Hannibal Jones - 02 - Collateral Damage
Page 25
As if to contradict his last thought, Hannibal’s beeper began to vibrate against his waist. He turned it off without looking because he knew who was buzzing him. Across the open field, past the volleyball court, Quaker leaned against Hannibal’s car. He stared down the street to his left with his hands held in what most people would call the “time out” sign, although Hannibal knew it meant “trouble.”
Hannibal hopped off the bench without losing his smile and sauntered toward Quaker. He didn’t want to spoil the party, which is why he didn’t tell Bea, Dean, Janet or even Cindy that he was on the alert for trouble. He was prepared to face two different sources of conflict that day and had asked Quaker, Sarge, Ray and Virgil to take turns on informal sentry duty.
By the time Hannibal reached the sidewalk Isaac Ingersoll was about 30 yards away, walking slowly toward the park as if the path was up a steep hill. The way a man walks when part of him doesn’t really want to arrive at his destination. Wanting to make it easier for that part of him, Hannibal moved at a brisk pace to meet him halfway.
“Hey Isaac. What’s going on?”
Ingersoll stopped just short of walking into Hannibal. “I don’t want no trouble. Just want to see Janet. Just for a minute. Tell her how I’m doing. Maybe she could come home?”
Isaac’s clothes were clean but rumpled, as if he had taken a nap in them. His voice was softer than Hannibal remembered hearing it in the past. His eyes looked milky, and Hannibal wondered if he was under medication.
“Isaac, you know that if you walk down there into the park that whether you want it or not, there will be trouble.”
“I just want to tell her how well I’m doing,” Ingersoll said. “I don’t want her to give up on me.”
Hannibal looked at the ground, hands on his hips. “Isaac, Isaac. You know she doesn’t want to see you yet. I know you’re trying, man, but she’s not ready.”
“I’m doing good in the program,” Ingersoll said, his voice close to pleading. “I haven’t missed a session. Some of the guys in there don’t really want to change but I’m not like them. I love her.”
“I know all about the batterers’ program, Isaac. It’s thirty-six weeks long. It’s a bit soon to declare victory, don’t you think?”
Ingersoll took one tentative step forward, pushing his bulk into Hannibal’s personal space. “Counselor says the program’s got like a two-thirds success rate. I know I’m already really changed. Just want to tell her.”
Hannibal stood his ground, now having to look up to maintain eye contact. “I’ll tell her. Isaac, trust me, this is a bad idea. Please, please let’s not make this physical. Let’s not ruin your chance of her ever opening up to you.”
Hannibal hardly reacted when he felt his beeper vibrating again. He knew he had to maintain his focus on the situation at hand. He worked at appearing relaxed while on another level he decided on what his first, second and third strikes would be if Ingersoll pressed the issue. But until he did, Hannibal had to give the big man’s recent anger management training the benefit of the doubt.
While Ingersoll showed the muscle-locking tension of a man wrestling with his own demons, Quaker stepped up behind Hannibal and reached out to rest a hand lightly on Ingersoll’s shoulder.
“Hey buddy, why don’t we go talk somewhere? I’ll buy you a beer.”
Hannibal could see Ingersoll’s shoulders begin to relax. He was standing down. The moment of greatest tension was past. When he spoke again it was one word. “Janet.”
“Listen, Isaac, I’ll have her call you, okay? Okay?”
Ingersoll nodded, and Quaker took his arm. “Good deal, buddy. Now let’s go get that beer.”
Hannibal smiled and stepped back slowly. Quaker turned Ingersoll with a hand on his arm, and the two men headed down the street. Hannibal figured he owed Quaker a lot more than the cost of however many beers they gulped down that day. Then his mind shifted to the picnic. He fell into an easy jog back to the group.
In a moment, he walked up behind Ursula Voss, the other disruption he had hoped to avert from ruining this day of quiet celebration. Looking over the graying bun at the back of her head he realized it was too late for him to affect the situation. The conversation had already started. Dean looked startled. Bea seemed distressed by the conflict. Standing behind them, Francis fumed. Harry held her hand tight, as if trying to rein in a lioness that sees her cubs attacked. Ursula faced them, her voice implying that she was the victim here.
“But you can’t just leave me out of the ceremony. I’m family. I’m his family.”
“How could you think we would welcome you to our ceremony,” Bea asked. “Yes, you’re family. You’re also the woman who vilified his mother to him, falsely, for half his life. The first words out of your mouth when you walked over here should have been I’m sorry. To him, and to her.”
“How can you blame me?” Ursula asked. “The evidence...”
“Bullshit!” Francis said, her voice flung at Ursula like a coil of razor wire. “Your lies ruined my life, you bitch. I’d already lost my husband, but you needed to hurt me more.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Ursula said. “It was Dean’s word.” She took a step back, bumping into Hannibal who kept her from falling.
“You put those word into his mouth, you evil woman,” Bea said. Francis’ words seemed to make her bolder. “You should not even think of being in his life.”
Francis said, “I bet you’re sorry I ever got out of that place. Well, you better drag your sorry ass out of here before I do it for you.” She put a foot on the bench between Dean and Bea and, for a moment, Hannibal thought she might go flying across the table at Ursula. The women were not that far apart in age, but Hannibal was sure that Francis could crush her frail sister-in-law under her wheels like an SUV rolling over an empty soda can.
“No.” Dean was not loud, but he spoke with more self-assurance than Hannibal had ever heard from the boy. He stood with one hand on Bea’s shoulder while the other took his mother’s hand. His blue eyes were suddenly very clear despite the softness of his features.
“Mother, all you’ve said is true. But it is also true that when I had no place to go, Aunt Ursula took me in. For some of the most important years of my life, she was all the family I had. You can hate her for things she’s done, but I can’t hate her.”
People were wandering toward the tables, but everyone moved around the circle of silent tension whose boundaries were defined by Hannibal standing on one side and Dean on the other. Bea looked at Dean the way a woman in love should, with pride and warmth. The look between Francis and Ursula was more like that exchanged by a cat and a terrier. Or maybe, Hannibal thought, more like the look between a cobra and a rat. Then Harry Irons moved around to the end of the table where everyone could see him and took a deep pull on his cigarette.
“So, when do they put the food on around here?” Irons asked no one in particular.
“That depends on your answer to my question,” Bea said. “Are you and Francis going to join us at the altar? Turn our ceremony into a double wedding?”
Harry grinned and nodded his head once. Francis turned to him, and all the hate drained out of her face, replaced by a smile that threatened to outshine the sun.
Dean turned to his aunt with a total calm that seemed to startle her. “Well, Aunt Ursula, I suppose if you’re ready to celebrate my mom’s new life, you’ll be welcome at our wedding.”
Hannibal wasn’t sure what was going on in Ursula’s mind, but after a brief hesitation she lowered herself to the picnic table bench opposite Dean.
Cindy, who had stayed quietly on the sidelines, moved in to put an arm around Hannibal’s waist. He realized he had just watched the resumption of a conversation that had been interrupted more than ten years ago. His sense was that Ursula would come around, and that eventually she and Francis would reach some sort of peace. He looked at Dean again, strong but relaxed, and realized that once in a while broken people could be healed too. He turne
d toward the volleyball net, where a few of the other guests were starting a game. Cindy squeezed his hand. The sun felt good on his neck. Life was good.
And they were finally starting to serve those barbecued ribs.
Author’s Bio
Austin S. Camacho is a public affairs specialist for the Department of Defense. America's military people know him because for more than a decade his radio and television news reports were transmitted to them daily on the American Forces Network.
He was born in New York City but grew up in Saratoga Springs, New York. He majored in psychology at Union College in Schenectady, New York. After three years, he enlisted in the Army as a weapons repairman but soon moved into a more appropriate field. The Army trained him to be a broadcast journalist. Disc jockey duties alternated with news writing, video camera and editing work, public affairs assignments and news anchor duties.
During his years as a soldier, Camacho lived in Missouri, California, Maryland, Georgia and Belgium. He also spent a couple of intense weeks in Israel during Desert Storm, covering the action with the Patriot missile crews and capturing scud showers on video tape. While enlisted he finished his Bachelor's Degree at night and started his Master's, and rose to the rank of Sergeant First Class. In his spare time, he began writing adventure and mystery stories set in some of the exotic places he'd visited.
After leaving the Army he continued to write military news for the Defense Department as a civilian. Today he handles media relations and writes articles for military newspapers and magazines. He is also teaches writing classes at Anne Arundel Community College and is deeply involved with the writing culture. He currently serves as president of the Maryland Writers Association and is an active member of the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, Sisters in Crime, Washington Independent Writers, and the Virginia Writers Club.
Camacho has settled in Springfield, Virginia with his wife Denise and Princess the wonder cat.
Email: ascamacho@hotmail.com
Website: www.ascamacho.com
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