“Damn!” Shuja says, plopping his box on the long worktable at the rear of the room, “I should be with my woman. This Valentine’s Day. She need to be with her lover boy.”
“She probably is,” Elvis says, and for a brief moment Shuja is caught between possible responses.
He chooses one appropriate for the occasion. “This here Valentine’s Day,” he says again. “Be good to me, Rock ’n’ Roll. Don’ be makin’ me feel all blue.”
A heavy, new, and otherwise nondescript sophomore group member named Robert Brown shakes his head and says, “Man, this sucks. Old Lady Stevens said I had to come to this shit in the mornings. I came this morning. That ought to be enough.” His comment plays to general agreement, which mutes itself as Mr. Nak walks into the room.
“Ever one accounted for?” he asks with a quick smile. “Looks like it,” he says in answer to his own question.
Someone says, “Except for Hudge.”
“Hudge is takin’ a few days off,” Mr. Nak says. “Boy needs some rest.” He looks far off, then shakes his head quickly.
Shelly asks, “Is Hudgie okay, Mr. Nak? There were rumors about him today. I mean, that’s why we didn’t have group this morning, right, because you went out to his place?”
Nak’s eyes narrow as he decides what should and can be said. “Yeah, Hudge is okay. Restin’ up in the hospital. Wouldn’t be too bad an idea if a few of you stopped up to see him after a day or so.” He pauses again, thinking. “Guess it’s best y’all know what happened. He’s one of us.”
The group waits quietly. Shelly was right. Rumors had flown all over school that Hudgie Walters went crazy, that he’d been hurt and was in intensive care, that he’d shot his father. “Best forget most of what you heard today,” Nak says. “I got a call from the police about six o’clock this mornin’, askin’ if I’d be willin’ to run on out to the Walters place to help calm down a situation. When I got there, I found Hudge on the front porch in his pj’s with a pup in his lap. Hudge was talkin’ to it an’ kinda rockin’ back an’ forth the way he does, only it didn’t take long to see that pup was deader’n Old Yeller. Hudge was kinda singin’ to it, sayin’ he was sorry, an’ there was a policeman an’ some social worker standin’ several feet away. Each time one of ’em tried to move in on him, Hudge’d start screamin’ loud enough to scare ’em right back.
“They told me they took his pa off because he’d greeted the cops with a shotgun when they showed up to see what all the commotion that the neighbors reported was about. His momma was inside somewhere, locked in a room. So the cop asked me to see if I could maybe get Hudge to come with him; said Hudge’d been hollerin’ my name.
“Anyway, I walk over an’ kneel down beside him, an’ ask if maybe he wants to go in the house an’ get somethin’ warm on, an’ he tells me no, that he killed his dog. So I ask him how he done that, an’ he says he forgot to feed ’im. I tell ’im, ‘Hudge, you cain’t kill a critter forgettin’ to feed it once,’ an’ he says, ‘Oh, yes, you can, if your daddy’s gonna shoot ’im if you don’t take care of ’im, you can.’”
Nak’s gaze drops to the table. He is visibly shaken. “Well, I look down at that little feller, an’ sure enough he’s bleedin’ all over Hudge’s lap. Been shot deader’n hell. When I try to take him away from Hudge, he starts screamin’ an’ gettin’ all crazy on me, so I say he can bring him right along, but we are gonna go on in an’ get him into somethin’ warm.”
The group is riveted to Nak’s story, staring in disbelief.
“Anyway,” Nak continues, “I convince him we got to give this animal a proper burial, an’ we go out back an’ dig under the snow into the frozen dirt an’ plant him in the garden, an’ I say a few words I think will get the job done for Hudge, an’ Hudge just keeps sayin’ he’s sorry as he covers the little dickens with snow an’ dirt. Then he rides with me up to the hospital—to the psych ward—an’ the social worker gets him all checked in, an’ I think they probably had to sedate him some when I left because he was gettin’ perty wild agin.”
Nak looks up at the group. “Anyway, that’s why I was a no-show this mornin’ an’ why y’all had to come in here tonight.”
Shawn Reed, another relatively new group member says, “Why couldn’t we have just canceled? Ain’t our fault this Hudgie guy’s got a crazy dad.”
Shuja shakes his head. “Man, you cold.”
Elvis is out of his chair. “Reed, you shut your mouth. One more word an’ you’re dust.”
Reed starts to respond, but Nak stands. “Guys, I ain’t got a lot of energy left to deal with this. Sit down, Elvis. Please.” He raises a hand, and Elvis sits.
“You’re right, Mr. Reed. It ain’t our fault Hudge’s got a crazy dad. Ain’t Hudge’s fault, either. It’s just the way it is. But Hudge’s one of us, an’ when one of us goes down, the rest of us get in on it whether we like it or not. Once you know somethin’, you can’t unknow it.”
Nak sits back down on the table. “You know, ol’ Hudge takes quite a beatin’ around this school. Everybody’s always wonderin’ what’s wrong with him, why he acts so crazy, where them wild rages of his come from. Well, now you know, an’ you know all kinds of folks are going to be tauntin’ ’im an’ pointin’ an’ such when he comes back. This one’ll hit the papers for sure. What I’d appreciate is if none of that tauntin’ came from inside this room. When a guy’s wounded, you need to huddle up on ’im.”
Shelly says, “Don’t worry, Mr. Nak. We’ll huddle up.”
“Man,” Shuja says. “His daddy shoot his dog?”
“That he did,” Nak says. “So let’s git along with this here Valentine’s celebration. Y’all bring your boxes?”
CHAPTER 12
VALENTINE’S NIGHT
Dear Larry,
Man, Lar, I think Valentine’s Day could take on a different meaning for me from now on. I told you earlier Mr. Nak was called out to something important this morning, so Nak’s Pack met this evening instead. It seemed strange that he didn’t just cancel it instead of messing up everyone’s schedule, including his own, but he said Valentine’s Day could be the most important holiday for us, since it’s supposed to be a celebration of people’s good feelings for one another, and this culture doesn’t seem to be able to make a significant distinction between those feelings and anger most of the time. Otherwise, why would so many people be getting whacked on in the name of love?
Hey, man, Mr. Nak has made stranger points.
About three weeks ago he tells us each to begin constructing a Valentine’s box, you know, like we used to make in grade school; said he wanted them all fixed up like we did back then so he could give a prize for the best one. Don’t think he didn’t catch some crap for that. You think it’s easy for a guy like Elvis to be caught toting a red-and-white box covered with crepe-paper hearts? As I remember, Elvis mentioned something about that at the time, but Mr. Nak said to think of it like trying to graduate high school without your math credits. You couldn’t graduate Anger Management without your Valentine’s credits. He said it as a joke, but you got the feeling you didn’t want to be a no-show for the Anger Management Valentine’s Day extravaganza.
He said we were also to bring a valentine for each member of the group. “You don’t have to write some earth-shakin’ thing that’d turn back a thunderin’ herd of raging longhorns,” he told us, “just somethin’ decent that’s true.”
On the surface that may not seem like such a tall order, Lar, until you remember the last time some of these guys said anything nice about anybody was about two past lives ago.
Since I worried that Mr. Nak might make us read the cards aloud, I gave Shelly two valentines: one privately that said how I really feel about her, and one for the group that said I like the way she hardly ever puts anybody down. A guy wants to stay safe with his feelings of romance, huh, Lar? Would you want to give these guys ammo?
Mr. Nak never did make us read anything aloud, though. After we distributed the cards to t
he individual boxes, he told us about Hudge, who’s in the psychiatric unit at Sacred Heart Hospital in Spokane. Mr. Nak got a call from the Clark Fork police about six o’clock this morning, asking if he would come out to Hudge’s house to help calm down a situation. Seems Hudge’s dad shot his puppy because Hudge forgot to feed it. Killed him, Lar. This guy shot a kid’s dog just to teach him a lesson. And I thought my old man had a corner on hardass. When Mr. Nak got out there, Hudge was sitting on his porch in the freezing cold with nothing on but his pj’s, apologizing to this dead puppy because he caused him to get shot. Ol’ Hudge wasn’t even mad at his dad. He thought it was his fault because his dad warned him when Hudge brought it home that he’d shoot it if Hudge didn’t take care of it.
Hudge’s dad was charged with discharging a firearm within city limits. Can you believe that? It’s okay to kill your dog, just don’t do it with a firearm inside city limits. And Hudge was screaming at the cops to leave his dad alone while they hauled him off! I mean, he didn’t even know it was his dad’s fault, Lar; Hudge thought he killed the dog. I think that’s how badly you can be tricked if you can’t find a way to stand up for yourself.
“Guess this couldn’t have happened on a better day for teachin’ us about love,” Mr. Nak said after he told us the story. “I heard Hudge’s dad say three times while they was haulin’ him off that he did it for the kid’s own good. Damn. Loved the boy so much he was willing to kill his dog just to teach him a lesson. Anybody wonder why the world seems like such a hellhole to that boy? You know that ssssss sound he’s always makin’? You know what that is? That’s cigarettes burning the backs of his legs when he don’t do his chores. Anybody wonder where his rage comes from?”
None of us wondered, Lar. At least no one said so.
“Reason I make Valentine’s Day such a big deal for this group,” Mr. Nak said, “is that it’s the holiday for love, an’ I’m just plain sick an’ tired of all the lyin’ done in the name of it. The kind of love Hudge gets can make a man so sick in his heart an’ his mind he might just never recover. That kind of love is a lie, an’ everbody in this room has a piece of that lie in his—or her—life. Y’all will have a lot less anger in you once you ferret those lies out.”
Shelly started crying, Lar, crying hard—I think in response to Mr. Nak’s story about Hudge. She was the only one to know the right question to ask. She asked how can we tell, said her life was so full of that kind of lie she’d never be able to sort it out.
Mr. Nak said, “If what’s comin’ from others don’t make you feel better about yourself in the world, then it probably ain’t good for you,” he said. “An’ if it ain’t good for you, it ain’t love. That ain’t the whole story, but it’ll do for a start.” He paused a minute, then he said, “I asked y’all to write a little somethin’ on a valentine card for everbody else here. I hope you spent a little time on it, thought of somethin’ true to say.”
I thought back on what I’d written and was pretty well satisfied—I hadn’t slammed anybody, and I really did try to say something that was good and also true about each person. It wasn’t easy in a few cases, because there are a few guys in there who don’t talk much and when they do, they bitch.
“Before you look at your cards,” Mr. Nak said, “I’m gonna read you a couplea Hudgie’s. He gave this to me before they hauled him off.” He reached behind his desk and hauled out an orange-and-blue five-gallon ice-cream tub monstrosity with all different color and size hearts plastered on it willy-nilly. “Want y’all to send Hudge’s back in this. I’ll take it up. If you made the mistake of mockin’ or teasin’ him for a joke, throw that one away, and I’ll give you a blank one to fix.” He looked up. “No questions asked.”
Mr. Nak carefully removed the top from the carton, reached in, and drew out a handful of sealed envelopes, opening them one at a time. “This one’s for you, Shelly,” he said, holding the tiny ten-cent card face out for us to see a pig squeezing a large red heart. It said I SQUEAL WITH DELIGHT FOR YOU, VALENTINE.
Shelly smiled.
Mr. Nak said, “Hudge told me he had to hide the cash to buy these; said his daddy would’ve beat him if he caught him throwin’ money away on such foolishness.” Mr. Nak’s eyes narrowed. “So I want you to appreciate ’em. The price was high.” He turned the card over and read. “Shelly. You’re perty. And nice. If I was a guy who could have a girlfriend, you’d be who I’d want. Never mind that Ironman guy. Hudgie.”
Shelly blushed, and Shuja said, “Oooh, Beauregard. You bein’ displaced.” I didn’t say anything. I was thinking about what it must be like to wish you were a guy who could have a girlfriend. Seems like that ought to be a right before bearing arms. That’s almost too sad for words, Lar.
“This one here’s for Elvis,” Mr. Nak said, and I expected Elvis to look away or sneer or something, but he looked right at Mr. Nak. The picture was one of a bowling ball striking pins, with hearts flying every which way. The caption read YOU BOWL ME OVER, VALENTINE! Mr. Nak read Hudgie’s words off the back. “It says, ‘Dear Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll Guy. When somebody makes my head feel all hot and prickly by sayin’ somethin’ mean about me, sometimes you look like you’re gonna hurt ’em. I like that. I don’t think you’re as mean as everybody thinks. Hudge.’”
Nobody laughed, Lar, because nobody ever knows how Elvis is going to respond, and the only one who would dare find out is Shuja, who wouldn’t, most of the time. Mr. Nak read the rest of Hudge’s cards, most of which were unintentionally funny, but with that same nice touch to them. He told Joey he wished he was Italian, too, so he could have pizza and a big family that liked him most of the time—although I think Joey only looks Italian, and there’s plenty of question about the way his family likes him—and he told Mr. Nak he wished he was Japanese so he could talk like a cowboy, too. It was clear he didn’t know a couple of the guys, because he got their names wrong, and what he said didn’t fit, but you could see he’d put as much thought and effort into them as was possible for a guy living in hell.
When he finished, Mr. Nak held up a big, ugly, handmade card that was the same color as Hudge’s box. It was addressed to the entire group. Mr. Nak read it, and he seemed very moved, which is unusual for Mr. Nak. It’s unusual for Mr. Nak to show much of anything, really. “This one says, ‘I know most of you wouldn’t of knew who I was if I wasn’t in angry management and I don’t think a whole bunch of you will want to be my friend if this group gets broke up. But it’s the safest place I been and Mr. Nak said we should be saying what’s good, so this is it. I’m saying this is good because nobody almost ever hurts me here. Happy Valentines to angry management.’”
Then Mr. Nak gave us some time to read the rest of our cards while he went out and got some treats he’d brought: homemade ice cream and some cookies and cake. You could tell he made the cookies, because they were cut from what must be the one cookie cutter he has at home—a cowboy on a bucking bronco.
My valentines were pretty run-of-the-mill, Lar, except for one. Most of them said they thought I was a pretty good athlete, and that I didn’t act too stuck-up like most jocks. That’s a compliment in that crowd. Shelly must not have had the same worry about privacy I had, because her valentine said she had never even considered loving anybody before—that she thought it was stupid and risky—but that being with me was slowly changing that. She said she was excited about me, and she liked the way I touched her. Probably no need to tell you, Lar, that I squirmed majorly, due to a quick change in the status of my plumbing upon reading that.
But the unusual one came from Elvis. I’m not sure why I saved his until last—whether I was afraid of it, or whether I actually thought it might say something meaningful. Maybe I just wondered if it might contain a clue to how a guy like him survives a party like this. The card itself wasn’t a valentine, but a plain white piece of cardboard like you might find in a new shirt. He had drawn a pair of running shoes, some swimming goggles, and a bicycle on the front, and it said IRONMAN. These were good dr
awings, Lar. I don’t think they took him long to draw, I think he’s just talented, but it touched me to have him recognize what was important to me.
Of course, that made me more afraid to turn it over in case he trashed me, but I did, and he didn’t. It said, “I still don’t like you very much, Ironman, but I guess I don’t not like you all that much, either. Since most of the time I got nothing nice to say to anybody, I’ll tell you something that should help you. Your daddy ain’t your friend.” He signed it “The King.”
I glanced up at Elvis to find him staring at Shelly with a kind of surprised look on his face. He watched her a second, then stared back down at the card in his hand, which I assumed was from her. I remember for an instant thinking maybe she had written him something hot, but that was a stupid idea and I knew it wasn’t true because of what my card from her had said.
I picked up my card from Elvis, walked over to his chair, and said, “I don’t get it.”
“What’s to get?”
“This says my daddy ain’t my friend. No offense, but it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure that out. How’s it supposed to help me? I mean it’s hardly news.”
“Somethin’ I seen,” he says. “You wanna hear?”
I said yeah.
“Well, I was in your old man’s store the other day—thought I might pick up some shoes for my little brother at my normal hundred percent discount. Anyway, your old man was talking to these college kids. One was the same guy you and your chick got into it with that night at the Drive-Inn. Your dad was showing these guys a bike out of a catalog—which made it easier for me to get the shoes—and he said he’d get it for them at no charge. They were laughin’ and slappin’ each other on the back like a couple of yuppie bite-asses, about what a sweet deal it was to get a five-thousand-dollar bike for free. I don’t know exactly what kind of daddy you got, Ironman, other than what you’ve said in here, but I figure he’s settin’ it up for these guys to kick your ass for sure.”
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