Finally, she pats my hand and looks earnestly into my eyes. “We can change things.” I look at her eyes and they are clear and bright like Sam’s. Only they are not blue, like Sam’s, but beautifully brown, to match her skin. I notice for the first time how Mrs. Jimenez glows. Perhaps she has an Inner Light. I am sure she would understand Fatima. Someday I might introduce her to Fatima. The three of us could probably cause quite a stir.
Mrs. Jimenez calls the prison warden teacher into the hallway.
I hear urgent whispers—Mrs. Jimenez. And bland mumblings—Warden Teacher. I cannot hear the conversation, even though I lean my whole body closer to the door.
I almost fall off my chair when Mrs. Jimenez’s voice suddenly explodes. “Oh, that is just ridiculous! For heaven’s—”
“Listen!” Warden Teacher is insistent and mumbling again.
Mrs. Jimenez answers and her voice is softer, quieter, but still firm. I miss some of the words. “I know that his son . . . and died in Iraq . . . sorry, of course, but . . . over there in the first place—”
“Shhh!” And the conversation drops to a rumbling.
I am stunned. Now I know what happened to Mr. Warhead. He is a Victim, like his son. God. How awful. And I feel bad for him. So I add something at the bottom of my paper. “Sorry. I did not know about your son. I am really, really, really sorry.”
But my sympathy is short-lived. The next day Mr. Warhead shakes the paper in my face. It has a red circle around my comment at the bottom but the words he hisses himself: “Don’t think you can use cheap tricks to get a better grade out of me!”
I wonder if he even read my essay.
I press my fingers into the peace symbol gouged out of my desk. Like Mrs. Jimenez, I am sorry that his son was killed. I do not want anyone’s son or daughter killed. But that is no excuse to turn abusive yourself. I suppose he is going to fail me. I guess I should be grateful that he is not allowed to hurt me any more than that.
When I look up, the Rat is staring at me. He clutches his arm with the other hand and does a sharp twist, uttering a sickening
crrreak
sound out of his leering mouth, and I look away fast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
G
ood morning, shit-head!” the Rat calls to the girl getting on the bus.
“Good morning, shit-for-brains!” he yells to the boy behind her, and then he cracks up.The Rat is laughing at his own brilliance, as usual.
At the next stop, “Good morning, you piece of shit!”
More laughter from the Rat and his gang, but none from anyone else. The air is positively charged. It is as if an electrical storm could start at any moment.
Sam pulls the bus over to the side of the road and stops.
The laughing stops, too. Except for the Rat’s.
Sam puts on the parking brake and turns off the engine. And waits.
Outside, traffic is roaring by, rain is falling, and it is dark gray. Inside, it is still, silent, and bright. Even the fluorescent bus lights are shining full force. Sam must have changed the bulbs.
The Rat is quiet in the motionless bus. For a minute or two. Then he starts laughing again, punches one of his Vermin, and looks like he is about to say something.
Sam stands up and turns in one movement. The bus lurches.
That stops the Rat.
Sam is a very large man.
Sam starts walking down the aisle. Heavily. It is the only way he can move. It is an accident of girth.
The Rat sits up straight.
Sam stands by the Rat’s seat and puts his hand on the Rat’s shoulder.
The Rat pulls away. “Don’t touch me! What are you, gay or something?”
Sam slowly takes his hand off the Rat, sits down next to him, and looks at him seriously.“Would that matter to you?”
I know it is a genuine question. I see from the Rat’s eyes and body language that it is a threat. It is as if he is a spider caught in a web. His skinny limbs are flailing, trying to get away, but he is stuck.The Incredible Hulk is blocking his way.
“Shit, just drive the damn bus, will ya?” The Rat is still squirming.
“Well, Richard—”
The Rat looks away when Sam says Richard.
“Richard, I’d appreciate it if you’d treat people with respect. This is our bus, and I’d like to keep it a safe and pleasant place.”
Okay, Sam, you were doing well until now.That is weakling language you are using and the Rat can sniff a weakling.
Sure enough, the Rat’s nose is twitching and his mouth is curling into a smile. He turns to Sam.
But Sam meets him halfway, leaning over so he is at the Rat’s level, and puts his face right up to the Rat’s.
The Rat jerks back. “Jeez, get your stinkin’ breath away from me! You’re a freak!”
Sam does not move.“That’s not very respectful.” His face is serious. “Do you know how to be respectful, Richard?”
Sam is still staring at him. The Rat keeps looking away. He cannot meet Sam’s burning gaze.
Sam asks again, “Do you know how to be respectful?” Sam is about three times the size of the Rat. I realize how much I am enjoying noting this comparison.
The Rat squirms in his seat. He thinks Sam is threatening him with his Incredible Hulk size. I know that Sam is trying to perform another Quaker service, however misguided.
“Richard, do you need me to teach you about respect?”
The Rat squishes himself against the window. “I don’t need you, man,” he says, in a high squeaky voice.
“Are you sure? Because I’d like to help you.”
“Just get away from me!”
Sam stays. His two hundred and fifty pounds stay. His piercing blue eyes stay. For a full minute. At least. While the Rat squirms.
Finally, Sam says, “Okay, then.”
Sam gets up and the bus lurches again. He starts walking to the front of the bus.
“Freak,” hisses the Rat.
Sam turns around and leans his hands on the seat backs on either side of him, bending forward. “Did you want to have that chat with me, Richard?”
The Rat does not answer.
“Or do I need to call your father and have all of us sit down together?”
I see the fleeting flicker of terror in the Rat’s eyes. His jaw goes slack and his face is even paler than usual.“No,” the Rat squeaks.
I understand his fear. But not how he handles it.You will never control the violence with more violence. The Rat should have learned that by now.
“Okay, then.” Sam heads to his seat.
The Rat mutters “asshole,” but Sam does not hear. Perhaps the Rat believes he has won the battle since he got the last word in. But his slumped shoulders tell me that he knows he has lost this war. For the first time, I can look at him without fear. I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly. It is a pleasant change to be able to relax around the Rat.
The rest of the bus ride is silent.When we get to school my face is sore. It is twitching from tired muscles. I put my hand up to my face. And I realize what is happening. I am smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
T
he kid can now sit up by himself at the kitchen table. He can even crawl up onto a chair, a regular chair, not the high chair.
We sit down to dinner and he looks over at Sam’s place, empty. “Saa-uh-Saa?”
“Sam is at a meeting, honey,” Jessica tells him.
“Saaa.” The kid sounds insistent.
Jessica pats his hand. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Saaa!”
“Sam is at a meeting.” Jessica sounds like a broken record.
The kid pushes his plate and utensils over to Sam’s spot and says, triumphantly, “Saaa!”
Jessica smiles. “Okay.” She gets another place setting for the kid.
He is still not satisfied. He looks around and his eyes stop at the kitchen counter. “Saaa, Saaa, Saa-uh-Saa!” He shakes his hands excitedly and starts drooling.
“What do you want, Rory?” Jessica asks.
I get up and go to the counter. I see what he wants.
Green Eggs and Ham
. I hand him the book.
The kid shouts with glee and puts it at Sam’s place. I know he is trying to stand it upright because he is moaning in frustration as it keeps falling flat.
I set it up for him, wedging it between the chair back and Sam’s plate. The kid claps. “Tayyyy!”
Jessica smiles at me.
The kid keeps pointing to Sam’s plate until Jessica puts food on it. Then he makes a sloppy of mess of feeding the book.
Jessica thinks it is adorable.
My throat gets tighter with every spoon of mashed potatoes that hits the orange cover.The sick tornado starts inside of me. Do you really not see the problem here, Jessica? The kid is too attached to Sam. That is a very bad thing. If he loses Sam, the kid could be completely destroyed.
And there has been another phone call to the Meeting House. About the peace vigils. And how they must stop.
The next night is Thursday. Sam puts on his baseball cap and grabs his puffy green vest.
I stare at him. “Must you go to the peace vigil every single time? You do realize your name is Sam Fox, not George Fox, right?”
“Saaa! Maaa!”
Jessica picks up the kid, who is reaching for Sam.
“See? Even the kid thinks you should stay home.”
Sam has one arm in his vest and one arm out. “Uh . . . well, I’m kind of a regular, I guess.” He grins and finishes plunging into his useless armor.
I fold my arms. “Are you really the only person who can lead the group? Surely someone else knows how to light a candle.”
He stares at me for a moment, his forehead wrinkled, but then the wrinkles disappear and he winks. “But no one can sing like me!”
Jessica kisses Sam good-bye. I can see the worry in her eyes, too.
The man has too many meetings.Too many appearances. I cannot stand to think of the outcome, so I do not. I cannot bear the idea of watching the kid feed the Sam-book, either, but that I cannot ignore. So I ask Jessica if we can go out to dinner.
She looks at me questioningly.
“It can be somewhere cheap. I do not care. I will even eat a Happy Meal.”
She furrows her brow for a moment but then nods her head. “Okay, let’s go to Mel’s, that little deli downtown.”
I remember with a sinking feeling that Sam has the Subaru. Jessica has not realized this yet, apparently. There is no place to eat close by. We are stuck. I hold my breath.
“Bundle up!” she says. “It’s a long walk, but the fresh air is good for us.”
I breathe out and get my coat.
It is freezing. Jessica pushes the stroller over the ice-encrusted sidewalk and streets. I shiver, thinking how cold it must be to sit in a stroller.
When we finally get there, Jessica orders hot chocolate for all of us, even her. Probably they do not have raspberry tea at Mel’s. I order a vegetable plate. Mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, double order of applesauce.
“So,” Jessica says, after working on feeding the kid his grilled cheese sandwich, “how’s your dinner?”
“It is quite delicious. The chef is not as good as you, however.”
Jessica is smiling at me. “Thanks.”
I shrug. “I am just being Quakerly. Speaking the truth.”
“Well, we try.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin and smiles wryly. “It was quite a change for me, of course, being a lawyer.”
“So you were a liar”—I do a fake cough—“oh, excuse me, I mean, a
lawyer
before becoming a Quaker?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Sam who brought you over from the Dark Side to Quakerhood?”
She laughs. And her face turns pink. So the answer is obviously yes. “I suppose he helped. But I became a convinced Quaker—”
“A what? Is that like being converted?”
“No. Converted implies that someone else has persuaded you to adopt a certain viewpoint. Quakers don’t do that.You explore and study the religion yourself.Then, if you’re convinced it’s right for you—”
“Then you are a convinced Quaker. But how did you become convinced?”
She smiles. “I guess I followed my Inner Light.”
I am tempted to look around for some pretend spotlight.
“Jessica,” I remind her, “when people are about to die, they see a light and follow it. If that is the light you are heading for, you might want to walk the other way.”
She laughs but then her face turns serious. “You know, you have a very strong Inner Light yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Jessica, you have an oversensitive light detector.”
“Me? Well, Sam says you have a blowtorch.”
I roll my eyes. “Please! Do not try to make me into a Quaker.”
“We’re not trying to make you a Quaker, Matt.We’re just trying to help you find a way to be happy.”
For some reason, I cannot think of anything flippant to say, so I stare at the gravy on my plate for a while. Finally, I need to say something. “So, are we ordering dessert, or what?”
“Sure, what would you like?”
“Apple crisp.”
Jessica laughs. “After a double order of applesauce?”
“Yes, it is apples in a completely different format.”
“Well put.” Then her face turns soft and serious and she stares at me for a moment. “You really like apple crisp, don’t you?”
I think about it and finally decide that it is okay to tell Jessica the truth. “Yes.”
“You know, I make a pretty good apple crisp myself.
How about I make it on some First Day?”
I swallow. “That”—I try to speak in a monotone, not rude, but still not eager—“that would be nice.”
Jessica smiles and looks at me like, well, like I believe a mother would. I am flustered and start shredding my napkin while I try to think of something to say to end the awkwardness. “I would still like it for dessert tonight, though.”
“Apple crisp, it is! With ice cream?”
I shrug with relief. “All right.”