| Jack traced a finger along the blue and white tablecloth squares while he and his father waited for their lunch to be served at The Dancing Chicken. Splashes of sunlight streamed in through curtained windows on the warm July Saturday. Faint shadows of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk flickered across the tiled floor and blue-speckled countertop by the cash register. Voices of the Fifth Dimension singing Up, Up and Away emanated softly from a small radio on a shelf near a stack of saucers and coffee cups. The café was less than half full as the lunch crowd had begun to thin out. © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik Moments later a waitress approached, setting down a pair of sweating glasses of ice-filled soda, one cola and one root beer, deftly followed by two white china plates, each laden with a large cheeseburger and a heap of fries. A bottle of ketchup stood in the center of the table next to a salt and pepper shaker and a stainless steel napkin holder. Jack raised his eyebrows as the meal was placed in front of him, his grin at a breaking point. “I am so hungry, Dad, after all that walking around town. I could eat three burgers!” “Let’s try one and take it from there,” his father replied while pouring ketchup on his fries and hamburger. He handed Jack the bottle to repeat the process. Jack was soon devouring his fries with enthusiasm, raising one in the air while tilting his head back and feeding it into his mouth as his teeth chopped away like a machine. “And as the Apollo 11 rocket ship set down into a massive crater,” he dramatically whispered to himself, “the astronauts were unaware of the giant fanged sloth waiting there to munch the ship to bits. Aaahhhh...!” Mr. Mason couldn’t help grinning as he sipped his soda. “Somehow I don’t think Neil Armstrong and the others are going to encounter a giant sloth when they reach the moon. But more importantly, I’ll never take you out to dinner next door with your Mom and sisters if you’re going to use those eating habits.” His son laughed as he took a gulp of root beer. “And there’s a blot of ketchup on your chin, commander.” “Sorry, Houston,” Jack replied, grabbing a napkin and wiping his face. He wore a striped pullover shirt, beige shorts and a fresh crew cut, delighted to be decked out for a summer still in its infancy. © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik Cyril Mason shook his head, his face lately glowing with expressions of joyful bemusement every time he took note of his son’s antics. There was a veneer of innocence about him that hadn’t been stripped away yet after each flip of a calendar page. His father was happy to see it on display. The world would come barreling at him soon enough. “Can you believe it, son? In about a week or so a man is actually going to walk on the moon. No one has ever left this earth and stepped on another chunk of rock floating around up there. What do you think?” Jack held up a French fry like a conductor’s baton. “I think it should’ve been me. Don’t suppose they have room for one more person, do you?” “Well, even though it’s long distance, I could put in a call to the Kennedy Space Center and find out.” “Very funny,” Jack mumbled, his mouth full of fries. Mr. Mason studied his son, sighing contentedly. “I have a feeling, Jack, you’ll go to the stars someday.” “Really?” “Sure. Maybe not in a rocket ship, but in your own way. The world’s changing fast. Put your mind to it, Jack, and you can accomplish any idea you might dream up. I guarantee it.” © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik Jack nodded matter-of-factly. “Okay, Dad,” he replied, sipping his root beer, though it only took a moment for his thoughts to drift to his favorite building next door. He imagined that the Townsend was waiting especially for him to stop by and visit like an old friend on a Saturday afternoon. Jack supposed that owning the building and sprucing it up someday would be an accomplishment of the magnitude his father had alluded to, yet Jack still preferred to view his affection for that particular building as a simple friendship, a joy, much like riding his bike though a pile of autumn leaves or sliding open a cooler at the corner market and grabbing a frozen ice cream sundae cup on a sweltering August day. The vision of a floor cooler coated on the inside with inch- thick ice crystals jarred the image of Jack’s abandoned snow castle from his memory. Whether an accomplishment or an old friend, that project had disappeared over two years ago with the onset of a spring thaw as drooping pines shrugged off their cloaks of snow and roused themselves awake. Jack wondered what Julie Almega was doing at this moment and if she had ever thought of him since moving to Indiana. He wondered what might have happened if they had seen that shooting star together, if they had followed it together through the trees and down the field and… Jack could smell fragrant pine shrubs decorated with Christmas lights as his father’s voice suddenly drew him back to The Dancing Chicken. “I know you’ll make your mother and me proud no matter what you do,” Mr. Mason said, dipping a fry into some ketchup. “Oh, okay,” Jack replied, the mental fog clearing. “By the way, Dad, when are we going next door to the Townsend?” © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik “For dinner?” “Yeah.” “How about before school starts? No doubt your mother will take Tracy shopping for clothes in a few of the stores around here. We can go then.” Jack slapped a hand to his forehead, his face contorted in agony. “I don’t want to be dragged around on another clothes hunt!” “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of that misery somehow.” “Good!” Jack replied with a mouthful of hamburger. “Since Loretta just finished her second year at college and Tracy got a driver’s permit, it’ll be a good time to get together for a special dinner.” Cyril Mason looked at his son, unable to comprehend how the boy’s first eleven years on the planet had flown by so fast. He wondered which particular path Jack would walk–or run–blithely into the future. The possibilities were as limitless as space itself. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ After finishing lunch at The Dancing Chicken, Mr. Mason allowed Jack to make his usual pilgrimage to the Townsend office building and hotel next door. The early afternoon sun exploded off the ripples on the river across the street. Three pleasure boats, glistening white, were tied up along the edge of the cement wall of the small harbor, their owners presumably shopping and dining in the city for a few hours before cruising along to their next summer destination. Jack smiled when he noticed the boats, then turned around and glanced up at the Townsend. © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik The light-colored granite structure of fourteen stories seemed to soar high into the clouds. A large American flag fluttered in a balmy breeze directly above the black silver- trimmed canopy extending from the main entrance to the curb. A handful of people in business suits and dresses passed through the revolving door which quietly swooshed in its lazy revolution. Large wide-eyed windows reflected an immaculate blue sky and the echo of distant seagulls. “When I buy this building, Dad, I’m going to park my yacht right over there,” Jack said, pointing to a spot along the harbor. “This way I can keep an eye on it from my office window while I’m working. Maybe I’ll even take up fishing.” “And you’ll be on the top floor?” “Of course!” Jack inhaled the gloriously sweet air, picturing himself seated at a large desk while reclining in a leather chair, feet propped up and hands behind his head as he gazed out the window across the river, the world perfectly magnificent and his for the taking. “And as a bonus, I’ll give you and Mom money to buy whatever you want.” “Appreciate it, son. Loretta and Tracy too?” © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik Jack nodded. “I suppose, though they both ought to have good jobs by then. But I’ll write checks just in case.” “That’s decent of you, Jack. And how are you earning all this money?” “By doing my job,” he replied as if it were quite obvious. “Makes sense,” his father said. “But what will you actually do that affords you one of those?” he added, pointing to the pleasure crafts. “Oh, you know–the usual. Talking to rich business people on the phone,” Jack said with a determined nod. “My secretary will take notes and type letters. And I’ll probably have paperwork with numbers and charts on it. Different color pens too. I’ll be busy enough.” “I’m glad you’ve got it all figured out. Your mother and I will be proud.” © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik Jack nodded, locking eyes with his father, silently pleading. “Can we go inside now?” “I didn’t expect that we wouldn’t. You run the show whenever we’re near this building.” Jack grinned, giving his father a thumbs-up before signaling him to follow. Jack marched under the cool shadows of the awning toward the revolving door, stepped inside and then pushed on a metal bar until he was deposited in the lobby of the Townsend. The familiar high ceilings, soft lighting and large potted palm trees and ferns greeted Jack like old friends. The crisp ring of an arriving elevator brought a sparkle to his eyes as he watched the door slide open. Three men in suits and ties exited in an apparent hurry, undoubtedly off to somewhere important. A wide stone staircase beckoned to the upper floors. Jack basked in a perceived air of grandeur and limitless possibility. All was right in his world with those first few echoing footsteps along the hard tiled floors. © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik He made his usual cursory examination of the lobby, telling himself that he owned it today since no one was sitting in any of the paisley upholstered chairs scattered about. He waved to a woman in a flowery peach dress behind the front desk before peeking through a doorway into the building’s restaurant. Jack listened to the enticing rattle of china plates and the drone of voices engaged in midday conversations over turkey club sandwiches and ice-filled drinks. “I’ll check with that lady about the restaurant hours,” his father said. “Okay, Dad. I’ll be over there,” Jack replied, pointing as he shuffled past a small couch and leafy fern before planting his feet in front of a wooden telephone booth. He carefully slid open the door, glancing around to make sure no one was approaching, then stepped inside and closed himself in. Jack plopped down on the comfortable red cushioned seat, stuck a finger in the zero hole on the telephone and dialed it once. “The hatch is locked. T-minus two minutes and counting until liftoff. Making a final check. T-minus ninety seconds.” © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik A few moments later, Mr. Mason thanked the woman at the desk and turned around, looking for Jack. He spotted his son behind the tiny windows in the telephone booth and slowly approached. Through the glass he observed Jack sitting, holding the telephone receiver like a microphone and speaking into it. His father wasn’t quite ready to tap on the window and bring his son back to a warm July day in the hotel lobby. He listened to Jack’s muffled words through the door for a few more moments. “…approaching the moon now, Houston. Setting the control to one niner seven.” Jack dialed those three numbers on the rotary phone. “Looking forward to getting my feet dusty.” Mr. Mason noticed his own smile reflected in the glass, convinced that Jack was already on his way to the stars. © Copyright 2008 Thomas J. Prestopnik |
| ~ CHAPTER 6 ~ |
| A CHRISTMAS CASTLE |
| by Thomas J. Prestopnik © Copyright 2008 All Rights Reserved. |
