly motionless.

The brief silence was disturbed by some unusual huffing and puffing, a sigh of disappointment, more leaves rustling, this time a bit less happy, and then a pause again.

The air was motionless.

Huffing and puffing again, then some really angry stomping, cut off by a furious yell, and then, for the grand finale – a really good, high-pitched, clear and enthusiastic – whistle.

Curly had had just about enough. He was the largest common oak tree in The Forest and his patience had run out. The whip of his longest branch flew to the ground, grabbing the intruder by his foot, lifting him swiftly into the air, all the way up to the highest crevices in Curly's trunk. The holes hid Curly's stern, deep brown eyes in his wrinkly old bark. The whip of the branch brought the creature right between Curly's inquisitive eyes.

The whistling creature stared back, speechless. It was a human child.

It’s been quite a while, Curly thought, scratching his head with a twig.

He observed the stupefied intruder for several seconds, turning him sideways and up-side-down, and then decided it was time to say something. He still remembered how to speak Human – he’d always been a good listener. Not having spoken for such a long time, he cleared his throat, arched his trunk and opened the crevice representing his mouth.

Who are you and what are you doing in The Forest? Curly thundered at the small creature.

Shocked by the vibration of Curly's voice after such a long time, the wind paused and silenced all rustling.

The intruder's timid voice broke the awaiting silence.

Ahem… I am… er… a boy. Jeremy, from the city. I mean, my family and I have just moved here… to the cottage at the edge of The Forest… and I just… well… snuck out to try… whistling?

The last word was spoken more quietly and with an innocent, apologetic smile. It had been Jeremy's first whistle, so he wasn't even certain if it came out right. Shrugging his shoulders in embarrassment seemed quite silly in this up-side-down position, so he just chuckled a bit, half frightened, half intrigued.

The boy's ginger hair, inherited from his mother, hung downwards like tassels, and his huge green eyes shimmered amidst an abundance of freckles. His clothes flapped around his skinny body like banners.

Hmm, this boy seems more excited than afraid. Quite unusual for his race, the thought flashed through Curly’s mind.

Jeremy was still waiting for a response, but none came except for some slight rustling and wide stares, so he kept on babbling.

My family has just moved here from a big city… you know, better life and all that, he blushed a bit, as Curly just stared back. My mum got a teaching position in the nearby town. I'm ten, starting fourth grade soon. My dad's going to babysit us now for a while … well, not me, I’m no baby… me and my little sister Dot. Dorothy's her name, but I call her Dot. We all do, in fact. They're back at the cottage now… Jeremy suddenly frowned. Oh shucks! I’m supposed to be watching her.

Guilt-struck, he bit his lip.

That morning, when the family had finally reached the cottage, Dot was sleeping in her car seat. Jeremy's parents started getting all the things out of the car, busy as bees, no smiles attached. They let Jeremy run around for a while, provided he kept an eye on Dot. It seemed like a good plan to the parents, too tired and frustrated to think differently. Their old car had barely survived the trip.

And don’t wander off, Jeremy! his mother warned, arching her eyebrows.

All good plans suffer alterations. As soon as his mum and dad had walked into the house with the first boxes, Jeremy put his own plan into action. He quickly checked on Dot – she was still snoring and drooling on her jacket. Jeremy ran into The Forest as fast as his legs could carry him. It was time to try whistling outdoors for the first time.

Back in the city, he had never been allowed to whistle in the building, the strict school or his grandparents' house. During the drive he had to be quiet, so his dad could concentrate on driving. The only thing he had been looking forward to all day was to reach The Forest, yell, run and try that first whistle.

As soon as he'd inhaled the forest air, he closed his eyes, and pursed his lips. It took a few attempts, but he’d whistled! The sound was completely uncanny, and Jeremy's chest swelled with pride. To his hopeful mind, it was indeed what a proper whistle was supposed to be.

However, now his first whistle was rendered completely unimportant. Literally hanging up-side-down from the branch of a giant talking tree, he had to admit that topped everything else. Jeremy pinched himself, just to make sure he was not still sleeping at the back of the car. He pinched again. Nothing had changed.

Curly's grip was still relentless.

Jeremy blinked, amused and impatient.

I just came here to whistle, he repeated. Anyway, should I keep on talking or can you perhaps read my mind? I mean, how does this work?

You're a stranger, Curly growled.

Well, technically, no, I am not. I am your neighbour. Hi, neighbour, Jeremy's flushed cheeks revealed the insecurity of his bravado, especially when the oak tree lifted him even higher.

Jeremy closed his eyes and held his breath.

A new, eeky sound came from the left of Jeremy's captor.

A neeeeeighbour? From that darned shack over there? Well hello, young man. You can call him Curly, and I am Selma.

Her voice was soothing, despite the squeak, and Jeremy instantly liked her. He opened his green eyes in curiosity.

Selma was an ancient dry beech, and every branch on her trunk screeched like the floor boards of a drafty, old wooden house. She half-smiled. She hadn't been eager to talk to anybody in a long time, but the ginger-haired visitor aroused her curiosity.

Pleased to meet you, I think, Jeremy guessed old trees deserved respect and good manners, the same way older people did. "Ahem… is this some sort of magic? Because I had no idea trees could really talk!"

A high-pitched sound rang out from Curly's right. The sound danced between an annoyed hiss, a sneeze and a pleasant melody.

Jeremy looked towards the chestnut tree who had produced it.

What sort of a stupid remark is that? Of course we can talk. We were able to talk back when you humans were not even an idea in the making! Not talk! Preposterous! Magic? I mean, really… It's nature, not magic. Ugh, humans, the chestnut tree puffed with dignified scorn. You can call me Gertrude, I suppose, if you can pronounce it.

Jeremy grinned at his thoughts. In the human world, he’d draw her as an opera diva, one of those his grandmother liked. Her branches and leaves were rich at the top, adding to the image of a singer in her luxurious brown-green dress and ballroom cleavage.

Gertrude leaned forward as much as her wide trunk would allow it and looked down at him, causing him to wince.

Silly human boy, did you even know you were trespassing?

Before Jeremy could speak, another old tree's voice spoke calmly from the backdrop.

Oh, let the poor lad be, Gertie. Ain't like this place has an owner, right? Come now, Curly, put the boy down nice and easy.

Curly protested below breath, but gently placed the boy on the ground. The other trees murmured approvingly, and the wind danced around Jeremy, settling in the dry leaves below his feet.

Jeremy straightened his hand-me-down clothes, restoring some pride. He leaned his head sideways, rubbing his chin with one hand, the way he always did when he inspected something.

Jeremy's rescuer hardly had any leaves, except for some on a half-broken branch hanging from his mouth. There was a mushroom-like growth on his treetop. His acacia trunk was depressingly thin and bare, his spikes blunt. He reminded Jeremy of an aged, skinny farmer in dungarees, with a straw hat tilted over his half-bald head, and a long pipe stuck on his lip as if it had grown into it. Jeremy felt his fingers itch for a crayon.

Erv's the name here, the acacia tree said with his croaky, gentle voice, tipping his head. You seem harmless enough. You see, most old trees, much like human grandparents, tend to be over-protective. He looked sternly at Curly. So don't you be scared, little creature.

I'm not scared, Jeremy said, slightly surprised himself by the truth of his statement. I'm just… well, wondering. How come I've never heard of you before? I mean – a forest of talking trees? It isn't exactly your everyday thing.

Erv's branch curled around Jeremy's fringe and gently moved it aside to see into his green eyes better.

Ke-ke-ke! The little tot's got humour in him. I like him, Erv laughed.

Jeremy looked around, waiting for approval from other trees, crossing his fingers behind his back.

Gertrude's leaves still echoed her apprehensive hissing. Curly was brooding, uncertain whether this change of pace was a good thing for The Forest. In his opinion, change was never promising.

Then Selma smiled with a happy squeal, readily joining Erv.

Well, then, let me play the grandma and try to explain it to you, Jeremy. You see, dear boy, we're sort of like an agency… of… you know, those secret agents on the boxes you call TV. I've seen those contraptions through the window of the hotel over the other side of the river, she added seeing Jeremy's raised eyebrow. Then she continued, trying to sound ominous and mysterious. We exist but nobody can really pinpoint us. And… she pointed her twig at him, …we can be very, very dangerous…

Jeremy held his breath. Erv chuckled, Gertrude rolled her eyes, and even Curly let a grin slip through his mouth crevice. Jeremy was relieved; Selma was obviously only teasing him. She ruffled his hair a bit, and he dared touch her leaves. A soothing vibration travelled from his fingers to his brain, confirming he was safe. He was still puzzled.

But I'm sure humans know about you… How come there are no TV cameras here, journalists, tourists…?

He spread his arms wide bewildered.

Humans? Humans in an actual forest? Erv was irritated. He tried to spit on the ground but couldn't, for there was no more sap in him, so he just blew some wind out of his mouth. Humans don't ever come here. The villagers all want to be worldly, so they spend time in restaurants or travel to towns. The town's people who come for some fresh forest air never actually enter The Forest, but walk on the meadow or along the riverbank. They prefer The Gable over there. No idea why; we’re a pleasant enough lot. But humans don't really live with nature any more, you know. As for the few who actually were here, we made sure they think they're crazy, so they never even admit to anyone what they saw or heard.

Erv paused, but Curly joined.

Yes. And don't you dare tell anyone about us, or else… Curly's voice thundered, leaving the remainder of the sentence unsaid.

Jeremy winced, a dark shadow cast over his eyes. It wasn't because of Curly's warning though, but for a different reason. The or else was etched in his scars too deeply to worry about the warning of the talking tree.

The Forest fell silent for a second. Jeremy lost himself in the storm of his memories, and the trees sensed his demons.

But before Jeremy could snap back, his mother's hysterical voice bellowed from the distance.

Jeremy, Jeeeeeereeeeemy, you little….. get back here! Where are you? If I ever find you, I'll just….

Her panic broke into tears, as Jeremy's father also called for his son.

Jeremy, Jeremy, come back. I'm sure he's just wandered off somewhere, Emma… I'll go look and you stay with Dot.

Jeremy turned towards the trees. Their eyes had disappeared into their barks already and he wasn't even sure if they'd hear him, if they'd ever wake up again, if they had even been awake. He had so many questions, but his mother's tears were no trifling matter. Still, he had a distinct feeling that the trees were still listening. He thought he saw Erv peek and wink. Jeremy smiled.

Er… I just… well, I'll see you later then.

He shrugged his shoulders, half-waved, and ran in the direction of the cottage, with the wind following him all the way.

The trees blinked and inhaled – almost all at the same time.

CHAPTER 2 – CHANGES

Biting her nails and pacing up and down the corridor, Emma was battling one of the worst headaches in her life. Her mind seemed like the busiest beehive in the world, with all the worries of the universe buzzing at the same time, demanding her attention. Being a mum, she considered this quite a normal state of mind, but this was even more intense than she had expected. Despite her average height, her headaches made her feel smaller and shorter, and she really needed to feel tall and proud today.

She was glad there was no mirror or any huge reflective surfaces around. She had changed her clothes so many times that morning that she got dizzy from all the combinations. Her semi-formal blue trouser suit and white blouse made her look almost thin, the dark eye bags adding to the overall drained impression. She tried to cover it up with make-up, but she lacked skill, so her pale complexion and freckles still gave every emotion away from under the foundation and eye shadow. Worry kept her slim, and her natural curves, far from voluptuous but still feminine, were always in danger of bloating out of proportion if she had too much comfort food. She had sneaked a chocolate bar in her bag, but was saving that one for the end of the day or any possible crisis during it.

There was no taming her reddish shoulder-length hair that morning, and she'd given up almost in tears, packing a head band and hair pins in her huge bag. Her blue-green eyes were changing shade with every breath, and she feared their greyish shade would betray her nervousness when the door opened. She was grateful for the fact that her sandals weren't equipped with noisy heels and soles, because the tapping would only add to the nervousness of her step.

Emma paused for a second in front of the office door and looked at the name plaque – John Bosworth, principal. Having come in for her first work day over half an hour early, she'd already learned how to spell the name of her new boss even backwards. The man was in his office. A very polite older lady with a perky smile, probably a secretary of some sort, had asked Emma to wait. So Emma waited.

Anxiety over meeting the principal face-to-face blocked away the school commotion; she couldn't even remember how she’d gotten through the school corridor to the upstairs office. Having exchanged so many e-mails with Mr. Bosworth in the past few weeks, still quite ashamed of her first ones, she felt somewhat like a child summoned for an ear-bashing. However, Mr. Bosworth’s unexpectedly benevolent replies were in stark contrast to her job application e-mails, in which she had vented, quite unprofessionally, all the accumulated frustration of her job hunt. Emma's mind was now a blur, an excited mess of admiration, hopes and stage fright.

She wiped her sweaty palms on the side of her suit trousers and inhaled. Then she tried, in vain, to fix her hair again, observing herself in the tiny reflective surface of the shiny name plaque. Eventually, she slumped back into the empty chair and looked around at what was to become her new daily setting.

A minute before the corridors had been swarming with students and teachers, and the smell of musky teenage sneakers, old and new school bags, snacks and perfume still hung in the air, almost tangible. She realized she'd been missing it; the familiar feeling of school commotion had given her a sense of comfort, just enough to settle her thoughts. Once the corridors became profuse with silence, her worries grew louder than before. For a second she felt like a kid summoned to the principal's office. She giggled; being a kid would have been far less complicated. She blinked the thought away focusing on the moment to come; it would change the future of her family, not only herself.

The doorknob moved. A phone call buzzed inside the room. Again.

Shucks, she heard a deep voice say.

The doorknob remained steady.

Waiting for the principal is obviously a common thing even in small towns, she frowned.

The perky smiling lady peeked out of the office.

This should take another 5 minutes, sorry. Can I get you some coffee?

No, thank you. I’m fine. Emma shifted in her chair.

Hang in there. He doesn’t bite much, the lady winked and closed the door.

It felt so strange, both exciting and humiliating, to be Mrs Emma Stone, a married mother of Dorothy and Jeremy, now in her forties and nervous about her first day at work. She was an English teacher and she’d loved that job beyond anything at first. However, after she got married and had Jeremy, she lost her job due to unforeseen circumstances, as her husband David liked to joke. The unforeseen circumstances were his sarcastic remark on the ancient curse of young women who had problems holding on to a job because their potential pregnancy would present a problem for their employer.

Emma puffed, remembering the conversation with her boss at that time; it was more of a monologue her boss gave while she listened, drums pounding in her head, as her contract was terminated. Emma now closed her eyes and shook her hands, as if to get the ooze of bigotry off of her. The ooze was gone but the memories still lingered.

We are not firing you, Emma. We are encouraging you to explore other possibilities! His whitened front teeth gave off the fake glint of hypocrisy.

She lifted her finger to get a word of complaint in, when he pulled out a neatly assembled file with her name on it.

There have been several complaints filed against you, you see, but we will overlook those. You are, after all, a young woman with so much on your mind. He stood up to show her out, confident the conversation was finished.

He was right – the conversation was finished. Now she knew the school’s forged complaint files about employees were not a myth. Nauseated, she fled to the bathroom, psychosomatic vomiting draining what was left of her pride.

So she did explore other possibilities. All the subsequent job interviews followed the same pattern – politely disguised behind professional etiquette, so nobody could really pinpoint their reluctance to hire a young mum, some even giving her hope with a trial period, but then all finishing off with a casual remark, while escorting her out of the office.

So, how old is the little angel? A-ha… Granny with him right now? No? Oh, pity! Well, best of luck to you, Ms Stone! And a pat on her back with no promises to follow.

Emma looked up at the plaque.

Bosworth… will he prove to be a worthy boss? Hope dies last, right?

She hoped hope wouldn’t die. David hoped too, she knew that.

Their family roles had gone topsy-turvy. Back when they had Jeremy, her husband David had been a sales agent – a big real estate company, challenging position, steady salary and quite a good commission. Given the difficulties Emma had with her job hunt, the couple agreed she could take a break and simply not work for a while. She’d lost both her parents rather early on in life – her mum died of cancer when Emma was 17, and dad was hit by car when she was 19, so Emma had supported herself by working since an early age. David suggested she relax and enjoy motherhood. Frustrated with the job interviews, tired and sleep-deprived from Jeremy's teething, Emma gladly embarked on the adventure known as the stay-at-home mum.

The first months were a real blessing, a fantasy-like haven where she readily applied her teaching skills in storytelling, arts and crafts with her curious son. She didn’t have many friends in the city; most of her colleagues didn’t need to work during university so they gradually lost touch; some travelled, some had nannies and went back to work, some never wanted kids and avoided those who did. The local park was not very welcoming for children, leftover needles and broken bottles regularly decorating it, and the park mums were outraged at Emma’s ideas of educating. She still remembered the looks of disgust on their faces when she told Jeremy to play nice and threw his napkin into the bin, all her actions considered snobbish.

Good manners and books never made anyone rich, now did they? the women said.

Less than a year later, Emma had started feeling desperate, the worst mother and wife in the world, guilty for not settling with being a diaper-changer and park mum. She abhorred going to the park early every day to clean it up before she’d let Jeremy play there, she hated forcing herself to sit and watch the bigger children smash things, she was tired of dragging Jeremy along the city in search of a better place, and they couldn’t really afford playhouses. Eventually, Jeremy and Emma became focused on each other, their home, hobbies and TV. But there were really only so many cartoons she could watch in a day, only so many times she could read the same picture books over and over again doing character voices, and only so many games and crafts she could invent to feed his mind.

It got to the point when hearing the word mummy was one of the biggest horrors in her life. She loved the scent of Jeremy’s ginger hair when she held him, she adored his big eyes gazing at her with expectation, waking up early not to miss a second of their time… and it made her heart ache that it was not enough for her. She missed reading a good adult book, having some time to herself, talking to an adult person about something other than rashes, the cost of diapers, prospective kindergartens and the danger of pedophiles everywhere. She missed dressing up to go out with her husband and be a woman, not a nanny. But she felt guilty, so she kept the smile on her lips, and buried the sadness behind her eyes.

David had been working almost non-stop, stressed by trying to preserve his job at the executive level and earn even more money, so Emma could stay home with Jeremy. Emma had put on a happy front to avoid hurting him, he'd put on his to avoid seeming selfish or lazy, so they slowly drifted away into pretence and lies without even realizing it and only with the best intentions.

Soon Dorothy happened, perhaps their attempt at life-saving. Emma almost died giving birth to that tiny creature, so Dot was worshipped by all, especially Jeremy. From day one, the baby girl had a mind of her own and a life mission which was not quite in sync with her parents' plans; she may have been tiny but she was loud; still, every sound she made brought a smile to their face.

The school bus was a blessing when Jeremy started first grade, and Emma and Dot would wave him goodbye or welcome him back. He would flip through his new books with Mum and Dad in the evening, whispering so as not to wake Dot up from her slumber.

Heaven sometimes has a short expiry date, Emma thought, feeling a pang of pain at the next memory.

Just as Dot’s newborn troubles had subsided, Jeremy brought the measles home from school, rendering the whole family incapable of anything else than mere survival for several weeks. As soon as Jeremy was able to get back to school, Dot caught up and had her own turn of the illness; fever was a constant, sleep deprivation too.

Emma buried all her feelings and sealed them shut with the stamp of guilt, labelled as ‘selfishness’. She would hold Dot in her arms and rock her to sleep, bathing her baby in her own tears, smiling at Jeremy and David at the same time.

On the other hand, Jeremy was on a secret roller-coaster of his own. Health-wise, he got better soon enough, but had lost so much weight, that he returned to the school a weakling. It made him the perfect target for all the bullies, their pranks and escapades. Being quite introverted, seeing his mum so sad, his precious sister barely hanging on to life, and practically not seeing his father all day, the ginger-haired boy with a wise soul decided to lock everything inside himself, bottle it down as deep as possible, and just survive till he got bigger and stronger.

Soon all hell broke loose – David got fired. His sick days, his lack of concentration at work from over-trying, a serious mistake in some calculations, the world economy crisis and poof – all was gone. He came home furious and stormed into the living room.

He was silenced by the scene which welcomed him there. Emma was sleeping in an armchair, with Dot cradled in her arms, all sweaty and flushed from a fever Emma had just brought down, after hours of medicating and lukewarm baths. He knew from the mess in the room, wet towels, blankets, Emma’s unchanged pyjamas, and the smell of stress in the air. David placed his briefcase on the floor and just breathed in silence.

Then he heard Jeremy in the bathroom, trying to take a shower. He had no idea his son was crying in hopes he'd be able to wash away the scratches and bruises from yet another beating he'd gotten in school. This time his freckles were the trigger, and the bullies treated him to football kicks with heavy sneakers. Puzzled by his son’s midday shower, David knocked on the door, but got no reply. When he entered the bathroom, Jeremy was sitting on the floor in his underwear, muffling his cries with a towel, his skinny, bruised body trembling without control.

David fell down to his knees and held his son's body as gently as possible.  The Stone men both cried rivers of tears without a word. Then David whispered.

Why didn't you tell us, J.?

I… just….I… couldn't.

Jeremy started to sob hard; his little body convulsed and all David could do was sit right there, on the wet bathroom floor, and rock his little hero in his own tired