Riot (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Mary Casanova

  The sound of a spoon clinking against the side of a cereal bowl came from the kitchen. He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and stood behind his closed door a moment, hesitating. How could he face his father? But sooner or later, he’d have to. He stepped out, used the bathroom, and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. The house was filled with the fragrance of skunk.

  In their terrycloth robes, Dad and Mom were at the dining-room table with their cups of steaming coffee.

  Dad was slouched forward, holding his white cup in both hands, as though warming himself on a cold winter morning. His skin was gray, hair rumpled, and face unshaven.

  Bryan cleared his throat. His parents had never looked so tired. “Hi.”

  Dad glanced up, not lifting his head. He didn’t say a word.

  “Good morning, Bry,” Mom said. “Want some cereal?”

  “Sure.” He sat down, poured himself a bowl of Life cereal, and set the box in front of him, pretending to study the maze on the back. He wished he could find a simple way out of the mess he was in. Could he forget all about what he’d recorded on the tape? Could he just do nothing? The videotape was a powder keg waiting to be ignited.

  A car pulled into their driveway. The engine quieted and one car door, then another, opened and slammed shut. The doorbell rang. Gretsky jumped off the couch and started barking.

  Bryan looked around the corner of his cereal box at Dad. He didn’t move; he just stared into his cup of black coffee.

  Mom pushed back her chair, then brushed her hair with her fingers. She glanced at Dad, sighed, and went to the door.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Grant.” It was Sheriff Hunter. Standing behind him was another officer. “Is your husband here?”

  Gretsky stood next to Mom, barking.

  “Stan?” Mom whispered, turning around.

  Bryan ducked behind his cereal box. He didn’t want Sheriff Hunter to see him.

  Dad rose from his chair and stood tall. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Hi, Carl,” he said. His voice was low, without a trace of warmth. “What’s up?”

  “Stan,” the sheriff said, “you are under arrest for arson, criminal damage, and rioting. You have the right to remain silent.…”

  Dad’s forehead furrowed into a mass of lines. “What?”

  Sheriff Hunter continued reading from a slip of paper. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney with you when you’re interviewed. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Having these rights in mind, would you be willing to talk to us?”

  “Hey, now you listen!” Dad said, punching the air with his right fist. “You can’t come into my home and arrest me!” His chest heaved and his voice grew louder. “You’re arresting the wrong man. I was born and raised here! You know that. It’s those other guys, the rats, you should be going after!” He paused, his arms dropping to his sides, and spoke more softly. “Besides, what evidence do you have?”

  “Eyewitness, Stan,” the sheriff told him. “I wish I could say the same for the others. Most came from out of town.”

  Bryan hung his head, and chewed on his thumb knuckle. He felt like he was shrinking, growing smaller and smaller in his chair. He couldn’t believe this was happening. And how could his father think he was innocent? How could he defend himself? When Mom stepped to Bryan’s side and placed her hand on his shoulder, something broke within him. He couldn’t be strong for her, too. He slipped from the table and ran to his bedroom.

  “Can I get dressed?” he heard his father ask, almost in a whisper.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After the footsteps were gone and the sheriff’s car pulled away, Bryan heard his mother crying. Eventually, he’d talk to her and tell her what he had seen, but he needed time. He stood in front of his bedroom mirror and saw a frightened boy staring back.

  No matter how much he loved his father, he still hated what he’d done. And he resented that his father had put him in this position. He remembered a game when he was stranded by the home net, left alone against the opponents with sticks and blades and ice shavings flying. His father had shouted from behind the boards to the rest of the team. “Help him outta there!”

  Bryan felt stranded now.

  Help me outta here! Dad, help me out.

  For much of the day, Bryan’s mom was on the phone, arranging a community church service. In mid-afternoon Bryan spotted her resting on the hammock.

  Easing open the sliding door, he inhaled the spicy scent of marigolds and walked past Gretsky, who was staked out on his chain, whining.

  Bryan swallowed hard and touched the edge of the hammock. “Can we talk?”

  Mom glanced up and nodded, her eyebrows raised questioningly. A breeze rushed through the arching willow branches.

  “When will Dad come home?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was flat. “As soon as I post bail,” she said. She closed her eyes and pressed her middle finger and thumb against the bridge of her nose. “Right now,” she continued, her voice rising, “I’m so angry—and hurt—I just want to let him sit there and stew!”

  She turned to Bryan. “Why am I the one who’s supposed to pick up the pieces after him? Why should I scramble to find bail money?”

  Bryan opened his mouth to respond—though he didn’t know what he’d say—then closed it. She wasn’t looking for an answer.

  “I mean …” She laughed halfheartedly. “We certainly don’t have a few thousand dollars just floating around.”

  She took a deep breath, then sighed in jagged descending steps. “How could he do this to us?!” she cried. “I just don’t understand it!”

  Brian was quiet.

  Willow leaves cast flickering gray shadows on her face.

  “Mom,” Bryan said finally. “I have a few things to tell you.” He told her about the stones and following Dad on his bike the night of the tacks episode. And then he told her about the videotape and seeing Dad at the riot.

  Tears pooled in her eyes. “You’ll have to talk to him,” she said quietly. “He needs to know.”

  • • •

  That evening, the church was packed. Bryan looked around. The sanctuary was lit with candles, casting a golden glow toward the dome ceiling. The church was packed.

  “We need to take a hard look at our community, at its wounds, and to find ways to bring healing.…” The words flowed from the pulpit.

  On either side of Bryan, the twins squirmed. Bryan glanced at Mom, who looked straight ahead, slowly spinning her wedding ring around her finger.

  “… this is about the Retting family—and others—who have lost their homes. We need to ask ourselves, each one of us: How can I help? Some of us have extra sleeping space in our homes. Others can provide a donation to help with replacing basic personal items.…”

  Chelsie’s apricot hair hung over the backseat of the first pew. Bryan sat behind her. Just looking at her hair made him feel a little better. On either side of Chelsie and Cam, who swayed his head slowly back and forth, even though there was no music, sat a woman whose long dark ponytail was tied back with a white bow and a man with a quartersize bald spot. Most likely, their parents.

  “Are you willing to help? Are you willing to be part of the healing this town needs? If so, raise your hand.…”

  Bryan thought about his own part in the violence—throwing rocks and later tackling Anders. He couldn’t change what he’d done, but he could learn from it. He could at least start trying to be part of the solution.

  Along with other hands going up all across the church, Bryan lifted his toward the ceiling. He’d help Chelsie and Cam in any way he could. But could he help Dad, too?

  After the service, when others shuffled to the church basement for coffee, punch, and cookies, Bryan slipped outside and sat on the cement steps. The evening air was cool, scented with the marigolds that lined the church sidewalk, marigolds Dad had planted in the spring.

 
; Bryan leaned forward and pressed his hands between his knees.

  The sky was growing dark. From where Bryan sat, he could see the law enforcement building half a block away, illuminated by bright lights. Tomorrow, after school, he’d visit. Mom had agreed that he needed to visit alone, so after school, Bryan was to drop the twins at Grandpa and Grandma’s. Maybe he’d stop by the library and pick up a book or two … or three … to help Dad pass the time. The trial, Mom said, could be weeks away.

  Footsteps pattered behind him. Bryan looked over his shoulder.

  “Hi,” Chelsie said. “Mind if I join you?”

  A few days ago, he would have fallen down the steps, tripping over his own tongue, but so much had happened. He shrugged.

  “It was pretty boring downstairs,” she commented.

  Bryan inhaled hard and let out his breath again. He rubbed his finger above his upper lip. “It’s better out here.”

  “Your dad’s over there tonight?” Chelsie asked with a nod of her head.

  Bryan didn’t answer. How could she know so soon? “It’s none of your …” He stopped himself.

  “I’m sorry, but your mom just told me. She said it might be better if she told me than …” Chelsie brushed her hair back over one shoulder and sat down next to Bryan, close. She smelled—soft. “Your mom’s nice.”

  He stared at his sneakers.

  “How are you doin’?” she asked quietly.

  He didn’t really feel like talking, not now, but he turned his head and met her eyes. “It’s been pretty tough.”

  “Yeah.” She twisted her hair, working long strands between her thumb and forefinger into a tight, thin rope.

  “Were you scared yesterday?” he asked.

  She nodded. “My dad wished he’d gone out of town like the others. He said lots of them were going to stay and fight, but the sheriff ordered them out of town for the weekend. Everyone had to go.”

  “Except the guards,” Bryan added.

  “They were s’posed to leave, too, but they wouldn’t. Just like the others, they wanted to stay and fight … that’s what my dad said.”

  Behind them, the church doors opened. It was Cam and Chelsie’s parents. “Time to go, honey,” her mom said.

  Chelsie stood up slowly. “See ya.”

  Bryan didn’t move. “Chelsie?”

  “Yeah?” She turned to face him as her family walked into the dark parking lot.

  He cleared his throat. “There’s open swimming at the high-school pool Tuesdays. Want to practice dives sometime?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve gotta go, but… I’ll have to ask but… sure.” Her face lit up like a candle and then she was gone.

  “Good,” Bryan called. “See you at school.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next day, a ragged curtain of gray hung above the southwest edge of town. After school Bryan biked with the twins to the senior citizen apartments, dropped them off, and stopped at the library. Then he biked around town, weaving up and down streets, pumping his pedals so fast that his thighs burned. How could he face Dad? A late afternoon wind whipped against his face, carrying the smell of a smoldering giant bonfire.

  Finally, Bryan forced himself to bike toward the courthouse and jail. In front of the redbrick building, he hopped off his bike, pushed down his kickstand, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  All day at school, kids had talked about the riot, but Bryan had kept his mouth shut. And when he sat with Kyle and Chelsie at lunch, he was grateful that no one mentioned his father.

  He kicked a stone off the sidewalk and sent it skittering beneath the sumac bushes. Next to a RESERVED sign, a dark car with the words FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION was parked. The FBI? Was the riot something they were getting involved in?

  Bryan inhaled deeply. He pushed his shoulders back and opened the glass door to Koochiching County Law Enforcement, wondering how many men besides his father were behind bars.

  He walked slowly up to the empty counter.

  “We could have gotten killed out there!” someone shouted from a backroom. “The governor said he’d send the National Guard! So where were they?”

  “Good question,” someone else replied.

  “One thing’s certain. Crossing state lines means FBI involvement now. We’ll need their help making arrests.”

  Bryan pressed the top of a silver bell. Ting!

  A uniformed man with a sucker in his mouth came from the hallway. Noticing Bryan, he removed the red sucker and frowned. Shadows circled his eyes. “Hope it’s important.”

  “I came to see my dad,” Bryan said, his voice a shade above a whisper. His mouth was dry, his stomach hollow.

  “Name?” The sucker went back in the man’s mouth.

  Bryan swallowed. He didn’t want to have to say it. Saying it made it too real. He cleared his throat. “Uh … Stan Grant.”

  “This way.”

  Bryan followed, climbing a flight of stairs and running his hand along the steel railing. In the waiting room, the officer lifted a tan phone from the wall. “Family visitor to see Stan Grant,” he said.

  Behind a wall of glass, a woman with brown curls sat in a room filled with control panels and monitors. The woman studied Bryan. Lights flickered behind her. “You’ll have to leave your backpack here,” she said through a speaker. A metal drawer clunked open, almost into Bryan’s knees.

  “But… I have some books for my dad.”

  She nodded. “That’s fine. We’ll get them to him when you’re done visiting.” The drawer shut, swallowing Bryan’s backpack. The woman pushed a button and the officer opened a nearby door marked JAIL.

  First, the officer quickly frisked Bryan’s sides, then he led him toward a well-lit booth with mesh-wire, bullet-proof glass. Three metal stools and three phones faced another room with stools and phones. Another glass wall divided the booths. It was just like in the movies, only this was real. He recoiled at the idea of talking with his dad through glass. With a sweaty palm, he touched the window and sat down. He wanted to hide.

  “Ted,” came a familiar voice from the hallway. Bryan looked out. It was Sheriff Hunter. “This once,” the sheriff told the officer, motioning toward the booth, “let’s make an exception.”

  The officer returned. “C’mon,” he said and led Bryan to another room marked ATTORNEYS AND CLERGY. “Guess the sheriff trusts you.”

  The room with filled green vinyl lounge chairs, a table, pop and candy machines, and a dusty, plastic hanging plant. “He’ll be here soon.”

  Bryan stood in the middle of the room.

  The tournament game flashed in his mind. Start of the third period, they were ahead, 5–4. Bryan raced out on the ice, stick ready, fired up. He held his stick down, facing off at center. The referee dropped the puck between Bryan and the opposing player. Bryan rammed his stick at the puck, missing it. Someone clipped him from behind, spinning him in a circle. He took off again, all his energy focused on the puck as it skidded between skate blades. He darted after the puck with his stick, stole it, and slammed it across the white ice, straight toward the net’s right corner and under the goalie’s nose. The moment the crowd went crazy, Bryan noticed the goalie’s familiar red and white uniform. Chip, the goalie, raised his mask and stared at Bryan. Oh no! By mistake, he’d scored on his own team!

  Eyes burning, head down, Bryan skated slowly off the ice. How could he have been so stupid?! He pushed through the swinging half-door into the player’s box.

  “Good one,” said Kyle. “Bet they appreciated that.”

  “We were ahead,” Tyler added with a low groan.

  Dad rested his hand on Bryan’s padded shoulder, stopping him from sitting down on the bench.

  “Listen up!” he said, looking Bryan straight in the eyes. “We all make mistakes sometime!”

  “Not like that!” Bryan shouted back.

  “Get back out there! Skate hard! Do your best!” he shouted above the din in the arena. Firmly he turned Bryan by
his shoulders back to face the ice. “We need you!”

  In the last four minutes of the game, Bryan fired the two winning shots. The crowd cheered. Mom and the twins waved red flags from the front row. They’d won, 7-5.

  Footsteps filled the hallway.

  Bryan turned. Dad stood in the doorway. His face was shaved, his dark hair combed. “Hi, Bry,” he said, his voice warm but uncertain.

  “You go ahead and visit,” the officer said. “I’ll let you know when your time’s up.”

  Bryan glanced at his father, who framed the doorway, looking at him. “May I come in?” his father asked, adding a chuckle that fell flat.

  Bryan looked away. He wanted to look his father in the eyes, but he couldn’t. He walked over to the barred window and stared at his freckles in the glass.

  Chewing the inside of his lip, Bryan kept his hands in his pockets. “I brought a few books,” he said, “two Sherlock Holmes mysteries, a Star Trek book, and another called Coaching Hockey. I thought you might want something to read.”

  Vinyl squeaked as his dad sat down. “Thanks.”

  Bryan didn’t move.

  “Putting the wrong people behind bars,” Dad said. “It’s not justice at all. Arresting the wrong people in this one, that’s what I say.”

  Bryan’s neck and face burned hot. He couldn’t take his father’s blustering. He looked at his own eyes in the tinted glass, glass that you could see out through, but others couldn’t see in. He had to tell his father the truth. He had to be honest. Bryan couldn’t stand it anymore. “Dad,” he said, “I was there. I saw it all.”

  The room was quiet, except for muffled voices from somewhere else in the building. Bryan waited for an explosion.

  “You were there?” Dad’s voice came quietly.

  Bryan nodded, gazing out the window.

  “Well…” Dad seemed to force cheeriness into his voice. “What did you see?”

  “Everything,” Bryan whispered, his neck and shoulders tightening. “You.”

  A heavy silence filled the room.

  Turning slowly, Bryan looked first at the tiled floor, then back at his father. Dad shifted in the chair. He held his head in his hands. Now that Bryan had started, there was no turning back. He spoke in a rush. “I was in the field across the street. And now I have this problem, because I had the video camera, and I got it all.” His voice rattled. “I got everything on tape.”