Chapter 40: An Orphan's Trauma

If hadn't been for the high school play, George Junior's world might have been untenable, a morass of excrement. Living with his cousins who learned nothing from the violent deaths of his parents and the collapse of the family business and the betrayal of Lefty and several others, protecting their asses, the older and younger teens continued their malevolent ways of bullying and petty extortion. Protected by his uncle through the funeral, afterwards the parental wall collapsed.

Tuesday, the day after the funeral, the cousins began teasing him at school, building to a pummeling behind the building witnessed by his best friends when they arrived for their planned chat.

"Fuck, George, are you alright?" sobbed Steve. His and Grace's appearance had scattered the cousins.

Furious but holding back from crying, his mouth bleeding and his nose sore but not broken and his eyes awaiting dark circles of bruises, he breathed carefully through sore ribs, mumbling, "Motherfuckers! I got to get out of that fucking house!"

"I hope the nurse is still there," said Grace. She and Steve got him on his feet and helped him walk around the building and inside. Unfortunately the nurse had left. The principal opened the infirmary and let Junior occupy the bed.

"Who did this?" he grumbled.

"Don't know," said George.

"George!"

"Never got a good look. Never saw them before. If Steve and Grace hadn't happened by..."

The principal muttered something unintelligible and began tending to the wound on George's lip. He directed Grace to the cold compresses which she placed over his eyes and nose.

"You're going to miss the meeting," George told his friends. "Go. I'll be here for a little bit. I'll be fine."

"We'll meet here," Steve insisted.

"That's silly. There's no room!"

"We'll make room," Grace countered.

"I'll be back in a sec. Grace, stay here. Give me like five or ten minutes. If I haven't got everyone back here, come join us."

Not certain of the purpose of the meeting, Miss Sanders had hinted about entering the production into a statewide and possibly nationwide contest. She'd sent a video from the first performance to the judges. Monday she looked effervescent. Wanting to meet with the cast and crew that day, when Steve told her George had to attend his parent's funeral, she postponed the meeting until Tuesday.

The three friends had been essential to the success of the show. Miss Sanders chose to do the old melodrama Bram Stoker had created from his most famous novel, Dracula. It provided starring roles for Steve, playing the undead Count, and Grace as the put upon victim Mina. Both had been exceptional, performing beyond their years.

The choice of play allowed George to vent his imagination, designing a moody, fun set and creating shadowy lighting and projections which amplified the chills ten fold. His work and the work of his friends had been unanimously praised.

Further encouraging the possibility of entering the contest, colleagues of Miss Sanders insisted she have her students perform an encore in which they could attend and discuss its merits and possibilities for other high school plays. That event happened the evening following the murders of George's parents. Everyone but George thought he should recover quietly from the trauma. "I have to go to school tomorrow!" he yelled loud enough to convince his new keepers of his unwavering need.

Everything else hurt. The play made the hurt go away. In the infirmary the hurt became physical and apparent. However, when the group of friends squeezed into the infirmary and hovered in the hallway and sat in the neighboring principal's office, even that lessened.

"I'm fine," he insisted when everyone, most vociferously Miss Sanders, voiced their shock and concern.

The principal noticed the grin on George's damaged mouth and smiled back. "I think he's much better," he said and moved from the room, pausing to whisper congratulations to the teacher/director.

"We're in!" shouted Miss Sanders.

"Yay!" or similar shouts of glee echoed through the hallway.

"We'll be presenting it at the University of Illinois in Champagne next Saturday. We need to rehearse tomorrow after school and at least three times next week. More if we need it. Now George, you need to think about portability. I'll bring you over there on Monday next week and let you study the situation. We obviously won't have a lot of lights to focus, so we need to express the concept as minimally as possible."

"The slides are pretty universal for spots and kliegs, but I may need to think about adapting them to follow spots," George contemplated out loud. "We may need to re-stretch the canvas for more portability."

Miss Sanders smiled, proud of her prodigy.

Standing from the infirmary bed after all but the three friends had left, George felt the pain in his ribcage. "I'm not going home," he groaned.

"Spend the evening at my house," suggested Steve.

"I mean not ever." He pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed Marta. "Hey Marta it's George. Okay I guess. Well not really. Thank you. I did blame you for awhile, but then ... Look, I need to talk to your boyfriend. Your fiancé? Congratulations! It's about ... I inherited my father's wealth, but it's held until I'm 21 and the executor ... You're right, I'd best talk to Joe. But it's urgent. I need to find new guardians now and maybe emancipation. Okay. Just a second." Grace already had a notebook open and ready to write down the number. He gave it to her. "Thanks Marta. Wow really? That soon? Of course I'll be at your wedding. And maybe Thanksgiving? I'm glad you're my friend and only wish it hadn't come to that. But I understand. I have to. I like you and I think I need you in my life. Talk to you later."

As soon as the elevator opened revealing the three teens, Laura called Debra. Stepping around the reception desk she shook George's hand and exchanged introductions. "Are you okay?" she asked the bruised young man.

"I'll live."

"Sorry for your loss."

"Thanks."

Debra came to the reception area. "Follow me," she said. She led them to a small conference room where Joe and Mr. Phillips sat with papers in front of them.

Both Joe and his secretary looked weary. They'd had little sleep the last two days. Monday they drove in early from the boonies, Debra carefully maneuvering over icy roads. Then they'd spent that day and late into the evening putting the civil suit into tightness the Hauser Group couldn't pry open. George arriving late the next day to add more work capped a day of pulling the plan together for confrontation on Wednesday. Coordinating with L and her father and certain other deputized citizens working in the PI or bounty hunter business, the plan had been set. Meanwhile Joe and Mr. Phillips and Barb, his client and lover and Danny Goodman worked on real estate contracts. Having everything happening at once provided little time to breathe.

"Sit Mr. Belacourt," gestured Mr. Phillips. "I think your friends might be more comfortable keeping Laura company."

Grace and Steve revealed concern. George smiled and nodded. Steve shrugged and the two friends returned to the reception area where they found themselves enthusiastically discussing Dracula with Laura. When Danny arrived to escort his lover home, he joined in the easy conversation.

Mr. Phillips pressed a button on the phone and spoke at it, "Phyllis, could you set up the conference call with Mr. Belacourt's attorney?"

Joe pushed papers in front of George. "I want you to look over this contract, George. I'm Joseph Solomon by the way, Marta's fiancé. This is my boss Mr. Phillips."

"Call me Phil, George."

"Thanks."

"It's a bit of sludgy reading," Joe informed the young man. "Ask any questions."

"What is it?"

"Emancipation papers."

"Already?"

"And a change of executor," nodded Joe.

"After we're done here..." began Phil when the phone buzzed. He pushed a button. "Mr. Sloane? Your client is here. He looks a mess."

"Whatever. The will stipulated..."

"We have an issue of protecting the client. Now George, like I was saying, after the meeting here, I'll have Joe bring you to the hospital to have your injuries examined."

"Like I said before," the voice over the phone commented, "a scrap with some bullies..."

"George, in the safety of lawyer/client discretion, would you allow your friends to testify who exactly caused your suffering?"

"I'd have to insure their safety."

"We would get their depositions under oath. The page to your right states you are paying a dollar for Joe's expert advice. Hand him a dollar and sign it, okay?'

"Alright." George did as requested.

"Good. Now what did your cousins call you while they gave you black eyes, cut your lip and bruised your ribs?"

"They called me a faggot and a disgrace to the family," George reported.

"When did you first hear these accusations?"

"They whispered it at the funeral."

"Whispered, hunh? So no one heard?"

"Susie, my cousin from my mom's side of the family, the only one I'd consider a friend among the ... She's from Philadelphia. I looked forward to reunions because of her. She's like five years older than me, but we always liked each other. Anyway, she seethed when she heard their shit." George winced.

"You okay?" asked Debra. George nodded, but started looking green. "Mr. Solomon?"

"Let's get this done," muttered Joe. "Fax the will."