Toby's God Read online

Toby’s God

  By Tom Georges

  Copyright 2008 Tom Georges

  Toby’s God

  May 14, 1995 – Tonight he dies. It hurts, but it’s the only way. Without me, nothing good would have happened in his life, and with his finding out about me, I can’t continue. Without me, he will suffer. So it must be done. I am tired.

  Dean Nichols put the pen and diary down along with his reading glasses, and got up from his comfortable spot in his leather desk chair. He had a right to be tired – this had been going on for over 30 years now, and the longest “vacation” he had taken was for about a week when he had bypass surgery. That was difficult – being “in the dark” as he was. He vowed to take better care of himself so his health would never take him away from his life’s purpose. His penance.

  And penance it was. Not doled out by a priest, but a self-imposed life sentence. A full-time second job, actually. Keeping up the way he did with Toby’s life was something that inhabited every waking hour – and many when he wasn’t awake. But what else could he do? Lesser men would have written the whole thing off as youthful foolishness and then went on with their lives. But this was something Dean just could not do. He never asked why – he just knew.

  He didn’t like leaving anything to chance. Of course it was impossible to control everything but this didn’t stop him from trying. Amazingly, there were very few outcomes in Toby’s life that were not completely foreordained by his god. There was one notable exception – Toby’s finding out who his biological father was. This was obviously not part of Dean’s plan, but it was now water under the bridge. It complicated things with Toby contacting Dean. But it was manageable. Plans were made. Outcome had been decided upon.

  Dean crossed from his desk to the fireplace mantle, where the photos were. Toby’s nursery school picnic. A newspaper clipping with a photo of a first grade Toby as part of the school post office for Valentine’s Day. Little League baseball photos taken with a super-long telephoto lens. Photos from numerous concerts featuring a pint-size Toby working hard to play violin. Clandestine photos of Toby and a girlfriend. Toby at his first job. Toby, Toby, Toby. All expected. Furthermore, all planned. To the nth degree.

  As he contemplated all the events recorded by the photos and clippings, Dean crossed back to the desk and picked up the diary. It was a rather plain looking, leather-bound book. The entries were deceivingly brief, yet informative. Concise. The brevity of the entries belied the extensive planning and execution that went into making them into realities. Dean flipped to the first page.

  April 4, 1962 – What have I done? What an idiot I am. Sure I love her, but I’m only 19. What do I know about being a dad. I think I can fight this.

  April 15, 1962 – I’m sure she hates me. Her family hates me. The church hates me. Everyone hates me. I’m sure that kid will hate me, too. But nobody can prove he’s mine.

  May 2, 1962 – Blood tests be damned. It will cost me, but I think it’s $3000 well spent. Good riddance, all of you. Now I can go on with my life.

  November 12, 1962 – Just found out from J. that the kid was born. Why is this important? I’d forgotten all about this. But for some reason I can’t shake it from my mind. A son. My son. My God, I want to see him – what’s wrong with me?

  November 22, 1962 – Saw him. At the agency. He’s beautiful. I can’t believe it. What kind of fool was I to give this up? He needs me! He’s so helpless – he needs his dad. I pretended to be a prospective parent – pretty easy sweet talking the receptionist.

  January 13, 1963 – Got hired by the agency as a janitor. Easier than I thought. The research I’ve done on adoptive parents has taken most of my time, but it’s worth it now that I have access to records.

  January 28, 1963 – Was able to insert my hand-picked parents into the official documents. Larry and Sadie are perfect for my little boy. Larry’s spineless, Sadie doting and oblivious.

  He lowered the book and smiled. The sun was just going down, casting long shadows of the short pine trees in his back yard across the side of the tool shed. Larry and Sadie had indeed proved easy to dupe and manipulate. They thought they were the parents, making choices and guiding little Toby, but Dean knew it was he who was quietly orchestrating events to appear random, or earned, or whatever he chose them to look like.

  Did Toby choose to take up violin in 5th grade? Was it Larry who got Toby on the baseball team, even though he didn’t know which end of the bat to hold? Was it Sadie who decided what girls were good for Toby and which were not? Did Toby choose State for his higher education? Was Toby’s mysterious religious experience a divine intervention? Dean knew how all these things came to pass. Dean was Toby’s god, after all.

  He skipped forward to the entry just before the one he had just made:

  April 17, 1995 – I got the call today. I hadn’t expected it. He knows who I am. How did he find out? Maybe Sadie’s more resourceful than I thought. It sounded good to talk to him. So bright, so clever, so talented. A beautiful creation. My creation. I don’t know what to do. This changes everything. I need time to think.

  And think he did. He took a temporary leave of absence from the factory. This gave him time to think without distractions. He agonized over what to do, and how to do it, for hours. He loved Toby too much to rush such a thing. He owed him for abandoning him all those years ago. Not a day went by when he didn’t regret taking on the role of Toby’s real dad. To be his hero. Teach him how to play catch, how to throw a curveball. To help him learn to ride a bike. To tell him about girls. To share a beer with when he turned 21. None of these were memories he could treasure. Instead, there was the guilt, the regret, the anger, and then the action. If he couldn’t be Toby’s dad, he would be his god. The fact that the choices he made for Toby as Dean, the god, were probably not the choices he would make as Dean, the dad, were irrelevant. It was the influence and sense of closeness to the boy that counted.

  And now Dean knew that he was about to conclude the final chapter of his role. He had to. It was only fitting that the created would be reunited to his god in death. Of course the god had to die, too. But after all this time taking care of Toby, Dean really had no other passion. His woman he had married after he abandoned Toby’s mother was a wild hippy – the exact opposite of his first lover. She couldn’t be contained, and so had left him after 10 months. Just as well – this left Dean more time to pursue his real life’s work. And now that he had made his decision, he realized that without this life’s work, he would have no life left to live, either.

  The plans had been made. The meeting had been set up. And the method of execution outlined and rehearsed. Like everything else in Toby’s life, his death would be carried out according to the god’s master plan. And of course made to look like it was not. In a way, Dean looked forward to meeting his son face-to-face, man-to-man. Handsome. Smart. Successful. He was so proud of his son. And proud of himself. Toby had turned out just as planned. Dean prided himself on this. Not many parents could say that. But Dean was no parent. Dean was Toby’s god.

  They were to arrive at 7pm. After dinner time. Toby, his wife, and small son – Dean’s grandson. Toby’s wife was perfect. Of course she was, since Dean had made sure that she was “the one.” Handpicked from a half dozen possible candidates, her background, pedigree, education – everything – had been thoroughly researched. Their “chance” meeting arranged. “Accidental” encounters. Dean knew Toby, and so knew what he liked, who he liked, what he was looking for. And his god provided.

  There was a knock at the door. Dean was momentarily startled and accidentally dropped the diary at the sound. They were here. He picked up t
he book, set it back down on the desk, smoothed down his swath of gray hair, and inhaled and held it. As he exhaled, he found himself more nervous than he thought he would be. There was no reason for it, yet he was. He took another deep breath, let it go, then took the few steps over to the front door of his bunglow. He had thought about taking the photos down from the mantle, but according to his plan, he knew that Toby would ask about it. And thus the creature would come to know his god more than he had counted on. And he would know the truth. Dean owed him that much.

  As he crossed, there was more knocking – more insistent this time. Why was he knocking so aggressively? Dean opened the door. It wasn’t Toby, but two Westlake cops, with serious expressions.

  “Hello. Are you Dean Nichols?”

  “Yes, I am. What’s all this about, officers?”

  “Are you acquainted with a Toby Greco?”

  “Toby Greco?” Dean began to sense a panic deep inside his gut. How had the police connected the two of them? He debated whether to come clean or feign ignorance. This was not planned. Not at all. He decided on the truth. “Yes. Actually, we’ve never met. We had a meeting set up to talk tonight. Right now, in fact. What’s this all about?”

  “Well, Mr. Nichols…uh…can we come in for a minute?”

  Dean thought about the mantle photos. Could he be in trouble? What did the cops want? “Uh – I’m kind of busy at the moment – do you really need to come in?”

  “No – we just thought it would be better for you. We can talk to you right here if you’d prefer.”

  Dean was starting to sweat now. What did they want?

  “Mr. Nichols, we have some bad news. We’re sorry to tell you, but Toby is dead.”

  “Dead?” Dean was genuinely surprised, which was surprising in itself.

  “Yes sir. We’re terribly sorry. This morning, he was killed in his home. Some madman broke in, and Toby tried to defend himself, and got himself killed in the struggle. His wife wanted to make sure you were contacted as soon as possible.”

  “Oh my God!” Dean’s head was reeling. In fact, his whole body was reeling. He could feel the pain in his arm, spiking towards his neck.

  “Are you OK, Mr. Nichols?”

  “I’m…just…I’m…” As he struggled to speak, the pain in his chest overwhelmed him. His head started to heat up, dizziness took over. He saw his life – Toby’s life – flashing before him. The life he had laid out for him. The life he – Toby’s god – had created for him. Nothing left to chance. Nothing left to choice.

  He hit the ground hard. John and Don, Toby’s buddies, started to panic. They hadn’t counted on this. “Sir? Are you OK? It’s just a joke! Toby’s fine!” They grabbed at him as he writhed on the ground in obvious pain.

  But it was too late. Although exercise and healthy eating had kept the specter of a heart attack at bay all these years, the jolt of the “news” proved too much to bear. He could see the two men – could hear their revelation – yet could do nothing to reverse the inevitable. The god was dead.

  “Call Toby – now!” Don was frantic. He pulled out his cellphone, punched in Toby’s number, and prayed that Dean had just fainted.

  “Hello?”

  “Toby – man – this Dean guy just collapsed – I don’t know if he’s breathing or not. John’s got 911 on the horn, but this guy looks bad!”

  Toby’s tone of voice was calm. “Don’t worry about it, Don. He was getting old anyhow. Just have the ambulance drive him to Westlake General. Hopefully it’s not too late.”

  “Man, you are cold! Didn’t you say that this Dean and you were old buddies and did this kind of practical joking back and forth all the time?”

  “Yeah – that’s right. We go way back. Don’t sweat it, man. I’ll pay you back for the rent-a-cop costumes tomorrow at work. Just go into his place and grab a couple of his shirts and stuff yours in a bag – so you won’t get arrested for impersonating an officer. Dean’s got a history of heart problems. You guys are OK.”

  “Sheesh. Whatever you say, Toby. But I’m gonna need a drink. Bye.”

  “Bye. And thanks.”

  Toby hung up the phone and looked down at his small, leather-bound journal and looked at the final entry he had penned earlier that morning:

  May 14, 1995 – Tonight he dies. He’s been running my life for all these years. Nothing has been my own. Not my job, not my wife, not my hobbies. Everything’s been him, him, him. What a control freak. It’s worse than if he was my dad. I can’t take it any longer. I can’t stand seeing him everywhere, since as long as I can remember. At my concerts, spying on me and my girlfriends. Hiding behind doorways. Stalking me. Who knows what else he has arranged. Had it not been for Don’s job with social services, I would never have figured out who he was. He must be sick. It’s so pathetic. If he wanted to be in my life so much, why did he deny paternity? Why’d he pay the money and run? Who does he think he is? God?

  ###

  About the Author

  Tom Georges lives in Roswell, GA with his wife, Stacy, and two children, Peter and Olivia.