The Strength of a
Sparrow
by
Tim
‘Dr. Hope’ Anders
Copyright © 2008 by Timothy Anders
Published by Alpine Publishing, Inc.
All right reserved.
No part of this publication may be
copied, photocopied, electronically stored, transmitted or reproduced in any
form or manner whatsoever without prior written consent of the publisher.
Library of Congress Control Number:2007910319
The Strength of a Sparrow
by
Tim ‘Dr. Hope’ Anders
ISBN
978-1-885624-65-9
13579108642
FIRST EDITION
Chapter One
Perhaps this story should not be told.
Perhaps some things are better left unsaid.
But I ache to tell this story of the strength and passion of a
remarkable woman. Indeed, were it not
for this woman, I would not be alive today.
Our story begins…
“No, I mustn’t do this,” thought Hughie Hewitt. He envisioned devastating consequences, consequences that would befall not only him but also the lovely twenty-five-year-old woman who sat before him.
The
year was 1946. On this cold, wintry
night in the upper east side of
Bouvette
Sherwood gazed into the deep blue eyes of this attractive, clean-shaven man not
knowing the danger that lay ahead. Hughie Hewitt knew the danger, but still, he
said nothing. She entranced him.
Hiding
the agony that was within him, Hughie watched as she gently brushed the fiery
auburn hair from her face. The movement formed a waterfall of brilliant color,
sending ripples of light cascading through her long red hair. His infatuation increased. She sipped on her cherry coke.
“An
angel,” Hughie thought, “I’m in the presence of an angel.”
The
door bell jingled, and a small man with a cigar stub in the corner of his mouth
entered the bar.
“One
a’ yooz guys call a cab?” he asked, wiping the
moisture from his nose.
“Yes,
I did. I’ll be with you in a moment,”
Bouvette said, smiling politely.
She
turned toward the tall, distinguished man she was sitting with and said, “It
was very nice to finally meet you, Mr. Hewitt.” Although she had seen him many
times before, it was only a few short hours ago that they had been properly
introduced. “Your stories were simply
delightful and so was your company. I haven’t laughed this much in years.”
“I enjoyed being with you as well, Miss Sherwood,” he said, circling the rim of his glass, with a slender finger, “probably more than I should have.”
“What
does that mean? Do you have a jealous
wife?”
“Oh
no,” he replied, “I’m not married—it just probably isn’t a good idea for us to
see each other.” He had the face of a small boy whose puppy was missing.
“Why
not?” she asked, perplexed by the sudden change in his demeanor.
“It’s
probably not a good idea.” He slurped down the rest of the Dewar’s White Label
scotch he had been drinking.
“Suit
yourself,” she said flippantly as if she didn’t care. “Nonetheless it was a
very pleasant evening and...”
“Lady,
I ain’t got all night,” said the cabby.
They
rose from the table and moved toward the black enameled coat rack in the corner
of the room. He helped her don her long
mink coat and was aroused by the delicate scent of her perfume. She paused and turned to him, watching
tenderly as his arms found the sleeves of his own slightly worn wool
overcoat. She sensed something was
wrong.
“Why
are you so sad all of a sudden—was it something I said?”
“Oh
no, it’s not you... it’s me... I’m sorry... I really had a wonderful time this
evening,” he said, smiling to cover his sadness. In a flash he slipped past the
cabby and out the door. Hughie’s eyes
revealed the hint of a painful hopelessness.
He turned back toward her, hastily waved and said, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,”
she replied. In an instant he was gone.
She
adjusted her coat and went over to the bar. Turning to Vincent Rao, the bartender and owner of the restaurant, Boo said,
“Your friend is mighty handsome, but he seems a bit melancholy.”
“A
kinder, more gentle person you could never hope to meet. We growed up together.” Bouvette could see Vincent’s sincerity shine
through his soft brown eyes. He had a thick set of distinctly Italian eyebrows.
“Does
he come in often?”
“There
ain’t a day that goes by without me seeing my pal
Hughie.”
“Lady,
I ain’t got all night. You wants the cab or what?”
said the cabdriver, wondering how much more of his time this dizzy redhead was
going to waste.
“Yes,
I do. Let’s go. Goodnight, Vincent.”
“So
long, Boo,” said Vincent. Most of
Bouvette’s friends called her Boo. In a
moment she was out the door, the cabby trailing her. Boo’s soft cheeks pinked
in the frosty night air. She could feel
the searing cold from the door handle penetrate through her leather gloves. She pulled open the door and got into the
yellow cab.
“Where
to?” asked the cabby.
“
As
they drove off, snow began to fall like a million tiny parachutes twirling at
the whim of the breeze.
Hughie Hewitt tramped
down the cold sidewalk, downcast, his thoughts haunted by the captivating redhead
he had just left. The cold blistering
wind whipped snowflakes into his face, blinding him momentarily as he forged
his way toward
He
needed to pray.
Oblivious
to the cold and the murmur of crushing snow beneath his thin-soled shoes, his
thoughts kept drifting to Boo.
“God,
I need help,” he thought. Alcohol
usually calmed his passion for women, but tonight it had the opposite effect.
He was wrestling with the desire that raged deep in his soul.
He
wanted her. He needed to feel her, to
hold her, to taste her sweet essence, to savor her young firm body on fire next
to his, her precious lips pressed intimately against his own. These visions tormented him.
Hughie
had never allowed himself to succumb to these urges. The yearning for female
companionship sizzled unbearably deep inside him, setting his loins on fire.
Alcohol had been his only escape and now that was failing. He needed
strength—he needed to pray.
He
stood in front of
Hughie
paused briefly to dip his slim fingertips into the holy water. His light touch
sent shallow ripples to the sides of the vessel—ripples like the pangs of agony
he felt within him. He genuflected. Only the tapping sound of his heels could
be heard as he made his way down the marble floor to a pew. Hughie knelt
down. He saw the statue of Jesus before
him on the crucifix. He wept
openly.
“What’s
wrong, Father Hewitt?” An elderly, heavy-set woman wearing a black sweater
walked up to him, a broom in her hand.
“Oh
nothing, Mrs. Sullivan. I just had a very sad thought. It’s gone now. I’m fine. What are you doing here this time of night?”
said Hughie.
“Now,
Father Hewitt, you know perfectly well what I’m doing here. ‘Tis nearly
“Oh,
is it that late already? I seem to have lost track of the time. Well, goodnight Mrs. Sullivan. Ah, I mean
good morning.” With each word he sent
his alcoholic breath toward her.
“Good
day, Father,” she said, twisting the broom handle. Through her wire-rimmed
glasses, her eyes reprimanded him.
Father Hewitt slid somewhat awkwardly through
the brown door next to the hand-carved confessionals and disappeared into the
confines of the rectory. He snuck
quietly through the hallway, toward the craggy staircase that led up to his
private quarters. Father O’Brian’s
bedroom was at the other end of this dark corridor. Hughie stepped quickly but softly, hoping not
to encounter him; he didn’t want to have to explain himself again.
Father
Daniel O’Brian, an Irishman with a full head of white hair, looked much older
than his sixty-four years. He was sitting in the rectory library, perched on
his favorite overstuffed chair. With a flick from his liver-spotted finger,
Father O’Brian thoughtfully turned the page of his sermon notes for the
imminent
He
heard a “swooft, swooft” in
the hall. It was the soft sound of
Hughie’s light footsteps, muffled further by the oriental carpet on the floor.
“Father
Hewitt?” said Father O’Brian, rising to his feet. Hughie froze in the open library doorway.
“Heavens,
Father Hewitt, you haven’t been out all night drinkin’
again, have you now?” said the old Irishman.
He wasn’t always this stern with his colleague and friend. Although
Hughie was in charge of the parish, he stood sheepishly before Father O’Brian,
like a schoolboy caught dipping his little sister’s ponytail into an
inkwell. He said nothing.
“I’ll
not be taking your place again like I did Sunday last when you were in such a
pitiful state from over-imbibin’ the night before!”
The ire in his voice rose until he sensed the deep sorrow in his comrade. Then
he said gently, “Don’t you think you’ve been over doin’
it a wee bit of late?” Still silence.
“Well Hughie, I’m off to prepare for the mass then. Rest yourself. We’ll talk
of this tomorrow.” He reached up to Hughie’s six-foot three-inch frame and
patted him on the shoulder.
With
his head hung low, Hughie climbed to his bedroom apartment. The staircase creaked as if wounded by the
extra weight that tugged at Hughie’s soul.
He entered his chambers. He went
straight over to a cherry wood cabinet, opened it, and grabbed a half-empty
bottle of Dewar’s scotch whiskey. With
trembling hands he poured a generous amount into a water-spotted glass. He slurped down the whiskey and quickly
poured another, his hands less shaky now.
As
he undressed, he finished off the second glass and then fell into bed. The alcohol was doing its job—the turmoil
inside him was succumbing to the numbing effect of the drink. His mind drifted to the strong smell of
incense that had hung in the air the day he took his vows. He remembered how joyous he had felt kneeling
before old Bishop Newhart, finally becoming a priest. It had been his boyhood
dream. He knew he could never leave the
priesthood; it was who he was and all he had ever known or wanted to be. But
this secret yearning for companionship in recent years had grown painfully
present in his thoughts. In the darkness
and warmth of his bed a tear glided from beneath his closed eyelid and down his
cheek, soon swallowed up by his pillow.
Boo was his last dreamy thought as he sank into a welcome state of
unconsciousness.
Chapter Two
The afternoon sun shone brightly through the window of Boo’s uptown apartment. Charming, elegant and utterly feminine, the furnishings befitted a successful woman of the theater.
Her
coffeepot gurgled on the kitchen stove, filling the air with the sweet aroma of
fresh coffee. Wearing only a blue terry-cloth robe, Boo was having a giggly,
girlish conversation with her best friend, Mary Stevens.
Mary
sat patiently awaiting her coffee. She
twirled a few strands of her brown hair between her thumb and forefinger. Her slender shape, and delicate facial
features betrayed that this beauty was indeed a talented actress and model.
“Gosh,
Boo, I just realized that it has been five years since we first met. Remember
that crazy audition we went to in the east village? Can you believe it? Five years… And remember that lecherous
producer, George what’s-his-name?” said Mary, smiling broadly while adjusting
her black cashmere sweater.
“Goldstein,”
said Bouvette.
“Yeah. And how he came on to all the girls while we
were trying to read our lines until…” giggled Mary.
“His
wife showed up that day and slapped him so hard that his toupee flew off and
into…” chuckled Boo.
“The
table fan! And it chewed off little puffs of fuzz and blew them all over the
stage!” roared Mary.
“It
was like thousands of bearded moths flying around. That pervert George acted
like a crazed bug catcher, chasing them down and wrestling to paste them back together…”
Boo
put a dainty china creamer and sugar bowl onto the lace tablecloth that covered
her kitchen table. Still laughing, she
walked to the stove to get the pot of coffee.
“Five
years… Now look at you. You’re the one producing plays, and you’re a darn site
more successful than anything old George Goldstein ever put together,” said
Mary, referring to Boo’s current production of Revival of Petrified Forest. Mary starred in the play.
“Yeah,
well that’s because I have a much better toupee,” said Boo, theatrically
tossing her hair over her shoulder. Boo
delivered some toasty warm Danishes on a silver platter. She poured the coffee
into two petite cups and handed one to Mary.
“Mmm, this coffee is delish,” Mary said, pausing briefly. “So tell me about this
mysterious stranger that kept you out ‘til
“Mary,
I’m surprised at you, asking me that after our first, ah, well, gee, it
actually wasn’t even a date,” said Boo.
“Well,
did you kiss him?”
“Mary!”
Boo said, feigning embarrassment. She
gracefully slid onto the chair across from her friend and dipped a silver
teaspoon into the sugar bowl.
“Okay,
I’ll take that as a no,” said Mary, with part of a Danish in her mouth. “Come
on, give!” Boo just stirred her coffee.
“The scoop Boo, juicy details! Come on!
What’s he look like? How did you meet him? Come on!”
Boo
opened the floodgates. “Well, he’s tall and absolutely gorgeous and his name is
Hughie, although I still call him Mr. Hewitt. And I’m very attracted to him. He
makes me laugh. He’s so handsome and polite and gentle, and he’s got steel gray
hair and deep blue eyes and he’s the kind of guy you could fall instantly in
love with. And did I tell you that he’s tall and ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS and I wish
he would have kissed me?” Boo
exclaimed as she rambled on like a schoolgirl talking about her first
crush.
Mary
hung on every word. “He’s a long time
friend of Vincent’s. You know Vincent, one of the brothers who own Rao’s on the
upper east side. That’s where we met. You know the one, on
“Oh
yeah, the Mafioso place.”
“Mafioso?”
said Boo blankly.
“Don’t
tell me that you didn’t know that the Rao brothers
are wiseguys.”
“Wiseguys? You mean
they crack a lot of jokes?” said Boo innocently. She took a sip of her coffee.
The
seriousness in Boo’s voice made Mary cackle like a speckled hen. “Gee, Boo, for such an intelligent woman your
naiveté is astounding,” chuckled Mary.
“When
you’re done laying that egg, it would be nice if you would simply educate this
poor ignorant
“A wiseguy is
another word for mobster, you know. Mafia, organized crime—they’re in the mob!”
“Oh…
Oh no, that can’t be. Vincent’s such a nice fellow. He couldn’t be a gangster!
I’ve known him for years. You must be
wrong,” Boo remarked, somewhat shocked by the words of her friend.
“I
can prove it, but you have to promise you won’t tell another living soul,” Mary
uttered almost in a whisper.
“I
promise.”
“Remember
three years ago? I had a quick roll in the hay with Sam, the stage manager?”
“Uh
huh.”
“We
weren’t serious about each other. We just did it for fun. Anyway, I got, you
know, in trouble.”
“You
were pregnant!”
She
nodded. “The last thing Sam or I wanted to do was get married and raise a
child. I knew I couldn’t handle being a
single mother all alone in this city and frankly, I didn’t want to end my
career and end up taking it out on the kid.
So he took me to his cousin, who happened to be Vincent. They made arrangements for a doctor to
perform an abortion.”
“Wow,
how did they get the doctor to break the law?”
“Boo,”
Mary said bluntly as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin, “the
mob can put pressure on people. Turns
out some doctor owed big money for a gambling debt. They checked me into
“Were
you scared?” said Boo, her eyes as big as beach balls.
“A
little, but everything went real smooth. Thanks to Vincent. He’s a real
pal.” Mary poured some more coffee into
her cup.
“I
don’t think that I could have done that. Well maybe, if I were pregnant and the
father was someone I didn’t love.” Boo sighed deeply. “To me, having children
with the man I love is the ultimate reward in life. To raise kids and nurture them means more to
me than fame or fortune or anything… But I certainly wouldn’t want to have
children by accident or if the father was a real jerk,” Boo was thoughtful as
she pondered Mary’s revelation. “So Vincent is in the mob. I’ll be...”
“Yep,
but let’s not talk anymore about that. Tell me more about this attractive man
of yours.”
“Oh no,” Boo wailed, sitting down,
“that explains it. Oh no!” Her heart
sank as a thought came over her.
“Oh no, what? Explains WHAT?”
“It
was something Hughie said. We had been laughing and having a great time. I was telling him how much I enjoyed his
company and he said how much he enjoyed mine, and then all of a sudden he
looked really sad and said that he probably enjoyed it more than he should
have. Oh Mary, he looked so sad. At
first I thought he might be married but he had no ring or, you know, that
telltale white mark when they take their ring off and pretend—so I asked him
and he said he wasn’t and I believe he was telling me the truth. But he was so sad. Oh no, that must be it. He
must be in the mob and afraid of a relationship or something. Oh Gosh. I have to find out.”
“How
are you going to do that? I can see it
now—Oh, Hughie, I really like you. Oh, by the way, are you pals with Al
Capone?” said Mary.
“No
silly, I’ll just go to Rao’s and ask Vincent.” Boo jumped up and rushed into
the bedroom to dress.
Warm rays of sun
shimmered on the quilt of snow that had fallen during the night. The air, tainted only by the smell of auto
exhaust, was uncharacteristically warm for this time of year, a welcome change
for New Yorkers. The rattletrap Checker
cab Boo had hailed clattered to a standstill in front of the red facade of
Rao’s Italian restaurant.
Vincent
stood alone behind the bar, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, his black
tie loosened at the collar. He was a
hard worker and basically a kind man, but people never crossed him. The
