One of the unexpected pluses was a constant flow of new ideas for “Paper Clip” from both of them. People often asked where I got ideas for the strip. Usually I’d mumble something brilliant like “They just come to me.” But now I could honestly say, “From the people I live with.” I used the salt dream in there. I used the way Lily jerked violently awake from sleep, no matter what the circumstances. And Lincoln’s way of praying at night. My life became more involved and in ways more difficult, but also much fuller and more interesting. Interesting was the word. When you live with others you never really know what’s coming next. New noise, movement, life. The door opens after school or the phone rings and there they are with things to tell you that can turn a day upside down or its volume up a thousand wonderful decibels. Their presence alone changes the terrain.
Taken to an extreme that can be maddening, but that wasn’t the case for me. Quite the opposite. It was only after we’d lived together some weeks that I realized that before the Aarons my life had become so predictable and dull, I could’ve driven its flat road blindfolded. Worse, whenever there was a slight bump or detour on it I became nervous and unhappy. How dare existence be different from yesterday! Obviously that sameness was neither healthy nor productive. Then came the moment I walked in their door and TOTAL TRANSFORMATION. Living with this woman and child forced me off my old path onto new ground. It was not easier to live, but richer. So much richer.
Lincoln was crazy about baseball. I had been too as a kid, so we had real empathy there. The difference between us was my obsession had centered on the gods of major league baseball—who played on what team, their batting averages—whereas Lincoln only liked to play. For him, going to an L.A. Dodgers game was fun, but nothing beat going to the park and having a catch or hitting pop-ups and grounders. He believed deeply in sports. Reputations made in an afternoon, adulation or total failure always near. The great thing about them, especially for kids, is they are immediate black and white: good if you win, bad if you lose.
He played on a little league team and practiced two afternoons a week in a schoolyard a few blocks from our house. What I’d do those days was finish work as quickly as possible, then clip Cobb onto his long leash and the two of us would walk over to watch our friend play. Once there, the dog sat next to me on the lowest bleacher looking like a sphinx with a nose. When he got tired, he’d climb slowly down and lie on his side in the sun. I relish the memory of those afternoons. In retrospect, they were when I felt most like a father to Lincoln. Being there for him, watching him play, walking home together afterward talking about how he’d performed made me feel a bond with him that was solid and true. We had baseball on our minds. Both of us listened and considered carefully what the other said.
Inevitably, one of his sworn enemies played on his team. Inevitably the kid was better than Lincoln. Andy Schneider. I can still see his small lips curling in utter disdain and dislike when he said Andy’s last name, as if it were a rare disease and another name for “fart” all in one word.
When it happened I was thinking about what to cook for dinner. Cobb was stretched out on the ground watching a bee buzz his head. Lincoln was playing shortstop, pounding his glove in anticipation of whatever was about to come off the bat of Andy Schneider.
“Strike out, turd!”
Lincoln’s voice? I looked up. If it was, I wasn’t happy. He could hate Schneider, but razzing him that way was low-rent behavior and I’d tell him as soon as—
CRRRRRACK!
Andy hit the next pitch so hard that the sound of the ball making its second impact came only seconds after it left his bat. The second sound came when it struck Lincoln in the face. He dropped where he stood.
I leapt out of the stands and ran onto the field, empty of any thought other than to reach him. He lay in a heap, one arm covering half his head. Herb Score. The first other thing in my mind. When I was a boy, Herb Score was a famous pitcher for the Cleveland Indians who was hit in the face and almost killed by a line drive.
There was no blood. I bent down and gently moved Lincoln’s arm so I could see.
“Mother of God!”
His right temple was already swelling. Apparently he’d been able to turn his head a moment before impact and thus avoid being hit square in the face. But his temple was blowing up so fast that it was already the size of a golf ball and a hideous purple blue. His eyes were closed. He didn’t move.
From behind, I heard a boy’s voice yelling, “What’d I do? Is he dead? What’d I do?”
The coach squatted down next to me and tried to speak but kept dropping his sentences halfway through.
“We called an ambulance. It’s not that far to…”
“Do you know anything about medicine?”
“No, My father was a doctor but… Hey, listen, maybe there’s a…”
We spoke to each other but never made eye contact. Both of us watched Lincoln for signs of life. There were none. I kept bending down and putting my head against his chest. I needed to know his heart was still beating. Somewhere inside that still body, work was on to keep him alive.
“Do you think we should do artificial…? Look at the damned swelling!”
There was no blood. That scared me most. I kept thinking of all the angry exploded blood blocked up inside his small head. If it could only burst out somewhere in one horrid flood he’d be okay. He’d wake up screaming with pain but be okay. But there was no blood. Swelling and swelling, but no blood besides the lethal purple beneath the skin.
“Did I kill him? I didn’t do anything! I only hit the ball!”
The worst moments. He is alive but hurt so badly and there’s nothing on earth you know to do. Only watch and pray and clench your fists at how stupid and inept you are. Why didn’t you ever go to a first-aid class? What if he dies and you did nothing but watch? What will his mother say? What will the rest of life be like? Everything in your head is terror. Everything in your heart is dread.
There was a mobile telephone in the ambulance but I was too busy watching the attendants work on Lincoln. I didn’t think to call Lily until we’d already arrived at the hospital and they were wheeling him into the emergency ward. A doctor strode into the room and brusquely told me to leave.
“He’s my son, Doctor.”
“Good. I’ll treat him like he’s mine. Now please go. I’ll tell you what I can in a few minutes.”
At the reception desk I filled out the necessary papers and called Crowds and Power. Lily wasn’t there but I told one of the waitresses what had happened and she said she would find her.
What do You want? A few years of my life? Let him live. What can I do to save him? Let him live. I felt ten years old. I wanted to get down on my hands and knees. Oh, God, please help him out of this and I’ll be good forever. I swear to You. Just let this kid live and I’ll do whatever You want. I’ll go to church. I’ll stop drawing. I’ll leave Lily. Let him be all right. Oh, please.
The look on people’s faces in a hospital emergency ward is both broken and yearning at once. Part of them is prepared for the worst, the other part shows the sneaking hopefulness of a dog you’ve hit but which sidles up to your leg to see if their coast is clear.
One man leaned against a wall chewing his finger like it was a spare rib. He looked only at that hand. A child in a beautifully ironed yellow dress tried to play peekaboo with a woman who rocked back and forth with closed eyes. The child hid her face behind an arm, then popped it up again, looking delighted. Peekaboo. She saw me looking and quickly hid at the woman’s side.
“Stop it! Stop it, will you?” She grabbed the astonished girl by the arm and shook her hard. I wanted to go over and stop her but knew I’d caused enough damage. “Just stand here and sit still. Please! Will you just please stand still, for God’s sake!”