by Don Aker
“Where’ve you been?”
Ethan shrugged. “Out.” He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to his dad since the No Deductible hammer had shattered his savings. Not that his father would have noticed. He and two other lawyers at Fisher, McBurney, and Hicks were tied up in a high-profile case involving a politician charged with drunk driving and leaving the scene of an accident. The driver of the car he hit had recorded the whole thing on his cellphone and posted it on YouTube, which made building a defence a legal nightmare, and Jack had been working late every night since he’d caught the case.
“Sit down,” his father said, pointing to the sofa. Its white upholstery reminded Ethan of the drawings of sheep in Lil’s Mother Goose Activity Book, which he’d passed out to kids at The Chow Down. He’d given one of them a page to colour from the nursery rhyme section, and the kid had immediately zigzagged purple all over Mary’s little lamb. Ethan mused that a few zigzags of purple—or any colour—would be an improvement in that living room. On the advice of his fiancée, Jack had had the decorators paint and upholster everything in a colour called “Brilliant Cream.” The only thing that wasn’t absolutely white was the photograph of his grandmother, its rosewood frame and sepia tones stark against the wall where it hung. When she saw the finished room for the first time, Raye had muttered to Ethan, “Looks like somebody puked January in there.” Neither he nor Raye ever used the room. In fact, Jack himself rarely spent time in there unless he was entertaining guests, so Ethan found it odd to see his father sitting in the living room now, waiting for him.
“Got things to do,” Ethan said. He intended to go upstairs, run a hot bath in the whirlpool tub, and spend the next half-hour letting the jets pound away that knot in his back.
“They can wait,” his father said.
Ethan recognized his I’m Not Asking You Again tone and silently promised himself that if he was ever unlucky enough to have kids of his own—even creatures as ungrateful as those little snots he’d served that afternoon—he’d never use that voice on them. Sighing, he trudged into the room and slumped onto the sofa. “What’s so important?”
His father pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, pressed three keys, and set the phone on Speaker.
Ethan recognized the beeps of the phone company’s automated voice mail, then a recorded voice saying, “You have one archived message. To review your message, press 1.”
Ethan’s father pressed 1.
“First archived message,” said the automated voice, “sent at 11:17 today.” Then another voice spoke. “Mr. Palmer? This is Rachel Moore at John C. Miles High School. I’m Ethan’s homeroom and English teacher.”
“Look—” Ethan began, but his father held up his other hand, cutting him off.
“I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” the voice continued, “but I’ve been away at a conference and am just now getting caught up at school. I found a letter from you on my desk explaining Ethan’s absence on Thursday, and I’m wondering if you could give me a call. I have a concern that I’d like to speak with you about.”
Ethan’s father clicked off the phone and set it on the coffee table beside a white vase filled with dried flowers that his decorators had obviously sprayed with Brilliant Cream latex. He stared at Ethan and waited.
Ethan let the silence hang in the air. He looked above the fireplace at the photograph of his grandmother, at the sheets billowing around her in the wind. At the laughing smile directed at the camera. Directed at him. He’d be damned if he was going to speak first. Two could play the drawing-out-the-moment game.
Finally, his father spoke. “What do you have to say for yourself, Ethan?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I think an apology is in order.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ethan, his response cool and careless.
Jack sighed. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for? It clearly doesn’t matter to you, but it’d be nice if you understood why you should be sorry.”
The ball in his court now, Ethan was tempted to let his father wait for his answer, but he thought again about the whirlpool tub and the knot in his back. “Forging the note,” he lobbed back, then added, “Big deal.”
His father raised his eyes and appeared to study the ceiling as if reading words on that flawless white expanse. “Ethan,” he began, “I once defended a man—another lawyer, in fact—accused of embezzling money from his firm.”
“Look, could we maybe save this story for another time? I’ve had a long—”
“When I asked him about it off the record,” his father interrupted, his voice firmer, “he said it all started the day he forged a client’s name on a document to meet a litigation deadline. It was innocent enough. He didn’t benefit from it other than saving himself and a paralegal some time refiling the case.”
Ethan could guess where this was headed. Longing for the whirlpool, he wished his old man would just get on with it.
“But that,” said his father, turning to face Ethan again, “just made it a little easier the next time he decided to forge a signature. And before long—” He paused, shaking his head. “Before long, he wasn’t doing it just to save time.”
“So,” said Ethan, “the big life lesson here is that forging your signature is my first step on the road to white-collar crime.” Or Brilliant Cream–collar crime, he thought, looking at those ridiculous walls.
“Don’t trivialize this.”
“But you make it so easy.” Ethan stood up. He’d had enough.
“Sit down.”
“Look, I’m tired. I just want—”
“I said, sit down!”
Ethan eyed those spray-painted flowers again, considered hurling them and the vase across that pristine January room. Instead he sat.
“I had a long talk with Ms. Moore,” his father said.
Since you missed the parent-teacher evening last month, thought Ethan, I’m not surprised.
“She says you haven’t been applying yourself.”
“If by ‘applying myself’ she means I haven’t been hanging on every golden word that falls from her lips, yeah, she’d be right about that.”
His father looked at him as though unsure what he was seeing. “What happened to you?”
Ethan didn’t respond.
“It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” his father continued. “Nothing seems to matter to you.”
Resentment ignited in Ethan’s belly. “Things matter to me,” he said.
“Name one.”
“The money you took. I would’ve been able to buy Kyle’s Cobra if you hadn’t—”
“Listen to yourself,” his father interrupted again, his right index finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “If I hadn’t. Who was the person who lost control of the car in the driveway? Who was the person who ran the Volvo into the corner of the garage?”
This was the part Ethan hated most—that witness-stand feeling as his father machine-gunned him with questions. Although he’d never seen his old man operate in the courtroom, he could guess this was exactly the strategy he used with people who testified against someone he was representing. “And you’ve never made a mistake in your whole life,” he snarled.
“Sure I’ve made mistakes,” said Jack. “But I owned up to them. I paid for them. I certainly didn’t try to blame somebody else for what I’d done.”
Ethan seethed in silence. As usual, Fisher, McBurney, and Hicks’s star attorney had all the right words, even if what he said was so much bullshit.
His father seemed to take his silence for agreement. “Look,” he said, “I know we haven’t seen eye to eye on a lot of things lately—”
Ethan snorted.
“—but,” continued Jack, “I only want what’s best for you.”
“Then give me back the money you took.”
Jack sighed and shook his head. “Money isn’t what’s at stake here, Ethan.”
“Then what is?”
“Doing what’s r
ight.”
Ethan looked down at his hands that had curled into fists. He forced his fingers apart, struggled to keep his voice even. “That would be life lesson number what?”
“Ethan—”
“No, really. They’re all coming so fast now that it’s hard to keep track. I think I need a program.”
“For Christ’s sake, don’t be such a smartass!”
Ethan blinked, astonished to hear his father swear, but that only fuelled his anger. “Just so I’m clear,” he said, his hands making fists again, “is ‘Don’t Be A Smartass’ a separate life lesson or a subsection of the ‘Doing What’s Right’ material we just covered?”
“Young man—” his father began, then stopped, and Ethan could see his jaw still working as if Jack Palmer were the one groping for words for a change. Yes! Ethan did a mental fistpump, betting that his old man preferred the predictability of courtroom procedure to the uncertainty of what passed for life on Seminary Lane. Somewhere in that attorney’s head of his there had to be a white room where everything he ever said got written down first, revised, edited for clarity, rehearsed, and then rehearsed some more.
“Ethan,” his father finally continued, “you’ve had everything you could possibly want.”
Ethan thought about that dumb Freedom from Want painting that Moore-or-Less had bought in New York, and his anger rekindled. People like that artist and Jack Palmer didn’t know a goddamn thing. “How would you know what I want?” he snapped. “You’re never around!”
“That’s not fair,” said his father. “Need I remind you, my job pays for the house you live in, the clothes on your back, the food you—”
“I thought you said money isn’t what’s at stake here.”
His father flushed. “You have no idea how lucky you are, Ethan. When I was your age—”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Sing that song again. The ballad of Ann Almighty and the poor little Palmers.”
His father’s face looked like a sudden scar as he turned toward the picture in the rosewood frame. Drawing a deep breath, he said, “All I ever wanted was to teach you values you could hold on to your whole life.”
“Values, huh?” Ethan was surprised by the venom in his own voice, but it gave him strength as he plunged ahead. “Like that case you’re working on now? Defending a man the whole world knows is guilty? The other driver got it all on video. Recorded him staggering at the scene of that accident, for Christ’s sake, then recorded him just driving off. And the guy claims he’s innocent? I’m wondering what value that’s teaching anyone. How about this? When you drink and drive, don’t run into people with cellphones.”
Turning again to Ethan, his father spoke evenly, but heat underlined every word. “Everyone is entitled to due process. Everyone is innocent—”
“Until proven guilty? The video’s already done that!”
“That video should never have been made public before the trial. It compromises—”
“Everyone knows who it compromises. The team of lawyers who have to defend that jerk-off.”
“It was an accident that could have happened to anyone!” Jack shouted, his face crimson.
Now it was Ethan’s mouth that hung open. But only for a moment. “You’re actually standing up for the guy?”
His father’s hands gripped the arms of the wingback as though he were holding himself in place. “The man’s a respected government official with years of public service to his credit. He made a mistake.”
Ethan leaped to his feet. “The guy gets drunk and rear-ends another driver then leaves the scene of the accident before making sure nobody is hurt. And that’s a mistake. But I clip the corner of a garage and receive the full punishment of Palmer law. That’s beautiful.” He turned and headed toward the doorway.
“Ethan! We haven’t finished here yet.”
Ethan ignored him.
“Don’t you dare walk away when I’m talking to you! Do you hear me?”
Ethan grabbed the handle of the front door and wrenched it open. Because he knew his father was expecting him to slam it, he left it swinging wide.
“Getting to be a habit?” asked Pete.
Ethan looked at the joint in his hand. “This?” He took another toke, then handed it back to his friend.
Pete sucked on it, held his breath for a long moment, and then released the sweet smoke, watching it curl over their heads. “No. You arguing with your dad and then running off.”
“Seems like it,” Ethan said. Then, “Hey, you didn’t have plans tonight, did you?”
“Nah.”
Ethan frowned. “You turning into a monk or something, buddy? When’s the last time you had a date?”
Pete gave an exaggerated sigh. “Please tell me we’re not going there again.”
“Look, I told you that Hailey Pettinger has the hots for you, right?” He’d gotten that from Rico, who played soccer with Hailey’s brother.
“Not my type,” said Pete.
“And what type would that be? Inflatable with a big round mouth?”
“Funny,” Pete replied.
“I mean it, man. You haven’t gone out with anybody since you took Corrine to the prom. And that was, like, four months ago.”
“Can I help it if I’m choosy?”
“There’s choosy and then there’s celibate.” Ethan stuck a finger in his mouth, flicked at something on his tongue.
“Let’s get your life straightened out and then we’ll worry about mine, okay?” said Pete, offering Ethan what remained of the joint.
Ethan shook his head. “I’m good.”
The October air made them both tug their jackets around them. Ethan hadn’t had time to grab something warmer, but his jacket was the least of his worries. What troubled him more were his shoes. After catching the Metro Transit, he’d walked the block and a half from the stop to Pete’s, where he’d ranted about his old man for a good half-hour. Then the two of them had walked to Subway, bought Steak & Cheese footlongs with Cokes, and ridden the bus down to the Arm. After all that activity, Ethan’s feet felt like someone had poured acid over them, and despite the cool of the evening, he’d taken his shoes and socks off revealing blisters that had formed, broken, re-formed, and then broken again. He wasn’t looking forward to cramming his feet back into those christly wingtips. The joint had taken the edge off, but he knew it would be an interesting walk back to the bus stop.
Pete took a final toke then tossed the burning remnant into the waves. “You think it’s safe?” he asked.
“To go out with Hailey?”
Pete pointed at the dark expanse before them. “The harbour.”
“How’d we get from dating to that?” asked Ethan, looking at his friend more closely. “You fried?”
Pete’s face creased in a foolish grin. “Sorry, man. I goof on good weed.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then, “What’d you mean about ‘safe’?” asked Ethan.
Pete nodded toward the Arm. “All those millions they spent cleaning it up. They say the bacteria level’s okay now, but would you swim in it?”
“Tonight?”
Pete elbowed him. “In the summer, fool.”
Ethan considered. “There’s still plenty of bacteria. They allow so many parts per million, right? There’ll always be shit out there.” He yawned and looked at his watch. “I should be heading back. Work tomorrow.” When he’d finally run out of steam ragging on his old man, Ethan had told Pete about his nightmare afternoon at The Chow Down and the schedule Lil had given him.
“So when do you actually start making money at that place?”
Ethan gave his buddy a palms-up Who knows? and began pulling his socks back on, his face contorting with each tug. Then came the shoes and a string of profanities.
“Whoa, you eat with that mouth?”
Ethan told Pete what he could do with his own mouth—and exactly what parts of his anatomy might benefit from the experience—as the two
gathered their things and headed up the street to the bus stop.
“What’s Allie doing tonight?” asked Pete.
Ethan shrugged. “I was supposed to call her when I got cleaned up after work, but then this thing with my old man set me off.” He pulled out his cell and pressed the power key. “I turned this off at work”—he didn’t bother mentioning that Ike had threatened to heave it into the alley behind the kitchen if he didn’t—”and forgot to turn it back on.” As the screen powered up, both he and Pete could see that Allie had left two messages. Ethan speed-dialed her, but the call went immediately to her voice mail. “Busy,” he said, pressing End and returning the phone to his pocket.
“You aren’t leaving her a message?”
Ethan looked at him. “Why all the questions?”
It was Pete’s turn to shrug. “Just thought she might be wondering where you are.”
“Where I am,” muttered Ethan, “is walking when you and I should be tooling in the Cobra.” Despite his buzz from the weed, he was limping again, which only made him more pissed at his old man.
“Yeah, about that,” said Pete. “I saw Filthy driving it this morning on Robie.”
Ethan halted. “That’s so not an image I need in my head right now, okay?”
Pete smiled sympathetically. “Sorry, man. Try that one instead.” He gestured toward the water behind them, its dark surface twinkling with lights reflected from buildings on the other side of the Arm. “Cool, huh?”
It was cool, but Ethan’s earlier comment echoed in his head: There’ll always be shit out there.
And even all those parts per million wouldn’t add up to the shit he knew he’d be in when he saw his old man again.
Chapter 8
“Some of us weren’t sure we’d see you again,” said Lil as Ethan came through the door of The Chow Down the next day. “Hey, Ike!” she called toward the kitchen. “You owe me five bucks!”