Something New [Jamilton]

A Single Heartbeat

The air was moist, the coming rain telegraphed by plump, gray clouds, and the blue sky fading fast.

Alexander Hamilton, twelve years old, short, hair shoulder lengthed and raven brown, was known simply as Alex. He was a handsome boy who would most certainly grow into a beautiful man.

A notebook was set placed open on his lap, as he filled the blank pages with writings of importance to him. As always, he was very intent on his writing. Alex came by that trait honestly, as his father had such fever to an even greater degree than his son.

On the other side was alexs brother, John. He was seven, small for his age, though there was the promise of height in his long feet. He did not possess the athletic grace of his brother. And also lacked the confidence that so plainly burned in Alex's eyes. And yet he held his worn stuffed bear with the unbreakable clench of a wrestler, and he had a way about him that naturally warmed others souls. When you meet him, you will be convinced that he was a little boy with a heart as big and giving as god could bestow on lowly, conflicted mortals.

James A. Hamilton was driving. He seemed unaware of the approaching storm, or even the car's other occupants. His slender fingers drummed on the steering wheel. The tips of his fingers were callused from years of punching the typewriter keys, and there was a permanent groove in the middle finger of his right hand where the pen pressed against it. Badges of honor, he would often say.

As a writer, James assembled vivid landscapes densely populated with flawed characters who, with each turn of the page, seemed more real than one's family. Readers would often weep as a beloved character perished under the writer's nib, yet the distinct beauty of the language never overshadowed the blunt force of the story, for the themes imbedded in James A. Hamilton's tales we're powerful indeed. But then an especially well-tooled line would come along and make one smile and perhaps even laugh aloud, because a bit of humor was often the most effective tool for painlessly driving home a serious point.

James A. Hamilton's talents as a writer had brought him much critical acclaim, and very little money. The Lincoln Zephyr did not belong to him, for luxurious such as automobiles, fancy or plain, seemed forever beyond his reach. The car had been borrowed for this special outing from a friend and admirer of James's work. Certainly the woman sitting next to him /had not/ married James Hamilton for money, as many who thought the family was wealthy would say.

Rachel Faucette Buck, or Rachel Hamilton, usually bore well the drift of her husband's nimble mind. Even now her expression signaled good-natured surrender to the workings of the man's imagination, which always allowed him escape from the bothersome details of life. But later, when the blanket was spread and the picnic food was apportioned, and the children wanted to play, she would nudge her husband from his literary alchemy. And yet today Rachel felt a deeper concern as they drove to the park. They needed this outgoing together, and not simply for the fresh air and special food. This surprisingly warm late winter's day was a godsend in many ways. She looked at the threatening sky.
Go away, storm, please go away now.
To ease her skittish nerves, Rachel turned and looked at John and smiled. It was hard not to feel good when looking at the little boy, though he was a child easily frightened as well. Rachel had often cradled her son when John had been seized by a nightmare. Fortunately, his fearful cries would be replaced by a smile when John would at last focus on her, and she would want to hold her son always, keep him safe always.

Johns looks came directly from his mother, while Alex had a pleasing variation of Rachel's long forehead and his father's lean nose and compact angle of jaw. And yet if Alex were asked, he would say he took after his father only. This did not reflect disrespect for his mother, but signaled that, foremost, Alex would always see himself as James A. Hamilton's son.

Rachel turned back to her husband. "Another story?" She asked as her fingers skimmed James's forearm.

The man's mind slowly rocked free from his latest concocting, and James looked at her, a grin riding on full lips that, aside from the memorable flicker of his gray eyes, were her husbands most attractive physical feature, Rachel thought.

"Take a breath, work on a story," Said James.
"A prisoner of your own devices," Replied Rachel softly, and she stopped rubbing his arm.

As her husband drifted back to work, Rachel watched as Alex labored with his own story. Mother saw the potential for much happiness and some inevitable pain in her son. She could not live Alex's life for him, and Rachel knew she would have to watch her little boy fall at times. Still, Rachel would never hold onto his hand, for Alex being Alex would certainly refuse it. But if her son's fingers sought out his mother's, she would be there. It was a situation burdened with pitfalls, yet it seemed the one destined for mother and son.

"How's the story coming, Alex?"

Head down, hand moving with the flourishing thrust of youthful penmanship, Alex said, "Fine." Rachel could easily sense her son's underlying message: that writing was a task not to be discussed with nonwriters.

Rachel took it as good-naturedly as she did most things having to do with her volatile son. But even a mother sometimes needed a comforting pillow on which to lay her head, so Rachel reached out and tousled her son's brown hair.

"How're you doing, John?" asked Rachel.

The little boy answered by letting out a crowing sound that banged off all sides of the car's interior, startling even the inattentive James.

"Miss Valentine said I'm the best rooster she's ever heard!" said John, and crowed again, flapping his arms.

Rachel laughed and even James turned and smiled at his son.

Alex smirked at his brother, but then reached over and tenderly patted John on the hand. "And you are too, John. A lot better than me when I was your age," said Alex.

Rachel smiled at Alex's remark and then said, "James, you're coming to John's school play, aren't you?"

Alex said, "Mom, you know he's working on a story. He doesn't have time to watch John playing a rooster."

"I'll try, Rachel. I really will this time," James said.

However, Rachel knew that the level of doubt in his tone heralded another disappointment for John. For her.

Rachel turned back and started out the windshield.

Her thoughts showed through so clearly on her features.

Life married to James A. Hamilton: I'll try.

John's enthusiasm, however, was undiminished. "And next I'm going to be the Easter Bunny. You'll be there, won't you, mom?"

Rachel looked at him, her smile wide and easing her eyes to pleasing angles.

"You know mom wouldn't miss it," she said, giving his head another gentle rub.

But mom did miss is. They all missed it.