“So you might have to have a talk with her.”
“Not on the basis of one out-of-town trip to a liquor store,” Anne said briskly. “But I’m going to keep an eye on her.”
Halsey nodded, accepting Anne’s judgment. She’d been trained to evaluate hazardous situations, and she was usually very accurate. “Sarah Toth was limping today,” he said without preamble. “She’s getting beaten at home, but she won’t talk about it. This is not the first time she’s come to school with perceptible physical issues. And the SATs are in three weeks. I’ve never met her parents. Have you?”
“JimBee and Lizzy.” Anne leaned back in her office chair. “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure.” She crossed her legs, and Holt enjoyed the view.
“Seriously, JimBee?” he asked.
Anne shrugged. “His real name is Jim initial B period Toth. When he was in elementary school, someone thought it was cute to call him JimBee.”
“And he’s let people keep it up.”
Anne spread her hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “I’ve been concerned about Sarah’s home life since last year,” she said. Sarah had first taken the SAT in her junior year, and her score had attracted a great deal of attention. “I’d hoped the situation would improve over the summer. I helped Sarah apply for computer camp, which meant four weeks away from home for her, but whoever’s hurting her just can’t stop. I guess it’s time to start the ball rolling.” She smiled at Holt. “Not a baseball reference. I’ll give the Toths a call.”
JimBee Toth was a handsome man, a bit past his prime. He’d married late, in his early thirties, because (as he told everyone) “I was having a good time screwing everything that moved, so I didn’t want to settle down.” When he’d finally decided it was time to start a family – perhaps when it became a little harder for him to “screw everything”—he’d chosen Lizzy Bell, a blonde ten years younger than him. Lizzy was plain in the face but a hot babe in the body. To JimBee’s shock, eight and a half months after they’d wed, Lizzy had delivered baby Sarah. His “hot babe” had turned into a mother, and JimBee was no longer the center of her universe. Worse, Lizzy’s figure changed. Her stomach was no longer flat, her boobs were not as perky, and she had stretch marks.
JimBee had had a hard time adjusting to this new situation. A very hard time. He did not love the baby. He felt he should, and it baffled him, until he had a revelation. JimBee realized one morning – following a night when the baby had cried for hours – that Sarah couldn’t be his.
Eight and half months? Sure, he and Lizzy had been enjoying themselves prior to their marriage. But what if Lizzy had also been enjoying someone else? That chimed with so many of JimBee’s suspicions that he knew instantly it was the truth. And while he never confronted Lizzy with her possible lack of faithfulness, he never loved Sarah. If she’d been an adorable, quiet, baby that would have been one thing . . . but she wasn’t.
Sarah had allergies that kept her indoors, clogged and wheezing and crying. Lizzy was always exhausted staying up with the little brat, suctioning her nose and rocking her, held upright against her chest to breathe. When Sarah was old enough to begin solid food, of course she had food allergies. Then when she was ten, she’d needed glasses, and couldn’t wear contacts, for God’s sake. The girl couldn’t catch a softball, and she sure couldn’t hit one. She had to carry an EpiPen, and she got plump, and she had to get allergy shots . . . the list of strikes against the girl grew with each year.
Though Sarah could read by the time she was four, JimBee didn’t think much about that. He figured any girl of his would grow up to be a cheerleader, or a Homecoming Queen, or at least popular. When Sarah had been born, he had imagined it might be kind of cool, watching boys trailing after his daughter, giving her advice on what to put up with and when to shut it down. But Sarah never had many phone calls that he knew of, and she never came to him for advice. He finally had to admit there was only one thing that made “his” daughter special.
Sarah was smart.
She was in the Honor Society, and she got some award for writing a poem. She had a bunch of certificates. And other dads congratulated him on Sarah’s achievements, from time to time.
But really, what use was her brain? He sure as hell couldn’t afford to send her to Davidson University, which the girl had set her heart on. She could damn well get a scholarship to the local junior college, and he told her so. He was not going to send her to a fancy place like Davidson when she wasn’t even his own daughter. And he told her that too.
Lizzy’s second child, James B. Toth, Jr., was a son any tire salesman could be proud of. It was evident fairly soon that James wasn’t real long in the brains department, but he could play sports (though not brilliantly), he passed in school (though with an effort), and he was popular (in a modest kind of way). The only strange thing about James was his strong bond with his sister. JimBee wondered at this bond and resented it, in equal measure.
JimBee, who cheated on Lizzy – though not as regularly as he would have liked—found himself fantasizing about Anne DeWitt after he’d attended a Rotary Club meeting at which she’d spoken. So when she called the Toths into her office for a conference, he simply didn’t tell Lizzy, so he could meet Anne on his own. The principal was a fine-looking woman; and as a widow, she must need some lovin’. It stood to reason.
JimBee was full of a pleasurable anticipation when he arrived at Travis High. When Christy told him Anne was ready to see him, JimBee cheered inwardly. DeWitt was wearing a straight skirt and high heels. Her legs were spectacular.
He was a bit disappointed when she took her seat behind the broad desk. The surface hadn’t been cleared for action. There were stacks of paper everywhere, and a metal in-basket that was far from empty.
“What’s on your mind, Miss Principal?” he asked, flashing the big white smile that had helped him sell a lot of tires. “I can give you a great price on some steel-belted radials. Real safe driving.”
“In a way, it’s safety that I want to talk to you about,” Anne said. “Specifically, your daughter’s.”
An alarm bell sounded in JimBee’s lizard brain. “Sarah’s not sick, not that I know about,” he said cautiously. “She’d have talked to her mother about that.”
“She seems to get hurt a lot.” The principal’s expression was neutral.
“She’s always been a clumsy gal,” JimBee said, his inner alarm bell clanging nonstop. “I’m afraid her brother got the athletic skills.”
“Really? Coach Redding tells me all he can do is play football,” the principal said. Her face was as calm and immovable as a glacier. “Redding tells me that on the field, James is not good at strategic thinking. He has to be given the same directions repeatedly.”
“You shouldn’t be down on James because he’s no big brain,” JimBee said righteously.
“Not like his sister.”
“The girl’s smart,” he admitted. Where was this going?
“She’s very smart,” the principal corrected him. “She’s one of the most intelligent students we’ve ever had at this school. She’s so intelligent she may make a record score on her SAT. If nothing happens to her.”
JimBee thought this through. “You mean . . .” And then he hesitated, uncertain as to how to phrase his sentence.
“No tripping. No falling down stairs. No walking into doors, no bruises, no broken bones. She shouldn’t even shake because someone’s yelling at her. And that situation should be maintained while she’s attending Travis High School. Am I perfectly clear?”
“I can’t promise that girl will suddenly stop being clumsy,” JimBee protested. “But I’ll try my best to make sure she doesn’t take a wrong step between now and the test.” He wavered between confusion and resentment. After all, he had a right to discipline the girl if he saw the need. That girl and her problems! It was just me me me all the damn time. His parents had never hesitated to give JimBee a lick if he needed it, and look how he’d turned out. Whose business was it if
he gave the girl a slap every now and then?
“I’m glad you understand me,” Anne DeWitt said, though she sounded as if she doubted very much that he did. She stood up, and once again he got to admire her shapely legs, though not with as much gusto as he had before. “I’d really hate to think we might need to have this conversation again.”
It never occurred to JimBee that she was threatening him.
That night he got Sarah alone in the kitchen. He said, “I don’t know what you’re saying at school, girl, and I don’t want to have to say this again. You keep telling people I’m beating you, and you’ll find out what a real beating is.”
Lizzy’s daughter just stared at him through her thick glasses. “I never said that,” she told JimBee. “Never.”
Three weeks later, after the SAT was safely in the past, but before the test results had become available, Sarah was invited to the Homecoming dance by Brian Vaughan. She told her family at the dinner table, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Lizzy beamed at her daughter, but JimBee said, “Just don’t get pregnant. The babies would be ugly as sin.”
“But they would be smarter than you,” Sarah muttered as she looked down at her plate. Her mother gasped.
“What did you say?” JimBee’s tone was ominous.
“I said, ‘I wouldn’t dream of getting pregnant, thanks to you,’” Sarah said.
“Were you smart-mouthing me, you little bitch?”
“No,” Sarah replied instantly. “I would never do that.”
“Go up to your room and finish your homework,” her mother said. “Your dad wants to watch the football game.” Sarah, whose homework had been finished before she left school, left the room hastily, followed by her brother.
“Where’s James going?” JimBee asked. “He always watches the game with me. Hey, who’s he taking to Homecoming?”
“Mercedes Webster,” his wife said. “He’s going over to her house tonight.”
“She a cheerleader?”
“No, she’s the editor of the school newspaper. Real nice girl. Her parents go to First Baptist.”
“What’s she look like?” asked JimBee, slurring his words just a bit.
“Nice looking.”
“He should be dating that Dawn Metcalf,” JimBee said. “Head of the cheerleading squad. Her assets were sure bouncing around at that last game.”
Sarah came down for a mug of hot chocolate later in the evening and passed between the television and her father when his team scored a touchdown. That earned the girl what JimBee thought of as a light slap.
He was very surprised the next morning to see that Sarah’s face was swollen. Lizzy and Sarah left the dining room for the kitchen. He could hear them talking. “It’ll go down by Homecoming,” his wife said. “Here’s an ice pack. You’ll look pretty by then. Honey . . . why’d you do that? You had to know you’d set him off.”
Darn right. It was all Sarah’s fault. And he really hadn’t hit her that hard. It troubled JimBee enough that he actually thought about the incident while he checked his Facebook page that morning. No. He really had only slapped her.
By the time Sarah went to school on a very cold Monday, the bruise had turned to a yellowish-purple color. She’d put on a little makeup, but it was impossible to hide completely. Sarah had pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. Finger marks on her arm showed too.
“Good morning, Sarah. Did you run into something?” Ms. DeWitt asked, her voice calm and low. She was in her usual spot outside her office.
“Yes, ma’am, a door,” she said, not even trying to sound convincing. “My dad says I’m awful clumsy.” Sarah saw Mr. Mathis noticing. And Coach Halsey.
By lunch time it had warmed up enough for Sarah and Brian, wrapped in coats and scarves, to sit on the bleachers on the practice field sharing a candy bar.
“I could tell my dad,” Brian said. “I hate that you’re living like this.”
“No,” Sarah said. “Then they’d make our family split up. I’d never get the money out of him to go to Davidson.”
“I got early acceptance,” Brian said, and she bit her lip to keep her bitterness in.
“I’m glad for you,” she said, in the steadiest voice she could manage. “I guess it’s the ju-co for me.”
Brian didn’t speak. She was sure he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You remember last year when Teddy Thorndike’s family got evicted from their house?” Sarah said.
“Teddy’s the one who sings lead in the a capella group? Yeah, sure.”
“You remember the guy who evicted them had a change of heart and told them they could move back in?”
“Yeah. Everyone said it was Jesus who changed him.” She felt Brian’s body move in a shrug.
“I babysat for them. His little girl told me someone had told her daddy they would cut off his, ah, thingy if he didn’t let the Thorndikes back in their house.”
“Who?” Brian asked her, totally amazed.
It was her turn to shrug. “A secret hero,” she said, smiling to show she was half-joking. “Someone who wanted Teddy to stay in Travis so he could do the solo at State.”
“Oh, come on,” Brian said. “Who’d do that?”
“I figure it was someone here at the school,” Sarah said, smiling. “Or someone we see all the time, like our mailman or our minister.” She wanted to tell Brian. He was so sweet. She knew he’d never believe her, though. But that wasn’t important. “Someone strong and . . . crafty.”
Brian looked very skeptical, and Sarah was glad when they spotted Principal DeWitt.
She was speed-walking around the track wearing hi-tech sneakers, instead of her heels. Ms. DeWitt only did her walking at lunch when the weather was cool; Sarah figured she didn’t want to be sweaty the rest of the day. After a moment, Coach Halsey came out of the workout room below the bleachers and fell into step with her.
Brian said, “You think they’ve gotten your test scores?”
“I checked online this morning. Nothing yet.”
Brian nodded toward the coach and the principal. “Do you think they’re sleeping together?”
“Is that what people think?” Sarah was really startled. It seemed so strange to imagine people the age of DeWitt and Halsey being swept away by passion.
“I’ve heard some comments,” Brian said, trying to sound worldly. “The guys on the team have seen them out together.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“At the shooting range. At a restaurant in Candle Springs.”
“They’re both single,” Sarah said, smiling. “Why not?”
Sarah was pretty when she smiled. With extreme boldness, Brian put his arm around her shoulders and scooted closer, and he was delighted when she did not move away.
The next day, Sarah checked online first thing in the morning.
She was only two points off of a perfect score on her SAT. Surely she would get a scholarship to Davidson. She sat, stunned into silence for a moment, thinking about the happiness within her grasp. She ran downstairs.
“I’m sure I can get a full scholarship to Davidson,” she told JimBee and her mom. “I know it. Brian’s going to Davidson too.”
“Slut,” said JimBee. “You ain’t going to Davidson. You’re going to commute to the ju-co.”
“You keep telling me you’re not my father,” Sarah said with a terrible intensity. “I hope that’s true.” As she ran upstairs, she saw her mother turn to JimBee with the fire of battle in her eyes. Sarah knew, from long experience, that Lizzy’s anger wouldn’t last long.
Sarah went to James’s room. He looked up from tucking in his shirt, and he crumpled at the look on her face. “Not again,” he said, as if he were begging.
That morning, a miserable James had to drive them to school. Sarah was in too much pain. She winced every time she sat down.
Two nights later, JimBee was driving home for dinner. It was already dark, because he’d stayed late at the tire store doing inventory. He was looking forward
to taking off his shoes, having a beer or two (or three) and eating his dinner. He turned off the road and started down the driveway, rounding the curve up the hill to the house.
There was a wooden crate in the middle of the road.
He screeched to a stop just in time, and leaped out of his car. When he got closer, he could tell it wasn’t as large as it had seemed when it appeared suddenly in his headlights. A shove proved that it wasn’t heavy either.
“Well, goddamn,” he said. Who could have been driving up to (or away from) his house so quickly that he didn’t know he’d lost a crate of this size? He gripped a corner with his hands to try to work the crate to the side of the road. Then he noticed there was no address label, and he had time to think, That’s funny.
Suddenly, JimBee felt a sting. Surely it was too cold for wasps? And surely wasps didn’t attack at night? His shoulder burned. He stepped away from the crate, felt his shoulder. In the dim light, he was shocked to see a dart sticking out of his coat. It felt like the time he’d his wisdom teeth removed, though he couldn’t think why . . .
And then he felt nothing.
When JimBee woke up he was face down on the road beside his car, which was turned off. His body ached and there was no crate in the road. It was as dark as dark could be.
He hurt all over.
A voice beside him, above him, said, “How does it feel to be on the receiving end?”
“Of what?” he said, as confused as he’d ever been in his life. His face felt stiff when he spoke. Had something fallen on him?
“Of a beating,” the voice said.
And then he felt that the other person on the road with him had moved away. JimBee was sure he was all alone in the dark. And he heard his cell phone ringing in his car, where he’d put it in its clip on the console. He couldn’t move; it went to voice mail.
He managed to move, finally, dragging himself over to his car, though every move was painful and cost him more than he wanted to pay. The receiving end. That was where he was. Though all his thoughts and feelings were bound up in the rapidly mounting pain from various places in his body, he understood (theoretically) that someone had beaten him because he slapped his daughter . . . and perhaps every now and then, his wife. And just once in a while, his son. But who would do such a thing? The punishment didn’t fit the crime.
Small Kingdoms and Other Stories Page 4