Bringing Chad Home
by Kay Gordon-Shapiro
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Suitcase in hand, George Strethers, the lone passenger to disembark at the Fogger’s Notch Depot, stepped off the train onto the rickety wooden platform. The train whistled a warning and sped away. Though it was barely dinnertime, the Depot itself and, indeed, the town, was deserted. The sun had already begun to dip behind the mountains on the far side of the park, and its mocking sunset-orange glow was fading to a cloud-mottled black. His nephew, who he had hoped would meet him, was nowhere in sight.
His sister had told him the town was somewhat seedy, like all these fading mill towns. And, since its heyday, the population had dropped. “But it will help that it’s small,” she had said. “Chad never did send his address but, in a town that size, folks are bound to know where he is.”
“Perhaps,” said Strethers.
His sister glared; she did not like being challenged. But she was not stupid, and she wanted something from him. She softened her expression. “I’m sure you can find him,” she said. She laid her hand on his arm.
It was true that his nephew had intended to return to Woollett months ago. But he hadn’t, and his emails had gradually gotten farther and farther apart. And he no longer answered his phone.
“I know him,” Flora had insisted. “We’ve always been close. He wants to come home, I’m sure of it. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him back.”
But George could.
The boy was 24. He wanted to be on his own, to take care of himself. He did not want interference from his family, especially not from his mother.
But, thought George uncomfortably, Chad did need to come home. He glanced at his oblivious, free-spending sister. George understood that he could not manage the business by himself. He did not want to dump this burden on the boy, but if Chad did not come home to lend a hand, it would all slip away.
“And it’s not just that, it’s what we all live on,” George thought. “It’s his inheritance, too. He needs to help. He needs to be aware of what’s going on. Or there will be nothing left for him.”
So, when his sister thrust a print-out ticket for the east-west local at him, he obediently tucked it in his pocket.
George had decided on the bumpy train ride from Woollett: “I’ll just talk to him. I’ll at least find out what the issue is.”
A sidewalk led from the depot platform, around the closed building, onto the cobbled sidewalk in front. George set his suitcase on the uneven surface. He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked again. Still nothing. He punched Chad’s number in. “Hey, Chad!” he said. “This is your Uncle George! I’m in town. Give me a call!”
He tucked the phone back in his pocket. He’d assumed Chad would offer him a place to stay, but apparently not. Now he had to find one on his own. Out in the street, a gang of kids — maybe in their 20s — was passing by.
“Hey!” he called. “I’m in town for the night. Do you folks know a hotel I could stay?”
The kids exchanged glances.
“Well,” said a skinny girl with a froth of neon ringlets and a purple velveteen jacket with elaborate lace cuffs, “there’s always Fogger’s Inn. They’ll have rooms this time of year.”
The others nodded. The girl brushed a glittering purple curl from her cheek. Coffee sloshed from her cup of Dunkin’s.
“Sure,” agreed one of the boys. “And she’s the mayor, so she’d know!” He winked at the girl and punched her arm lightly, and she grinned.
“Oh, stop it,” she said.
She turned back to George. “It’s very close, just one block that way and then turn left.”
“Sounds fine,” said George. “Thanks.”
He picked up his suitcase and then set it down again. “Actually,” he said, “maybe you can help me with something else. I’m looking for my nephew. Chad Newsome? Do you know him?”
“Chad?” said the girl. It seemed like a yes.
“Do you know where I can find him?” asked George.
The kids exchanged glances.
“Maybe the college? Does he have classes today? Or the factory? He and Celeste are still renting that incubator workshop, aren’t they?”
“He’ll be at Mummer’s,” said one.
“Not this early,” objected another.
The girl — the mayor — turned to him. “If we see him, we’ll let him know you’re here,” she promised.
But as it turned out, he found his nephew sooner than he had anticipated.
* * *
Fogger’s Inn dated back to the town’s glory days, with a marble stairway that curved up the center of the ornate lobby. Elaborate mahogany newels curved up either side. But the corners of some of the marble treads were chipped, and a few of the newels had been clumsily replaced by unstained pine dowels. The upholstery of the chairs and couches scattered around the hotel lobby were threadbare and faded.
The room that the desk clerk showed him was large enough, with a window that looked out onto the park across the street. “But we don’t offer room service right now,” apologized the clerk. “It’s still a little early in the season. Although once the summer tourists start to come in, we do. But our dining room here at the inn is open for at least another hour, and it’s very highly regarded.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said George. He handed the man the expected tip.
After the clerk left the room, George sank into the worn armchair and stared out the large window. The small park across the street held one of those old fashioned merry-go-rounds with ornate horses and zebras and giraffes and lions for the children to ride on. He imagined the animals going round and round and round, never able to escape.
And now, at night, the park was empty and the animals could not move at all, not even in endless circles. The armchair sagged under his weight. From under the sharp smell of industrial cleaners seeped the dank sour odors of unending decades of travelers. Pipes rumbled within the ancient plaster walls.
George looked at his phone and then shoved it back in his pocket. “What now?” he muttered.
He walked back down the winding marble staircase. The clerk, shuffling papers at the front desk, looked up. “Can I help you, sir?”
George shook his head. “I just want to stretch my legs, get my bearings. Get to know the town a little.”
The clerk nodded. “I grew up here myself,” he said. “Never wanted to leave. You’re not seeing it at its best now, unfortunately, but when tourist season starts, there’s always so much going on. Fairs and festivals and street markets and so on. Right now it’s a little quiet.”
“That’s fine,” said George. “I just want to wander. And maybe there’s some place I can get a drink?”
“Mummer’s Tavern,” said the clerk. He didn’t even need to think about it. “Very popular. Mostly college kids, you know: a young crowd. At least till tourist season,” he added, in a mutter.
Mummer’s? Hadn’t those kids mentioned it? “Thanks,” said George.
* * *
Street lights designed, for the entertainment of the tourists, to mimic Victorian gas lights, shed dim yellow pools on the sidewalk. But, with the cobbled sidewalk lined with subdued puddles of light, the gaudy tavern itself somehow seemed oddly out of place. Someone had strung swooping garlands of LED lights, like Mardi-Gras necklaces, from the bowed windows. Greens, pinks and oranges flashed unpredictably, almost blindingly. Pounding music from within seeped into the street. Two giggling girls pushed past him and opened the doors. George followed them in.
The place was already crowded, and it wasn’t, just college kids, as he had somehow expected. A few seemed his own age, or even older, some with the overly-padded look of desk-workers and others with the weathered appearance of those who worked the land. Chatter rose above their heads and mingled near the rafters.
George made his way to the bar. He ordered a pint of stout and headed for an empty stool. As he made his way through the crush, he felt someone’s eyes on him.
He looked up. “Chad,” he said.
“Hi, Uncle George,” said his nephew.
George gestured toward the bartender. “Same?” he said to his nephew.
“Sure. Thanks.”
They raised their mugs. “Cheers.”
George studied his nephew. “So, what happened to you?”
The boy’s cheeks flushed. “Nothing happened.” He tilted his mug and peered into the fading foam.
“We’re all worried, you know. You haven’t been home in so long. And your mom says you’re not answering her emails or her texts.”
The boy’s face tightened. “She pushes all the time. You know how she is.”
“She’s just concerned,” said George.
“I’m an adult,” said Chad. “She doesn’t need to worry. I can take care of myself.”
“That’s not the issue,” said George.
To George, the boy looked younger than his years, as if he had not yet grown into his lanky body, his bony chin, his too-large Adam’s apple. Colorless lashes, barely visible, framed his pale eyes, with their slightly pink lids.
George lifted his pint. Was this the time to bring up the business? To let Chad know that his issues with his mother weren’t the focus here? The boy wouldn’t want the business to fail, would he? He would surely know how important that was.
“So what have you been doing with yourself?” George said.
Again the boy shrugged. “This and that. School. Classes.”
George nodded. “Have you thought of coming back to Woolett?” he said lightly. “Learning more about the family business?”
“I’m in school,” Chad said.
“Well, even so. You might want to come back to Woolett. For a visit. Like your mother says.”
Chad blushed again, and his gaze seemed to shrink like a snail slamming back behind its operculum.
George watched him. “You’ve got a girlfriend,” he suddenly knew. “And you don’t think your mother will approve.” Chad’s expression told him he was right. “And that’s why you’re not coming home? Chad, that’s silly. You can’t know how your mother will react.”
Chad shook his head. “I do know.”
Well, Flora was for sure the disapproving, controlling type. But still. “Why?” George pushed. “How do you know?”
Chad’s pale skin seemed to take on different colors in the shimmering dim lights. At length he raised his head. “She’s not my age, exactly, ” he admitted.
George raised an eyebrow. “How old is she? Is she in high school?”
Chad’s head slid back and forth. “No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Well, then?”
“She’s a little bit older than me. That’s all.”
“Hmm,” said George. OK, Chad was right. Flora wouldn’t be happy with that. But, George thought, it didn’t really matter. Chad was only 24, he’d likely go through a dozen other loves before he settled down, and Flora must know that. The factory was the important thing. He looked over at his nephew.
“So tell me about her,” said George. “How did you meet her? What is she like?”
“She’s hard to describe,” said Chad. His eyes were wary. “She’s... different. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. It’s not just in how she looks, but how she talks. The way she holds herself. And it’s not just me. Other people feel the same way.There’s a kind of energy about her, a glow.”
“A glow?” Kids in love were so predictable, George thought. But he didn’t want to spook the boy. “She sounds special,” he said.
“She is,” agreed Chad. “She’s an artist, but also mechanical. We’re working on a project together. We’ve started a business.”
Wait, George thought, startled. “You’ve started a business?”
“Oh yes. She has an idea for a line of toys. Not just animated; everyone’s doing that. Ours are more positronic; they’re very responsive. They’re amazingly capable. They can do things almost like people can.”
He wants to start a business with this girl? thought George. That’s what he wants? This was not bad news at all! It was almost what they had hoped! “Go on,” he said.
“We’ve already started,” said Chad. “We rented a suite of rooms in that old toy factory. A lot of businesses in town are renting part of it, for their startups, and the town encourages it because they want more businesses, so they’re encouraging this incubator stuff. They were happy to rent to us. And because I’m a student at the college, I was able to get us a very good deal.”
George heard the enthusiasm, the energy, in Chad’s voice. The energy that George had hoped for. He thought: Maybe this will work out, after all!
“I’m proud of you, Chad! That’s impressive!
Chad grinned.
“So tell me more.”
Chad leaned his elbows on the bar.
“Look,” he said, “people think this town is all about tourism. But there’s just so far you can go with that. A tourism-based economy is a recipe for being locked into low wages and recessions. It only seems appealing, from the outside, to the tourists. So, the town is trying to build up a manufacturing base.”
To George, it seemed as if Chad was quoting someone else. He wondered if the girlfriend was teaching Chad something about how the real world worked. She was helping him grow up, maybe. Become the kind of person who could help him run the factory back in Woollett, help him learn enough to take it over himself someday.
“So, what’s your part in this? I didn’t know you were interested in toys?”
“Well, it’s not toys exactly. It’s AI and chip design. The toys are just a good first platform because they’re easy and unthreatening, Celeste says.”
“Unthreatening?”
“We work together on everything. I’m the main designer actually. I have a real flair for design work, Celeste says. She says she saw that right away, about me. She does the first sketches, and then I develop them.”
“And Celeste?”
“She does the electronics. She designs the chips and does the programming. Like I said, she’s brilliant. And we already have working prototypes, even though it’s only been a few months. She says that we should be able to test-market a few of the toys shortly and have them out by Christmas.”
Which was more sophisticated planning than he had ever seen or expected from Chad. George supposed that came from Celeste also. His heart lifted a little. Maybe it would be Celeste who would save them.
“I’d love to see your prototypes,” he said. “And I’d love to meet your Celeste also.”
Chad nodded. “Absolutely.”
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by Kay Gordon-Shapiro
