by Anthony Izzo
“He did.”
“He promised me he’d look after Ronnie,” she said.
“He’s a good kid from what I can tell. Ronnie did ditch them down in the tunnels. Jack just got a little hot. Boys will be boys, and all.”
“So his promise means nothing?”
She was very dangerous when she was like this. The flat tone in the voice, the stare that wouldn’t look at you, the detachment from the present but sharp enough so she could still read the situation. It had been like this just before she tore Ronnie’s father to pieces.
“No. I think Mr. Jack’s promise means a lot. He just got a little hot, lost his temper.”
“Other people can lose their temper, too.” Her eyes glazed over. “It hurts me when other children pick on Ronnie. He’s all I have and if anything happened to him . . . I wouldn’t want to be around me when that happened.”
“I know you love him, but he eggs other kids on, especially bullies. If I hadn’t found them in the alley, they would have been turned into ground hamburger.”
“Jack was supposed to look out for him, too. Did he help at all?”
“That boy was on the ground with broken ribs.”
“That can be forgiven. But the shove can’t. That’s how it starts. First a shove, then a name call; then five of them are beating him up every day after school.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Send Jack a warning.”
“Don’t”
She looked up at him and smiled. The smile said don’t get in my way.
“Do you want to see your family again?”
She just pulled the ace from her sleeve.
“That’s a dumb question,” John said.
“Then this is the right thing to do.”
He wanted to say no, you’re a crazy bitch. Scaring half to death an eleven-year-old kid who had a disagreement with your son was not the right thing to do. It wasn’t even in the same ballpark as right.
“He won’t be harmed.”
“You’ve already got the cops sniffing around here.”
“They don’t bother me. That oaf they sent out here today was no match for me. He didn’t even know his own name when I was done with him.”
“You don’t want attention.”
“It will just be a scare, John. Jack needs to know I take a promise seriously.”
“Ronnie left them down there with no lights. Those kids were scared shitless when I brought them out of the tunnels. I’d be ticked at Ronnie, too. Friend or no friend.”
That got her attention, because she unfolded her leg and stood up, but she still had that stare, like a doll’s eyes.
“I gave you things and I can take them back. You happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it cost you your family. Don’t make me take anything else from you. You saw what I did to Ronnie’s father.
“Ronnie will return to school tomorrow. And you let me know if he’s mistreated by Jack or any of the other boys.”
“I will. Can I go now? My dinner’s getting cold.”
“Go on.”
He turned and left, glad to be away from her. John knew what he had to do, which was call Jack Harding and tell him to be very careful. But how would he get in touch with the boy? He doubted Jack’s parents would let their son talk to a grown man on the phone (especially a grown black man), and it would be even more suspicious if he showed up at the door. Cassie said she would only send a warning, but with the Wraith, you never knew. It lived to consume, to kill, to rend flesh and break bones.
He would have to go to the Harding house and watch over Jack. If Cassie found out, it might cost him his life, but he had to do it to protect the boy.
He strode down the mansion’s never-ending hallways, plotting.
They moved single file on the sidewalk, each of them looking back every few moments to make sure the General wasn’t chasing them. Paul felt as if he had a small roller coaster whirling around in his head. There was no possible way he could go home after this, for he would wind up buried in the backyard with his old dog, Scooter. That’s where his father would put him for good.
They all slowed to a walk, trudging through the snow, seven inches deep and crunchy.
“You guys saved my bacon back there.”
“No problem, Paul. You can stay at my house tonight if you want,” Jack said.
“I don’t think I can ever go home again,” Paul said.
“We’ll straighten things out, Fussel. Don’t worry,” Chris said, and patted him on the shoulder.
“You guys aren’t half bad.”
“Let’s get to my house,” Jack said.
“I’ve got to split,” Chris said. “My old man’s gonna be shitting bricks sideways when he finds out I cut practice.”
“My dinner’s ready by now. Gotta go. See you guys,” Emma said, favoring Jack with a smile that left as soon as it came. Something was going on between the two of them, and Paul wasn’t in on it. Yet.
Emma and Chris continued ahead toward Main Street, disappearing into the snow.
Jack and Paul made it to Jack’s house, stepped in the side door, and took their coats off. They walked up the steps and into the kitchen where the most wonderful smells permeated the air. Frying hamburgers, sizzling in a pan, and raw onions in a bowl on the counter. Jack’s stomach groaned.
His mom stood at the stove, flipping the hamburgers and making them hiss. “Hello, boys. How are you, Paul?”
“Okay, Mrs. Harding.”
“Mom, can Paul stay for dinner?”
“Well, you should let me know ahead of time. But if it’s okay with his parents, it’s okay with me.”
“His dad said okay.”
“I’ll throw on a couple more burgers then.”
Mrs. Harding always had enough food in the house to feed the First Army, and if you happened to drop in at dinner, you weren’t leaving with an empty belly.
Ten minutes later they sat down to eat, and Paul devoured two burgers in record time, relishing the slight greasiness of them. Jack’s dad asked him if he’d ever eaten before, but Paul barely heard him while tearing into the burgers. He washed them down with a can of Sunkist and let out a huge belch, which Jack followed with one of his own. Jack’s mom frowned, but his dad chimed in, “Good one.”
Jack’s mom cleared the table, scraped the food off the plates into the garbage can, and rinsed the dishes. Paul and Jack sat at the table, Paul working on another Sunkist. That was the great thing about coming to Jack’s house: you could eat as much as you wanted and on top of it, no one hit you.
“Can Paul stay over, Mom?” Jack asked.
“It’s a school night.”
“Please?”
“Not tonight, Jack. You’ve got homework and I’m sure Paul does too.”
“Tonight’s a little different,” Jack said.
“How is it different?” she said, squirting dish soap into the sink. Tiny bubbles rose from the sink and popped.
“Paul’s dad gave him some trouble. He got really mad because we were in the basement playing when he wasn’t home.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me, Paul, Chris, and Emma.”
“And I take it Paul’s not supposed to have anyone around with no grown-ups.”
“Yeah,” Paul said.
“What happened when your father came home?”
“He shoved Paul on the stairs. Then we ran. He was like a crazy person,” Jack said.
“Is that true, Paul?”
“Yes. I’m afraid to go home.”
Jack’s mom clucked her tongue and said, “That’s rotten. A boy shouldn’t be afraid to go home.”
Jack’s dad entered the kitchen, a copy of the Buffalo News tucked under his arm. “What’s going on?”
“I need to talk to you,” Mrs. Harding said.
She motioned for him to follow, and they went to the dining room. Paul could hear them whispering but not well enough to pick up exactly what they were saying.
“I hope so.”
A moment later they came back out, Jack’s dad with his hands in his pockets, newspaper tucked under his arm. His mother pretended to straighten canisters on the counter, and Paul thought she looked nervous.
“You can stay here tonight, Paul. But I’m going to call your father and let him know where you are. It sounds like we’ve got a mess on our hands, huh?”
“Yes,” Paul said.
“I’ll see what I can find out. Do you have any other family in the area?”
“Just my aunt Helen.”
“Okay.”
He really didn’t want to stay with his aunt Helen; her house always smelled like cabbage and she made him do jigsaw puzzles with her.
“When are you going to call him, hon?” Jack’s mom said.
“Right now.”
“Be careful.”
“He can’t hurt me through the phone, dear.”
She scurried over to the sink, took a sponge out of the dishwasher, and rewiped the counter.
“You guys have homework to do?”
“Yeah,” Jack said.
“Then get to it. We’ll see if we can find some clothes for you to sleep in, Paul,” Mrs. Harding said. “I’ll wash those for you so they’re clean for school tomorrow.”
They were just so goddamn nice. It was alien to Paul, to have parents that actually gave a darn about you and didn’t lie in wait for the next opportunity to lay a beating on you.
“Maybe you guys could adopt me,” Paul said, half kidding.
“That’s sweet of you, Paul,” Jack’s mom said.
“Then I’d have a midget for a brother,” Jack said.
“Hey!” Paul said.
“Jack, that’s terrible,” his mom said.
“That’s his middle name. Jack the Terrible,” Jack’s dad said.
They all laughed. Why couldn’t Paul have a family like this?
Emma ran all the way home, her legs pumping up and down as she slammed through the snow. By the time she hit the door she was breathing hard, but it didn’t matter because she was jubilant. She found Mom in the kitchen, stirring the contents of a stainless steel pot with a wooden spoon.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs. Did you get into trouble with those boys?”
“Nope. I ran home. Just felt like it.”
“Go wash up. Dinner’s in five minutes.”
She washed her face and hands, the hot water stinging her cold skin. She looked at herself in the mirror and she was grinning, a big idiot grin that only those in love possessed. Was she really in love with Jack? She didn’t know what love felt like, but if this was it, it was pretty darn cool.
They sat at the kitchen table, tucked into one corner with two benches against the wall. The TV played a Three’s Company rerun and Mom changed the channel to the Channel Four News. Emma picked up her fork and twirled the spaghetti. This was one of her favorite places in the whole house, tucked into the corner, the kitchen warm from the oven while the snow and wind did their worst outside.
“Why are you so happy? Did you get your period?”
“Mom!”
“Well, I was just wondering if Aunt Flo came to visit.”
“Aunt Flo?”
“I’ll explain it later. When you actually do get it.”
Emma picked at her spaghetti, but she was so jazzed up that she couldn’t really focus on eating. All that kept coming into her head was the dance. Should she wear a dress or pants? Hair in a ponytail or down? She was acting like a girly-girl, fretting over hair and dresses, but she couldn’t help herself. Before, it was never important how she looked in front of Jack, but now she worried about every detail. Would she be pretty enough for him? Would she say something dumb or trip over her own feet? And why the heck did she care so much? It was just Jack after all.
“Are you going to eat that spaghetti or just stare at it?”
“Oh, sorry.”
The top of the news started, and Stephen White, the lead anchor, came on, his hair combed over a bald spot and the sides overgrown.
“When is he going to cut that thing off?” Mom said.
“You say that every night.”
“It looks like a squirrel up and died on his head.”
The story cut to Kevin Hall standing outside the gate at the Steadman Estate, the wind swaying him to one side. It was about the college kid they found dead, and he went on to say the Brampton police had no leads or suspects. The police were advising against going out at night unless you were with somebody.
“I want you home every night before dark,” Mom said.
“I’m always home before the streetlights come on.”
“Even before that. There’s no telling who’s doing such awful things.”
Mom wiped her mouth with a napkin. “So is there something you want to tell me? You’ve been acting funny all week, especially when Jacob was here.”
“There is something.”
“You can tell me, honey. Anything.”
“I got asked to the Christmas dance at school.”
Her mom dropped her fork and it clinked against the plate.
“Emma, that’s wonderful!”
“Really?”
“I can’t believe it. Who are you going with?”
“Jack Harding.”
Here it comes. She’s going to go on about how Jack is one of her “dirty boys,” boys who slog through the mud, throw snowballs at cars, and curse. But to Emma’s total surprise, she didn’t.
“Jack’s a nice enough boy. A little rough around the edges, like all of them, but he seems polite. We’ll need to get you a dress.”
“You don’t have to buy me a dress, Mom. I know we don’t have much.”
“That is the sweetest thing. Come here.”
She got up and her mom slid over on the bench. Emma sat next to her and Mom put her arm around her shoulder and squeezed. Their heads touched.
“Why are you crying?” Emma asked.
“We just don’t have many moments like this anymore. I guess I’m getting sentimental in my old age. I’m sorry, honey.”
“Don’t be.”
If she could have stayed there for a month, she would have, Mom’s arm around her while the rest of the world froze. Up until now, it was one of the happiest moments in her life, however small.
“Let’s finish our dinner and talk about that dress,” Mom said.
“That sounds great.”
Chris stopped at Tops on the way home and bought a Reese’s Cup just to avoid going to the house right away. He crammed it in his mouth and chewed without really tasting it, then crumpled the wrapper and tossed it on the sidewalk. It would be covered with snow in minutes, unearthed only in the spring like an ancient relic.
He reached the driveway and walked all the way back to the garage, where he peered in the window to find the Trans-Am wrapped in its tarp. While walking home, he actually had a moment of hope that his old man wasn’t there yet, but that was shattered when he saw the car.
He went in, took off his winter gear, dropped his gym bag by the stairs, and entered the living room. His dad sat on the couch, poring over the sports section of the Buffalo Evening News. The headline read: BILLS’ WOES CONTINUE.
“There’s pizza on the counter. I stopped at Romano’s. Pepsi’s in the fridge.”
“I’ll grab a slice in a second.”
“How was practice today?”
Here it was, the moment every child dreaded, when you had to make a split-second decision. Did you lie and hope to get away with it, or did they already know what you did and were trying to catch you in one? It was like being in a bear trap and having to gnaw your own leg off. There was no possible happy ending.
“Did MacGregor call you?” Chris asked.
“So you didn’t go?”
“You know I didn’t.”
“I stopped
by, thinking maybe you’d want a lift, but you weren’t there. Coach said you never showed.”
“You’re mad,” Chris said.
“No, I’m not mad.”
Great. He was so mad he wasn’t mad. That was worse than all-out screaming and yelling mad.
“So what was more important than practice?”
“Nothing.”
“It must have been something.”
“Just hanging out with the guys. We had to talk.”
“I see. Coach thought about suspending you for a game, but I talked him out of it.”
“That was really great of you,” Chris said.
“I wouldn’t be smart right now,” he said.
“Can I be excused to eat?”
“Fine.”
His dad ruffled the paper and flipped the page, effectively dismissing Chris.
Why was basketball practice so important to the guy? One missed practice wouldn’t hurt him, for he could out-shoot and out-rebound every one on the team. He had been groomed for sports ever since he could walk. Dad had him on ice skates at two, a hockey stick in his hand at three, and his first football at four. “Look at the legs on that kid. Those are fullback’s legs,” his father would exclaim.
His father’s obsession for sports ran deep, like coal through a mine. It was the be all, end all, and if you didn’t talk sports or know sports and you were male, then, buddy, something was wrong with you.
Chris found the pizza box on the counter, dug out three slices, and grabbed a can of Pepsi from the fridge. Then he sat at the table and dug into the pizza (after picking off the mushrooms and onions), wanting to finish it and get on to his homework.
Halfway through his second slice of pizza, his dad strolled in, pulled out a kitchen chair, and turned it so the back was facing forward. He sat down, resting his arms on the chair back.
Chris kept his head down and ate pizza. He knew what was coming next.
“MacGregor was pretty disappointed, you know. He expects that kind of stuff from guys like Munch, but not you.”
“Why not me?” he said through a mouthful of pizza.
“Jeez, Chris, we’ve been over this a million times.”
“I know, I’ve got a shot at the big time and the other guys don’t. I’ve got talent and they don’t.”