Boy on Hold

by J D Spero

  Judge Bowman’s starbursts disappeared. He gave Marcella a sad look.

  Mom’s smile looked more like a frown. She adjusted her purse strap. “Well, we better get going. I’m sure Mr. Bowman is busy. Come on, Hen.”

  “Wait, I have to show the judge something.” Hen turned to Judge Bowman, who always listened as if what Hen said was important.

  “Oh, Hen. Mr. Bowman doesn’t have time—”

  Hen held up his treasure: a beaded pipe-cleaner bracelet. The one Hen had made for Tyler for Christmas. The one Tyler had thrown across the room.

  “What’s this?” The judge’s wide grin was back.

  Marcella gave a nervous laugh. “Mr. Bowman doesn’t have time to look at your crafts from school, sweetie. He’s got lots of grownup work to do.”

  She reached for the beads. Hen wanted the judge to take it. “Tyler didn’t want it.”

  His grin faded. “I don’t understand.”

  “I wanted to give it to Tyler. But he didn’t want it. He never put it on.” Truth. He’d worn those first beads that awful night. But these? Tyler had thrown this very bracelet across the room when Hen tried to give it to him at Christmas. These beads never touched Tyler’s wrist.

  “Okay? I’m not sure why you wanted to show me this.”

  “He wasn’t wearing it. He never wore it. Not that night or ever.” Truth.

  The judge sat on the beige couch. “I see.”

  Mom started to speak, but the judge stopped her with his hand.

  “This is about the charge against your brother. You want to help prove his innocence.” The judge smiled, and his starbursts came back.

  Hen wished he’d taken off his knit hat. Was the judge asking him a question? He was trying to find forgiveness. The judge could find it too.

  “I’m sorry, Carl,” Mom whispered.

  “That’s quite all right.” He tapped his knees and towered over Hen. It was like he’d grown taller since Hen first came in. “Tell you what, Mr. Henry. If you’d like to submit this as a piece of evidence, it belongs in the hands of Tyler’s attorney. Do you know Mr. Gerrity?”

  “But you’re the judge.” Hen almost said, you’re the mack-daddy of it all, but got shy.

  “I know it’s confusing.” The judge rubbed his chin, noodling it out. “You know what? Why don’t I hold onto it then? Would that make you feel better?”

  Hen held tightly to the bracelet. “What are you going to do with it?”

  He didn’t mean to make a joke, but the judge’s laughter boomed. He put up a wait-a-minute finger and stepped into the other room.

  While he was out of earshot, Mom hunched down. “Hen, listen. I know this is all very strange. I know you want to help your brother. But—”

  “I’m not confused.”

  “That bracelet—”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  Marcella’s words came fast. “There’s no reason to bring the bracelet out in the open like that. If no one has asked about it, you don’t need to bring it to the judge’s attention. I’m not sure what you’re trying to do.”

  Hen paused. Just a few minutes ago, in the car, she’d told him: You have to find it in your heart to forgive him. He imagined going into his heart and searching its chambers. A big, red maze. Forgiveness was a happy, yellow triangle of cheese like you see in cartoons. If it were there, he’d find it. He was good at mazes.

  “I’m finding the cheese,” he said.

  “The what?” Mom’s forehead wrinkled.

  “Forgiveness.”

  Mom’s face smoothed into a small smile.

  Judge Bowman came back, holding up a plastic sandwich baggie. “Here we are. We’ll put it in here for safekeeping. I’ll call Mr. Gerrity and make sure he gets it before the trial. Then it will be official.”

  “Official?” Hen shot off the couch, clapping his hands together. He dropped the beaded bracelet into the plastic baggie.

  “How’s that, then? It’s now an official piece of evidence.” Judge Bowman’s tone was more Sesame Street than Law & Order, though. He pressed the seal closed, and pressed his lips in a Sesame Street smile.

  Hen nodded, but a tinge of uncertainty kept him from smiling back.

  Gerrity wouldn’t sit down. It made Ty antsy, too.

  The room was too small to pace. Gerrity took two steps left, two steps right. Like he was the one going through withdrawals, with this fidgety lawyer dance. He also had this habit of cracking his neck. Ty noticed it on their first meeting. His neck spun nearly all the way around like an owl. Wary, Ty wondered if this was all a ruse. If they sent him to deliver messages in code. He listened carefully for clues.

  “It’s time to start talking. It’s time you stop protecting your best friend,” Gerrity said, slathering on invisible aftershave.

  A laugh escaped. Ty glanced furtively at the UFO gadget in the corner.

  Gerrity did his owl-neck thing. “Not funny, Tyler. You are being charged as an adult with a very serious crime. The DA and Clapp, they assume it’s a done deal. They have their evidence against you, however flimsy it may be, and, in their minds, that’s it. You could be locked up for the next twenty or thirty years if we don’t plea bargain our way out of this. You need to start telling me the truth. Now. None of this cool-guy silent treatment. Don’t you know I’m the only chance you’ve got?”

  “I tole you—”

  “You told me that you were high that night. You don’t remember anything beyond smoking a joint in Derek’s truck. Tyler, you and I both know that’s a bunch of crap.” Gerrity leaned across the table, his neck tendons flexing. His voice got low. “Listen, I’m your lawyer. It’s my job to turn this around for you. Just because I’ll know the truth doesn’t mean the rest of the world will, do you get me?”

  Ty shifted in his chair. His mind was murky. His memory of that night mixed with the girl huddled by the roadside, who wasn’t actually real, turns out. What else that night wasn’t real? He couldn’t think of Miss Sally without all kinds of noise getting in the way. And now the UFO camera tested his last ounce of sanity. The gadget seemed to be asleep, oddly. The red light winked out. Just an empty box now.

  Gerrity rifled through his briefcase. He tossed something down on the table—a Ziploc bag full of color.

  “What…?” Before he got the question out, Ty recognized the beaded bracelet. A surge of panic got his heart racing. He clammed up. Averted his eyes.

  “You know what this is?”

  Ty barely nodded.

  Gerrity used an odd voice. “I get this call from Judge Bowman, the town justice, the other day. Apparently, your little brother delivered this to his home office hoping to save you.” Gerrity’s laugh was almost sad. “What’s the deal with this beaded thing, Tyler? Can I really use this kid-trinket as a piece of evidence?”

  Ty glared. Why the hell would he ask Ty? He was the freaking lawyer.

  “What’s the story with the beads, Tyler?”

  Memories of Christmas morning made Ty burn with shame, while a surge of love for his baby brother filled his chest. He glanced up at the UFO camera. Still sleeping. Maybe it was okay to talk. “It’s a bracelet. Hen made it for me.”

  “Apparently, Henry told Bowman you never wore it.”

  Ty stared at the thing in the Ziploc. Such a silly thing. Hen had been so proud. Regret stung. Ty loved Hen more than he could handle sometimes.

  “No, I didn’t.” I threw it across the room. And Hen told me he hated me. I ruined Christmas for everyone. Ty couldn’t speak the words. But he could still hear Hen’s anguished voice: I hate you!

  Hen had never said anything like that before, ever. A sick feeling rose in Ty’s throat, remembering.

  Gerrity took a long breath and mumbled something like “worth a shot.” Ty soured and tucked into himself as Gerrity rifled through his briefcase again.

  An envelope appeared on the table next to the Ziploc.

  “You know what this is? It’s an eviction notice. Addressed to Mr. Hogg, f
rom Mrs. Hubbard. She was trying to evict him. Imagine that? Leon’s Diner has been a landmark in this town for thirty-five years. She was taking it down. And she could’ve, too, if she had good enough reason. She was his landlord, you know.”

  The letter faced Ty, but he couldn’t focus on the words. He couldn’t read. It seemed like another language.

  Gerrity kept talking anyway. “If this eviction threat is connected to the incident that night, this letter could be submitted as a piece of evidence. Evidence that would incriminate the Hoggs and potentially help get you a decent plea bargain.”

  His lawyer’s fast talking made Ty’s head fuzzy. “What do you mean?”

  Big sigh. “Did the Hoggs know this was coming? Did Derek know Leon was about to get evicted? Maybe he had a plan. Sent you two over there?”

  A plan. Derek’s plan.

  Gerrity’s voice seemed to echo. “If we can establish a motive for them, the evidence against you is weaker. Do you see what I’m saying? It would give reason to believe the Hoggs wanted Miss Sally out of the picture, so to speak.”

  Out of the picture.

  Ty held his breath, studied his hands. He traced the callous from raking the backyard before Clapp picked him up. Marcella had wanted him to clear the leaves. The last chore he’d been assigned, and he couldn’t even finish it. He’d gone off to get locked up in county jail with only half the yard raked. Tears built, which surprised him, shocked his senses alert.

  Gerrity stared him down. “Tyler, did this letter have anything to do with you paying a visit to Mrs. Hubbard’s that night? Did Leon send you over there?”

  Ty picked at his hangnails, pulling off little rice-shaped pieces. These hands. Slender, boy hands. They never played an instrument or wrote a decent term paper. They couldn’t even get the freaking yard raked.

  “Yah. Leon sent us over there.”

  Gerrity grinned, his eyes slitting like a cat’s. “That’s my boy. Tell me everything. Tell me the whole truth.”

  The tears somehow stayed inside, swarming with memories of what happened that night, now somehow clear as crystal.

  “It was Cabbage Night.”

  “What’s Cabbage Night?”

  “You know, the night before Halloween.”

  “Ah, the prankster night.”

  Ty snickered. “Worse than April Fool’s.”

  February 1992

  Derek felt weird knocking on the Trout’s door, his home away from home. Would he be welcome if Ty wasn’t there? He silently cursed his nicotine craving and shifted in his basketball shoes, which were, he realized, unsuitable for the current cold, snowy weather. It seemed fitting, though. The clouds told his story. Gray, gloomy, rolling into a storm.

  Marcella answered, still wearing her diner uniform, her long stockinged legs punctuated by the fluffiest slippers he’d ever seen.

  “Derek?” She searched past him warily before letting him in.

  With the door shut, Derek felt a wave of warmth. His cheeks and fingertips tingled with it. Chunks of snow fell off his basketball shoes and melted onto Marcella’s area rug. As she slid his flimsy jacket off his shoulders, he began to weep.

  She didn’t ask any questions, giving Derek another reason to love her. Her fluffy white slippers swished as she led him to the couch. It seemed like just yesterday he and Ty had babysat Hen and watched Rugrats. The tears came steadily now, remembering. It was not a proud day.

  As if Marcella could see into his memory, she called to the kitchen, “Hen, why don’t you work on your coloring in your room? We can have dinner in a little bit.”

  Through the tempered glass of his tears, Derek saw Hen at the kitchen entryway, watching them with eyes bigger than his head. His small figure unmoving. Prominent, though. Wielding power that Derek had never possessed here.

  Derek wanted to hide. He sniffed hard and sunk into the couch. Let it swallow him up.

  “Go ahead, Hen.” Marcella’s voice was firm now.

  It took ages for Hen to go. His tiny feet moved soundlessly across the room—too close to where they sat—and started up the stairs. Just a few steps before turning back to stare at Derek.

  Marcella couldn’t see Hen looking at him. Studying him. Derek felt a chill blanket his now-dry eyes. Every muscle in his body tensed. Anger dampened his sadness. How could he hate a little boy so much? He was just a boy. It made him angrier, knowing he couldn’t help but hate the kid. What kind of thug was he?

  Only when he heard Hen’s bedroom door slam shut did he relax somewhat.

  Marcella waited, her arm slung across the back of the couch. Not a hug, exactly. But close. He smelled her flowery lotion. He sunk deeper into the cushions, hoping to find her embrace. She took back her arm, hugging herself.

  He spoke through a throng of frogs in his throat. “They came for Pop. Clapp’s gone, too. Can’t help us anymore. He musta got spooked. Got a transfer to Plattsburgh or someplace.”

  Her mouth opened but she didn’t speak.

  Derek wiped away fresh tears. “I’ll be next. They’re comin’ for me. Probably at my house now.”

  “Are you sure?” Marcella glanced out the window. Her eyes had filled, and Derek saw love there.

  “None of this shoulda happened,” he heard himself say. “I dunno why it got so fu—I mean, messed up.”

  She touched his knee, and warmth traveled through the rest of his body. If he closed his eyes, he could’ve slept. Right there on the couch.

  “I’m scared,” he whispered.

  “I know,” she said, her voice pure song. The next thing he knew, his face was nestled in her bosom. He thought about all the crude things Pop had said about Marcella’s breasts over the years. Maybe it should’ve been arousing—like it was with Roxanne Russo—but it wasn’t like that at all. It was soft and safe. He rested his head there, letting tears slip out. Mom, he said silently, his lips grazing the coarse fabric of her uniform.

  She eased him upright. “Derek, look at me.”

  Her eyes were wide with hope and love and goodness. He poured himself into them.

  “Derek, I have to ask you something.”

  “Anything.”

  “What about Tyler? What does this mean for Tyler?”

  What? What about Tyler?

  It was like being hit. It took a moment for Derek to register it. He slowly came back to himself. Realization struck in waves—a set of marbles knocking down his vertebrae. He was wrong. Her tears weren’t for him at all. They were for Ty. Or Hen. Or Sally Hubbard. Or, heck, maybe even Bernie now. Never for him. His love was a one-way street. She didn’t love him. He wasn’t another son to her. He was the kid next door, Ty’s best friend, and Hen’s worst enemy. And he was headed for prison. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter to her life. He was an extra in that movie. Inconsequential.

  He shouldn’t have come here. Straightening, the wet soles of his basketball shoes squished against Marcella’s oak floor. He shot off the couch, hurried into his jacket.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Trout. I should go.”

  “Wait.” She reached for him. An embrace? No. She meant to stop him from leaving. “Please, tell me what happened. With your dad. With you. And what it means.”

  “I dunno. I’m not a lawyer.”

  “I know. I know. But if Leon is arrested and they arrest you too, that must mean something for Tyler’s case, right? There’s hope yet.” She caught herself then, and her eyes softened as if she’d just now started to see him.

  Her voice kept creeping up in pitch, like a tone-deaf piano. “Oh, Derek. I know this must be hard for you. I know you must be scared. Please, I’m trying to…I mean, maybe you could help each other. I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer either.” She started crying—a desperate, shaky cry that distorted her lovely face.

  “Please,” she choked out, wiping her nose. Tears streamed, streaking mascara to her chin.

  That familiar, heavy tangle settled in his chest. How pathetic she looked, hunched over in her uniform and ridiculous slippers. H
ow he hated her for not loving him.

  He threw his arms up. “What do you want me to do?”

  She glared at him, tears stopped in her eyes. “Tell the truth!” she yelled back, a pearl of spit shooting from her mouth.

  He felt the power shift. In a moment, he was fortified. He felt himself fill with it, heating his limbs, lifting him up. If Hen were still in the room, it would’ve done nothing against what built inside him. His basketball shoes squeaked as he stepped toward her, his face mere inches from hers.

  “The truth will crucify him.”

  Marcella recoiled as if he’d delivered a blow. She stared, her mouth agape.

  The rest played out like a movie scene, but Derek held his power.

  Blue lights rotated outside, blinking into Marcella’s bay window in a telltale rhythm. Marcella babbled on about Ty. How he’d never do such a thing. Blah, blah, blah. It was noise. None of it mattered. He felt himself pulling away from Marcella, the closest thing he’d had to a mother. Something clicked. He knew who she really was—a broken woman who lived in denial. She loved the wrong people, suffering valiantly, hurting those who loved her most.

  He was done. He understood his place in the world. And Marcella Trout had nothing to do with it.

  He zipped his jacket and opened the front door to the blue lights. When he turned back, Hen was balled up on the bottom step, hugging the wooden spindle.

  “Sorry about your floor.”

  The blast of cold felt good. Shocked his senses. Blue light washed over him as he filled Marcella’s doorway. Stepping out, his basketball shoes crunched in the hard snow. Hands to the sky, he met the officer’s gaze across the driveway. Clapp’s replacement was taller, thinner than his associate. Looked younger, too. Just out of the academy. That would be his luck, getting arrested by a freaking kid.

  One step. Two. It would be a hundred to the cruiser.

  Something tugged on his jeans.

  “Is it true? Did Tyler do it?” Hen’s voice. He’d run outside in his footy pajamas.

  Marcella called, “Hen! Come back inside, sweetie!”

  Derek kept his hands where the officer could see them. “Go back inside, Chicken.”