by J. L. Abramo
James Richard glanced at his watch. It was nearly five P.M. The people who worked in the office towers that made up much of the city's downtown business district were just leaving their jobs or getting ready to. Already the sidewalks and city streets were clogged with pedestrians and cars; the air reverberated with the noise they made.
Where was the bus? James Richard wondered. He knew his father would yell even more than usual if he was late for dinner. He stood on the bench at the bus stop and searched the busy street. No bus.
James Richard sat down again as an armored truck drove past him and slowed to a stop in front of the large department store where he had purchased the music box. It was a no parking zone and the vehicle effectively blocked an entire lane of traffic. Drivers trapped behind the big truck leaned on their horns and cursed imaginatively. Still, the vehicle would not budge. Frustrated, the drivers were forced to wait until an opening could be found in the traffic and they were able to swing their cars into another lane.
Once the area behind the truck was clear of traffic, its rear door opened slowly, squeaking loudly on steel hinges. James Richard watched as two men dressed in uniforms that made them look like police officers, dropped to the ground and cautiously surveyed the scene around them. They both carried guns in black leather holsters. Seeing nothing to fear, they slammed the heavy door shut.
The taller of the two men rested his hand on the butt of his gun. The name Total Security was stitched to the pocket of his jacket and embossed on the badge above the visor of his hat. The other man, both younger and shorter than the first, carried a large, canvas sack that hung limp over his shoulder.
James Richard had seen armored trucks before. He knew they collected money from dozens of locations where a lot of cash changed hands—bank branches, jewelry stores, shopping centers, supermarkets—and transported it to a central bank where it would be safe from thieves. He hadn't thought much about them. Now, sitting at the bus stop and watching the guards, he wondered how much money the truck carried each day. Millions, he figured.
The two guards walked purposely toward the department store entrance. A man dressed in a suit and tie met them there. He glanced at his watch as the guards pushed through the glass doorway. Impulsively, James Richard looked at his watch, too. Five-oh-five P.M. Where was that bus?
It wasn't long before the guards stepped back outside the store. The taller man walked carefully toward the armored truck. He was clearing a path through the pedestrians for the younger man who was still carrying the large canvas bag over his shoulder. It was bulging and the guard seemed to labor under the load.
When the two guards reached the truck, the taller man rapped noisily on the back door. After a moment a third guard pushed it open and the younger guard heaved the bag onto the floor of the truck.
That's when the thieves hit.
James Richard didn't know where they came from; they seemed to appear out of thin air, two men wearing black ski masks that completely covered their heads and faces. They were carrying handguns.
"Put up your hands!" they shouted at the guards.
At first James Richard thought it was a joke, some elaborate gag. After all, tomorrow was April First—April Fool's Day! Only it wasn't a joke.
"Put up your hands!" the thieves shouted again, making it sound like they wouldn't say it a third time.
The guards hesitated. The one in the truck who had opened the door thought about reaching for his own gun, but one of the thieves was aiming his weapon right at him, so he raised his hands. James Richard nearly raised his hands too. The thieves were about thirty yards down the street and looking in the opposite direction. He moved toward them, although he couldn't explain why
Dozens of people on the sidewalk stopped and stared. They did nothing to stop the thieves.
A blue car raced past the bus stop and screeched to a halt directly behind the truck. The driver got out. He was also wearing a ski mask that hid his face.
The driver ran to the armored truck and climbed into the back while his partners watched the guards. Without hesitating, he pushed six canvas bags out the truck door onto the street. Each made a heavy thud when it hit the asphalt.
The driver dragged the bags across to his car and put them into the trunk. The bags all seemed heavy and it took two trips. Finally, he slid behind the steering wheel and sounded his horn.
One of the thieves shoved his handgun into the waistband of his pants and quickly climbed into the car seat next to the driver. The third thief walked slowly backward to the car, sweeping his gun from one guard to another and back again. The guards still had their hands up.
James Richard was close enough to hear the younger guard shout when the thief reached the open door of the car: "You'll never get away with it."
"What did you say?" the thief asked.
"You heard me."
The thief brought his gun up and trained on the center of the younger guard's chest. James Richard was sure he was going to shoot.
"No," he shouted. "Don't do that."
The thief turned toward the boy. Dark, clouded eyes stared at James Richard through the slits in the ski mask. He raised his gun and aimed it at the boy, freezing him in place. "You want some?" the thief asked.
James Richard didn't answer. All he could think of was that he would never see his mother smile again.
Somewhere a woman screamed, took a deep breath, and screamed again.
One of the thief's companions said something. Because of the screaming James Richard did not hear what it was, but it caused the thief to shout an obscenity at his partner. He gestured at James Richard with the gun, dismissing him as unimportant. He jumped into the back seat of the car. It was already racing down the street when the woman screamed a third time.
***
"Are you okay?" the policeman asked.
James Richard nodded although he didn't feel okay. Immediately after the thieves drove off, dozens of people began crowding around the armored truck and gawking at him and the guards. A dozen police officers arrived within minutes. An unneeded ambulance soon joined them. James Richard was leaning against the fender. Fear had caused him to throw up in the street and he was sure everyone had seen him and was laughing at him. The shame he felt was unbearable. There was more than shame gnawing at the boy's stomach though. There was an anger, an outrage, and a sadness, that he had not experienced before.
"He was going to shoot the guard," James Richard said.
"Yes," the officer answered.
"He was going to shoot me."
"Yes."
"What was wrong with him?"
The policeman set a large hand on James Richard's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Did you see anything?" he asked. He had introduced himself earlier as Sergeant Matt Rustovich, a member of the police department's major crimes unit. Rustovich was a big man and James Richard's first thought was that he played football or maybe basketball. Yet his eyes were gentle in a way that reminded him of his mother and his hand on his shoulder made the boy feel safe.
"I saw everything," James Richard admitted.
"Tell me what you saw."
James Richard inhaled deeply and told his story. He told it quickly so he wouldn't have to think too much about it. Sergeant Rustovich made him slow down and tell it again. And again. Making sure that no details were left out.
"What kind of car was it?" the officer asked.
"It was a four door, I remember that. It was blue. Sky blue I guess they call it."
The officer sighed and James Richard could tell he was disappointed. There were thirteen-year-olds who could tell you the make and model of every car ever built and all he could tell the officer was that the car was blue and had four doors.
"Did you happen to get the license plate number?"
James Richard shook his head. "It never occurred to me to look."
Sergeant Rustovich closed the notebook he had been writing in.
"Thanks for your help," he told the boy. Then he
squeezed James Richard's shoulder again. "You should go home now."
James Richard thought that was a great idea.
***
The city bus left James Richard on a corner in the suburbs. The boy ran the two blocks to his home, knowing he was late, knowing he was going to get it when his father saw him.
He stopped just outside the front door and listened. He could hear voices coming from inside the house. Angry voices. The voices of his mother and father. He could not understand what they were saying. Did it matter? Lately, it seemed they didn't even know what they fighting over. Maybe it wasn't over anything. Maybe it was just an argument that started years ago and never stopped. He sighed and pushed open the door.
"Where have you been?" Simon McNulty wanted to know.
"I was downtown…" James Richard stammered.
"Do you know what time it is?"
"What happened was…" James Richard tried to say.
"Answer me!" the man demanded. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Leave the boy alone," Sheila McNulty said, coming to her son's defense.
"Shut up!" her husband shouted at her. To James Richard, "You think this house revolves around you, boy? You think we should all be waiting on you?"
"I was downtown…"
"What is that you have?" James Richard's father interrupted.
James Richard hid the bag he carried behind his back.
"It's for mom," he said. "For her birthday. I went downtown…"
"Give it to me."
"What?"
"Give. It. To. Me."
"No," James Richard protested. "It's for mom."
Simon McNulty grabbed his son's arm and pulled him forward.
"I tell you to do something, you do it!" he snapped.
He reached behind the boy, yanked the shopping bag from his hand, and pushed him backward. James Richard's heel caught in the carpet and he fell.
"Stop it!" Sheila McNulty shouted. "Leave him alone."
The man ignored her and tore open the bag.
"What is this?" he asked no one in particular, examining the silver box.
"It's a music box," James Richard answered from where he sprawled on the floor.
"You wasted your money on this?" his father asked contemptuously. "On this piece of junk? What a fool."
"It's beautiful," Sheila said.
"It's trash," he spat at her and smashed the box against the wall.
"No!" James Richard shouted and crawled quickly on hands and knees to the box. He picked it gently off the floor and cautiously lifted the lid, but the music wouldn't play.
CHAPTER ONE
Six Months Later
James Richard McNulty climbed the school bus steps, hesitating at the top.
"Take a seat," the bus driver said.
The seventh-grader paid no attention. He hung loosely to the pole next to the driver's seat as he scanned the faces of the other children. Some were looking out the windows. Some were reading. Some were talking to their friends. Still others were looking up to see which of their schoolmates the bus had stopped for.
"Where is she?" he wondered aloud, silently praying that she wasn't sick and staying home from school. No, he told himself, she was never sick.
"Take a seat," the driver repeated.
There. In the back. James Richard moved quickly down the aisle between the rows of bus seats. He stopped before a pretty girl with black hair cut short and eyes that changed from blue to deep green depending on how the light hit them.
"Lacey," he said, crowding next to her. "Let me copy your science homework."
"Whatever happened to, 'Good morning, Lacey. How are you today?'" she asked.
"I need it quick."
Lacey Mauer sighed quietly. A trick of the alphabet had placed her and James Richard McNulty side-by-side in nearly every line since kindergarten and a trick of the heart had made them friends. Lately James Richard had become such a pain though. Inconsiderate. Irresponsible. Rude. Ever since his mother divorced his father…
Something cold touched Lacey's heart and her whole body shivered. It seemed like the parents of half the children she knew these days were divorced and the idea it could happen to her own parents terrified her. She shook the painful possibility out of her head and reached inside her backpack. She removed a green folder and handed it to James Richard.
"Don't copy it word-for-word this time," she warned.
Without even a simple "thank you," James Richard opened the folder and began to transcribe the contents into a spiral notebook.
"Why didn't you do your own homework?" Lacey asked.
"I forgot," James Richard replied, which was his excuse for everything these days.
"Did you at least study for the Spanish test?" she asked.
James Richard stopped writing. His head jerked up abruptly.
"Spanish test?"
Lacey shook her head sadly.
James Richard closed his eyes and bowed his head.
"I forgot," he said.
***
"Lacey," James Richard whispered. "C'mon Lace."
The girl ignored him. He wanted her to slide over in her desk chair so he could get a good look at her test paper. She refused. Other people might think that letting James Richard steal her answers during a Spanish exam was no different than letting him copy her homework, but Lacey figured there was a fine line between the two and no way was she going to cross it.
James Richard shifted his weight in his own chair and tried to look around Lacey's shoulders. When that failed, he glanced at the papers of the kids sitting on both sides of him, trying hard not to turn his head. Unfortunately, the boy on his right was leaning on his elbow while he wrote, effectively hiding his paper and the girl on his left wasn't doing any better than he was.
James Richard looked down at the white sheet of paper in front of him. He tapped his Number Two pencil against his lower teeth. He not only didn't know the answers, he didn't even understand the questions. He glanced at the large clock that hung above the classroom door. Twenty minutes left. Panic caused little beads of sweat to form on his forehead.
"Lacey," James Richard whispered again.
Suddenly a hand fell flat on his test paper, making a loud, slapping sound. The unexpected noise made James Richard flinch. He glanced up quickly, meeting the eyes of Mrs. Spanier. Just as quickly he looked away.
Mrs. Spanier's fingers slowly crumbled the test paper into a ball. "See me after class," she said.
James Richard nodded. He slumped down in his chair. His head lowered until his chin rested against his chest.
***
"Make me understand," Mrs. Spanier said quietly. The bell had sounded; the other kids had all filed off to their next class. Only James Richard remained behind, standing in front of his teacher's desk, afraid to look at her face. "I want to understand," she added.
James Richard said nothing. A trickle of sweat ran down his back and he absentmindedly fingered the initials SRL stitched on the left breast pocket of his knit uniform shirt—short-hand for St. Rose of Lima. He swore he could hear the ticking of the big clock above the door, but maybe that was just his heart pounding.
"Look at me!" Mrs. Spanier shouted.
James Richard looked. Mrs. Spanier was not an attractive woman, certainly not as attractive as his mother. She always wore a pleasant expression though and her eyes twinkled in a way that made her students want to confide in her. Until now. Now her lips were a thin, straight line and her eyes were narrow slits that contained nothing but fury.
"What's going on with you, young man?"
"Nothing," James Richard answered too quickly.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," James Richard repeated, his voice rising. "I was cheating and you caught me. Now you can expel me or do whatever else you want."
Mrs. Spanier leaned forward, rubbing her hands together in a way that made James Richard think that she was the one who was afraid.
"This is not like you," she to
ld him. "I know your record and I know you. You're a straight-A student. Last year you were named Student of the Quarter."
James Richard nodded. He would have received the honor twice except Lacey Mauer beat him out in the Spring.
"More important than that, you're a good kid."
James Richard didn't know what to say to that. He dropped his head and studied his feet.
"I want your parents to come in and see me tomorrow night," Mrs. Spanier said at last.
Fear pounded James Richard in the stomach.
"No," he said, shaking his head.
"I think so."
"No, you… You don't understand," the boy stammered.
"Understand what?"
"My mother…"
"Yes?"
"She… she works."
"At night?"
"Yes."
"Your father, then."
"No. He…"
"He what?"
"He doesn't live with us anymore."
Mrs. Spanier leaned back in her chair and sighed as if she was listening to a story she had heard many times before.
"He left us," James Richard added.
"I understand," Mrs. Spanier said.
***
It was because she understood that Mrs. Spanier insisted on meeting James Richard's mother the following evening at the school; his mother had to take an unpaid day off from work and she wasn't happy about it. James Richard sat on a chair outside the door to Mrs. Spanier's classroom while the two adults spoke privately. They spoke for a long time. Or maybe it only seemed like a long time to James Richard because they were talking about him.
He muttered a word he wouldn't have dared to speak in front of his mother, then looked up and down the hallway of the exclusive private school to make sure no one else had heard him either. When he was sure the corridor was deserted, he said the word again. It was a word James Richard's father had used many times.