Ben's Story finale--Chapter 42 & Epilogue
It's a wrap, thanks for reading. Chapter 42--in which the Ben's Story is presented, & Gramps finally shows up, Epilogue--Ben pulls through, as does Jill, as well as the men who love them
Chapter 42
During the last days before the presentation all I could focus on was the family Caplan. I was now the keeper of the tales. It was up to me to get it right. Thankfully, Dad would be in the audience. What a mind change I had had on that one.
On the first day of our presentations, it had been over two weeks since we had seen Gramps. There were no new reports in the papers, no reporters on our lawn, or at school. The class began at 2 p.m. but Dad took the afternoon off to make sure he wasn’t late. Mr. C. borrowed a larger room in anticipation of a big turnout. I thought he was dreaming, but with only a few minutes left, there was standing room only. Half the class was scheduled to go the first week and half the following week so that each of us would have enough time. We were each given fifteen minutes, max. I was scheduled to go last on the first day. To be fair, Mr. C. said he would keep a strict time limit, knowing that many parents had made a big effort to be there.
Dad was early, so we found a place to sit toward the middle. If our parents came, we were to sit with them. At first, I didn’t see Jill. With only a few minutes before the program started, in came what looked like the front line of the San Francisco 49ers. There was Big Jim, Jill’s mom, and the boys—he didn’t travel lightly. Good thing they sat near the back because nobody could have seen over or around them.
The minute I caught Jill’s eye, I saw her face change from a smile to a look of terror. We had both spotted Roger at the same time. She jumped up and signaled me to meet her outside. Mr. C. was greeting parents and hurrying everyone along.
“I thought when he told me he’d take care of Roger, he meant he’d have him present with the other half of the class, and then find some excuse for him to be somewhere else for the other presentation. But there he is, strange as ever, waiting to learn my darkest secrets. What am I going to do?”
“You need to talk to Mr. C.,” I said. “He’s over there.” With no hesitation she walked right up to him. I maneuvered myself within listening range.
“Jill, don’t worry. This has taken care of itself in a way I couldn’t have imagined. Follow me.” I followed them to the back of the room where Mr. C. pointed to Roger.
“See that lady sitting to Roger’s left? That’s his grandmother.”
“You mean his other grandmother?”
“No, I mean the one who died.”
“She lived?”
“No Jill, she never died.”
“I don’t get it,” she said. I could hardly believe it myself.
“Jill, you weren’t the only one inventing a new reality for yourself.”
Jill looked at him. “You’ve got to be kidding."
“Do you feel safer now?” asked Mr. C.
Jill smiled and hugged him. “Perfectly,” she replied. She then turned and saw me giving her two thumbs up and a smile that hurt my face. I knew she was ready.
Mr. C. welcomed the parents and thanked them for spending part of their day with the class. I was so distracted worrying about my own report that I had a difficult time listening to some of the others. I drifted into some of the stories where parents or grandparents helped out. At first it seemed strange, but after listening to what they had to say, I was amazed how interesting the presentations were.
When it was Jill’s turn, I sat riveted. With her mom and dad and the boys in the back row, she had no wiggle room to tell fairy tales. I knew she was nervous. Once she began, there was no doubt—she was coming back to the real world. I kept looking around at the Halverson clan to see what their reaction was. From the looks of pride, I had the feeling this was a very important first step for them as well. Before I knew it, it was my turn.
Deep breath, I was ready. My two-page outline was next to me, but I didn’t think I’d need it. First, the ancient history, back to the time when Great Grandpa Simon came over in steerage, and then how Mom’s family had moved out west from South Dakota in a covered wagon. Next, the second generation, to the stories and the things I knew from my lifetime. And finally, I was on the section about Gramps' stories and how I used my interviewing technique to get so much information. It started getting more and more difficult as I moved to the present. I didn’t know how I could tell the tale of Las Vegas and finish a chapter that had no ending. Dad suggested that I say it in a calm, straightforward way—it was a story still unfolding. I had no problem keeping the shooting to myself. Another point Dad made about this sad chapter: “In the time you have, it would be a stretch. It’s a big piece of our family history, but I think with what you have, your audience will certainly get a full dose of the Caplans.” Whole-hearted agreement there.
Gramps' stories were the easiest to tell. I knew the brass buttons story like the back of my hand, and it was the one that would lead me into my telling of his growing up stories. When I got to the part about the “brass buttons, blue coat, can’t catch a nanny goat,” I was surprised when it came out “big buttons, blue coat.”
“No, no, no!” came a booming voice in the back of the room. “That’s not right. It’s BRASS buttons, blue coat.” Everybody turned around. And then I saw him, partially hidden, standing with other parents. Everyone was so focused on him, they didn’t notice as I exploded from the front of the room.
“Gramps,” I whispered in disbelief. In an instant I was in his arms, shaking with excitement and relief. I could feel his huge arms squeezing the stuffing out of me. After a minute or so, I turned around to the applause of the class. They were all on their feet, watching and clapping. Dad was standing in the middle of the class, trapped by people and chairs, tears running down his face, looking like a guy whose parachute had finally opened.
“This is Deke Caplan, everyone, my gramps. He came just in time to help tell the final chapter . . . I mean the next chapter of the Caplan Story.” Dad was wiping the final few tears away as I led Grandpa to the front. “This better be good,” Dad said.
“Oh, sit on it, junior. The best is yet to tell.”
I felt a need to explain to everyone that Dad and Gramps kidded each other a lot and that this was a Caplan family trait. As if by magic, they both said, “Nice try, Benbo.”
“Who’s Benbo?” I could hear someone whispering. I got red with embarrassment, but somehow it didn’t matter.
“Yeah, this better be real good,” came another booming voice. The front line of the 49ers was now standing shoulder to shoulder, like a wall of beef-fed cattle—black suits, no necks, and bad attitudes.”
“Holy smokes, who left the doors open? Doesn’t this place have a metal detector, or at least a brain detector?” Gramps grumbled.
He was flabbergasted. “If I had known you boys were on the welcoming committee I’d have worked harder on my tan.” Hiya, fellas,” he said and waved at them. “So, it was Jim Halverson. Unbelievable,” he said, just under his breathe.
“The only part of you that’s going to get a better tan is your hide, you old bum, unless your story rates a spot on anyone’s bestseller list.”
Mr. Calamansi jumped to his feet before things got out of control. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, we’re honored that you are here to help celebrate your family’s histories. But please, let’s get all the stories, one family at a time, from the stage. I’m sure if you have other questions to discuss, they can all be handled outside, when we’re through.”
Mr. C., what a pro. Everyone quickly quieted down. As Grandpa walked up to the front with me, he stopped where the Big Jim group was standing.
“You gonna be nice?” he asked Big Jim.
“I’m always nice. Nice to see you. How’s that for nice?”
“Nice enough.” They then shook hands, to everyone’s relief.
The Halverson group squeezed back down into their seats, the Caplans regained the spotlight, and the rest of the afternoon sailed by. With Gramps along for the ride, I knew I wouldn’t need my outline. When the bell rang, we weren’t close to finishing, so Mr. C. invited anyone who had the time to stay and listen. When it was all over, Gramps stood up and started talking to Mr. C. and some of the other parents.
“Hey, the time for chit chat is over,” roared Big Jim. “Let’s cut the bull.”
Followed by my dad’s, “You can say that again. Let’s hear it, Dad. Where have you been? We’ve all been worried sick.”
My dad was right. The initial relief was settling rapidly, which meant the mother of all Caplan stories was dying to be heard and it better be good.
“Actually, it’s rather simple,” he began. “You knew I was upset. Kind of hard to have a guy’s whole life trivialized as one big joke by the two guys he loves the most—especially for a guy on vacation from a job where half the city hates his guts. And especially on a quest where we had all taken vows to be nice, to help Ben get back on the ground.” He said this slowly and looked directly at both of us. “But I am a windbag, and I can take a good shot, occasionally. But remember how I’ve been telling you for years . . . one of these days, one of these days . . .”
“Are you kidding?” Dad said, trying to put it all together. “You just took off?”
“Are you gonna listen, Rustbucket, or am I going to have to sit on you?” Dad snarled but kept quiet. “Not exactly. That wasn’t my intent. I went downstairs to catch a cab and lo and behold, a bunch of blue hairs were getting on a bus to do one of those casino runs. Who do you think their leader was?”
“Not a clue,” snapped Dad. “And wait a minute, the union didn’t call you home?”
“Heck, no. You think I could have sat in that truck for 600 miles, treading water hour after hour, until we got home? After what happened? Not on your life. Now I’ll ask you again, who do you think their leader was?”
I just said, “Don’t have a clue.”
“Believe it or not, there was Millie, holding up a flag to gather up all the old folks.
“Hey Deke,’ she says. ‘Waddaya up to? Did you ditch those boys of yours?’”
“Not exactly,” I said, as she let out a laugh.
“Not exactly? Well, what exactly are you doin’ out here all by your lonesome? Hey, you wouldn’t be looking for a good time, would you?”
“I told her about having to get home early to take care of some business, but she wouldn’t have it.”
“The heck,” she says, “sounds boring to me. Why don’t you come along with us, we’re going down to Laughlin for a few days? This whole group was given a free retirement trip by the company they worked for.”
“I hemmed and hawed and thought of lots of good reasons not to go, not the least of which was I hadn’t paid, or signed up, or packed enough stuff. She then told me to wait right there on the steps of the hotel while she ran back on the bus. Next thing you know, I hear her on the bus’s PA system.”
“Ladies, do you think we could extend an invitation to that good looking gentleman to join us. He’s a cutie, and he’s single.”
“I was just about to duck back into the casino when at least six of them roared off the bus and I found myself surrounded. Ushered me right on, all expenses paid, if I would only tell them a few stories along the way. Never been to Laughlin, never heard of Laughlin, but it was so nice to have an audience who wanted to hear my stories.”
I kept feeling smaller and smaller, and I could tell Dad did too. Finally, Dad said, “We understand. But why didn’t you at least call or send us a postcard?”
“Listen to me, Russell Caplan,” Gramps snorted, staring at my dad like he was about to get a spanking. “I’m getting to be quite an old buzzard, and if I want to take a little vacation with some friends, friends who like my stories, friends who think I’m a sweet old guy—even if I’m not—I don’t have to ask your permission or anybody else’s.
“But if you must know the truth, as soon as we checked into the hotel, I did use the casino’s business office and wrote you right away that I would be gone for a while and not to worry. Millie told me I shouldn’t send it. She told me I had every right to be lost for a few days without everyone getting their tail feathers twisted into a knot. I told her she was full of it, and she agreed.”
“You must really love those boys of yours, she said. "Wish I had kids like that.”
So not only did I mail the postcard, but I left a message on your message machine, sent you both e-mails, and just to make double sure, I called your dispatcher and told him to tell you as well. Truth is, after thinking I had it covered about where I was, I didn’t notice the days slipping away. Question is, where did the postcard go, and what happened to the other messages I left? We were having such a good time I was just plain lucky to see Mr. Escape Artist in action a few days ago.”
“You didn’t see that until a few days ago, Gramps?”
“Hard to believe, Bennie Boy, but your grandpa’s fame doesn’t go out much beyond this state and my local union. I hadn’t seen the regional or national news in the past week or so, but, as you can see, when I did, I came straight home.”
“So where did you finally see Ben in the news, Dad?”
“Our all-star news child made funniest stories of the month on some national news magazine. You couldn’t imagine how I felt seeing the supporters of Mr. Delinquent Wannabe with their signs about the press being like a bad case of acne. The newsmagazine that picked it up thought it was hilarious and maybe a good public warning to news people who cross the line. If it hadn’t been for that story, I might still be screaming through the desert with Millie and looking for the next great Caplan adventure. But, as they say, that’s—”
“—another story,” I said. “
“One more thing,” said Dad. You mean if you hadn’t seen the story you’d still be gone?”
“Don’t know for sure. I kept checking my e-mail to see if you missed me, but nothing. So, what’s a guy to think? No, I was getting ready to head this way but seeing the story pushed me to act immediately.”
“Dad, we never got a postcard or any other messages. And we did e-mail you. But how did you know to come here today?”
“Easy. Don’t you remember telling me on the trip that this was going to be held the day after my birthday? So, what did you get me for my birthday? Where’re all my presents?”
“An airmail ticket to the moon if someone doesn’t start telling me what this is all about,” said Big Jim. We all smiled.
“I’ll explain it on the way home, Dad,” Jill assured him.
Epilogue
By now you know that stories keep on going, and that’s how it is with this one. Almost all the other stories have been told, the twists and turns straightened out, as promised. The postcard showed up a month later, after it had gone to New York. It turns out there was a short power outage before we got home, and the answering machine restarted with the next message after the one Gramps had left. And the emails sent—they both wound up as spam. So much for technology.
The message that was left for Dad at work was the one that really set him off. His dispatcher took the info, then went on vacation and never relayed the message, even after he returned from vacation. There’s a little friction there, I can tell you.
Gramps is cooking along. We still take him out to breakfast and shopping every Saturday morning. Here’s a good one for you: he and Mr. C. have become good friends. They go out to dinner regularly, they gamble every Thursday night at the old folk’s home – I mean the Golden Tombstones community center--and Mr. C. even brings Gramps to school every semester to tell stories to his next group of storytellers. If that isn’t enough, Gramps is now on the raconteur circuit. He visits old age homes to tell stories and he’s even joined a local storyteller’s group—you never know. He says his repertoire includes “clean, doity, and educational” stories. He says he needs to a lay an eyeball on his audience before deciding which ones to tell.
Gramps wasn’t alone in charting a new course for himself. Dad decided to go back to school at night to get a contractor’s license. I think Mr. C. gave him a little push. Imagine my dad, a house builder. Maybe he’ll build us place with a poolroom and a hot tub. You can bet Gramps is happy about that.
They still get on each other’s nerves but it’s different now. The edge is gone. When I see them together, I feel like we’re a family. Mom would be proud. She’d be happy for them both, for all of us. I only wish she had lived to see it.
On the other hand, maybe she was on the quest with us before we knew what it was. Maybe all of us are searching. Maybe life doesn’t always have a happy ending. Maybe searching is all any of us can do. Maybe I should be a philosopher and spend more time in coffee houses, or maybe I should just get to the last thought in my head and shut up.
My friendship with Jill keeps getting stronger. She no longer has a secret identity but thank goodness she’s going to stay put until middle school is over. Her family life isn’t perfect, but where do you find perfection? At least they were talking and acting like a family.
Speaking of talking, Gramps is not alone in the telling of tales these days. I tried out for Mr. C’s storytelling troupe and got in. Guess I figured if the legacy was alive and well in me, it was my turn to step up.
Gramps likes Jill as much as Dad, so she’s been going to the ballpark with us this summer. Of course, when her dad found out, he started tagging along, “to make sure we were getting good instruction in the game,” he said. This was also the break Big Jim and Gramps needed to start patching up an old friendship. They now have so much to catch up on, I don’t think time at the ballpark will be nearly enough. With all the BS flying back and forth at the ballgames it’s hard to concentrate, but we don’t mind. Most of it's Grade A stuff. The stories keep getting better and better and every so often, we get to hear something brand new.
Acknowledgements
This book started its life on the island of Boracay in the Philippines in 1998. The first full rewrite came the following year on the Trans-Siberian Express from Beijing to Moscow—it has been in the works way longer than I ever anticipated. During the years it sat, was resurrected, edited, re-edited, and sat, I learned many lessons, mostly in persistence, how to believe in yourself, and how to choose beta readers.
Anyone I have ever asked for help, with any of my books, have been thrilled, honored, and couldn’t wait to dive it. For Ben’s Story, two of them lost the manuscript. After succeeding in finally getting help from four other wonderful readers—at the advice of friends—decided to seek professional help for one last go round. I should have been satisfied, but as this was my first book, I wanted it to the best it could be. Sad to say, this editor took over a year to finish the editing, and during the two telephone conversations, was drunk, and charged me 2K for more aggravation than I could stand, and almost caused me to stop writing. I had to wonder, were all professionals this bad? But I did not stop writing.
Another editor of a major publisher sent my manuscript back with some of the pages missing, and some of pages chewed up. She apologized, saying that the person who read the book was very sorry, that her dog got hold of the book, and I should take solace in that at least the dog liked the book. I thought maybe I should start driving a truck again. I did not.
There is a very good chance the book will never gain the wider audience I had hoped of for with a mainstream publisher. I continue to move on. By now I must admit that either the book stinks—more than willing to entertain the idea—or the publishing industry has changed so much, that the topic of Ben’s Story will not now appeal to the YA audiences currently in vogue.
With all that said, many thanks to readers who did not lose the book, made great suggestions, and whose support encouraged me, even after all these years, to find an audience through independent publishing: Steve Sampson, Nancy Spalding, Roland and Marie Smith, and Susan Stronach.
To Judy Gitenstein and Carol Saller, an extra huge thanks for giving me a couple of great anecdotes to tell students in my author presentations, about persistence and believing in yourself.
To Mamoon Ajmal at Concept Seekers in Islamabad, a new friend and expert to believe in for his formatting genius. To Kindle Direct Publishing, an arm of the 600 lbs. Amazon publishing gorilla, for offering such an easy responsive way to reach an audience. And lastly, to Susan, for her enduring love, patience, and editing skills—we may not be able to retire on the royalties of this book but think of all the fun we’ve had getting Ben’s Story to this point.