Listen To Me
Page 5
CHAPTER FOUR
Grounded Forever
Martin sets his book bag down on the floor and flops onto the couch. He flips on the TV and watches commercial after commercial of fast food restaurants. His stomach growls as a picture of a huge, juicy cheeseburger with bacon and lettuce is displayed in a 360 degree angle. The next shows a sizzling plate full of shrimp and peppers and onions over a heaping pile of vermicelli pasta. Martin gets up and heads to the fridge, but there isn’t anything there but lunch meat. He turns his nose up as he stares at the lifeless, thinly sliced turkey breast and remembers that there’s a great burger place near the church.
Martin grabs his wallet and his bus pass and heads out the door.
Twenty minutes later he’s shoving a juicy burger into his mouth. Martin smiles as he enjoys the grade A beef, restaurant-style burger.
“Hey, Martin!” Jennifer’s chipper voice is a pleasant surprise. She and Tammie make their way to him and sit beside him in the booth.
Martin smiles and points to the burger in his hand. “This is the best burger I’ve ever had in my life.”
“They are pretty good, aren’t they?” Jennifer nods. “Tammie, what are you ordering?”
“I think I’m going with a salad today,” Tammie crinkles her nose in disgust.
“A salad?” Jennifer looks mortified. “You hate salad.”
Tammie shrugs. “I know, but, I think I should lose some weight.”
“Please!” Jennifer waves her hand. “You look fantastic! Right Martin?”
Martin swallows and glances at Tammie. She’s curvy and full framed, but not what he’d call fat. Still, he doesn’t want to get pulled into their conversation. Girls are very sensitive about their weight. Both Tammie and Jennifer look expectantly at Martin, waiting for his response.
“Tammie’s cute,” Martin finally states. “She looks fine to me.”
Tammie blushes and Jennifer smiles in triumph. “See? Martin wouldn’t lie, right?”
Martin nods his head and tries to finish his burger.
Jennifer orders food for herself and Tammie then looks at Martin. “I’m glad we bumped into you today. I guess you’re not grounded anymore?”
Martin chokes on his burger as he realizes his mistake. What had he been thinking? His mother is going to kill him.
“Jennifer, I gotta go,” Martin says quickly as he wraps up his burger and jumps out of the booth.
“But,” Jennifer trails off as Martin dashes for the door.
The bus ride back home is excruciating; after what seems an eternity, the bus finally pulls up to his stop. Martin hops on his feet as he waits for the people in front of him to amble off the bus. If he runs, maybe he can make it before his parents get home. Maybe they stopped to get something to eat. Maybe they were running errands. Martin’s hope crumbles as soon as he steps off the bus. His father is sitting on the bench, waiting for him.
†††
Max opens his eyes to a strange, bright room. He lets out a groan and grabs his head in pain. It’s bandaged and feels like it is pulsing. He’s clothed in a thin, short, white gown, and it registers quickly that he’s in the hospital. He looks to his right and sees his mother asleep in a chair.
“Mom?” Max speaks softly. She immediately stirs, but looks as if she’ll faint when she sees him.
“Max!” she cries, “You're awake! Your father and I were so worried that-” Her sentence is cut off by a stream of tears and she pulls him into a soft embrace.
“Mom, what am I doing here?” Max asks with a twinge of alarm. “What happened?”
“You don't remember?” she asks, trying to stifle her tears.
Max's father walks abruptly through the door with coffee in his hand. His face is flushed and he smells of alcohol. Lots of it.
“Good, you're awake,” he says angrily as he stumbles towards Max. “Now I can yell at you.”
“Arthur, please,” his mother intersects him. “Just settle down.”
“Don’t tell me to settle down!” he yells, balling his fists tightly. The red splotches in his face are turning purple. Max gulps as his father continues his tirade. “Why should I calm down? He nearly got himself killed last night!”
“Arthur,” Max's mother speaks softly, “he doesn't remember.”
“I don't care!” Mr. Shaw is nearly hysterical with rage. He turns to point his finger in Max's face.
“Max, this is by far the most irresponsible, inexcusable, scatterbrained thing you've ever done! What were you thinking! Are you out of your mind?!” Max's father begins to swear profusely, and Max is afraid for a moment that he might hit him.
“Dad,” Max stares at him, wide-eyed. “I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry.”
Mr. Shaw looks at Max, incredulous. “How convenient! You don't remember?” Mr. Shaw begins to pace the room, speaking to his shoes.
“My son,” he continues, “had the nerve to go out on the road while he was drunk. And not just drunk, but profoundly drunk. And he doesn't remember. Ha!” He stops and suddenly turns on Mrs. Shaw.
“This is all your fault!” he snarls.
“My fault?” Mrs. Shaw cries. “How is it my fault?”
“He's your son!” Mr. Shaw snaps.
“Well he's your son too, Arthur!” Mrs. Shaw matches his tone. “Would you stop trying to blame everybody and give Max a chance to talk?” Max wishes his name had gone unmentioned. He had hoped their argument would shift their anger towards each other and away from him.
A nurse walks into the room and gives them a warning to lower their voices.
“All right then,” Mr. Shaw speaks in a lower tone. “Start talking, Max.”
Max looks from one parent to the other, puts his head down, and says nothing.
“Too ashamed to talk, eh?” Mr. Shaw states sarcastically. “Or are you still too drunk to think? Well, you'll have plenty of time to figure out how to explain yourself, because you won't be going anywhere for a long, long time.”
Max hopes his next question is safe. “When do I get out of here?” he asks.
“Tomorrow,” his mother replies before Mr. Shaw can speak. “They said if you regained consciousness this –” her voice cracks and a moment passes before she continues – “this morning, they’d keep you here tonight for testing. They think you may have a concussion or worse. The doctor says that when you hit your head coming out of the window it could have caused some brain damage.” Mrs. Shaw struggles to keep her voice even. She can’t help but wonder how close she came to losing her only child. The thought makes her shudder.
“Brain damage?” Max asks. “How bad was the accident? Di-did you say I came out the window?” he stutters.
“Yes,” Mr. Shaw replies, calmer now and showing signs of worry. “You crashed head first through the windshield and onto the pavement. You're lucky you're still alive with the few scratches and bruises you have.” Mr. Shaw stops pacing and looks down at the floor. “Thank God,” he whispers to himself.
“Wow,” Max whispers, stunned. “I flew through a window! Wait ‘til I tell –”
Max catches himself mid-sentence, but he’s too late. Mr. Shaw explodes, infuriated.
“Do you think this is a game?” he screams. “This is your life, Max! You nearly died last night and all you can think about is what your friends will think? Do you realize how lucky you are?” Max's father is exasperated. His face is intense, but his eyes are watery.
“What if you weren't the only one to get hurt?” he asks, struggling for composure. “What if you'd hit somebody? Would you think this was funny then? Oh, and let’s not forget that you now have a probation officer to see every week for a year.”
“Wait a minute,” Max pauses, sobered by this new information. “I have a probation officer?”
“You'll meet him Monday,” Mrs. Shaw replies quickly, attempting to keep her husband calm. Max groans.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “They punished me before they knew I’d wake up?”
“We
talked to some of the other police officers and they say he's an okay guy,” his mother adds reassuringly.
“He doesn't need an okay guy,” growls Mr. Shaw. “What he needs is a one-way ticket to military school.”
Mrs. Shaw sighs in exasperation.
“I'm serious Harriet,” Mr. Shaw frowns, unable to control the raw emotion in his voice. “If that boy doesn't straighten up he'll wind up dead somewhere, and I don't want that to happen.”
“Neither do I,” says Mrs. Shaw. “But I think we should take a different approach. Why don't you let him come with me on Sunday?”
“Absolutely not!” he exclaims, the softness in his voice gone. “I won't have you filling our son's head with nonsense!”
“Arthur!” Mrs. Shaw exclaims.
“Besides,” Mr. Shaw continues, “he's not up to going anywhere tomorrow, right Max?”
“Actually, I-” Max begins.
“How do you know what's good for you?” His father waves him off. “You’ve got less sense than that rich so-called friend of yours, Jamie.” Mr. Shaw rambles on. “And what kind of parents leave their kid unsupervised weekend after weekend? Have we ever even met his parents? Aren’t they always off to Aruba or Argentina? Shows you that money can’t buy you brains.”
“Okay, Arthur,” says Mrs. Shaw. “That's enough. You're not talking sensibly now, so why don't you just go home and rest? I'll stay here with Max and take him home tomorrow.”
“Alright,” Mr. Shaw nods, obviously tired. “But I'll need your keys.”
“No, Arthur,” says Mrs. Shaw. “You're not driving anywhere. Call a cab.”
“I'm fine, Harriet,” Mr. Shaw frowns.
“Arthur,” Mrs. Shaw speaks sternly. “This is a perfect example of why Max acts the way he does. You're supposed to be setting a good example.”
“Oh don't preach at me Harriet,” Mr. Shaw scowls. “I'll call a cab, okay?”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Shaw kisses him on the cheek and pats his shoulder.
“So how long will I be grounded for?” Max asks.
Mr. Shaw turns and looks at his son. “How does forever sound?” he snaps. That said, Mr. Shaw walks out and Mrs. Shaw and Max are left alone.
†††
Late Saturday afternoon, Martin pulls the work gloves off of his hands and sits down on the patio. He’s just finished hedging the bushes, part of his punishment for, as his father put it, violating the terms of his sentence.
Mr. West comes out with a tall glass of homemade lemonade and surveys the yard. Martin watches the condensation slowly drip from the top of the icy glass to the patio floor and swallows.
“Looks good,” Mr. West measures the evenness of the bushes with one hand as he holds the glass with the other.
Martin nods. “I also mowed the grass and got rid of the hornet’s nest like you asked. The leaves are raked and in black bags and I fertilized the plants in mom’s garden.
“Good, good,” Mr. West nods. “Your mother makes the absolute best lemonade I have ever tasted.” Martin nods in agreement and parts his lips as his father takes a long drink from the glass.
“I hope that burger was worth it,” Mr. West gives Martin a look.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” Martin sighs. “You guys have never grounded me for more than a week and it’s already been two. Can you blame me for forgetting?”
“Give me the definition of until further notice,” his father demands.
“Come on, dad,” Martin mutters.
His father is unrelenting. “Give me the definition, Martin.”
Martin sighs. “You’ve made me say it a hundred times already!”
His father gives him a stern look. “Then this will make a hundred and one. Now give me the definition.”
Martin frowns. “Up to the time of a more advanced point when an announcement or intimation of something impending occurs. You know I had to look up each word. There is no ‘until further notice’ in the dictionary.”
Mr. West smiles. “And you did such a wonderful job. I love the definition. Now, your mother and I said you were grounded until further notice. That means, uh, say it one more time for me?”
Martin swallows the remark burning in his throat and repeats the definition. Mr. West smiles and finishes off the lemonade in the glass. “Come inside and get some water, Martin.”
“Can’t I have lemonade?” Martin looks at his father pleadingly.
Mr. West sighs. “You could have, but I just drank the last of it.”
Martin lowers his head, dejected, as his father laughs. “I’m kidding, son. Come get some lemonade.”