Emerson Ward Mysteries

Chapter 1

"How do you live without someone who's been part of your life for twenty years?"
"Depends," Sarah said enigmatically, as usual.
The irony of therapy -- basically paying to talk to someone - is that you end up talking to yourself a lot, a characteristic most of us associate with crazies on the street. I wondered how dissimilar I was, really, from them. What separated me from them other than a shower, shave and clean clothes?
* * * *
"Where's my hoodie?"
Kelsey yelled from the second floor, but I could already hear her bounding heavily down the stairs. She came into the kitchen with a look of annoyance on her normally pretty face. I winced involuntarily when I saw the black circles around her eyes -- not from lack of sleep, but from too much mascara -- and my reaction only deepened her vexation.
"What hoodie?" I said, trying to smile pleasantly.
"My Juicy." She could barely keep the exasperation out of her voice. "The pink one," she added, just in case I was a complete moron and severely fashion-impaired.
"Probably in the laundry, sweetie."
"The laundry? Da-a-d! I wanted those things washed last night!"
I sighed. "Sorry. I forgot."
She folded her slender arms, shifted her weight onto one foot, pouting. "Now what am I supposed to do?"
"You know, you could have put a load in all by yourself if you needed clean clothes."
The logic was lost on her. My smart, funny, attractive and utterly spoiled, almost fifteen-year-old daughter stabbed me with one more blood-letting look, tossed her head and flounced out of the room. I shook my head. I had never understood why a girl that pretty would want to cover it up with so much face paint. I didn't mind her wearing make-up. It was the quantity that bothered me. She'd never admit to being pretty, of course. Letty, my mother-in-law, never wasted an opportunity to remind her that "Pretty is as pretty does." Kelsey would likely have to wait until adulthood to objectively recognize that her grandmother had all the warmth of a January day in Juneau.
Kelsey was smart, too -- way smarter than either of her parents -- which made me sometimes wonder whose child she really was. She wouldn't admit that, either, since intelligence was pretty low on the list of qualities required to run in Kelsey's circle of friends, or even belong to her peer group. Looks, fashion sense and the ability to lip synch all the misogynistic, foul and mean spirited lyrics from the latest gangsta rapper hit were far more important. It was just a phase, I kept reminding myself. And when it was over there would be another phase in its place to deal with.
"Um, Dad?" A soft voice piped up behind me.
"Yeah, Bud?" I turned.
Tyler had his nose in a paper bag on the kitchen counter. His hair, dark as a glass of stout, was whorled with cowlicks, making him look as if he just woke up. He had, but he always looked that way. He was shy, quiet. A serious child. Small for his age, he always seemed to be swimming in his clothes. It made him look younger than ten.
"Is this my lunch?"
"Sure is. Something wrong?"
"Um, no." He turned his big blue eyes my direction. As usual, they hid his thoughts, but not the fact that his adolescent brain was churning them out at a rate of hundreds per second.
"It's just that ... " He paused. "Well, Mom always puts applesauce in there."
"Right, kiddo. Sorry."
I almost left it at that. I had a million things to do, and it wasn't important. At least not to me, not right then. Ordinarily, I would have let my children’s small criticisms bounce off unnoticed. With a full schedule, though, the morning already felt rushed, and my own impatience had somehow left me more vulnerable to their small slights.
Then again, it could have been because nothing was ordinary anymore.
I took a step toward the refrigerator, but the shadow that crossed Tyler's face for a split second stopped me. In that instant there was something in his eyes -- hurt? guilt? -- that shifted my self-centered focus outward to a slightly bigger picture. There, I saw my kids' accusatory looks, heard their unasked question – where’s Mom? Mom would have remembered laundry and applesauce.
"Tell you what," I said. "I'll give you a ride to school. If we leave a little early, we can swing by the store and get whatever kind you want. Okay?"
He shrugged, then nodded, but didn't meet my gaze.
"How about some breakfast?"
"Sure." He slid into a seat at the kitchen table.
"Waffles or cereal?"
"Um, waffles, please."
"I'm having berries and yogurt. Want some?"
I'm usually happy if my kids eat something remotely resembling food -- anything that isn't candy, soda or chips.
"No, thanks. Waffles are good."
I put two frozen waffles in the toaster and finished washing and cutting up some strawberries while the waffles heated. The sound of the water running in the sink was strangely soothing. The repetitive motion of rinsing, stemming and cutting each berry under the rush of cold water from the faucet stilled the anxious thoughts in my head, leaving it blissfully empty for a brief moment. The toaster's metallic twang jarred me back to reality. I plated the waffles and joined Tyler at the table. We gave each other a quick half-smile of acknowledgement and started eating in silence.
No doubt there was even more going on in Tyler's head than mine, but none of it needed discussion even if it was ready for the light of day, so our silence wasn't strained. Sitting there together, in fact, provided its own form of contentment. It's a guy thing. Men aren't programmed for conversation, particularly idle chit-chat. It's not in our genes. We can do it when prompted, but it's sort of like getting a dog to walk on its hind legs. It's mildly amusing, but there's not much point to it.
Kelsey bounded back into the kitchen wearing an entirely different outfit. She stopped in front of the table and looked from Tyler's plate to my bowl and back.
"Where's my breakfast?"
"I didn't know what you wanted. I'll make you something if you'd like. Or you can grab something yourself."
"No time."
She reached over Tyler's shoulder, snatched the uneaten waffle off his plate and skipped away.
"Hey!" He whirled, arm outstretched.
Kelsey was already out of reach, mouth full of waffle.
"Dad! Kelsey took my waffle!"
"I saw it, Bud. I'll get you another."
I pushed back from the table and walked to the freezer. On the way, I threw my daughter a disapproving look, hoping she'd take the hint and apologize to her brother, maybe even offer to get him another. She was already shrugging into her backpack.
"Dad, don't forget that I've got practice after school, then I'm going to Jennie's house to do homework before we do our community service project. I probably won't be home for dinner. 'Bye. I gotta go or I'll be late."
A mouthful of waffle made the tumble of words barely intelligible.
"Wait! What? When will I see you, then? When will you be home? Need a ride? Do you have your phone?" I shot the questions at her almost as fast as she'd rattled off her schedule for the day, but not fast enough to get a definitive answer before she was out the door.
"I'll call you," she said over her shoulder as she dashed out.
When had I completely lost control? The two separate occasions on which I'd stood in a hospital delivery room garbed in green like a B-movie Martian and cut their umbilical cords, I decided. Then again, maybe I'd never been in control. My life felt as if it was lived on a runaway train, just waiting for enough speed or a curve sharp enough to send it off the tracks into the mother of all wrecks. But the breakfast table was still, my son's face calm. No one here seemed panicked except me. I reached out and tousled Tyler's hair. A little messier couldn't hurt.
"Come on, Bud. Go brush your teeth and get your coat. Time to go."
* * * *
"Right, it depends." I conceded Sarah's point. "If it's a casual acquaintance, I suppose it's not much of a loss. Sort of like getting a wisdom tooth pulled before it ever comes in. You know it's there, but you never really notice. When it comes out, you sort of poke at the space with your tongue for a while until you forget you ever had one.
"If it's one of your kids, you probably can't wait until they leave home. I'm already looking forward to an empty nest, and I still have years to go."
Sarah smiled.
"This is different," I went on. "It's like my life was taken away from me. I don't know, like suddenly discovering after all these years that you're adopted, or were raised by wolves. You wonder what's real and what's a lie. You wonder who you are, where you really belong. You live by a certain set of rules, then all of a sudden, the game changes and there are no rules. How do you go on if you don't know what the game is? How do you live if you don't even know what the rules are?"
"How do you want to live?"
Ah, the therapist's principle artifice -- answer a question with a question.
"Any way but this. I hate living like this."
"Like what?"
"I don't know what to do. I don't know what to think."
"Rather than focus on what you believe you're supposed to do or think, let's talk about what you feel. What is it you hate about living like this?"
She was determined to get it out of me.
"I feel guilty, and I don't know why. I feel relieved, and that just makes me feel more guilty."
"Relieved?"
* * * *
Tyler and I stopped at the grocery store and bought a box of cinnamon-flavored applesauce. I remembered picking apples when I was a kid and helping my mother cut and cook them and press them, still steaming, through a Foley food mill. The kitchen smelled wonderful for days afterward. We packed it in plastic containers and froze it. Throughout the year, the containers would come out on occasion to accompany a pork chop dinner or Sunday pancakes or gingerbread for dessert. Now applesauce comes in little single-serve plastic tubes. Kids squeeze it into their mouths like toothpaste.
I wondered why I'd never taken my children to an apple orchard, why I'd never given them the chance to experience an autumn day first in the crisp outdoor air and then in a warm kitchen redolent of cooked apples and cinnamon. Was life so much busier now that we didn't have time to make applesauce? We couldn't sacrifice one day of our normal routine to do something as a family that the kids would remember all their lives? My father had never taken part in making gloriously sweet and spicy pink soup out of crunchy, freshly picked apples. That didn't mean I couldn't. I looked ruefully at the box Tyler held. I was short-changing my kids. I was depriving myself.
I stopped at the bakery on the way out and bought a tall double latte and an almond biscotti. I couldn't afford it, but it was a habit that would be hard to break. I seemed to have become addicted to lattes -- the Northwest's version of a plain cup of joe -- almost from the first one I ever tasted. It had reminded me of café au lait in Paris -- dark, roasty, aromatic, bitter coffee sweetened with steamed milk and lumps of sugar. The taste alone was enough to wake you, never mind the jolt of caffeine. Tyler fidgeted impatiently while I dreamed of fresh croissants laden with butter and strawberry jam in a Paris cafe.
"Want a donut, kiddo?"
"No, thanks."
I couldn't even distract him with a bribe. Didn't he know how short childhood really is? We drove to school, still early enough that there wasn't yet a long line winding into the parking lot. All the way down the drive we finally ran into the end of a string of half a dozen cars. Slowly, we inched our way, a car-length at a time, to the bus shelter where each car stopped to disgorge its contents of kids, coats, knapsacks and lunch boxes. The car in front of us pulled up to the drop-off. Tyler slung his backpack over one shoulder, picked up his lunch in one hand and grabbed the door handle in the other. When it was our turn, he bailed out like a paratrooper, hitting the ground running before I'd stopped.
"Love you, Bud."
"'Bye, Dad." He swung the door shut.
"See you after school," I called through the open window.
He was already gone. I rolled away to make room for the car behind me.
I took the floating bridge into downtown Seattle. Traffic was light since it was after nine, but you never knew in this town. A little rain -- something we get frequently at certain times of the year -- and the freeway might have been jammed. As long as I've lived here I've never understood the native population's lack of common sense. Granted, it doesn't rain all the time in Seattle. That's a myth. Summers here are quite beautiful, in fact -- sunny and dry as tinder, turning lawns brown and putting forests at high risk for fire. But it's as if people are in denial. It rains; they forget how to drive. It rains; they forget how to build roofs that don't leak (the old Key Arena), crumble (King Dome, since imploded) or collapse (Husky Stadium). There's water everywhere, but they're still having trouble figuring out how to get over it or out from under it.
The bridge I was on -- a mile-and-a-half expanse of steel and concrete across the surface of Lake Washington -- is a good example. It's actually two bridges side by side. Both are essentially a series of barges tied together and anchored to the bottom of the lake with cables. The original bridge was built before the start of World War II. Fifty years later, a new one was constructed to add more lanes. When it was finished, work refurbishing the old one began. Rumor has it that someone forgot to close a seacock one day. Overnight, a big storm filled a section with water. The weight dragged the next section underwater so it filled up, too, and so on, like dominoes, until the bridge resembled the Titanic. Half a mile of bridge went to the bottom.
The region has had more than its share of catastrophic bridge failures. I wondered if I was having one of my own, or if I could shore up the damage before the accumulated weight of too many things gone wrong pulled us all into the silent darkness beneath the surface.
The bridge was floating just fine at present. Rush-hour stragglers, often as discombobulated by sunshine as rain, were behaving themselves. At least I didn't have to depend on a ferry to get off the island. The glossy surface of the lake made me wonder which ocean Mary was flying over this time. I wondered if there was a bridge in the world long enough to traverse the ocean that had opened up between us.
The trip into town was quick. I followed Interstate 90 to its very end -- or beginning if you're traveling east to Boston. A left on 4th Avenue, and another left on Jackson took me down toward Pioneer Square. I circled a few blocks looking for street parking, unwilling to shell out twelve bucks to park in a lot for the short time I planned on being there. Finally fed up, I wedged into a loading zone, turned on the emergency flashers, locked up and left. I drive a white minivan plain enough to be mistaken for a delivery van instead of a passenger car. Instead of crossing my fingers, I thumbed my nose at the gods and dared them to send a meter maid -- excuse me, "traffic control officer" -- rolling by in one of those scooters.
The receptionist didn’t look up when I stepped off the elevator. I walked past her desk, feeling as inconsequential as a wisp of fog. Back past several offices and cubicles was the space I had called mine for the past three years. It was a small ten-by-twelve office with a desk, two-drawer file cabinet and two chairs all covered in matching wood-grained plastic laminate. From the window was a view of the century-old iron-and-glass pergola on the square below. It had been reconstructed a few years before after a truck had cornered a little too closely, clipped a post and brought it crashing down.
The office had never really felt like mine, and now it wasn’t. Devoid of personal items, it had reverted to its former anonymity, waiting to be transformed by the next occupant. For now, it gave no indication of the sort of work done in this place. It could have been an office in almost any corporation in America.
Easing into the chair behind the desk, I turned on the computer. While it booted up, I picked up the handset on the phone and checked voicemail. There were no messages. I turned my attention to the computer. None of the forty seven e-mail messages in my in-box were personal or important. I erased them all and shut down the computer. I went through the desk drawers one more time to reassure myself I'd taken everything. A guy from research named Dave stuck his head through the open doorframe. I don’t think I ever knew his last name.
"Last day, huh?"
"Yeah, this is it."
"Well, good luck."
"Thanks." I gave him a half-smile.
He hung awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, hands on either side of the frame. With a flush of embarrassment, he gave a short wave and disappeared from view.
I took a last look around, then got up and walked out. No one in the surrounding offices said a word to me as I left. After I picked up my paycheck, my e-mail and voicemail boxes would be cancelled and wiped clean, my name purged from address lists, and I would disappear from corporate consciousness like a wave receding on the sand.
* * * *
"Scott!" I stood and waved, then waited until he made his way over to the table.
"Good to see you, Jack." The balding man in gray slacks, blue blazer and regimental tie stuck a hand out as he approached. A black leather briefcase hung at his knees, gripped in his other hand. He was younger than the loss of hair made him look. The mustache he'd grown to compensate made him look older still.
"You, too. Thanks for coming. Can I get you some coffee?"
"No, thanks. I'm coffee'd out." He worked his way around the table and pulled out a chair.
"I know what you mean." I sat down in front of my second latte of the day.
"So, your first day out in the cold cruel world." He grinned across the table.
"First day on my own in the cold cruel world," I corrected.
His eyes darted around the expansive room. "I like your office."
The place hummed with conversation. Cell phones chirped and rang like video arcade games. Crowded with traditional tables and chairs and groupings of stuffed furniture, the room was filled to capacity. Almost every seat was taken. On every other table was at least one open laptop computer being used to make a presentation, take notes, write a report or check e-mail through a wireless Internet connection. A few people had their noses in a newspaper or book. A fire flickered cheerfully in a grate on one wall.
I'd picked a local Starbucks to meet for much the same reason everyone else there had. It was the closest thing to a conference room or professional meeting space that I was likely to have in the near, or even distant, future.
"You ready to talk trade shows?"
"Let's talk trade shows." He hitched his chair closer to the table.
I pulled two copies of my proposal out of the briefcase next to my chair and handed one to him. Scott Carlson had already tacitly agreed to let me handle his company's exhibit and activities at an upcoming show, but I wanted to make sure he felt like he was getting his money's worth. For the next half hour, I walked him through my recommendations.
I was comfortable with this stuff. I knew what I was talking about. I'd thought the proposal through carefully, making sure I didn't over-promise. The adrenaline rush was the same as going on stage on opening night. Beads of sweat trickled down my side under my shirt. I needed this piece of business.
He listened attentively, nodding occasionally to let me know he was tracking with me. Carlson tended to take himself a little too seriously, thinking it would help him hang onto his job. It wasn't rocket science, but he wasn't a brilliant marketer. If he had been, he would have been an up-and-comer at a big consumer products company like P&G, or a "Microsoftie." Then again, neither was I.
"Good stuff," he said finally.
Relief flooded through me, and I relaxed, suddenly aware of how tense I'd been.
"Thank you."
"Okay, so give me the bad news. What's this going to cost me?"
"Only an arm."
He chuckled at the bad joke. I directed him to the right page in his copy of the proposal and spent another half hour answering his question and talking logistics.
"Sounds fine," he said when we'd covered everything. He pushed back his chair and reached down to collect his briefcase. "I've got to get back to the office."
I got to my feet awkwardly, a jumble of papers still on the table in front of me.
"I can't thank you enough."
He waved my gratitude aside. "It's a good proposal."
Before I could reply he turned and walked away.
* * * *
"¡Hola!" Tyler's small voice sounded distant, followed by the slam of the front door.
I looked at my watch. The day had disappeared on me. Where had it gone? What had I done to fritter away the hours since breakfast?
There was a muffled thud from the kitchen that reverberated through the floorboards. Tyler's backpack, no doubt, let go from some height. It wouldn't take much. The weight schools required kids to lug back and forth would cause Governor Schwarzenegger to break a sweat. Judging from the sounds that followed, a small but ravenous boy was foraging for food.
"Hello?" Tyler's voice called again, closer now. "Anybody home?"
"In here, kiddo," I responded loudly.
The door to the den burst open and banged against the rubber tipped door stop. Tyler stood in the doorway wide-eyed, dribbling crumbs from a toaster pastry on the floor as he took a bite. His quiet demeanor and small size belied the dynamo that hummed inside him.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Working. How was school?"
"'Kay. Whatcha workin' on?"
I smiled. "I was just trying to figure that out."
"No luck, huh?"
"What did you learn today?"
"Nuthin'. What did you learn?"
"That we won't starve for another couple of months."
"You got a job?"
"No, I got a new client today."
"Oh, yeah? Cool." Tyler took another bite, filling his cheeks like a chipmunk and chewed thoughtfully.
My attention drifted back to the work on my desk.
"So, you ready?" Tyler interrupted my thoughts.
"Sorry?"
"Soccer?"
"Oh, jeez, you have practice today?"
"Hello? Earth to Dad. Yes, I have practice today." He put a fist on one hip and threw me a look.
"Damn. Sorry -- darn." I tried to hide my irritation. "I was right in the middle of something. We have to leave right now?"
"You said you'd take me, remember?"
"You don't look like you're ready."
"I'll change in the car. I've got all my stuff. Come on! Let's go!"
"Okay, okay. Let me get my shoes and a jacket. Do you always change in the car? Doesn't Mom make you change at home?"
I followed him out into the hall.
"Dad! We're gonna be late!"
"I'm coming!" I slipped into a pair of deck shoes at the front door. "Keep your shirt on. No, I take that back -- take your shirt off and get your jersey on."
"Very funny."
* * * *
"Well, yes, relieved. I just hate the fighting. It's not even that. We don't even fight that much. It just seems like we're walking on egg shells around each other. I'm always on pins and needles waiting for the next crisis to unfold. I dread it."
"What makes you uncomfortable?"
"The tension. I hate confrontation, but we never seem to be able to resolve anything when we talk. So we let it fester, and it feels as if one of is going to explode at any moment. So I feel relieved when she's not there."
"It sounds as if you would rather live this way."
I thought about it for a moment. Sarah delicately put the end of her pen in the corner of her mouth. The unconscious habit made her seem more human. More fallible. Less judgmental. I still squirmed uncomfortably. "Maybe. But whenever I even think about it, I start to feel guilty."
"Why?"
"I'm not supposed to feel this way. I made a commitment. We're supposed to work things out. And I can't imagine the alternative. It would be hard on the kids -- terrible, in fact. And financially, it would be a disaster, I think. We're living on the edge as it is. I don't know how we could swing it financially. It just doesn't seem feasible. I can't even afford coming here. And I just can't imagine life without someone who's been there for twenty years." I shook my head. "I don't see any viable options."
"But you're not happy now, are you?"
The brutal truth of her words landed like a blow, leaving me breathless and queasy. The room started to go dark as a bleak future yawned blackly in front of me, inescapable and immutable. Tears welled up in my eyes. A feeling of helplessness threatened to pull me under and drown me in a sea of depression. I swallowed hard, determined not to let her see me dissolve into a puddle of emotions.
"I guess that's the point." My chest felt so constricted that the words were barely audible. I cleared my throat and swallowed hard again. "I hate living like this."
* * * *
A knot of chatty soccer moms stood a few yards away from the mid-field sideline, fairly reeking of estrogen. I wandered over with the notion of being sociable and joining in the conversation. One or two glanced my way, silently acknowledging me as I approached.
"Hi," I murmured softly to those who looked up, politely trying not to interrupt. "How are you?"
No one made a move to open the circle, and a couple of them unconsciously closed ranks, turning inward as I got closer. It was like walking into an invisible and impervious wall. I bounced off, changing direction and circled at a distance. I kept moving until I was well past them, and stood on the sidelines farther down field.
Tyler hustled up and down the field, his short legs churning to keep up with some of the larger kids on the team as they drilled. A tall, lanky kid named Alex, loped toward Tyler as the ball came his way. Ty started dribbling up field. Instead of trying to steal the ball, Alex just bowled into Ty, knocking him over. Laughing, he dribbled the ball the other way. Tyler was slow to get up, but he didn't look hurt. I looked over at the coaches, but they either hadn't seen it, or didn't consider it serious enough to warrant a whistle.
"Hey, you're both on the same team," I called. "Take it easy out there."
The kids were oblivious and the coaches didn't seem to care. I'd seen Alex get away with dirty play like that at several practices, even during games against other teams. Ty hadn't been hurt. He didn't need me to step in and fight his battles for him. Not yet, anyway. I was just so tired of kids like Alex who thought they could do anything they wanted. I looked over at the women still gabbing at mid-field. Alex's mother exuded the same air of superiority. Let it go.
Tyler was up and running, an earnest look on his face as he focused his efforts on chasing after the ball. I knew I should shrug it off as my son had, but I couldn't. It festered like the remains of a splinter you thought you'd tweezed out.
Three more times Alex physically moved players off the ball with plays that a sharp-eyed ref would have red-carded him for. Sure, you could chalk it up to youthful exuberance and inexperience. The kid was too good, though. He appeared reckless, but there was awareness, purpose, in his actions. Almost as if he was disguising his true intent.
When the coaches ended practice, the kids ran whooping and hollering to the sidelines to get juice and snacks that one of the moms had brought. It reminded me I would have to check with Ty to see when our turn was. While the boys descended on the refreshments like flies at a picnic, the moms drifted apart, picking up the shirts and shoes, bags and water bottles that littered the grass. I slowly made my way over to Alex's mother, putting myself between her and the crowd. She was bent over a sport bag, but looked up when she felt my presence.
"Hi, I'm Jack Holm," I said, making an effort to keep my voice pleasant. "Tyler's dad."
"Yes?"
I let it hang a beat, but forged ahead when she didn't reciprocate with a name. "Just a suggestion, but you might want to have a conversation with Alex about good sportsmanship."
"Excuse me?" She stood upright, a frown on her face.
Her response was loud enough to attract the attention of a few of the moms scattered behind me.
"Alex was a little rough out there today."
"Are you a coach?"
"No. I just think your son ought to recognize that all those other kids are his teammates, not tackling dummies."
"Who do you think you are?" she said, her voice rising. "I didn't hear any whistles out there. I didn't hear the coach tell Alex not to do his best. I don't see why my son should apologize for being a better player than the other boys. And if you're not a coach, maybe you ought to mind your own business."
"This was obviously a mistake."
"A big mistake," she spat. "Sounds to me like your son is the poor sport. It's a rough game. If your kid can't take it, maybe he shouldn't play."
I could feel my ears burn and my face flush. My stomach knotted and a black acorn of pain planted itself behind my left eye. Exactly the feeling I had when I tried to talk to Mary. A small gathering behind me had heard at least a portion of her tirade. I clamped my jaw shut before saying something I really regretted.
"You might be right." I nearly choked on the conciliatory words. "Sorry to have bothered you."
Before she got in any more last digs, I turned and quickly walked past a group of moms. They averted their eyes, pretending they hadn't been listening. I scanned the crowd of boys. Tyler was off to one side with his head down, intently sucking on a juice box and examining the grass in front of him.
"Hey, kiddo," I said lightly. "Great practice. You really hustled out there."
"Thanks," he mumbled.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah, sure." He grabbed his sport duffel and got to his feet, shuffling after me as I headed for the car.
"You really took a tumble out there today," I said when he caught up with me. "You okay?"
"Yeah." He shrugged.
We finished the walk in silence. We were in the car driving out of the lot when Ty piped up again.
"Um, Dad?"
"Yes?"
"What were you talking with Alex's mom about?"
"I told her I thought she ought to talk to Alex about being a poor sport."
"She looked really ticked."
I sighed. "She didn't take it well. I'm not sure what her problem is."
Ty was quiet for a moment. I glanced over. He fidgeted and turned his head away to look out the window. I returned my attention to the road, waiting him out.
"I wish you hadn't done that," he said finally.
"How come?"
"It'll just make things worse."
"What things?" I kept my tone light, hoping I sounded merely curious.
He didn't respond. I tried again.
"Has Alex been bothering you at school?"
"He bothers all the kids. Alex is a real A-hole."
"Watch yourself, buster."
"I didn't say it."
"Close."
"Well, he is."
"If it's a problem, tell someone. Let your teacher know."
"He's sneaky, Dad. He knows how keep from getting caught."
"I could see that. I was watching him out on the field."
"It's better to just try to stay out of his way."
"Good strategy, kiddo. What happens if you can't?"
"I try to walk away."
"Smart. Then you can't get blamed for starting anything."
"Doesn't always work, though."
"So what happens? Does he pick fights?"
"Nah, nothing like that." Ty waved a hand, a look of disdain on his face. "It's more like -- whaddya call it? -- a hit-and-run. He'll just do something mean and then he's out of there. Like, the other day we were in music class? And Mrs. Burke is showing us different musical instruments? So, like, we're on percussion, so she hands out all kinds of things to the class -- triangles and cymbals, drumsticks and gourds and stuff.
"So we're trying this stuff out, and Mrs. Burke says she has to leave for a minute. Like, the second she's gone, Alex takes his drumsticks and starts drumming on Trina's head. Real hard. I mean, she was even crying. But by the time Mrs. Burke came back in, Alex was back in his seat like nothing happened. She didn't even see that Trina was hurt."
"And no one said anything?"
"What's the point? Mrs. B didn't see it, so she wouldn't do anything about it. And whoever told would just get grief for snitching."
Welcome to the cold, cruel world. It's dog-eat-dog out there, and no one ever said life was fair. I sighed again.
"He'll get his someday, kiddo. What goes around comes around."
"I doubt it," he said, a dour look on his face. "You really believe that?"
"I'd like to." I thought for a moment, wondering if I did. "I guess some people never get it. They're just mean. Some will get a comeuppance, maybe even learn a lesson. But I like to think that even if they don't in this life, eventually it evens out."
"You mean, like maybe they won't go to heaven?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll come back in their next life as a slug or a cockroach."
"Yuck!"
"Yeah, yuck." The problem was, Tyler was right. Kids like Alex grew up to be rude, obnoxious adults like his mother.
My cell phone chirped, and I struggled to fish it out of my pocket without driving off the road. I managed to flip it open after the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Dad, we need a ride," Kelsey's breathless voice came over the phone. "Can you pick us up?"
"Sure. Ty's practice just ended. Where are you?"
"Jennie's house. Her mom was going to take us down to do community service, but now she can't, so we need a ride."
"I got it. You said that. Jennie's house is the one down near the middle school, right?"
"No, that's Amanda, Dad. Jennie's is, like, near the south end center. You know, you go past it and down the hill a little and then take a right?"
"Give me the address, Kelsey," I said impatiently.
"Sixty-six seventy-one."
"What street, sweetie?"
"Oh. I don't know. Hang on." There were muffled sounds and then she was back on the phone. "Eighty-third."
"Thank you."
"When will you be here?"
"Give me five minutes."
"Okay, 'bye."
I shoved the phone back in my pocket with a flustered sigh and looked at Tyler. His normally serious face was split by a wide grin of amusement.
* * * *
Ty walked into his room in an oversized T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts with Homer Simpson's face imprinted on the back side.
"Teeth brushed?"
"All done."
"And you're sure you finished your homework?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Okay, if you say so. I don't need to sign anything or correct anything?"
"Nope." He saw my skepticism. "I swear!"
"So, where are your PJs?"
"These are my pajamas."
"Oh." I couldn't remember if I'd noticed the switch before. The shock sent momentary panic through me. Another phase gone. Where had the little boy gone? Who was this person inhabiting my son's body?
"Story?"
"I can read, you know."
"Yes, I know. I just thought you might like me to read few pages to you."
"Well, okay. Half a chapter."
"Pick the book."
He took a book off the nightstand, opened it to a bookmarked page and handed it to me.
I sat on the floor next to his bed and settled in to read, skimming the page to get a sense of what was happening in the story. It felt good to stop and relax for a minute. The evening had disappeared in a blur. Ty and I had picked up Kelsey and her friend, dropped them off, then had gone home to make dinner. After we ate, I drove Ty to youth night at church. Religious education for public elementary school kids was on Wednesday afternoons, but fifth graders had been invited to attend a middle school youth night to see what they could look forward to.
I'd barely gotten home after dropping him off when Kelsey called to say she was ready to be picked up. I collected her and Jennie from the community center, drove Jennie to her house, and went home. Kelsey walked straight into the family room, dropped her book bag on the floor and turned on the television. Then she sat down at the computer and opened up an instant messaging program and picked up the phone to dial a friend. Multi-tasking, she calls it. Satisfied that she was occupied and in for the night, I finished cleaning up the kitchen, then went back to church to pick up Ty.
Now it was already nine-thirty, and I was beat. It felt good to sit. I read a few pages out loud, having fun making up voices for the different characters. Ty was completely absorbed when I stopped in the middle of an action packed paragraph.
"Hey!"
I handed Ty the book. "Your turn."
"Just a few more pages. Please?"
"Nope. You did say you know how to read."
"Oh, all right."
Reluctantly, he took the book from me. I slowly got to my feet, working the stiffness out of my joints, then bent over the bed and gave Ty a quick peck on his forehead.
"'Night, kiddo. Love you."
"'Night, Dad. Me, too."
His nose was already buried in the book. I walked to the door.
"Don't stay up too late. Lights out in half an hour."
"Okay."
I turned to go, but Ty's voice stopped me.
"Dad?"
"Yes?" I looked back at him over my shoulder.
"Where's Mom?"