Samuel Jay is seven years old. He has red hair and a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Everyone calls him Sammy except his Grand Pap who affectionately calls him Little Red. Sammy doesn’t mind; in fact, he secretly loves it. His Grand Pap is the only other person in the family with red hair. Everyone calls him Old Red.
Old Red is a farmer. He owns 1,400 acres of cornfields in the heart of Kansas. Sammy’s fondest memories to date included his Grand Pap. They only saw each other a couple times a year, but those visits punctuated long stretches of time with love and laughter, adventure and tradition.
Sammy was passing through the kitchen when his mom was cooking supper. “Sammy, I have some good news. Grand Pap is moving in with us!” “WHAT?! WHEN?!” “Next month,” Sammy’s mom replied. Every day for a month Sammy built his collection of things he wanted to show and tell his Grand Pap: a sports trophy he earned, a comic book he purchased at the thrift store, a drawing of Old Red’s cornfields.
During this time, a virus crippled the nation. Its origin was unknown and treatment unclear. Every night, Sammy overheard his parents whispering to each other in the kitchen after watching the evening news. He heard words like “cases, spikes, death.” Sammy’s mom tried to smile when he came to the kitchen to get a drink, but her eyes were cloaked in fear.
The day finally arrived. Grand Pap pulled up to Sammy’s house in his rusty old Chevy pick-up. Sammy bounded out of the house and ran around to his Grand Pap’s side of the truck. Old Red opened the door and swung his legs to the side. He partially stood and had to sit back down again. With tremendous effort he finally stood up all the way up. Sammy’s heart skipped a beat. It had only been six months since he had last seen his Grand Pap, but Old Red had grown frail. Sammy nervously glanced at his mom and she winked back and gave him a reassuring smile. Old Red reached down and tussled the red hair of his pride and joy.
The virus had proven relentless. Protocols and data seemed to constantly change as scientists and experts continued to learn more about what was plaguing America. Sammy learned that his Grand Pap had moved in with them because his health had started to deteriorate. “His body is tired,” Sammy’s mother explained, “it will be best for him if he is able to rest.”
Sammy was preparing to start second grade. He and his parents and Grand Pap talked about it constantly—who would be his teacher, what he was most excited to study and if his best buddy would be in the same class. Meanwhile, data was seeming to show that wearing a mask could prevent the spread of the deadly virus. Sammy had learned and overheard enough to know that Grand Pap was at serious risk. Together, their family decided that Sammy would still attend school, but only in a face mask.
It was a sunny Monday morning and Sammy walked to school with his book bag and lunch box. He wore his face mask as he confidently strode toward the front doors of his school. He was met at the doors by an important-looking man. Sammy smiled from behind his mask and said, “‘morning!” The man was gruff in his response. “Son, what are you doing with that mask on your face? Don’t you know they’ve been outlawed? We don’t know the long-term effects of masking our children. If you want to enter this school, you must take it off and throw it in the garbage can. If we catch you trying to put one on again, you’ll be expelled.” Sammy’s eyes brimmed with tears. “But…I…um…could…” he stammered. He blurted out, “but my Grand Pap is sick! He’s living with us, in our basement. He just moved here all the way from Kansas.” Tears streamed down Sammy’s cheeks dampening the cloth of his face covering. “Sir, you have to understand. I NEED to wear this mask. My Grand Pap could die. This is a matter of life and death!” “Son, this is a one-size-fits-all mandate. I am sorry to hear about your Grand Pap, but again, if you plan to attend school here, you will comply. You do not have a choice.”
***
Davey Jones is nine years old. He has dark blond hair and light brown eyes that glinted amber in the sun. Davey was always quiet, but his thoughts were always loud. From the time he was a baby, he took everything in: the cloud formations that looked like elephants and the man crossing the street with a cane. His ability to accurately recall dates and times and locations baffled his mom, Fiona. Davey and his mom had a close bond. Why wouldn’t they? It was just the two of them.
Davey’s dad died when he was seven years old. A few days later, Davey overheard his mom talking to the neighbor lady about his dad’s sudden death. “David’s demons finally won,” his mom choked back her sobs. Davey didn’t know what that meant. He would lie awake at night wondering what demons were and what their winning had to do with his dad’s dying.
Davey and his mom loved to rock back-and-forth on the porch swing and pick petals off daisies. “He loves me; he loves me not. He loves me; he loves me not.” There was never one time when Davey’s mom would end on a “he loves me not” petal. Davey scrutinized her petal- picking ability and finally decided that his mom must be magical. Sometimes, when Davey was deep in thought and staring off in the distance, his mom would say, “goodness me. You remind me so much of your dad.” Davey didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing.
Davey was the caboose trailing behind a long train of mental illness in his family. His dad, David, and grandfather both committed suicide. His uncle was bipolar and—although she hid it from him quite well—Fiona battled anxiety. She drove herself crazy constantly second-guessing Davey’s stability: is he happy? Sleeping? Healthy? Eating enough? Anxious? Why doesn’t he have more friends? Why is he so withdrawn? Should I force him to be more involved or would that make him more anxious?
But Davey finally met a friend named Joe, at the library of all places. They were inseparable the Summer before 4th grade. They played ping pong and rode bikes and had contests of who could hit golf balls the farthest over their neighborhood pond. One night, they decided to go “fishing” for all the golfballs they had lost to the pond. Davey and Joe filled a large trash bag with golf balls and dragged them home to Davey’s house. They filled Davey’s bathtub with the pond- scum caked golfballs and covered them with soapy water. The noise was deafening and Davey’s mom came tearing into the bathroom. “What on EARTH?” She started to scold the boys but stopped. She had yearned for this moment for her son since he was a baby. She laughed and just said, “you both better take me golfing with you tomorrow!”
Throughout the Summer before 4th grade, a virus swept the nation. Fiona tried to protect Davey from the news, but in his observant and contemplative nature, he was able to piece together the details: a deadly and highly contagious virus was worming its way through neighborhoods and towns and cities and states. It did not discriminate; it crept in with little warning. Davey learned that this virus affected people differently…some would suffer terrible and ongoing symptoms, while others felt like they only had a mild case of the flu. Davey overheard his mom talking to her neighbor and heard words like “isolation and social distancing and quarantine.” Davey walked over to Joe’s house to see if he wanted to hit golf balls. Joe’s mom opened the front door and through the glass-plated storm door she shouted to Davey, “Joe can’t play for the rest of the Summer. I’m sorry.” She closed the door and Davey hung his head and walked home.
Davey spent the next several weeks in his room, laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. Fiona tried to comfort him. “Buddy, do you want to go for a walk with me?” Silence. “How about we drive through McDonald’s and get an ice cream cone?” Silence. “Oh, Bud, I know this is so hard. You finally found a best friend and you’re not even able to see him. Hopefully you’ll meet some other new friends at school next week.”
School. Davey didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay alone in his room for the rest of his life. Fiona was worried. Davey wasn’t eating much and he started sleeping long hours throughout the day. Fiona walked by the door to Davey’s bedroom and had flashbacks of her husband before he ended his life. Withdrawn, depressed, isolated. Alone. She went into her bathroom and screamed into a towel. With tears streaming down her face she grabbed a Dixie cup of water and gulped down her anxiety meds. “Please, God,” she cried into her hands. “Not my Davey, too.”
It was a sunny Monday morning when Davey and Fiona walked to the first day of school. “It’s going to be fine!” Fiona insisted, a little too chipper. You just wait. You’ll meet new friends and I’m sure you’ll have the most wonderful teacher. They approached the school and noticed duct tape “X” marks every six feet. An important-looking man at the front door was taking everyone’s temperatures. Davey glanced through the school windows and saw plexiglass dividers between every desk. The man motioned for Fiona and Davey to approach the school doors. He said to Fiona, “Ma’am, you’re not allowed in this building.” He handed Davey a mask. “Son, put this on your face. Do not take it off all day unless you are actively eating.” Fiona watched her son put on his mask. His eyes no longer glinted amber; they were sunken, defeated, vacant, withdrawn. Fiona watched her son shrink behind that mask and knew he was silently making a promise to himself that he would not say a word the entire school year.
“Sir! My son cannot wear that mask. He is prone to anxiety and depression! Can’t you see how this is affecting him?” Tears streaked down Davey’s cheeks and dampened the cloth of his face covering. He looked at his mom with frenzied, pleading eyes. “Sir, please! This is a matter of life and death!” “Ma’am, please keep your distance. Son, if you want to enter this school, you will wear a mask. If you refuse to wear one, we will report your mom to child protective services and you will be expelled. This is a one-size-fits all mandate. I’m sorry you’re anxious, but again, if you plan to attend this school you will comply. You have no choice.”
***
Grand Pap was on a ventilator, struggling to take his last few breaths. He had wires and tubes taped to his body and a single tear rolled down his leathered cheek as he mustered the strength to say his last earthly words to his grandson. “I love you Little Red. Remember something for me, ok? None of this is your fault.” He closed his eyes and went still.
***
Davey’s best friend Joe never attended school that year. His mom kept him home. Davey wanted to stay home too, but Fiona had two jobs to work. She cried herself to sleep most nights, helpless, hopeless. Her son was a shell of who he once was, disassociated. Silent. They found Davey hanging by a jumprope from the monkey bars at his school playground, his mask still on his face. The first responder squared Fiona’s shoulders and over her screams and sobs and shaking he said to her, “You need to remember something! This is not your fault!”
***
It was the 10-year anniversary of both Old Red and Davey’s passing. Fiona and Little Red visited the cemetery at the same time. They were separated by a large row of oak trees, each sitting on a bench that overlooked their beloved’s gravesite. Tears fell from their eyes and onto the flowers they had brought to place by the headstones, red roses for Old Red and daisies for Davey. Fiona and Little Red looked out in the distance and imagined cornfields and cloud formations. Their cries stretched into the evening and from the evening into the night. Together, but unknowingly, they both whispered out loud, “if only they would have given me a choice.”
Dramatic Paddocks 