Once, during the drive, when he asked her if she was hungry, she ignored his question altogether. But she did remove her headphones long enough to remind him, “He’s going to beat me, you know.”
“Not that again, okay? I told you I’m going to deal with that.”
“I don’t know how you think you are. Then after he beats me, he’ll probably hit my mother because she’ll try to protect me.”
Her remarks opened up his nerves despite his guarded optimism. What lay ahead for both of them could be ugly. The consequences were too much to think about. “Can you trust me on this?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know why I should. You’re still thinking of yourself.” Without waiting for any response, she slipped the headphones back into place.
Coley didn’t get really nervous until he pulled the car around the corner at the end of her block. It was late afternoon.
He was lifting her suitcases out of the trunk when Burns came out the door and across the lawn, walking so rapidly he was nearly jogging. He might have been running but for the beach thongs that flopped on his feet. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of blue shorts.
The confrontation, the part where he got right up in Coley’s face, nose-to-nose almost, occurred halfway up the sidewalk. Coley put the suitcases down. He spread his feet just slightly, for balance. If there was going to be a fight, he was ready. “Back off,” he said to the stepfather.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I said back off. Get out of my space.” Suddenly his nerves were not the nerves of fear and apprehension, but those of a swift and sure adrenaline rush. Like getting ready to strike out a batter in a clutch situation.
“And I said, who the hell do you think you are? You’re probably on your way to jail, you know that?”
“Stop it,” Bree demanded. “Both of you have to just stop it.”
From the corner of his eye Coley could see her mother hurrying out the front door.
“I wouldn’t know where to start with you,” said Burns. “What I’d like to do is just knock the shit out of you right here and now.”
“You can try,” said Coley. “Bree says that’s your usual method.”
This remark seemed to catch him up short, if only briefly. He hesitated slightly before he said, “Do you think because you’re a big sports star you can do anything you want? You think laws are for other people?” The big man kept opening and closing his fingers. Fists, then no fists. Then fists again.
“No, I don’t think that,” Coley told him. “What I’d like to do is apologize, but if you don’t back off of me, I’m just gonna leave.”
“Let him apologize,” said Bree’s mother. She had the helpless look on her face Coley associated with news film of forlorn mothers in refugee camps.
Burns didn’t take his eyes from Coley’s, but he did step back, a full pace. “So you think an apology can make up for what you’ve done?”
“No, I don’t think it can. What we did was wrong, and it was mostly my fault, not Bree’s. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Bree’s not even sixteen yet. You can go to jail for kidnapping, aggravated sexual assault, probably even rape. Have you thought at all about the consequences for what you’ve done?”
“Yes and no,” Coley answered. “Not enough, that’s for sure.” At least there wasn’t going to be a fight. The two of them were still squared off, alert and balanced, with Bree and her mother clinging somewhere in between, trying to act as buffers and stay out of the way at the same time.
“Apologies aren’t going to cut it, Coley Burke. What you’ve done goes beyond that, way beyond. As soon as we press charges, you’ll be facing an arrest warrant, and if you’re lucky, it’ll be only one.”
Coley felt calmer now. All of this was going more or less the way he’d expected. He said, “You’ll do what you have to do, I guess. But I want to give you somethin’ to think about.”
“What would that be?”
“Our family lawyer is Stanley Irlbacher. You’ve probably heard of him; he’s the best attorney in town.”
“You can’t throw that country club shit at me,” said Burns with contempt. “I move in those same circles myself.”
“Okay, then, let me throw this shit at you.” He pointed at Bree and said, “I know that you hit her. Sometimes you slap her and sometimes you hit her with your fist. She’s told me all about it. I’ve seen the cuts and I’ve seen the bruises. Maybe you’d like to deal with that in open court.”
“You don’t stand here on my lawn and make accusations. What goes on in this family is our business, and you’re out of bounds to make presumptions.” But Coley had seen him flinch. No more fists, either.
“Any chickenshit that likes to slap around women and girls makes it everybody’s business. There’s no privacy that goes with that. I’m no genius, but even I know that.”
“Are you threatening me? Are you standing in front of my family and threatening me?”
“I’m tellin’ you this: I don’t have a lot of friends on the high school staff, but I do have one. Her name is Mrs. Alvarez, and she’s a counselor. If you ever lay a hand on Bree again, I’ll know about it. One way or another, I’ll know about it.”
“You’re threatening me with a high school counselor?”
“You could say that. Because as soon as I know it, Mrs. Alvarez will know about it. Here’s how the law works: If a school counselor has even a suspicion that a student is being abused, they have to report it to the authorities.” He thought about adding that this point of law was something he’d learned in human dynamics class but figured that would sound too juvenile.
“You are threatening me.”
“Call it what you want. But the way it would go would be like this. Mrs. Alvarez tells DCFS, they tell the cops, and then it goes to the district attorney’s office. You can figure out the rest. It would be sort of like a chain of command. You would know all about that from your years in the military.”
“Okay, you’ve made your point, now drop it.”
But he wasn’t ready to drop it, not quite yet. He said, “The difference is that this is not the military. Bree and your wife aren’t under your command. Besides, even in the army I doubt if they let the officers slap the troops around. You tell me.”
“I said you’ve made your point. We’re not going to resolve all of this here and now.” Burns put his hands on his hips. He went into a lot of neck stretching and shoulder flexing, but what was clear was that he was looking for a way to save face. It was damage control time. He turned to Bree. “Are you okay, baby?”
“I’m okay.”
“Did he hurt you?”
There were tears running down her cheeks as she looked in Coley’s direction. “I’m okay. He didn’t do anything to hurt me. Coley never hurts me.”
Burns put his arm around her shoulder before he turned his face back to Coley. “I’d say emotions are running a little high at this point,” he suggested. His voice was much more subdued, to go right along with his body language. “Maybe we’d all be better off if we declared a sort of cooling-off period.”
Even Bree’s mother seemed a little relieved at this point. “You need to go home, Coley. Your parents have been worried terribly. Your poor mother and I have been on the phone half a dozen times.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m ashamed about it.” He knew it was time to go home. But before he turned to leave, he said to Bree, “I’ll see you soon, Bree. I’m not sure just what the circumstances are gonna be like, but I’ll see you soon. And I’m sorry, I really am.”
“Go home now, Coley,” said her mother. “Your mother needs to see you.”
“I’m on my way.” To Burns he issued one last reminder. “Just remember what I said.”
Chapter Eighteen
On the fifth of June, Coley sat on the hood of his car beyond the outfield fence, watching the play-offs. If the team won today, it would mean a regional championship, which woul
d put them in the sectionals. It didn’t look likely, though; they were already behind. Quintero was pitching. He would be good someday, but he wasn’t ready yet.
Sitting in this remote location allowed him to satisfy his curiosity, but without having to worry about causing any distraction. It was enormously painful. He wanted to be here, but he couldn’t be part of it. He glanced up at the sky, where the gathering clouds indicated rain was on the way. Why not? It seemed like it had rained every day all week.
That was when Ruthie Roth showed up. Coley hadn’t noticed her approach, but she was suddenly next to him, leaning against the fender. “Is this seat taken?” she asked him.
He smiled before he answered. “These are just the general admission seats. Like bleacher seats. First come, first served. Are you a baseball fan now, Ruthie?”
“I think you know better than that. I’ve been up in the newspaper office. They asked me to write an article about National Honor Society for the last issue of the year.”
“So did you write it?”
“I was going to, but then I changed my mind. Instead I decided to write an article called ‘Coley and Bree’s Excellent Adventure.’” She was smiling.
Coley’s grin was sheepish. He looked down. “So you heard about that.”
“Heard about it? I may be out of the loop, Coley, but I’m not off the planet. Everybody in school heard about it. You two are lucky it wasn’t in the papers.”
“Yeah, we were lucky. That would be the word.” He turned his attention back to the game, where Rico was batting. On the third pitch he got a line-drive single to left. “Yes!” Coley declared in a high-decibel whisper. He pumped his fist.
“God, this must be hard on you,” said Ruthie.
He looked at her. It seemed like the softest thing she’d ever said to him. It sounded sympathetic. He decided to take the risk. “Hard on me? Only like I’ve got a knife stuck in my gut, which gets twisted every once in a while.”
“I know you talked to Mrs. Alvarez. What’d she tell you?”
He sighed. “I’m suspended for the rest of the term, but I can make up my work. If I pass English in summer school, I can graduate.”
“So you can go to Bradley after all.”
“If I pass with at least a C.”
“You can do it, don’t worry. If you’re in summer school, you’ll probably have Miss Titus. You’ll like her.”
“Well, at least it won’t be Grissom anymore.”
“What about professional baseball, Coley? What about the major leagues?”
“If I get drafted in the first round, I’ll probably sign.”
“And what if you don’t? Not that I have a clue what being drafted is.”
“If you get drafted in the first round, it means you get a big-money contract.”
“You don’t seem very excited about it.”
He watched Kershaw strike out to end the inning. “I’m not,” he told her. “I’m too ashamed right now to get wired up about much of anything. I have to graduate high school. I need to get my mind right. If I don’t go first round, I’ll spend a year at Bradley. After that, I can reenter the draft if I want to.”
“I can’t follow all of this,” Ruthie admitted. “What about Bree?”
“The same thing. She’s suspended, but she can make up her work.”
“Are you still seeing her?”
“I don’t actually see her. We talk on the phone once in a while.” Coley asked her, “Why are you bein’ so nice to me?”
“You don’t kick people when they’re down, right?”
“Right.” It made sense. “Long as you’re here, Ruthie, how’d you like to do me a favor?”
“That would depend on the favor.”
“Did you ever drive a tractor?”
“Did I ever drive a tractor? I’d say about as often as I’ve climbed Mount Everest.”
“In other words, you haven’t. I could teach you easy, though, and you could do me a favor.”
“You still haven’t told me what it is you’re asking me to do.”
“Get in the car. I want you to help me move a statue. All you’ll have to do is drive a lawn tractor. Afterwards I’ll take you home.”
“What about the game?”
“I’m curious, but like I told you, it hurts to watch. I’m ready to go now.”
“What if I refuse to do this favor?”
“I’ll still take you home. Get in. Please?”
When they got to Coley’s house, no one was home. He was grateful but not surprised; after all, it was just after four.
Coley pulled the lawn tractor out onto the driveway and let it run in neutral.
“Is this what you expect me to drive?” Ruthie asked him.
“There’s nothin’ to it, really. It’s got hydrostatic drive.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t have to worry about usin’ a clutch. It’s like a car with automatic transmission. Come on.” He drove the tractor around back so he could position it next to the statue.
Ruthie Roth had never been to Coley’s home before. She was deeply impressed by the beauty of the landscaping. “Who does all of this?”
“My mom, mostly. She gets a little help from Trinh sometimes. He’s the yardman.”
There was a chain in the utility box that Coley used to secure a tight loop around Reggie Jackson’s waist, where the indentations from all the fastballs that had plunked it were numerous. Then he secured the other end to the back of the tractor, leaving about twelve feet of slack.
“I won’t even ask what this statue is all about,” said Ruthie. “It’s bizarre, though.”
“My mother would agree with you,” he laughed.
“But I have to ask what we’re doing here, and how much trouble can I get myself into?”
“No trouble at all. My parents won’t even know who did it. They’ll just think I did it by myself.”
“So why don’t you do it by yourself then?”
“Because there are too many tight spots. Somebody has to walk behind to keep the statue on course. Otherwise it’ll be knocking down flowers and bushes and God knows what else. Besides, we have to pull it through that narrow space between the garage and the fence.”
“And then what?”
“We’re gonna drag the son of a bitch up the road to the bridge. We’re gonna throw it into Laurel Creek and watch it float away. It can float clear to the ocean, for all I care.”
Ruthie was already shaking her head before he’d finished his sentence. “There’s no ocean anywhere near Laurel Creek, which I’m sure you already know. But what makes you think it’s going to float?”
“Because the water’s so high from all the rain we’ve had. The creek has a real swift current now.”
She was shaking her head again. She knocked on the torso of the statue with her knuckles. “This thing is hollow, right?”
“It’s hollow, but it’s heavy as hell.”
“Coley, it’s not going to float depending on the swiftness of the current. The only thing that will determine if it floats or not is how much water it displaces.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He felt a raindrop, and then another. He got onto the seat and surged the tractor forward twice. He could hear a cracking sound at the base of the statue, where the footings were bolted down. On the third try the statue came tumbling down, making a dull thud in the grass. Coley went back to take a look. The concrete base was broken into pieces where the rusted bolts were sheared off. There was a huge divot near Reggie’s right elbow that would have embarrassed any golfer.
“This is about the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen,” Ruthie declared. “You’ve got this huge metal statue of some baseball player—”
“Reggie Jackson.”
“Reggie Jackson, then, whoever that is. It’s probably worth a lot of money, although it would go against any logic. You just pulled it down and now you want to throw it in the creek.”
He felt a fe
w more raindrops. “Okay, it’s weird. That’s something we agree on. What were you sayin’ about how it’s goin’ to float?”
“I was saying, that will depend on water displacement. It will float if the amount of liquid that is displaced is the same or less than the hull. That’s Archimedes’ principle.”
“Oh.”
“Simple physics.”
“In my mind there’s no such thing as simple physics. I was lucky to get through Basic Math II. Now get on up here in the seat. Please. It’s gonna rain soon.”
She did as he requested but asked him, “Why am I doing this?”
“Because I asked you to. Because we’re friends.”
“Friends,” said Ruthie, repeating the word thoughtfully. Coley knew now that she was going to drive the tractor, but he could tell at the same time it wouldn’t be right away. It must have been something about the word friends that got stuck somewhere, because she had her glasses off. She was using a handkerchief to clean them. It was hard for Coley to determine if she was simply wiping off raindrops or working toward some kind of composure.
When she had her glasses on again, she said to him, “I’m ready, I guess. Show me.”
Ruthie had no problem steering the tractor, partly because she insisted on driving at the slowest possible speed. That was fine with Coley, though, because it made his job easier. With his right foot he kept shoving the base of the statue into position so it was dragged straight behind the tractor. Using this method, they avoided any damage to flower beds or landscaping stones or the side of the garage.
By the time they made it to the street, the raindrops were more frequent, but Ruthie declared she was enjoying the ride. He couldn’t help smiling. He told her to drive on up the street to the bridge, which was some fifty yards up a gentle incline. She even throttled up. The statue bounced and clunked behind, sparking the blacktop from time to time. Coley walked behind. I’m gonna plunk you like never before.
The bridge railing was an old-fashioned one, made of concrete, but it wasn’t much more than three feet high. Once they got the statue into the upright position, the hard part would be lifting it onto the railing.
“Once we get it up here,” Coley told Ruthie, “we can lay it on its side. The rest will be easy. All we have to do is just push it on over.”
Plunking Reggie Jackson Page 18