Beyond Us Special Scene

Eli 

The first “agreement” my oldest son Micah ever made was with his mother and me, when he was eight years old. It began with a vague call from the school, the principal insisting we meet in person that afternoon.  

Never a good sign. 

That I knew from personal experience. 

Hope and I barely spoke on the drive over. Micah wasn’t a bad boy, but he could be…rambunctious. An uncomfortable reflection of his father at the same age. What had he done to earn an unscheduled visit with the principal on a Thursday afternoon? A list a mile long of my own incidents flooded my mind. 

After dropping Micha’s little brother Levi off with Mom, Hope and I arrived at the school, and were led into Ms. Hagen’s private office and left to wait. One could only assume to sweat out the possibilities of what happened with our son while the principal “attended to other matters.”  

Where Hope calmly sat and focused her worried attention on the view through the window, I was unsettled energy and nerves. Left right, left right, turn, left right, left right. I paced back and forth, from one side of the small space to the other then back again, until Hope finally turned my way, offered an understanding nod, then patted the empty cushion next to her. “You’ll wear out the carpet if you don’t relax. Come and sit.” 

Truth was by the time I was Micah’s age I had the drill down. Hell, I could’ve been the damn drill instructor. This was different. This was karma coming full circle and kicking me in the balls. I stared at the clock secured over the door as I plopped down, a familiar unease swimming in my stomach. “Why do all school clocks look exactly alike?” I asked, focusing my nervous energy through a different channel. 

Hope dragged her attention from the window long enough to glance at the clock and offer a half-hearted reply. “It’s just a clock, hon.”  

I shook my head in disagreement. “No way. There’s something different about school clocks. Don’t you see it? They must adhere to some sort of standard, at least. Either that, or like, all school clocks must be made in the same factory.” Like a dog with a bone, I shook my head, unable to let it go. “There’s something about them.” It was a ridiculous topic to stake a position on, but I needed the distraction. 

Hope didn’t take the bait, choosing instead to return her attention to the day passing outside. “I think I’ve seen them at Ikea,” she said at last to shut me up. 

With no idea how long we’d be left on ice, I finally decided to settle in and get comfortable. Regardless how I shifted or wiggled, the dated sofa was completely uncooperative. To be fair, its best days were long behind it. “You know as a kid, on occasion, I found myself in one or two similar predicaments.”  

“Yeah, hon. I know.” Hope’s flat tone was a warning—she had no interest strolling down memory lane. 

I continued, undeterred. “The waiting part, like this, was always the worst. You know, in my entire life I don’t think I ever sat on a comfortable piece of school furniture. What’s with that?” When my wife offered little more than a nod, it finally dawned on me. Hope was genuinely concerned. Like, genuinely.  

Could I be any more dense?  

Never mind my life experiences, this was the first time we’d been through something potentially serious with Micah, and it was weighing heavily on his mother. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The type that washed out everything below. I reached for Hope’s hand. I wanted to reassure her. To promise her that no matter what had brought us there, we knew Micah well enough not to really worry. She squeezed mine in return, but her focus remained on the window, the same distant expression she had in the car. I tried again to put myself in Micah’s shoes. To imagine the most likely reason my parents would’ve been sitting there. It helped, but only in so far as it had me chewing my lip, worrying along with her. 

After the slowest thirteen-and-a-half minutes of my life, the door below the clock finally pushed opened and the principal entered. A squat woman with hair sprayed into utter submission, she wore too much makeup for the nondescript blazer and pearl earrings that made up her ensemble. The sight of her triggered something old and deep that had me scrambling to sit up straight and brush the hair out of my eyes as she shuffled past.  

Ms. Hagen exhaled a deep breath and plopped into the seat behind her desk, then offered a polite if not boilerplate smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Hutton. Thank you both for making the time to come in today. I understand it’s rather short notice, but I think you’ll agree the situation demands nothing less.” Without slowing down, she launched into the story about that morning’s “incident” on the playground with Micah. 

I forgot my nervous energy when my jaw literally fell open hearing what the teacher investigating the commotion behind the jungle gym discovered. Don’t get me wrong, learning that Micah had been “using the pole to dance” for a group of girls was bad. But the way the principal kept recycling the word “thrust” to describe it…shudder. 

 “Excuse me?” wandered out of my mouth once or twice, but even that didn’t slow Ms. Hagen down.  

I glanced at Hope and became distracted by what was happening behind those eyes. The look on her face wasn’t surprise. She knew our son as well as I did. By the time he’d turned eight—with his nonstop energy and antics—neither of us had much room left for that. She didn’t look embarrassed either. Not exactly. Was she mortified?  

“I’m sorry, that just doesn’t sound like my son.” She turned to me for support. “Does it, Eli?” 

Yes, it did. It sounded so much like something my progeny would do, I didn’t see the point pretending otherwise. Hope’s outright denial told me mortified was the word for what she was feeling. She’d never denied who Micah was. But being told her eight-year-old had been “aggressively dancing”—complete with air quotes—for a group of fifth graders at recess? That couldn’t have been easy for a mother to hear.  

And maybe she thought she was being delicate, but while Ms. Hagen stopped short of ever directly calling Micah’s behavior “stripping” she circled back more than once to remind us the teacher who brought him to the office had his shirt in her hand.  

As a father, I was impressed.  

My third grader was already grabbing the attention of girls two years ahead of him.  

Though, Ms. Hagen’s exasperation was a reminder the school hadn’t called us in to hand out awards.  

I knew what I had to do—what needed said—but I was dreading it. I wasn’t ashamed of how I’d earned my nest egg as a younger man, but a school setting wasn’t the typical scene to bring up the topic. Even if I didn’t understand how it had happened, I was the one responsible for Micha’s behavior. Somehow.  

When Ms. Hagen finally ran out of words, I cleared my throat, looked her in the eyes, and took a breath. “This is my fault. Honestly, I don’t know how or where he learned anything about it, but in a former life I was a…male...uh, performer.” 

To everyone’s surprise—including herself—Ms. Hagen mumbled, “You know, I thought you looked familiar.”  

I felt myself blush but ignored the admission and hurried on to explain how that part of my life had ended long before Micah came into existence. 

As the principal realized, then became embarrassed by her mistake, Hope jumped in to salvage things. “We own a bar and grill now. The Pact. That’s Eli’s life.” She grabbed my hand in hers then lifted them both high enough for the principal to see. “That and his family.” 

At last Ms. Hagen spoke, rambling off a clumsy excuse about being late for another meeting. Then she promptly excused herself and left. 

Still a little shell-shocked, Hope and I picked up Micah from the waiting area on our way out. The three of us walked quietly to the car, one big, happy, dysfunctional family. About a mile or so from the school, Hope looked ready to unload on Micah with both barrels, but to my amazement she kept her shit together all the way home. I called Mom and asked her to keep Levi for dinner, because it appeared the rest of us were in for a long discussion. 

After a car ride in complete silence—an absolute anomaly in our family—Micah was talking before his butt landed on his seat at the dining room table.  

“Uh, Dad, Mom...”  

I brought my finger to my mouth. “Not so fa—”  

“Just what were you thinking young man!?” Later, Hope would claim she was the one who spoke first, but really she cut me off, ran me over, and never looked back. Her words carried as much worry as frustration, but that isn’t to say they didn’t have heat. Then, on a dime her demeanor changed. Softened. Her voice was a shadow of itself. Practically a whisper. “And where did you learn to do…what you did?”  

I ran a hand through my hair. “Do we want to open that pandora’s box?”  

The tortured look on our son’s face told me he knew he’d done something wrong. He understood he was in trouble. But he didn’t have a clue as to why. “I learned from Daddy,” he said at last. His nod in my direction was as damning as any courtroom confession.  

Hope’s eyes grew wide. She turned to me like a viper ready to strike. 

My palms shot up. “Whoa now, Buddy. I’ve taught you lots of dance moves, but when did I ever teach you the kind of dancing where you take your shirt off?” My voice cracked as potential answers I hadn’t considered circled in my mind. 

Micah shook his head and turned his attention to Hope. “No. I found the pictures of you Mommy keeps in her memories box under her side of the bed. The ones of you in your shiny underwear, dancing for ladies.”  

Hope gasped at the admission.  

My gasp came after what Micah said next.  

“And I never even got my pants unbuttoned. I swear.” 

So that night Hope and I wrote up Micah’s first “agreement.”  

A list of not outside the house behaviors which he had to promise to always honor.  

***  

The second agreement came eight years later. Micah and his high school sweetheart, Ivy Cole, had spent the afternoon celebrating one of the many anniversaries young love cares about and were finishing the evening upstairs in his bedroom. It was a school night, so around nine-thirty I came up to suggest they say their goodnights and goodbyes. At sixteen, house rules dictated the door remain open at all times—but you know, teenagers. I approached with caution to avoid walking in on something I’d regret seeing for the rest of my life.  

I slowed as I heard Micha’s low voice over the sounds of a heated gaming session coming from Levi’s room. 

“I love you, Ives. You’re the girl for me and I know in my heart we’re destined for forever.” 

“I love you too, Micah. So much. That’s what scares me. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. But we’re so young.” 

One foot on the stairs, I stopped in place. A conversation that real between people that young felt too important to interrupt. I began to turn back when Micah’s reply, sharp and defensive, stopped me again.  

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. The way I see it that just means we have our whole lives ahead of us. Together.” 

Admittedly, at that point I was transfixed. I crept down the hall in search of better acoustics. 

“I want that too, babe,” Ivy said softly. “I do. I mean, today has been amazing. But what if something happens?” 

“Like what?”  

To me, it sounded like Micah was trying not to sound defensive. Unfortunately, as they often did at that age, his emotions were running ahead of him. I didn’t mean to snoop. I didn’t. When I started up the stairs, I had zero intention of any sort of creepery nonsense. Before I knew it, I was outside Micah’s bedroom. 

Ivy’s voice was light, but it sounded like she was growing frustrated with the hardness of Micah’s head. “I don’t know, like, how many arguments have we had about colleges? So…what if we end up going to different schools? Or if, like, next year my parents get a wild hair up their asses and decide we’re moving to Daytona?” 

“Daytona? What the hell’s in Daytona?” 

“Stop. You know what I’m saying.”  

That was the moment I found a decent viewing angle between the door and the frame, in time to watch Ivy land a playful punch on Micah’s muscular upper arm. I knew there was no reasonable excuse for doing it but—creepery engaged. 

I watched Ivy lean in and rest her head on the arm she’d slugged. “I’m being serious. I can’t imagine my life without you. Sometimes it makes me worry because, you know, high school relationships don’t last.” 

Micah pulled her close, sliding his arm around her. “You can put those worries to bed, Beautiful, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.” 

She forced a smile, but it was obvious his words weren’t enough to undo the worry she felt. “It feels almost inevitable, you know? Like the odds practically demand, eventually, something will come between us.” 

Micah shifted on the bed. Filled to the brim with confidence as he spoke, he lifted Ivy’s chin with his finger until their eyes locked. “Then we won’t let it. Look, maybe it sounds crazy but hear me out. Life is what we make of it, right? Sure, right now those things you mentioned could happen. And as teenagers we don’t have any real control over that. But what about after?” 

Ivy shrugged. “I’m still worrying about now, what do you mean after?” 

“After we turn eighteen. After college. Whatever. We can be together; we just have to be committed. To each other. And to the promise of making it happen.” 

Ivy nodded gently as she considered Micah’s suggestion. 

“Look, my parents made me do this super weird thing when I was a kid. It’s a long story, and not really worth going into, but let’s just say they had issues with some of my behavior…like outside the house. Never mind why. That part’s not important. So, uh anyway, one day they sat me down and we wrote up a contract of things I had to agree never to do anywhere but here.” 

“Wait, seriously?” I stifle a laugh from my memory of the day while Ivy’s attention perks up. “Like what type of behavior?” 

“Again, that’s not important. The point is they made me sign it to show, in writing, that I was committed to our agreement. Then they framed it and hung it on the wall in the kitchen. It might sound a little crazy but having that piece of paper as a reminder…it made a real difference.” 

“Not that I’m dropping the topic about this mysterious behavior, at all, but how exactly does that apply here?” 

Micah sprang from the bed, leaving Ivy unsupported and rolling back toward the headboard as he rushed to retrieve a piece of paper from the notepad on his desk. “What if we make a pact,” he said when he returned. 

“A pact?” Ivy tilted her head in confusion as she sat up. “Like an agreement?” 

“Better than an agreement. A promise. A covenant. To honor the love we both know is once-in-a-lifetime. And to promise, no matter what happens, we’ll come back to each other.”  

I was simultaneously overwhelmed to hear my son acting off a lesson we’d taught him and embarrassed for letting myself eavesdrop on such a personal moment. As quietly as I could I backed away from the door. When I reached the top of the stairs, I cleared my throat before calling down the hall to remind them of the time.  

Parenthood with Micah hadn’t always been easy—to say the least—but some moments had the power to make it all worthwhile.