by John Altman
In the darkening forest, the tops of the trees blushed red. Long fingers of shadow stretched out toward the parked cruiser. A whippoorwill gave a lilting cry. The woodpecker replied urgently, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
‘The easy way,’ said Gibson, ‘or the hard way.’
Ravensdale smoked, exhaled. ‘His master’s voice.’
The house was a white wooden four-square, sun-gold in the last of the day’s light.
The foyer was decorated with a wicker umbrella stand and a bowl of wax fruit on a low table. From the dining room wafted scents of sirniki pancakes and sour cream. From the kitchen came the clattering of a dishwasher being emptied.
In the living room, Dima was watching TV in his pajamas. Coming in, Ravensdale ruffled his son’s hair. ‘How you doing, kiddo?’
‘Ka-CHOW!’ Dima said without looking up. A mustache of dried chocolate milk on his upper lip. On-screen, Lightning McQueen was accepting a compliment. You’ve got more talent in one lugnut than a lot of cars has got on their whole body …
Ravensdale glanced through a window. The police cruiser was just pulling up out front, dousing its lights.
In the kitchen, he pecked a kiss on to the back of Sofiya’s neck. ‘See the car on your way in?’ she asked.
‘What car?’
‘My car. This guy stopped right in front of me, and I hit him.’
‘Anybody hurt?’
‘No. Just a – what do you call it? Bender fender. We exchanged insurance.’
‘Dima in the car?’
‘Thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.’
Ravensdale unpacked groceries, putting milk into the refrigerator. ‘You eat?’
‘We both did. Yours is on the table. I’ll put him down.’
‘Let me.’ A beat. ‘Then we need to talk.’
She turned from the dishwasher. Her black hair had grown shaggy, almost but not quite long enough to cut and style. Her cheeks had filled in, both flesh and color. Her green eyes were cloudy, hard to read. After a moment, she turned away again. ‘Should I be nervous?’
He put hands on to her shoulders, pecked another kiss on to the nape of her neck. ‘We’ll be fine.’
In the living room, he snapped off the TV. Holding Dima’s hand, he climbed the stairs. After brushing teeth, the boy – heavier every day – climbed into Ravensdale’s lap, carrying the book he had chosen. ‘Mommy hit a car,’ he announced.
‘She mentioned.’
‘’Nother car stopped, and Mommy crashed into it. Boom. She said bad words.’
‘But nobody was hurt.’ Ravensdale opened the book. ‘That’s what matters.’
‘Oh,’ said Dmitri, settling in.
‘Frog and Toad were caught in the rain. They ran to Frog’s house. “I am all wet,” said Toad. “The day is ruined.”’
Dmitri snuggled up; a thumb found its way into his mouth.
‘“If you stand near the stove, your clothes will soon be dry. I will tell you a story while we are waiting,” said Frog.’
We picked up the girl. Problem is, she doesn’t trust us.
So Fletcher’s private game had been not so private after all. And now Ravensdale would inherit it. In the end, he would do the opposite of dismantle the man’s work; he would perpetuate it. Run it.
‘“When I was small, not much bigger than a pollywog,” said Frog, “my father said to me, ‘Son, this is a cold, gray day, but spring is just around the corner.’ I wanted spring to come. I went out to find that corner.”’
Maybe it was necessary. Justice was the act that produced the greatest overall benefit for society. Lesser evils were necessary in the name of the greater good.
It might have been Andy Fletcher talking. From beyond the grave the man had bequeathed Ravensdale not only his prize agent, it seemed, but also his ethos. Whatever it takes.
‘“I went around the corner to look for spring. There was only some wet mud and a lizard who was chasing his tail. I was tired, and it started to rain …”’
Still – Dima deserved a world worth inheriting. Good men could not content themselves with bread and circuses, no matter how tempting.
‘“I went back home. When I got there,” said Frog, “I found another corner. It was the corner of my house. I went around that corner, too. I saw the sun coming out. I saw birds sitting and singing in a tree. I had found the corner that spring was just around.” The end.’
He closed the book. ‘Another story,’ Dima said.
‘Next time, champ. Bedtime.’
For several seconds, the only sound was the droning cry of the wind outside. Dima’s emerald eyes – Sofiya’s eyes – glinted with the consideration of challenge. ‘Next time?’ he asked at last.
‘Into bed, kiddo.’
A man does his best, he thought wearily. His best is all he can do.
Dima climbed into his Lightning McQueen bed. Ravensdale covered him with a blanket, leaned over, pecked a kiss on to the button nose, and accepted one on his cheek. ‘Night, champ.’
‘Night, Daddy.’
‘Sweet dreams.’
‘Sweet dreams, Daddy.’
On his way out, he switched off the light.