by Anthony Izzo
The General strode forward and hoisted Paul up by the arm, scattering fish flakes across the rug and sending the container rolling. He got up close to Paul’s face. The smell of old beer and sweat filled Paul’s nostrils.
“I’ll take the damn things down myself.”
He shoved Paul to the floor and tore the Darth Vader poster, ripping the Dark Lord’s head off. The remaining part of the poster sagged like a dying flower. He crumpled the poster in his hand and tossed it at Paul.
“Take the rest of it down,” he said.
He stalked off, leaving Paul with a sore arm and a ruined poster. And damn that son of a bitch, Paul burst into tears.
Jack felt as if he had stepped into something resembling a basilica. The floor in the entrance was white marble and he had to crane his neck to view the vaulted ceiling. Paintings that looked like they belonged in museums hung on the walls and a gold-framed mirror near the doorway appeared to be worth more than his father’s car. To top it off, a white baby grand piano waited for someone to come over and tickle it.
“Take your coat off,” Ronnie said.
Jack unzipped his coat and felt it pulled from his arms. He turned around to find John smiling down on him and neatly tucking a hanger into the coat. John then took Ronnie’s coat and hung it on a coatrack inside the doorway.
“Would you gentlemen like some cocoa and cookies?”
“Sure, but I have to be home by six,” Jack said.
“John will drive you home, right, John?”
“Certainly,” John said.
John motioned for them to follow and they did, strolling down a crème-colored hallway and arriving in a kitchen that rivaled Jack’s house in size. Silver pots and pans hung on a rack over stainless steel counters. Everything was stainless, the counters, the commercial-size ovens, and even the door to a walk-in freezer.
The burner on the stove hissed to life as John turned the knob. He reached up and took down a pan, then sidestepped to the fridge and got out a gallon of milk. It lapped into the pan as he poured.
John headed for a wooden door at the far end of the kitchen.
“That’s the pantry,” Ronnie said.
John returned with two packets of cocoa and a sleeve of chocolate chip cookies. Jack heard the milk start to bubble in the pan and John took two white mugs from under the counter and poured the hot milk into them. Then he tore open the packets and stirred in the powdered mix. After fixing the cocoa, he left down the hallway from which they had come.
“Have a seat,” Ronnie said.
Ronnie hoisted himself up onto one of the stools and grabbed the counter for balance. His rear end half slid off the stool and he had a panicked look as if he knew he was going to hit the floor. He lost his grip on the counter and plopped onto the floor. Jack stifled a laugh.
“You’re not too swift on your feet, are you?” Jack said.
“Shut up.” Ronnie stood up, rubbing his hip.
They managed to get on the stools without further incident, and Jack ripped open the wax paper wrapper that enclosed the cookies.
“You guys saved my butt at the police station.”
“I wouldn’t go pissing off Vinnie again. He’s probably going to get you back.”
Jack took a cookie from the package and flipped it so it landed in his palm.
“I’m used to bullies,” he said.
Ronnie looked down at his cocoa with a weariness Jack had never seen in someone his own age. He studied the kid for a second, the fleshy face, the broad nose, and the freckles covering his cheeks. Ronnie’s hair came down straight across his forehead in a bowl cut that would have made Moe Howard proud. Kids like Ronnie were like chum to sharks, and it was a shame, because he probably deserved better.
Ronnie took his third cookie from the sleeve.
“Make sure you steer clear of Vinnie. At least for a few weeks.”
“He’d better steer clear of me. Hey, wanna see the pool?”
“Sure.”
“Ronnie.” It was a woman’s voice.
“That’s my mom. Let’s go see what she wants.”
Ronnie slid off the stool and rumbled down the hallway. Jack looked around, thinking you could host a cooking show in a kitchen like this. In his entrancement with the kitchen, he did not notice John slipping up behind him.
“How’s those cookies?”
“Not homemade, but they’ll do.”
“I heard Ronnie say you saved him. What happened?” John pulled up the stool vacated by Ronnie and sat down.
“Just some bullies.”
“Tell me about it.”
Jack told him what had happened outside the police station.
“Ronnie’s always had trouble. Sometimes he starts it and sometimes he doesn’t, but that boy’s a magnet for bullies.”
“He told me that, too.”
“Couple years ago some kids beat him into a coma,” John said.
“That sucks. Why’d they do it?”
“Didn’t like the look of him. Or maybe because he’s overweight. People don’t need a reason to be mean to one another.”
“What happened to the kids that beat him?”
“They were punished.”
“Like sent to the Father Baker Home?” Jack asked.
“Not a boys’ home, but they got theirs.”
Jack desperately wanted to know what had happened to these kids. “Did they go to a regular prison?”
“Another time. You think Ronnie can be your friend?”
“Sure.”
“Good. He needs someone to look out for him.”
John leaned in close again, showing bloodshot webs running through the whites of his eyes. His bald head seemed enormous.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “If you’re gonna be Ronnie’s friend, there is two things you have to know. Always be good to him in front of his mother. You’ll meet her shortly. And if you’re coming to the estate . . .” He looked over Jack’s head to make sure no one was coming. Then he looked Jack in the eye and placed his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “Never stray away from the house. Stay in the house proper.”
“Sure, John.”
“Promise me.”
“Promise.”
He patted Jack on the shoulder and said, “You listen to those two things and you’ll be just fine.”
Something about John’s words chilled him to the core.
CHAPTER 4
Ronnie poked his head into the kitchen. “Come on and meet my mom.”
Jack slid off the stool and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He followed Ronnie out of the kitchen and down the crème hallway until they wound up in a study.
The room had bookshelves on all sides, stacked to the ceiling and filled with leather-bound volumes that looked like they belonged at Oxford. The fire warmed Jack’s skin as he entered the room, and a log hissed from inside the firebox. Jack looked around, taking the room in, and glanced out the window to see the silhouette of the woods in the distance. It made him think of John’s warning to stay in the house, and there was no likelihood of him going into those dark woods.
He had been so enamored with the room he didn’t notice the woman sitting in the leather wingback chair.
“Like the room?”
Jack nodded.
She was the opposite of Ronnie. Where Ronnie was short and squat, the woman was tall and the bell-bottom jeans she wore clung to her long legs. She stood up and seemed to glide toward Jack, a smile on her face.
Up close she was a knockout. Flowing red hair and eyes as blue as the Caribbean. A generous mouth with full lips that nearly matched the color of her hair. If he saw her on the street, she would warrant a second or third look, no question.
“You’re quite a handsome boy. If you haven’t figured it out, I’m Ronnie’s mother. Cassie Winter.” She held out her hand and he shook it. Cassie watched him, smiling, and he thought his knees might turn to Jell-O pudding. She seemed to enjoy watching him.
“What are
you thinking right now? Be honest.”
“About Christmas break.”
“Are not.”
“Really—”
“You think I’m pretty, don’t you?”
Jack looked away, examined the books on the shelves. “Yes.”
“That’s okay. Come here.”
Cassie held out her hand and he took it. She led him to another wingback opposite hers and sat down, crossing those long legs and letting her foot dangle. “Who are those boys that bothered Ronnie?”
“Vinnie Palermo and Joe Leary. Couple of goons.”
Ronnie sauntered in and plopped down on the floor next to Cassie’s chair.
“Had to take a leak,” he said.
“Ronald,” Cassie said.
“So you chased these boys away?” she asked Jack.
“Not exactly.”
“Ronnie could use a good friend like you.”
Jack shrugged.
“Why not?” he said.
The mantel clock dinged six times.
“Crap. I have to be home at six.” He tried to stand up, but Cassie placed a hand on his arm, and he immediately felt a sense of calm. It was like lying on a warm beach, the sun pleasantly browning his skin, and sinking into the throes of an afternoon nap. He exhaled, relaxing but still thinking about Mom grounding him. And being grounded during Christmas break would suck the big one.
“I can see the worry in your face, Jack. I’ll take care of your mother. And, Ronnie, what did I tell you about antagonizing bullies?”
“They started it,” he said.
“Ronnie,” she said.
“Okay. No more.”
“John, will you drive Jack home?”
Jack turned to see John leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded in front of him.
“Of course.”
“Don’t worry about your parents, just tell them where you were and it will be fine,” Cassie said.
She smiled and Jack felt his knees go to syrup again. Any man who saw that smile must have fallen in love with her, whether he wanted to or not.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a little dizzy,” he said.
Ronnie poked him in the arm. “I hope we’re in the same class,” he said.
“That’d be pretty cool.”
It occurred to Jack he hadn’t seen Ronnie at school yet.
“You’re just starting a week before Christmas break. Man, are you a lucky dog!”
“Two weeks off right away. Not bad for the new kid,” Ronnie said.
If the new kid kept pissing off Vinnie and his gang, he might wind up with a broken nose, or worse. At Brampton Middle (and other schools, he was sure), the fat kids, the speech-impeded, and the science geeks were fodder for the cannons. Ronnie’s being fat put him behind a very large eight ball right from the start.
“Ronnie, go wash up for dinner.”
Jack turned to follow his new friend.
“Jack, can I talk to you before you go?”
What was this all about?
Alan Quinn kicked his ’73 Buick in the rust patch that occupied the driver’s-side door. Little flakes of rust crumbled off, landed in the freshly fallen snow, and were covered as quickly as they hit. He should have kicked his own ass for forgetting to stop at the Sunoco, for the needle had been just above E when he left the house, and now he was stuck.
Now he stood beside the car on Big Fork Road, next to the pines that marked the edge of the old Steadman property. He kicked the car again, this time muttering “bitch” under his breath as if the car were at fault.
Clear mucus trickled from his nose and he wiped it with the back of his glove. Five minutes in this Antarctica and his nose ran. The pine trees rocked back and forth, swishing and shaking with the wind. Every few minutes, headlights passed him, but no one stopped to offer help.
He opened the door, pulled the keys from the ignition, and proceeded to open the trunk. He shoved aside a wool blanket and jumper cables until he found the five-gallon gas can he kept for times such as these. A shake of the can confirmed it was dry.
Not only was the weather rotten and his chances of flagging down a car slim, but he was missing out on an early Christmas present. Carrie’s parents were in Orlando for two weeks and she had promised him a gift that involved whipped cream and her naked body. If he made it to her house and collected his present, the ensuing story would make him a legend in the dorms.
He checked his watch, and it read ten after six. He’d promised Carrie he’d be there between six-thirty and seven, and she told him not to be late. After closing the trunk and zipping his parka, he started down the road, head down to minimize the effects of the wind.
He followed Big Fork Road, walking parallel to the wrought-iron fence that protected the Steadman property from the common folk on the road. Five minutes later, he passed a set of gates and the driveway leading to the mansion. Upon second glance, he noticed the gates were opened and thought it strange. He shrugged and trudged through the snow.
A minute later, he heard something under the wind, a low crunching sound that moved along in a steady beat.
He stopped and turned, shielding his brow, hoping to see through the flurries of snow, but blinded by the darkness. He heard it again. Swish-crunch, swish-crunch.
“Anybody there?”
Don’t get freaked out, just keep walking.
He turned around again to find someone standing three feet from him.
“Hey.”
Something struck him in the chest, feeling like a piston, and knocked him backward. He hit the ground and the freezing snow stung his cheek and filled his ears, making him feel as if he were listening through cotton. As he tried to rise, the someone pinned him down, a cold hand closing on his throat.
CHAPTER 5
“See you tomorrow at school,” Ronnie said. He tromped out of the room.
“I’ll bring the limo up,” John said.
Cassie thanked him.
“Have a seat, Jack,” she said, opening her hand, palm up, to indicate the wingback chair.
Jack sat back down, and Cassie sat opposite him, tucking her legs underneath her.
“Ronnie’s different,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“Come on, Jack.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Then we agree. I’d like you to watch out for him.”
Jack shifted in his seat and the leather squeaked underneath him.
“I know you just met him, but he needs help. His mouth has a habit of acting before his brain can stop it. Understand?”
Jack nodded.
“It’s difficult for him. His father died when he was young, and this is his third school in the past four years. Plus, there’s the weight. I know kids aren’t kind to heavy kids.”
There was no disputing that fact.
Jack glanced at the clock and it read ten minutes after six. “Don’t worry about the time, dear. I might worry too much about Ronnie, but he’s all I’ve got.”
“We could be friends, I guess.”
He wasn’t sure he liked being pressured by someone’s mom to befriend a kid, but he couldn’t say no with her facing him like this.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Cassie leaned forward and clasped his hand in hers, and he felt as if his blood had mixed with warm syrup.
John entered the room, his overcoat dusted with snowflakes and drops of water on his head. “All set, Jack?”
“Uh-huh.”
He stood and Cassie did the same.
“We’ll be seeing you around. Remember to take care of my Ronnie.”
He felt as if he’d been recruited for something, but for what he had no idea.
The limo pulled up to 47 Church Street and John got out. The door handle clicked and Jack’s door swung open, a flurry of swirling flakes pelting him in the face. He stepped out, thanked John for the ride, and hurried up the driveway. At the door, a wreath with a red ribbon and silver bells swayed in the wind.
His mother watched out the front window and let the curtain go, no doubt on her way to let Jack inside.
Jack picked up his saucer sled off the driveway. The wind would toss it like a Frisbee if he left it outside. His mother opened the door, a frown stamped on her face. That frown that said he was in trouble and about to face the wrath.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” she said.
“I was at a friend’s house.”
“Who?”
“A new kid in town. I met him today.”
“Does this person own a clock?”
“They have a sundial. They’re antitechnology.”
“You’re in enough trouble already.”
She tugged on the front of his jacket and pulled him into the hallway, where he kicked his boots onto a rug, tipping Mom’s duck boots over. He leaned the sled against the wall.
“Pick that up, Jack.”
He stooped down and arranged the boots in a row.
“So what’s your excuse?”
For a mom, she was pretty cool, letting him go to the Shriver Mall with the guys or allowing him to blast Def Leppard tapes on the stereo. Paul wasn’t allowed this luxury—his father thought heavy metal signaled the decline of Western civilization. She always had cookies or brownies for him and the guys, too. Not a bad mom at all.
But come home late and she assumed you had been kidnapped by a serial killer or flattened by a Metro bus. In Mary Harding’s world, tardiness meant the police were scraping your carcass off the street.
“Are you going to answer me? And why the limo?”
“That’s a new taxi service. They’ve thrown out the yellow cabs.”
“You’re pushing it.”
“It’s Ronnie’s,” he said.
“Ronnie?”
“He lives up at the Steadman place.”
She placed her hand under his chin and tilted it so he was looking up at her. “Jack, please.”
“Honest, they’re loaded.”
“The Steadman place as in the fabulously wealthy Steadmans?”
“Yep.”
She held his chin for another moment, then let go, apparently satisfied. “We’ll see what your father thinks.”
The case is going to trial, ladies and gentlemen.