by Scott Carter
“I love poor people,” he said, unable to contain a smile that didn’t fit his words.
Her eyes told him to fuck off while she offered him her best political nod and move-on.
“Whoa,” he said, grabbing her closest wrist. “Be nice.”
She leaned into him so only he could hear her. “Be sober.”
“Do you know who I am?”
This snapped Sidney’s attention towards them from his seat at the bar where he was watching a football game.
“Do you know what I donated to your husband’s campaign? I can buy this place,” Barrett said, his volume growing.
The mayor’s wife pointed him out to security at this point, but that wasn’t what worried Sidney. What concerned him was what he knew Barrett would say next.
“Have a look at your husband’s funding, find my name at the top, and then come back to me and talk to me like this. I’m a writer. I’m …”
Sidney’s hand slipped over his mouth before the words “Russell Niles” could escape. He raised a finger to stop the security guards’ progress and steered Barrett towards a side door. Forget saving face, this was about saving a career.
Now Barrett finishes his beer feeling sure that the mayor’s party is better left in the abyss of hazy memories. He rubs at his eyes, choosing silence as his defense against guilt and shame, as if by refusing to engage the challenge, he can make it go away.
“Don told me about the press conference,” Sidney says, wiping at the sweat on his pint glass.
“Did he tell you he threatened to replace me with Martin Brouge?”
Sidney nods. “It’s a faster turnaround than we planned on, but you should be alright.”
“I haven’t been doing a lot of writing.”
“What happened to you asking me if I can get you a bonus for submitting two manuscripts at a time?”
“I’ve written three or four pages since I finished the last book.”
“Jesus, Barrett. I thought you had a draft of something or at the very least an outline if you were exaggerating, but nothing? You have a hundred-page manuscript due in a week. I don’t care if it’s for kids, that’s a lot of writing.”
“I can’t let Brogue replace me.”
“Listen, I’m saying what I’m about to say because I’m your friend and I care. Forget your pride. This is about your lifestyle. You just lost eight percent a book. You tell me how much you need to bring in a month to keep your house running. Because if Don cuts you off, publicly smears you like he threatened, and replaces you with Brouge, then everything ends. The video games, the pencil cases, the cartoons. Every stream of income will dry up and no one on the planet will publish you.”
Barrett stabs a piece of beef with his fork then puts it back into the bowl. “Do you think if he does replace me with Martin that he’ll actually sell books?”
“It’s children’s publishing with a big publisher behind him, so yeah, he’d sell.”
“Do you think he’d sell as many books as me?”
“Of course not.”
The words are what he wants to hear, but nothing about Sidney’s tone reassures him. He had never thought about being replaceable, and the reality is dark.
“I think we should hire a detective,” Sidney says. He finishes his pint and motions to the bartender for another. “There’s a guy I used to follow that model I was dating. He’s good and I think we need a professional on this.”
“No way. We’d have to tell a detective too much, and I don’t want anybody else with leverage.”
“We’re running out of time, Barrett.”
Richard sits adjacent to Dr. Burns and watches as the man loosens his tie and sets it on the table. The tie smells of cologne, and Richard wonders why the man would use so much of something designed to attract women at his place of work.
“Was your father prone to outbursts?”
Richard glares at him and wishes he could transport him to another place.
Carol unclenches her hands to answer the question. “No, he doesn’t have a temper.”
“Then perhaps it’s atavistic.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Perhaps it’s a trait passed down to you from many generations ago.”
Richard looks at Carol and is eager to hear her response as the doctor picks up his laptop.
“My father was a quiet man. And I never met my husband’s father, but he always talked about him positively.”
Burns clicks away on his laptop before setting it on the table. He moves his stool back a few feet and steps forward. “Today, I want to introduce you to a relaxation technique. Breathing is the key to relieving stress, so we inhale deep and pick our stress up as high as we can ...” Slowly, he raises his arms above his head until his dress shirt strains against his girth.
“And then we exhale and push our stress beneath us.” He lowers his hands as he exhales and pushes the air beneath him palms up.
Richard gives his mom a look like it’s not going to happen and she returns a look that warns him to cooperate.
“Up ...” Burns says again. He raises his arms, and Carol follows. “And down.”
Richard raises his arms and breathes in deep. He wishes he could take in enough air to blow Burns through the wall with his exhale like a superhero from a comic book he’d read, but the doctor’s voice is too distracting to inhale any deeper.
“Good, Richard. Good. Now push that stress beneath you.”
As much as he hates the man, he wishes it were that easy. Do a few breathing exercises and push the secret he keeps from his mother out of memory, push how much he misses his father beneath him, push how much he hates his father for leaving the family away forever. But it’s just air beneath his palms.
“Excellent.” Burns claps. “Now, to grow as people we need to accept responsibility, and that takes practice.” He takes a bent cactus the length of an index finger from a windowsill with other potted plants with green leaves and passes it to Richard. “Your task is to take care of it for a month. Respect it, nurture it, and return it to me in the same condition it is today or better.”
“I don’t like plants.”
“That’s irrelevant. The point is it will give you practice caring for something else. I’ll be depending on you, and I know you’ll do a great job.”
“I’ll make sure he does,” Carol says, taking the plant into her lap.
Dr. Burns walks to a mini-fridge and removes a small bottle with GINSENG printed on the label. “Would you like anything to drink?” Both Richard and Carol shake their heads.
He shakes the bottle intensely before opening the cap and taking a sip that from the look on his face does not seem satisfying. He gestures at Richard with the bottle. “Why are you here?”
“Because my mom makes me come.”
“I haven’t known you long, Richard, but I’ve known you long enough to know you are smarter than that. Perhaps it will help if I rephrase the question. Why does any person go to therapy?”
“To get better.”
“To be the best person that he or she can be. Say it with me. To be the best person that he or she can be.”
Carol says it on cue while Richard more moves his lips than makes noise.
“Part of being the best person is selflessness. Giving to other people as much as you receive. I’d like you to give a possession or possessions that you have enjoyed to someone else. For example, I love my tennis racket. I won first place in last year’s over fifty doctor’s league with that racket, and in an effort to be the best person I can be I gave that racket to a foundation that teaches kids from disadvantaged neighbourhoods to play tennis.”
Richard looks at him like he’s crazy.
“Can you think of anything you could give?”
Richard wants to say no but he knows that will lead to trouble, so he considers an answer that will make everyone happy. “I have thirty dollars I could donate.”
“That’s nice of you,” Carol says.
“It i
s nice of you, but I was thinking of something that can bring more happiness than money.” Burns finishes the ginseng in a long drink and wipes at his lips.
“Your mother mentioned that you’re fond of the Mil Bennett books. I’m thinking that donating your collection would make someone very happy.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You’ve read the books, haven’t you?”
“Lots of times.”
“And you enjoyed them?”
“I love them.”
“Then there’s no reason not to share that love with someone else. What do you say, Mom? Can this be arranged?”
“Of course.”
Richard grits his teeth so hard that his cheekbones bulge. “I don’t want to give away my books.”
“We can always get you new ones, dear. It’s in the spirit of giving.”
“The spirit of being the best we can be,” Burns adds.
Forget being angry — crying feels appropriate, but Richard’s eyes are so dry he can’t will a single tear, and he wonders if it’s all the medication he’s taking that’s robbed him of the ability to weep.
At school, Richard counts down the minutes to lunch, rushes to the library and logs into his usual computer. He types in his devilhunter9 address and clicks on new mail.
This time, he doesn’t just want to send Burns a message, he wants it to sting.
Just the thought of giving away all his Russell Niles books makes him fret, and he wants Burns to feel the same kind of stress. He’s typed Burns’ address into the send box when a heavy hand touches his shoulder. He turns to see principal Haskins.
“Log out and come with me.”
Richard knows exactly what will happen next.
Nothing principal Haskins says will be as bad as facing his mother, so he just absorbs the man’s scolding then his obligatory guidance and waits for the inevitable.
At home, he sits on his bed while his mother hovers in front of him so intensely it looks like she might strike the closest object.
“I know you’re upset about your father, but Dr. Burns is trying to help you, and lashing out at him isn’t going to change our situation. What you did is unacceptable, and I know you’re a better person than that. No video games for a month.” She gestures to his bookshelf. “And I want every one of these Mil Bennett books packed and ready to donate to a charity before dinner. Are we clear?”
Richard nods and watches as she sets his medication on the bedstand. He stares at the pills for half an hour before taking them. The only thing worse than taking the pills is being alone, and Barrett is the only person he wants to communicate with, so he picks up his cell phone and sends him a text. I’m grounded. Call me.
Barrett is sitting on a bench and looks up at a billboard promoting his latest book when he receives the text. He’s seen billboards promoting his work many times before, but this is the first time he appreciates just how huge they are. One ad campaign in New York had the cover of his third book filling one side of a thirty-storey building.
The cost was over one hundred grand a week. He considers how many thousands of people have looked at the billboard as he calls Richard and stands to get better reception.
“Hi,” Richard answers, his voice setting the tone of his mood.
“Grounded, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do, get caught with one of those animes with naked women?”
“I got caught sending my therapist mean emails from a computer at school.”
“Really?”
“My mom is out shopping. Can you come over for a quick visit? I’m not allowed to leave the apartment for a week.”
“Of course.”
Barrett ends the call and puts his phone in his pocket. Then he notices an attractive young woman staring at him. Before the extortion, this was an invite for debauchery, but now it only stokes his paranoia. He watches her until she fades into the distance, and he wonders first why she stared at him and then if she’d even stared at him at all.
When he knocks on Richard’s door, he is surprised that the kid answers immediately.
“You’re sure your mom’s not going to be back for a bit?”
Richard nods.
“Because I haven’t snuck into anyone’s house when they were grounded since I was a teenager, and I don’t know if you’re worth the risk Sherry Hayes was.”
The boy drops his weight into a chair. “My mom is making me give my Mil Bennett books to charity.”
“Why?”
“Because my therapist says sharing something I’ve enjoyed will help me be the best I can be.”
“Weird.”
“See. It’s horrible. I can’t believe I’m grounded.”
“Everyone gets grounded a few times.”
“But you think my mom’s wrong for grounding me, right?”
“No, I think she loves you and is trying to do what’s best for you.”
“You wouldn’t ground me though, would you?”
“For sending prank emails? Grounding’s not my thing and I admire your spunk, but making your therapist angry isn’t the way to go. You have more to lose than him.”
Richard takes a moment to absorb Barrett’s words.
“How did you get caught, anyway?”
“I sent them from the same computer in the library every time. If I had sent them from different places, they would have never found out, but I sent it from the school library every time and always at lunch, so they tracked me down.”
The words fill Barrett with an insight that makes his face glow. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I’ve got to go, but thank you.” He kisses Richard on the head, and the boy pulls away. “Call me tomorrow.” Barrett rushes out of the apartment and texts Sidney as fast as possible. Who is the most computer-savvy person you know?
Fifteen minutes later, Barrett walks into an angular building at the end of an alley. The front of the building is a pastel purple that makes him think of South America. Inside, it is spare.
A stainless steel drafting table, a wooden table full of computers, and a few high-back rolling chairs are the only items in the place. There is no art on the walls, no couches, and no kitchen. This is a space dedicated to work.
Barrett walks toward Crance, who sits in front of ten computer monitors of various sizes.
Crance is somewhere in his thirties and looks like he eats once a day and sleeps no more than he has to. Tight cornrows draw attention to a half-moon scar centring his forehead.
“Can I help you?” His voice sounds like someone is sitting on his chest.
“I’m Barrett Fuller. Sidney Taylor says you’re the problem solver.”
“He’s a good man.”
“I need you to track a website address and check every Internet cafe and library in the city to see if the webmaster is logging in from any of their computers and whether or not there is a pattern in the times or days they are sent.”
Crance picks at a frayed cornrow but keeps one eye on a computer screen with an image of an intersection somewhere downtown. “Is tomorrow reasonable?”
“Tomorrow’s great.”
“And Sidney told you my fee?”
“This is so important, I’m paying you double.” He passes the guy a slip of paper with the Once Upon a Hypocrite website and an envelope that struggles to contain its contents.
Twenty-Six
Crance gives Barrett enough hope that he can face Don’s threat and write. With all the extortion demands taped to the wall behind his computer screen, he sits down and begins to type. The words don’t come easy, but he has something to say and it’s a start. Each stroke of the key is more rhythmic, until he finally writes a sentence he is happy with. And then the phone rings. He looks to see Don on the call display and hits speakerphone.
“How’s the writing coming?” Everything about Don’s tone makes it clear he is enjoying Barrett’s angst.
“Great.”
“I’m about to have lunch with Martin, and I thought you might want to be there for our discussion.”
“Where are you?”
Of course he wants to be there. Even though he knows Don is baiting him, he can’t resist.
Twenty minutes later, a waiter with heavy eyes and a slouch leads Barrett to a booth where Martin and Don are drinking wine. As soon as he sees Barrett, Martin raises his glass.
“Hey, Barrett. I’m glad you could join us.”
“I wouldn’t miss this.”
Don offers Barrett a smug smile. “Barrett.”
“Don.”
“You really have to talk to me about the market,” Martin says. He swirls his wine around in the glass. “Because my advisors are killing me.”
Barrett ignores the question. He needs to determine how much Martin knows. “What brings you two together?”
“We’re talking about collaborating.”
“Children’s books?”
Martin nods, but his face is hard to read. Is he being coy or is he being cautious?
“Martin has some brilliant ideas,” Don says.
“Thank you, but it’s really more a case of how stale the genre’s become.”
“Stale?” The muscles in Barrett’s back tighten.
“Absolutely. The Niles books feel like they’re written in his sleep, like he’s on auto-pilot.”
Don fills his glass and locks eyes on Barrett. “He is getting a little comfortable.”
As if working in tandem, Martin leans back in his chair and gestures at Barrett with his glass. “Have you ever read any of Niles books?”
“Sure.”
“And?”
“They’re solid.”
Martin scoffs. “If cookie-cutter moral lessons count as pillars.”
“What about the emotional appeal?”