“Jack?”
I jump and look up.
“Head on in there.” One of the ladies points me toward Mr. McReed's office, our assistant principal. He's much younger, new to
the school this year, and I've heard he's a lot nicer to first-timers in detention.
When I limp in, he puts down his Coke and settles his round belly behind his desk with a sigh. He rubs his red face with his chubby hand, as if trying to rid it of the stress of the day.
“Jack.”
“Sir?”
“Looks like you're in some trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need to talk about this. And just so you know, I've called your dad.”
I was afraid of that.
FRIDAY, APRIL 23
“It's an emergency,” my brother's wife pleads. “It would be a huge, huge favor. And I wouldn't ask if it wasn't life or death.”
I swivel back and forth in my office chair, listening. As it turns out, the crisis involves my nephew, a book report on
The Red Kayak
, and a deadline by the end of school today. Thanks to a sprained ankle, my sister-in-law can't drive; my brother's out of town. So that leaves me. The lovable family degenerate who will seize any opportunity to redeem himself.
“He's going to fail if he doesn't turn it in. He'll get a zero, and then he'll have to go to summer school, and thenâ”
Did I mention my sister-in-law is a bit of a drama queen?
“Whoa!” I stop her, stand up, and peer out the window. It's a gray day, unusually cool, and wet. I grab my jacket and keys. “Done. It's done. I'm leaving now. Walking out the door. Be there in five minutes.”
Behind me, the fax machine beeps to life. I stop and backtrack. After thirty seconds of whirring, a single page appears. When I flip it over, my stomach drops.
A restraining order. Signed by the judge. Sworn out by Mitchell Carson, signed by Evan K. Douglas, that rotten excuse for a lawyer. Breaking and entering, missing cash, vandalism of his truck, blah,
blah, blah. Damn. Add a black mask and hatchet and I might be known as Ava's executioner. But first things first.
Perched at her door on crutches, my grateful sister-in-law hands off the paper with a quick hug and a Post-it note with instructions to Mobile Prep.
My arrival garners some attention: local attorney, clad in a black leather jacket and boots, riding up to the school on his Harley. I cut quite the figure, I imagine, among the rows of gleaming BMWs, sleek Mercedes, and new Volvos. Once I switch off the engine, two of the younger boys run up to check out the bike.
“So awesome,” one says, his blue eyes wide behind his round glasses.
Oh man.” His friend admires the chrome trim and tires. He's four feet tall with a ball cap and freckles. “How fast does she go?”
“Fast enough to make mamas cry and the police want to give me a ticket.” I grin and pull off my helmet, then wave over the teacher.
She gives me a hesitant smile but doesn't come any closer.
“I'm Graham Thomas, ma'am.” I amble over and greet the teacher. “Here to drop something off for my nephew.” I rattle off his name, birthday, and classroom number. “I'm on the official list.”
“Right this way.” The teacher nods primly, shoos the kids away from me, and leads me up the front steps. After she punches a code to allow me in, there's a loud click and a sharp buzz.
“Thank you,” I say, pushing open the door.
“The office is just inside,” she replies.
The atrium is sparkling clean and smells of Windex. Overhead, huge skylights brighten the shined floor. To the right, tall, lush green plants frame a wall lined with plaques, trophies, and awards. To my left, there's a huge saltwater tank filled with angelfish the color of sunflowers, bright blue chromis and a handful of orange clown fish. I pause and watch the sea life bubble and swim around the coral and vegetation.
Straight ahead is the administration's office, double doors propped open. I'm about to stroll in when I hear a distinct voice.
Mitchell Carson.
I duck behind the tank, watch, and listen.
An office worker with a close-cropped cap of gray hair hovers closer to the counter. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Carson. We've been concerned.” She glances toward the assistant principal's office, leans toward him, and cups a hand around her mouth. “Our Jack just seems out of sorts these days. This fight is so out of character.”
Mitchell steps into view. He slides a hand across the counter and pats her fingertips. “He's had some trials lately. Some challenges.”
She leans closer and whispers. I strain to hear.
“I'll let Ava know,” Mitchell promises. “Right away. There's no need for you to notify her.”
I ball my fists and grit my teeth.
“Of course,” the woman agrees. “Jack should be out in just a few minutes.”
She turns and stands at the copy machine while it staples and spits papers in a steady rhythm. She holds a clipboard on her hip and marks boxes with a pencil. Another office worker joins her.
“My, you ladies here must keep the whole school running,” he says. “I'm just in awe. I don't suppose I could steal you away to the college, now could I?”
“No, sir.” The second office worker giggles like a schoolgirl. “I retire this summer after twenty years.”
“Gosh.” Mitchell clasps a hand to his heart and feigns shock. “You're much too young.”
Please change the subject before I get sick.
“How is Ava?” she asks.
This perks my attention.
“I'm sure you've heard that we're separated.” Mitchell lowers his voice. “Now this is just between us, but Ava's had a breakdown. I
had to move out with my boys. Get an apartment. She's violent . . . took Jack's bat to my truck, stole money from me.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “The judge himself has decided she can't see the children without being supervised.”
This gets a gasp from the woman, who steadies her balance with one hand on the copy machine.
“I do have help. A marvelous housekeeper named Isabel. She's teaching the boys Spanish. I don't know what I'd do without her.”
“Oh,” she breathes.
“Of course, I take the boys to see their grandmother,” he continues. “Despite all that's happened, Ruth adores those boys. They desperately need attention from family members with a proper moral compass.”
He doesn't stop there. I wonder if he thinks the twelve disciples are listening from their graves.
“But the worst of all of it . . . word is . . . Ava has a . . . âfriend.' ”
“No,” the woman gasps.
I'm on my feet, incensed. Just as I start to storm into the office and set the record straight, the phone starts ringing. The worker collects herself and picks up the call. She murmurs into the receiver, makes a few notes, and hangs up.
“Is there no end to the injustice in this world? Lord Jesus, help us.”
Mitchell smiles. “We'll be all right. He will provide and show us the correct path. I pray for Ava to get well. To get help. And I hope you will too.”
She bobs her head. “Amen.” The woman takes a deep breath. “May I have the ladies group at church pray for your family, Dr. Carson?” She blinks her eyes wide, hopeful.
“Of course.” He squeezes her hand. “That'd be awfully sweet of you.”
I can't stand another minute.
“Hi there.” I bound in and greet the office lady, flash my best
jury-winning smile, and plop the paper down in front of her. “I'm delivering this for my nephew. It's very important. Due today. I'd appreciate it if you could get this to his teacher right away.”
“Of course, Mr.â”
“Graham Thomas.” I stick my hand out to shake hers. “Nice to meet you. I'm his wife's attorney, by the way.” I wave at Mitchell, who's purple-faced. “Hi there. Did you practice a script for that or make it up on the fly?” I tap my temple. “I'm thinking the latter.”
The office worker is struck dumb. I take full advantage.
“While I have your attention, please pass this along to the ladies.” I cock my head and grin. “One, don't believe everything you hear. Two, Ms. Carson doesn't have a boyfriend. And three, the person who needs praying for is right over there.”
I point at Mitchell. “He's the one who's made a deal with the devil.”
I turn without another word and leave.
FRIDAY, APRIL 23
Mr. McReed escorts me like a prisoner. I want to wriggle at the firm pressure of his fingertips digging into my arm and guiding the center of my back. But I keep still, duck my chin, and shuffle along the tile floor. The cleaning people must have come through with their mops and pails, because everything's wiped down and smells like lemons.
When I glance up, only halfway, I see that Dad's waiting for us. He's stiff and straight-backed, arms crossed, like his entire body's been carved out of a huge chunk of pine.
Mr. McReed stops and clears his throat. “I think we've gotten to the bottom of this. Call me directly if you have any questions.”
Breaking from his wooden mold, coming to life again, Dad reaches over and shakes Mr. McReed's thick hand. “Thanks. And I'll speak to his mother. No need for you to call her.”
Mr. McReed nods and smooths his tie over the generous swell of his belly. “Very good.”
“We'll get this taken care of, man-to-man, right, Jack?” Dad turns to me and smiles. It's not a real smile, though. It's hard and solid, like Doctor Doom's metal mask. Even though the only part of his face you can see are his eyes, the archenemy of the Fantastic Four is one scary dude. Dark, strong, and smart.
Before I can check behind Dad for a flowing green cape, he grabs my neck and steers me toward the door.
“Thank you, Dr. Carson.” Mr. McReed turns and plods back to his office.
The double doors close behind us, and we step out into the swelter of the afternoon. Overhead, angry storm clouds gather in clusters of steel gray and charcoal. The wind howls, long and low, like a wolf separated from the pack. The force of it, sharp and biting, whips at the edges of my shirt, pulling me toward the parking lot. Dad walks faster, with long, smooth strides, and I have to sprint to keep up. He doesn't look at me until we're safely inside the truck. That's when it all falls apart.
I spy a comic book on the front dash and read aloud: “
Metamorpho: The Element Man.”
It's old, but the colors are still bright behind the clear plastic bag, backed by a piece of cardboard so it doesn't wrinkle.
My jaw drops. “Ah, cool, Dad. This is vintage. 1975. It must be worth . . . what . . . thirty dollars?”
“Let's see.” He does some calculations in his head. “Oh yeah, DC Comics, first issue special. Thirty-nine bucks plus shipping.”
I hold it up and squint, admiring the artwork, the light blue color. Dad starts the Range Rover and I buckle up. A few fat drops of rain hit the windshield and spatter. We ease out of the parking lot as I open the plastic wrap gingerly, pull the book out, and turn each page like I'm reading the original Ten Commandments written and delivered by Moses himselfâif they had paper back then.
I pause and look up. “It's in really, really good shape. Oh my gosh. This is . . . I'm so pumped up! I love it.”
“I thought you would.” Dad keeps his eyes forward, both hands on the wheel. When the rain starts pattering harder, fingertips on the windshield, then drums, he turns on the wipers. The thin black arms click into place, sweeping back and forth over the broad sheet of glass. I watch the back-and-forth motion.
Swish, slosh. Swish, slosh.
I go back to the smooth, shiny pages, absorbing the colorful artwork and story line. We bump along for at least another few miles when I realize Dad's not talking. Not a word. He usually peppers me with questions about my day, asks about homework, or wants to know about tests this week. This afternoon, though, nothing.
Suddenly the silence curdles inside my belly like rotten milk.
I cough. “Dad, I know Mr. McReed talked to you. But . . . don't you want to hear what happened from me? My side of it?”
He doesn't answer. We bump over a few potholes.
“Dad?” My voice strains over the rain and road.
At a stoplight, he finally shifts his gaze. “Yes, son?”
I choke. Now the expression on his face reminds me of a cross between the Green Goblin and Doc Ock, Spiderman's worst enemies. Slowly, hand trembling, I put the comic book in the center console.
“What's the matter?” he asks.
I move the comic book farther away. “I don't deserve it. The present.”
“And why not?”
My heart hammers fast. He wants me to say it out loud.
“Because of the fight at school. And detention.” I sniff and wipe at my nose, look away.
“Yes? What else, Jack?”
I swallow. “I hit him because he was talking bad about Ava. That she has a boyfriend.”
“Do you know she doesn't?” His face turns dark and angry.
This time, I don't answer.
Dad pulls to the side of the road, gravel crunching under the tires. The engine rumbles, soft and smooth, while he watches me. Dad takes the comic book and holds it up.
“This was a reward. For my wonderful son who does just what he's asked. Every time.” He tilts the comic book back and forth. “Do you deserve this today, Jack?”
“No, sir.”
His icy voice lowers to a growl. “That's what I thought.”
With a fluid, deft movement, Dad rips the comic book in half, then in half again.
In horror, I reach my hand out to stop him, then yank it back as if it's covered with hot grease.
He shreds each page, faster now, pulling apart words and pictures. The tearing sound fills my ears. I can hardly watch as the book's pages fall into jagged triangles, odd-shaped squares, and long, pale ribbons.