Saving Graves: A Club Irons Novel Read online

  “Come on, Anthony. There’s got the be something you’ve either wanted to do or wanted.”

  “I just wanted away from them. I don’t need or want anything.”

  “Finish getting ready, we’re going to spend the day together. I have an idea. Bring a jacket too.”

  It sounded like my dad had a plan, so I hurried to get dressed and met my dad in the kitchen.

  “Anthony, relax son. We’re going to have fun today. You have nothing to be nervous over.”

  We drove for a while and through a lot of traffic into San Francisco and parked at the pier. When we got out of the car, I was glad I had my jacket and pulled it on.

  “Dad, I forgot my cap,” I said, suddenly panicking for some reason.

  My dad looked at me for a few moments and almost seemed sad over my sudden moment of panic, so I apologized.

  “Sorry, I don’t know why I panicked.”

  “It’s ok, Anthony. You’re going to be fine. Tell me if your ears start bothering you.”

  I nodded. We were at some sports park and instantly I was interested.

  There was a section that had a hall of fame for San Francisco team athletes for various sports. My dad talked a lot as we roamed the area about how he remembers watching certain ones.

  “My dad took me to a lot of baseball games,” he said.

  Just then I realized that maybe I had grandparents.

  “Is he still alive?” I asked.

  “No, he died years before you were born. He had a heart attack at work.”

  Fuck! Heart problems were in my family. I couldn’t help but worry and hadn’t noticed that I had my hand on my chest until my dad pulled it away.

  “Anthony, you’re ok.” I nodded in agreement, but his eyes were still on me. “My dad would have loved you, Anthony. I think you and him would have gotten along well.”

  We walked through some doors that took us outside to a batting cage, a covered basketball court, driving range and a small soccer field.

  “Whoa, this is cool,” I said and gazed around.

  My dad put his hands on my shoulders and shook me.

  “So, what do you want to try first?”

  I eyed the batting cage. I had been part of the baseball team back home. My dad knew I was looking in the direction of the cage and pulled me in that direction. I stood in the batter’s box and felt a sense of comfortableness wash over me. Gripping the bat tightly, I waited for the green light to tell me a ball was on its way.

  Bam!

  I knocked the shit out of the ball and heard my dad cheering me on. It was weird for a moment. I had wished he’d seen me play for my school team. I was having a blast in the batting cage, but on the fifth swing, I stumbled, clutching my side. My side tends to hurt every now and then, but I won’t let it slow me down.

  “Anthony.”

  I glanced back to look at my dad. He was right at the cage and looked concerned.

  “Come out here and take a break.”

  Pissed off at my side for creating a problem, I reluctantly set the bat down and joined my dad at the mock bleachers. We ordered some food and sat there for a while. I thought maybe I’d make it without him asking me about it, but wasn’t that lucky.

  “Side flare up?” I nodded. “I’m hoping it will subside over time.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “It was a really deep cut, Anthony. It’s ok to say it hurts, you know.”

  It wasn’t. I shook my head, disagreeing with him.

  “If I admit it hurts, it’s like giving them the satisfaction that they won and hurt me. I never want to think they actually got me. And I’m not a baby.”

  “They can’t hurt you anymore, Anthony. Admitting that you’re in pain, isn’t weaknesses.”

  I disagreed with him. My mom, Bruce, and Connor always teased me for crying. They’d call me a baby and other names. I hated crying or showing weakness or needing anything from anyone.

  After we ate, I went to the pitching mound and threw some baseballs, and my speed was clocked by the radar clock. My dad was impressed with my arm. I almost told him that I played for my team at school back home, but I didn’t want to get into how I lost my spot. As we were leaving, my dad bought me a 49ers hat.

  “Thank you,” I said as I tugged the tags off and put it on.

  This was my real first birthday gift. My dad stood there smiling at me and smacked the bill of the cap down.

  “Come on, let’s go get dinner.”

  He let me pick the restaurant, and after dinner, we both ordered a slice of chocolate cake. Easily, this was my best birthday ever. I wished that I could have had birthdays like this while I was growing up.

  As we drove home, I couldn’t help but wonder why he never visited me when I was little. I was too scared to ask that question because I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear the answer.

  When my mom entered the courtroom, she began yelling at my dad from across the aisle. Her attorney calmed her down, but when she started crying and yelling at me, I started shaking. I could feel my stomach start to quiver on its own. I hate this feeling.

  “Anthony! How dare you let your father do this to me! You know your father never cared about you. Why are you doing this, baby?”

  The bailiff and other security surrounded my mom’s table, and I tried looking over there, but my dad stopped me. My heart was pounding, and I loosened my tie. My dad’s hands settled on my shoulders, and instantly I felt calmer.

  “Anthony, don’t look over there. Deep breaths, son.”

  I focused and tuned out the commotion going on at the table across from us.

  The time in the courtroom with my mom and then Bruce was agonizing, but I was really scared about seeing Connor. Everything with my mom and Bruce was done in the first two days. Connor and the school district started on the third day.

  “Anthony, relax son. It’s almost over,” my dad said as we sat down to begin the third day in court.

  And there he was. Seeing him enter the courtroom made me angry. I hated him. Connor, like my mom and Bruce, was found guilty. When he spoke, he blamed drug addiction and not being fully aware of what he was doing.

  After the lunch recess, the case with the school district started. When my dad and I walked back into the courtroom after the lunch break, I was surprised to see the rows of seats behind our table was full of teachers. Many of them said a quick hello to my dad, and one of them handed my dad a slip of paper with a bunch of their phone numbers on it. There were multiple attorneys representing the school district, and they all were trying to show that they shouldn’t be held entirely liable for Connor since he claimed he was addicted to drugs.

  My high school baseball coach testified about seeing bruises on me and making Connor aware of it. Many of my prior teachers had taken the stand and then it was my turn.

  I felt like I was walking in slow motion to the stand as some attorneys were placing pictures of me that were taken in the emergency room. I was asked a lot of questions from the school district’s attorneys, but I think they felt sorry for me and knew Connor was in the wrong.

  “Were you scared to go to school, knowing that your principal might hurt you, Anthony?” one of my dad’s attorneys asked as he leaned on the wooden barrier that separated us.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Did Connor touch you on school grounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever tell any of your teachers?”

  “No,” I shook my head.

  Shit, was this lawsuit going to get thrown out because I didn’t speak up? My head began racing around.

  “Anthony.” The attorney had stood up straighter and was no longer leaning against the booth. “Anthony, here.” The attorney handed me a glass of water, and I heard the judge ask if I needed a break. I shook my head.

  “No, I’m ok to continue,” I said and set the glass down carefully.

  Questions that made my stomach hurt even more, began coming at me. It wasn’t that I was asked to d
escribe what went on, the attorneys had formulated all of the questions to where I just had to agree or deny if what they asked had ever occurred at school.

  “So, after a day of going to school in fear and often being subjected to your principal, Connor, you had to go home and endure your mother and stepfather. And nearly every day, Connor was at your home too, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever tell any of your friends, Anthony?”

  Friends? I didn’t have anyone that I hung out with. If I did, they might find out and tell someone. Then I’d be in trouble.

  “No.”

  “Why not? We’re you afraid?”

  “No, I just didn’t have any friends.” I felt like a loser for admitting I didn’t have any friends. “It was better that I didn’t have any friends.”

  The attorney said a few other things and then he smiled at me as the judge spoke.

  “Thank you, Anthony. You can go back and sit down by your father.”

  I felt stiff and cold as I walked back toward the table where my dad sat. As I neared the table, I could tell that my dad and some of the other attorneys stood, even though I kept my eyes on the floor. Before I sat down, my dad pulled me into a hug. I wanted the hug, but I didn’t want everyone to see that I did. I kept my hands to my side as he squeezed my shoulders and then we sat down.

  After I spoke, some medical doctors were asked questions and David, my psychologist from California, had taken the stand as well. I couldn’t look at any of the doctors as they explained in detail my list of injuries and David’s comments made me hot with embarrassment.

  “What are some of the things that Anthony is dealing with psychologically?” one of my dad’s attorneys asked.

  My ears burned and my hands started to shake. Behind me sat a bunch of my prior teachers. I didn’t want them hearing this. I didn’t want anyone hearing this.

  “Anthony is dealing with a variety of behaviors that are often seen in children of physical, emotional and sexual abuse. Understandably, he has difficulties trusting adults. Adults that he should have been able to trust as a child failed him. He suffers from nightmares, sleep disturbances and difficulties sleeping. Additionally, he’s experiencing occasional secondary bedwetting. Anthony’s coping mechanisms are typical; he’s quiet, downplays the incidents he’s endured and denies needing anything. He’s developed nervous habits as a response to what’s gone on for nearly his whole life, and although in his mind he knows what happened was wrong, Anthony hasn’t known anything different. He’s afraid to trust affection from his father, and he’s battling anxiety almost on a daily basis. Anthony suffers from post-traumatic stress syndrome as well.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All that shit that just came out of his mouth was about me. He was telling all of these people the most private parts of my life and existence. And I wanted to die. I could never, ever look at those teachers of mine again.

  My skin was so hot. I burned with anger. The judge announced that we’d meet again tomorrow, but were dismissed for the day. People began filing out, but I remained firm in my seat. Dad put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I couldn’t talk because there was a huge lump in my throat.

  “Anthony, son we can go back to the hotel now.”

  “Can we wait for a few minutes, please? I don’t want to have to look at my teachers.”

  “Anthony, it’s ok. They’re here to support you.”

  I was trying so hard not to flip out, and my response came in the form of fucking tears. My dad stood and leaned over me, wrapping me up in somewhat of a hug. He kept saying over and over that “it was ok.” But he didn’t understand and it burst from me through clenched teeth.

  “They know everything now! They know of my nervous habits and anxiety. They know I wet the damn bed and have nightmares. They know what went on in the principal’s office every time I was called out of class.” I quickly wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Can we please just wait until they are all gone? Can you give me that…please.”

  “Of course, son.”

  My dad let go of me to sit down beside me. He started speaking to one of the attorneys quietly, and I leaned forward over my legs. I was deep in thought when my dad squeezed my shoulder again.

  “Everyone but us and a few of the legal counsel members is gone, Anthony. Are you ready?”

  I nodded and stood. My body ached, and I felt cold and almost like I was detached from my body. David was still in the courtroom and walked on the other side of my dad. I wanted to punch David in the goddamn fucking throat.

  When we got out into the hallway, many of my prior teachers were grouped together, whispering. My feet stopped working, and I stood still. Fuck. When I realized that I had a hand on my stomach, I quickly pulled it away. Thanks to David, everyone knew I had developed “nervous habits.”

  Fuck! Some of them were headed toward us. Most of the teachers that congregated in the hall were my high school teachers. I took a deep breath and tried to steady myself for whatever shit was coming. They smiled sympathetically and introduced themselves to my father as David excused himself and headed toward the door. Fucking weasel. Expose my life and then leave.

  “We’re so happy to see that Anthony is in a safe home,” one of my prior math teachers said to my dad.

  “Thank you. He’s safe now. I’m seeing to it that he gets the care and attention he needs,” my dad said to the small group.

  Fuck that. I didn’t need care or attention. I had been handling my own care and attention for years.

  They continued talking, and this small group of teachers were giving my dad their phone numbers in case my dad wanted to talk with them. God, I fucking hoped not.

  Finally, he and I headed to the rental car, and I walked briskly ahead of him. When he unlocked the car, I hopped in and pulled the door shut as hard as I could. I was so angry. My heart was racing.

  “Calm down, Anthony.”

  “Calm down? EVERYTHING was laid out in the open today! David spilled everything. Do you have any idea how embarrassing all of that was for me?” I yelled.

  “Do you have any idea how sick inside I feel? I sat there and listened to my son tell a room full of strangers how he was abused and molested at school.”

  I felt really sick. I opened the car door because I felt like I was going to throw up. Nothing but liquids came up and my dad said that I needed to eat. I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes.

  My dad nudged me when we got to the hotel because I had fallen asleep. We stopped at the café restaurant in the hotel and had dinner. I kept my head down and mindlessly shoveled food in my mouth. I was done with everything on my plate before my dad was half done with his food. He was eyeing me though so I busied myself with the salt shaker and moved it around.

  “You eat too fast, Anthony.”

  I nodded and sighed. Everything I do is scrutinized.

  “I don’t seem to do anything right, do I? Maybe everything they did was warranted.”

  “Anthony.”

  “I had a very small window of time to eat at home. I had two to three minutes to eat meals before I was kicked out of the kitchen. I had to eat fast, or I went to bed hungry, and some nights, I didn’t get anything to eat.”

  My dad looked really sorry for having brought that up and now I felt bad for throwing that back at him. I was so tired after today.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  I looked at him and wanted him to somehow make all this crap that I’m feeling, go away. It was as though he could read my mind, and he reached over and squeezed my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, too. All I meant by my comment was that I wished you’d slow down and enjoy your meal.”

  I thought about what he had said. I nodded. I was reading too much into it. I’m just used to being told there was something wrong with everything I did. My dad isn’t like that.

  “This has been a really emotional day. For both of us. Want to get some cookies and Cokes and take to the room toni
ght?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. I’m tired.”

  It had been a grueling week, but each night at the hotel, my dad and I would use the gym. It really made me feel good to wear myself out with weights. As much as the workouts were helping me while I was awake, I was still waking up in the night. This was particularly difficult for me in the hotel room with my dad because I had no privacy. But he always sat up with me and turned the TV on for me to take my mind off of them.

  This evening I was particularly restless because everything from the day was running around in my head. I just wanted it to stop.

  “The court finds the defendant, Las Vegas School District, guilty on all accounts of child abuse, neglect, and negligence with regards to the then minor child Anthony Davis Graves. The court hereby awards the plaintiff, Richard Davis Graves, the sum of one hundred million dollars. Court is adjourned.”

  What?

  One hundred million dollars. Did I hear that right?

  The sound of the gavel forced me to look up from the spot on the floor that I had been studying over the course of the last week. I spent the spring break of my senior year in a courtroom back home.

  Home. Was Las Vegas even my home? Did I even really have a home?

  My father set his hand on my shoulder, and when he gently squeezed, I looked up at him. For a fraction of a moment, I looked in his eyes and then looked away quickly. I stood slowly and made myself look busy with a glass of water while my father talked to the attorneys. I refused to look at any of them. I didn’t want to see the looks of sympathy on their faces. Over the course of the past few months, my dad has heard just about everything from me. He knew all about Connor. At one point this week, I thought my dad was going to attack Connor in the courtroom.

  “Richard, congratulations on the settlement. Give me a call if you need some contacts for financial people who can assist you with setting up the accounts for Anthony,” one of the attorneys said to my dad.

  “Thank you, but I have a good friend back home who is in finance. He will handle it for me. The important thing now is to take care of my son.”

  Their tone grew quiet and hushed, but I could hear phrases like “get him help.” I didn’t fucking need help, I just needed out of the courtroom.