The Put Out (Shredding the Past)

When I was 13, a tall dark broad-nose boy showed up at our doorstep. He must have been 16. The year was 1976, and we were living in Paddock, a small village in the island of Grenada in the West Indies. He had a grin on his face like an excited puppy, and he was very polite and friendly. He introduced himself as Frances. I was puzzled because Frances was my step-dad’s last name. He said that my step-dad was his dad, and that he’s been searching for him a longtime. He was happy to have found his long lost dad. My mom welcomed him with opened arms.
That morning we tried to talk to Frances, but he stuttered and it was difficult to understand him. We told him he could stay as long as he wanted. Ours was a family brought together by circumstances. Mom moved in with our soon to be step-dad in 1976. She had four kids, two boys and two girls, and he had two boys and two girls also. His kids were not happy with the breakup of their dad’s marriage, so with that secret among us we settled in as one family. The boys had one room small room with two beds, and the girl’s room was slightly bigger, and my parents had the master bedroom. We had a living room with a black and white television, a kitchen, one bathroom, and a verandah.
Now here came Frances, an outside child from a different family. That morning we found out another thing about Frances. He had a disease known as Fits, and he caught the Fits in the boy’s room. I walked into the boy’s room to find Frances beating up on the ground, mouth frothing, and going into a seizure. We panicked as we gathered around him, and then just like he got out of it.
My step-dad came home that morning and met Frances, his son, for the first time. His face was expressionless as he greeted the young man. Just as quickly as he greeted Frances, just as quickly he disappeared into his room, leaving the boy standing with his mouth opened.
Frances spent the next two days with us. He slept on the floor in the boy’s room. Life continued as normal in our little home. Then Monday afternoon I came from school and Frances was not at home.
“Where is Frances?” I asked Mom.
“He is gone,” She replied.
“Why?” I asked.
“Charlie told him that he couldn’t stay here.”
Charlie was my step-dad’s name. I was sad. Frances seemed like such a nice guy. I couldn’t understand why a father would throw his son out of his home. Two days later they found a body in the sea behind the rocks of the local hospital. It was Frances. He had no where to go so he had hung around the rocks by the sea. He caught the Fits and fell into the water and drowned.
I played the journey of Frances over in my mind, hoping there was something I could change. Something I may have missed - Something that would keep him smiling. I asked a thousand times, “Why?” I got no answers. My step-dad did not react to the news. It just went over his shoulder. We didn’t talk about the incident. It was an incident that never happened. They were in denial, but I never forgot it. It stuck in my stomach like a thorn, growing and with each passing year.