Forest Hills
After Ollie served nearly a full sentence, officials decided to release him from the juvenile detention facility early. They shortened his detention term because he helped administer First Aid to a fellow inmate who suffered an epileptic seizure. Then, when someone nearly beat his epileptic friend to death, he intervened and made a ruckus until guards could no longer look the other way and transported his injured body to the infirmary. Either way, Ollie became sidetracked by his own desire to set life and past wrongs right.
In his plaid shirt, cargo pants, and scuffed canvas, he took a nature trail for cyclists and joggers to the park near the detention facility. He found the bayonet with its sheath where he stashed it in a hole in the sand and soil at the base of a culvert. He stuffed the sheathed bayonet in the pocket of his cargo pants, near his thigh, which had grown muscle from exercise routines and fitness training, part of a self-improvement regimen he followed rigorously in prison. All he needed now was a bandanna, but he decided to skip that detail because he thought then he would look suspicious.
Gazing through the curtained window inside his former school principal’s house, he stepped through rose bushes growing wildly beside the cracked concrete stairs. Having already rung the doorbell on the Forest Hills house several times, he knocked persistently with the tarnished brass knocker. His former principal shuffled on his bare stocking feet to the door. He gazed intently through the peephole, unshaven and gaunt, carrying a glass of Madeira in his hand and at first refusing to answer the brass knocker on the door.
“Whoever is at the door—go away.”
When Ollie persisted in knocking, Vermilion relented. He grudgingly stepped forward to answer the door, stumbling through a pile of unopened envelopes, bills, invoices, receipts, bank and trust company statements, subscription magazines, and flyers from high-priced shops, boutiques, and realtors. Vermilion indifferently allowed the mail, fallen beneath the letter slot, to accumulate over the past few weeks.
He did not expect to meet Ollie face-to-face a former student at the school where he was formerly principal in his hometown —— a youth a small portion of his age— a shameful legacy of his past. He looked worn, stressed. . Ollie noticed his former principal’s looks had not changed completely Nonetheless he would say he did not age gracefully. He still had those frozen cheeks, which caused him to grimace and look peculiar when he spoke. Depending upon whom spoke, facial paralysis came from Bell’s palsy or from flying bombers in cold thin air during combat missions and nighttime raids.
Vermilion appeared to be neglecting his appearance; his clothes looked rumpled and shabby. It looked as if he had given up on himself and surrendered to aging — as if he had retired apathetically— not just from work, but life— everything. He was leaner, he had the same amount of thick hair— now tousled, white; whereas in the past it was neatly combed. Dried salvia encrusted the corners of his mouth and his chapped lips, and dandruff flakes speckled his shoulders. The only item lacking was the fancy smoking pipe, with swirls of bluish-white smoke, and the aroma of pipe tobacco. Still, Mr. Vermilion aged considerably, with more fine wrinkles furrowing his face and lining his brow. To school pupils, he might have looked as intimidating as the first day they met him in the school gymnasium.
Now, he was unafraid when he should have felt a deep chill of fear, since Ollie was like poison to him. Before Vermilion could slam the door shut, Ollie rammed his knee between the door and doorway. The former pupil pushed his principal further into the house.
“I told you never to call again,” Vermilion said in his polished, precise voice. “No phone calls, no letters, no visits, nothing. So get out.” Ollie pushed him backwards into the hallway of the mansion-like house. Quavering, Vermilion demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Ollie started to communicate in American Sign Language, but his former principal became angry. He complained they went over this a thousand times before and insisted he talk, speak. Ollie knew he could talk well and his loud voice and guttural sounds did not bother him anymore, so he started to speak. He was agitated and nervous. Hefigured he should have known his former principal was ultimately in control, just as he was years ago.
“What were you doing to me years ago?” Ollie countered.
“Get out of my house immediately.”
“’Don’t be bold.’” Ollie mocked, mimicking the voice he used on him so many times in the past. “That’s what you always told me when I was sent to your office because I did something wrong.” “Don’t be bold.”
“Get out of my house or I’ll call the police immediately.”
Upset and agitated, his speech barely comprehensible, he warned: if he called the police, he would do him serious harm. Thinking he needed to remind Vermilion who was in control, he slipped the bayonet knife from the leather sheath in the pocket of his cargo pants, made a dramatic show of it. He felt like lecturing him on the past of the venerable object — but he was certain he was familiar with its history — surprisingly Vermilion showed no sign of recognition when he pulled the bayonet and flashed it in his face, instead he gasped and backed away fromOllie, terrified, although lately any unexpected knock, snap, footstep, or noise startled him, inciting considerable fear and anxiety.
“Look, what I did to you a few years ago was wrong, and I paid the price,”Vermilion said, calm and rational. “That’s no reason to come to my house and terrorize me. Now that business is over. Please just leave me alone.”
Upset, angry, stuttering severely, barely coherent, Ollie held out the bayonet, and the principal listened, although several times he raised his brow in dismay, disgust at Ollie’s speech, but Ollie realized however his former principal’s attitude would always remain the same. Ambrose Vermilion normally had no patience for anyone who couldn’t communicate clearly according to his dictums
“Business? That’s what you call it? You’ve completely ruined my life, made a mess of it.”
Because of him, Ollie said he wasn’t able to finish high school, didn’t trust anybody, and couldn’t love anybody now.
“Look, it’s over with. Leave me alone.” Vermilion ran down the hallway to the telephone mounted on an end table—it was programmed to automatically dial the nearest Toronto police precinct at the push of a button. Ollie quickly snatched the receiver from his hand and slammed the telephone down.
“After what you did, you would have a lot of nerve calling the police,” Ollie said, wrapping his hand around the loose telephone cord, wounding it roughly, ripping the plug from off the wall connector.
“Look, what do you want? Get out of my house. You’ve no business being here.”
“You had no business messing with my life when I was young.”
“But that’s over now, man, get on with your life.”
“How can I? You’ve destroyed me.
“I didn’t destroy your life. Now quit acting like a victim and get out of here.”
“You destroyed my life, and now I’m here to destroy yours.”
Ollie lunged at him with the formidable bayonet, the blade flashing in the dim interior light of ornate dusty chandeliers. Vermilion screamed and backed away, stumbling over the worn malodourous carpet, shouting for help, screaming bloody murder. Begging, pleading for mercy, he scrambled to his feet and started running up the carpeted stairway. Ollie easily chased him upstairs and down the hallway while he shouted and protested. With a lull, Vermilion surmised he derived a perverse delight from terrorizing him.
“That happened years ago!” Vermilion screamed. “Now let me get on with my life!”
