The Fight for Kidsboro

by Marshal Younger

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess … well, sometimes … I miss him.”

  She breathed a long, difficult breath. “Me too. And I wish he would change; I really do. But Ryan, I don’t think there’s anything he could do to prove it to me. There are just too many scars.”

  I adjusted myself in the seat and pretended I was very interested in the trees passing by the window. I didn’t want her to see me cry.

  An officer sat alone at a big desk at the sheriff’s office. He seemed to be expecting us. “Ms. Cummings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you come on back with me?”

  We followed him through a steel door and back into a damp, concrete walled area that felt like my uncle’s unfinished basement. Along the far wall were two jail cells—one empty and one holding my father. I could see Dad stand up from his cot. We approached him slowly as the officer pulled two chairs over from the opposite wall. He placed them in front of the cell for my mom and me, and then stood by the door. I was glad he was there. Mom pulled her chair back a little farther away from the cell, and then sat down.

  Dad gave a half-smile to Mom. “You look nice.” She didn’t answer. “Both of you look so nice.” I didn’t answer either. After an awkward pause, he stepped toward the bars and leaned against them. “I did some research last week at the law library. With all the stuff I’ve done, it looks like I’ll get a minimum of five years.” He smiled, probably wondering if we wished it were more. “Guess that’ll give me some time to think… . Give you guys some time to think too.”

  “I don’t need any time to think,” Mom said, stone-faced. She sat up straight in her chair, seemingly determined not to show any emotion but complete indifference.

  “I understand that. I do. I can’t blame you for all the things you feel about me right now. I’m not expecting any miracles. Maybe just a letter every now and then.” He pressed his face between two bars and looked at us like a puppy dog about to be left in the pound. “I miss you so much.”

  There was another awkward pause. He studied us. I guess Mom had gotten her closure—she saw him behind bars and was satisfied—because she stood up quickly and scooted her chair back against the wall. “I’m ready to go. Come on, Ryan.”

  Seeing him behind bars was not what I came to do, though. I wasn’t through yet, and I didn’t quite know why. “Can I stay for a few minutes?”

  She looked surprised that I’d asked, but then softened for the first time since we had walked through the door. “I’ll be out here,” she said, and without looking at Dad again, she headed out.

  The heavy door clanged shut behind her, leaving only Dad and me and the police officer. I had no idea what to say and was grateful when Dad finally started talking. “Do you hate me?” he asked, his face looking as if he were preparing for someone to punch him.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “But not right now.”

  He chuckled a little bit. “I guess I’ll take what I can get. Do you know why I turned myself in?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t care about anything. I didn’t care about being stuck behind bars for five years; I didn’t care if I never made another dime; I didn’t care if I ever lived another day in the sun. The only thing I wanted was a chance to be your dad again, and I knew you’d never let me do that unless there were steel bars between us. And at least five years for both of us to think about … each other.” He ducked his head and pressed his hair against the bars, looking at the ground.

  “I’m so proud of you. The Way you’ve grown. You’re so smart and kind and … I was actually kind of jealous talking to your friends in Kidsboro, because you’ve got something now that I never had: respect. You’ve made enough good decisions that people respect you. I never made any good decisions—always selfish ones.” He lifted his head and looked at me again. “Don’t ever lose that, Jim. Don’t ever do anything that would make others lose respect for you. Trust is a hard thing to get. Pretty easy to lose, though. Look at me. I’m gonna be working a lifetime trying to get you to trust me again. It may take even longer than that.”

  “It may not take as long as you think,” I said. His eyes gleamed a bit. It was probably his first ray of hope in a long time. “I’ll write to you, Dad.”

  “I’d like that. And I’ll write to you, too.”

  I turned and looked at the door. “I’d better get going.”

  “Okay.”

  I scooted the chair against the wall and headed for the steel door.

  “I love you,” he said, again acting like he was waiting for someone to punch him. My lips formed the words to tell him I loved him too, but they got stuck in the back of my throat. All I could manage was a nod and a smile. I pushed the door open and joined my mother.

  8

  THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH

  I DIDN’T FEEL READY to go back to Kidsboro the next day, but I did want to do one thing. I went to the services at Kidsboro Community Church at least twice a month, mainly to show my support for Pastor Joey, who always tried hard to say something meaningful.

  Mr. Whittaker attended services almost every week and sat in the same place: front row on the right. I saw him before he sat down. “How’s your mom?” he asked.

  “She’s not ready to have a party yet, but she’s getting there. She’s taking off work for a few days.”

  “Good. I’ve been praying for you guys.”

  “I know. Thanks.” He smiled and nodded, and then we sat down for the service.

  There were only five of us there—Mr. Whittaker, myself, a young African-American boy whom I had never seen before, Marcy, who sat in the back, and Joey, who had a large bandage above his eye. “Healing okay?” Mr. Whittaker whispered, pointing to his head.

  “Yeah.” He’d had to get three stitches.

  Joey started the service with announcements. He began reading from a sheet of paper. “We have choir rehearsal this Wednesday at 5:30. I could really use more tenors … and basses … and sopranos. Last week only one person showed up, so I guess we need just about anybody.” Mr. Whittaker and I exchanged looks, wondering if we should volunteer for the choir.

  “Also, we only had three people sign up for the church softball team. We really need more than that, especially if the other team hits any balls to the outfield. I put the sign-up sheet on the meeting hall bulletin board, but all I got were three names.” He read the names off. “So far we have Lou Gehrig, Ken Griffey Junior, and Gen … Geng …” He showed the name to Mr. Whittaker to get help pronouncing it.

  “Genghis Khan,” Mr. Whittaker said, rolling his eyes.

  “Thank you. Um … I don’t know any of those people. If you happen to see them, they didn’t put phone numbers down, so tell them we’ll practice next week if we have enough people for a team.”

  I was sure Mr. Whittaker would give him the bad news later.

  “Now, for the special music, my little brother Terry is going to play his xylophone.”

  The little boy that I’d never met before stood up and pulled out a toy xylophone. The mallet was attached by a string. Without looking up at anyone, he started playing the slowest version of “Amazing Grace” I had ever heard. He missed a few notes, but it was still very moving. After he played the last note, he slid the xylophone under his seat and sat down, still without looking at anyone. “Thank you, Terry,” Joey said.

  “Let’s turn to Second Corinthians, chapter 11.” I had forgotten my Bible, but Mr. Whittaker let me share his.

  I couldn’t imagine Joey ever winning any contests in public speaking. He did not have a very polished delivery, and his content usually sounded like it was meant for a five year old. But Joey had a knack for picking the right sermon at the right time. This time, as always, he had something to say to me personally.

  “How many of you have heard of the apostle Paul?” he said, asking for a show of hands. His father, also a preacher, did this in his own sermons to get people’s attention and
to get them involved. Joey didn’t do it with quite as much flair, but it did get us involved. Mr. Whittaker and I both raised our hands.

  “Paul was a missionary for Jesus. And he had a real bad time of it. Wherever he went, he was in danger. He was beaten, robbed, and stoned. He Was in three shipwrecks and thrown into jail a bunch of times. He hardly ever slept. He had to fight against lots of people who didn’t want the gospel spread. But he did it anyway. He did what he had to do, even though it made him unpopular, sent him to jail, and all that other stuff.

  “Like it says in First Peter 3:14, ‘But even if you should suffer for what is right, you are blessed.’ Paul stood up for what was right,” Joey said, “and he was blessed, because he became probably the greatest missionary ever and wrote more books of the Bible than anyone else.”

  Joey was right once again. The apostle Paul stood up for what was right, even though it made him unpopular. Suddenly it occurred to me that if you do the right things long enough, not only will God bless you, but you will win the respect of other people. I realized that my decisions should never be based on what I think will make me more popular. They should be based on what is right. I wanted to jump out of my chair and clap. I now knew what I had to do. Actually, there were two things I had to do. I would start on number one immediately.

  I called everyone that I could find together. I grabbed people off the streets of Kidsboro and asked them to join me in the meeting hall. I was glad that Scott, Nelson, and Jill were among them.

  They gathered at my invitation, and I stood in front of a lot of confused faces. This was something I’d wanted to do for five years.

  “I called you all here to publicly apologize. I lied to each and every one of you, and I’m sorry. I ask for your forgiveness. I lied to you about my life in California because my mother and I had to escape my abusive father. We changed our names because we didn’t want him to find us. I will answer any questions you ask, because now it’s finally over. My dad is in prison and will be there for a while.” I scanned the faces and could sense that no one blamed me.

  “My name is Jim Bowers, but that’s a name I’d rather forget. I’d like you to keep calling me Ryan. Other than my name and my past, I’d like to believe I’m the same person you’ve always known me to be. Please don’t treat me any differently.”

  I noticed Jill among the faces. I had promised her that someday I would reveal my deep secret. From The look on her face, I could tell that she forgave me, just like everyone else.

  After the crowd cleared out, Jill approached me. “So that’s your big secret.”

  “That’s it.”

  “I was kind of hoping you were a criminal. It’d make better headlines.”

  I chuckled.

  “Listen,” she said. “I want to apologize for that nasty article I wrote about you.”

  “No, you were right,” I said. “I caved in.”

  “I did too. We really made a mess of things, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah … but I don’t think it’ll last much longer.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I have a plan. Let’s get a city council meeting together.”

  The city council agreed on what we had to do. We had to make the special interest groups accountable for the money we’d given them. We made appointments with all of them, and they all came, group by group, to hear the bad news. The five city council members sat on one side of a table, while the members of the different groups stood on the other side and heard their sentences.

  “You have three days to prove to us that your group is good for our society and not dangerous,” I said to the slingshot group. They looked worried. “We want to see the benefits of having slingshots in our town.”

  They all looked at each other as if to say, “Are there any benefits?” But they tried to act as confident as they could.

  “We will have another meeting in three days—72 hours from right now—and if you can’t prove that slingshots are truly useful, we will take away your designated slingshot area and make slingshots illegal again. Got it?”

  They nodded slowly, and then realized they needed to look positive about finding benefits to having slingshots in Kidsboro. “No problem. Three days.”

  “We’ll have lots of stuff by then.”

  “We don’t even really need three days.”

  “I can already think of 10 or 12 benefits right off the top of my head.”

  We all waved good-bye, and as soon as they got out of earshot, we could see them having a panic meeting.

  The other groups paraded in as well. The farmers were told that in three days we would check out their garden to see whether it was making progress, and they would also have to submit a written plan for making sure the produce was all eaten. They left arguing about who would write the plan. I don’t think any of them really believed the vegetables would actually be eaten by people.

  The animal rights group had to prove to us that their animals could contribute something positive to our city. If humans were required to take their places in society, then animals had to as well. They all had to find jobs in three days. I had a feeling that if any of the dogs became respected physicians, James would scream.

  The Clean Up Kidsboro group had three days to show us that their goals were being accomplished. Otherwise, they would lose their funding. Kidsboro had to be virtually litter and pollution-free, and they had to make sure the outdoor bathroom was built.

  “Who’s going to build it?” one of the group members asked. I just smiled.

  Valerie’s feminist group came in, expecting us to start fulfilling our promises to them. They got what they asked for—sort of.

  “I’m giving your group a government project.”

  Valerie and the two other girls high-fived each other.

  “You will be paid, as a group, to build an outdoor bathroom.”

  “I’m sorry. A what?” Valerie said.

  “An outdoor bathroom. A latrine.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate that since you said you wanted jobs that were usually given to boys,” I told them. They stared at me with their mouths open. They had to make a toilet?

  “Okay,” Valerie said, putting on a brave face. “We’ll do it.”

  “Yes, you will,” I said. “Because if it’s not done in three days, you’ll lose all your funding.”

  “Three days … great. We’ll get right on it.” This was supposed to be what they wanted. They had to be determined to do it.

  They turned around, their eyes still wide with shock.

  The feminist group was the last of the day, and the city council members began gathering up our things. Scott snickered, and Nelson joined him. All these groups had come in with their heads held high, and had left with their tails between their legs.

  I was interested in seeing the results of this challenge. Scott and I planned to watch everyone very carefully. But there was one thing I had to do before I started. And I was dreading it.

  “You called for me, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Yes, Lauren. Have a seat, please,” I told her.

  She hesitated before she sat, as if she wondered if my asking her to sit was a sign that I was going to say something bad.

  “You don’t want to sit?” I asked.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve been working on my spelling, I really have.”

  “It’s not your spelling.”

  “Is it something else I did?”

  “You didn’t do anything, Lauren. I just need to talk to you.” She finally sat down, though she didn’t look like she believed me.

  “Lauren …” I knew immediately that I shouldn’t have started off saying her name, because she closed her eyes and prepared for the blow. “You know that we’ve had some economic problems in Kidsboro lately.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s because of these new taxes. A lot of extra money is going out this year to different groups
of people, and because we’re having so many problems with the economy, the city council and I believe that we need to hold these groups accountable. You also know that I’ve been under some criticism for hiring you, right?”

  She suddenly stood up and started crying. “I’ll have my desk cleaned out this afternoon, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Lauren, I’m not firing you.”

  “You’re not?”

  “You have to pass a test. To prove that you’re worth your salary.”

  “A test?”

  “Yes. It’s a project, and you have to have it done in three days.”

  “Okay,” she said, wiping away the tears.

  I pulled out a thick stack of papers. “This is the city charter. Every law that we’ve ever come up with for Kidsboro is in it. We’ve added a lot to it since we started, so it’s very disorganized. There are laws stuck in here at random, and they need to be put in categories. Like laws that have to do with the court system, laws about conduct in the town, laws about money—stuff like that. It all needs to be retyped and look very professional by the time your three days are up.” She had a blank look on her face. “Do you understand?” I asked.

  She nodded slowly, but I wasn’t convinced.

  “I’m not allowed to give you help on this. It has to be your project.”

  She took the stack of papers and looked at it as if it were written in Swahili. I had sympathy for her. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Do your best.”

  “I will.” She turned and headed for the door, hunched over like an old woman with a bad back.

  This was a project that I felt would be challenging, but could be done by most people my age. I had serious doubts about Lauren being able to handle it, though. I felt like I had just given out my first pink slip.

  Over the next two days, Scott and I ducked behind bushes and trees, watching the special-interest groups unravel like a bad sweater.