care—keep him away from my son!
He understood why his son was a target for the bully. Last summer, the bully rode the church bus most Sundays to attend their church, and his wife had been his Sunday school teacher. He picked on the other children, and disrupted the class every week. Most Sundays his wife had to send him out from the class, or the other children would hear nothing of the lesson. Often, he waited on the swings until church was over, and bullied the other kids while they played and their parents talked. One Sunday he started a fight down by the swings, and his wife heard the ruckus when they stepped out from the church. She rushed down to the swings, pulled the bully off another boy, and brought him to the pastor’s office. The boy never came back to church. Johnny’s father knew the pastor well; he was sure he had only told the bully he would need to treat the other children better, but it was enough embarrassment for the boy to never return. When school started that fall, the bully gave special attention to his son.
“Your church is stupid,” the bully had taunted him. “Church is for girls. Look at the pretty girl; he loves his mommy’s Sunday school classes.” That’s how it had started, and it had been going on all year.
His head flashed hot with anger, temporarily warding off the night’s chill. When it wore off, he thought about heading home. He looked around him; he’d hardly paid attention to where he was walking.
How did I end up here? he asked himself. He’d walked at least a dozen blocks from his home. He heard a police siren in the distance, and scanned the road for a street sign. Suddenly, he recognized where he was. The one time he’d filled in for his church’s bus driver, the bully had been onboard. He was approaching the block the boy lived on.
Good, he thought to himself. I’ve had enough of this. He quickened his pace. He resolved to tell the boy’s parents just what he thought of their son. In a momentary lapse of character, he imagined the boy’s father spanking him, and relished the thought.
Many of the houses were dark, though it wasn’t late. Very few of them had Christmas lights up. He knew the area had been hit especially hard in the recent economy’s downturn. Several of the houses had recent foreclosure notices still tacked to their front doors. Wow, he thought, what a horrible time of year to evict someone. He heard a scream and his eyes darted, looking for its source. A loud voice boomed in return. He jogged around the corner, and saw an unhappy scene played out in a living room window.
Strange lights danced over the snow-capped bushes in the house’s front yard, while a commercial shone brightly from a television screen. The house and yard were in worse wear than the emptied foreclosures surrounding it. A man and a woman shouted at each other, in plain view of their front window.
Some people, he thought to himself. He caught himself, stopped the disapproving shake of his head, just in time to see the man reach out and slap the women, hard in the face. He stopped dead in his tracks, unsure what he should do. He had nearly reached their house. While he struggled between calling the police and rushing to the front door, the woman left the room with a muffled sob. The man stormed out the front door, leaving it wide open behind him.
“Where are you going?” he heard the tearful voice from within the house.
“I’m out of scotch,” the man yelled as he slammed his car door. He backed out of the driveway, turned, and slid on the ice as he gunned the engine. Johnny’s father jumped into the neighbor’s yard just in time, right over the snow-covered sidewalk; the old car hopped the curb onto the sidewalk near where he’d been standing. The driver overcorrected and knocked over the mailbox across the street before finding his way to the right lane.
“Get out of the way, moron,” he heard from the car as it sped away.
Shaken, he stepped back onto the street and stomped his feet to clear the snow from his socks and pant legs once again. He shivered, thinking of the frigid wind blowing into the still-open front door of the house. He took quick strides toward it, unwilling to leave it open. He prayed he could shut it and slip away without being noticed.
He closed the door gently, and tip-toed back down the driveway. A rustle in a large bush in the yard stole his attention. The shadowy outline of a headless torso nearly made him jump.
“Who’s there?” a scared child’s voice cried.
“Just a stranger, out on a walk,” was all he could muster. The boy’s head popped out from the zippered collar of an old coat. He’d been lying down inside the bush. He yanked a pair of earphones from his ears and threw them down. “Stupid thing’s broken.” Then he turned back, his eyes open wide in recognition. “You’re no stranger,” he shot back. “You’re Johnny’s dad.”
He jerked his head slightly in surprise. If he hadn’t been distracted by the argument in the window, he might have guessed this house was the home of Billy, his son’s tormentor.
“That’s right Billy, I am,” he said when he recovered. “What are you doing outside?” he asked. Concern had found its way into his voice; he’d never considered this boy might be a victim. Something deep in his heart wrestled over how he perceived this young boy.
“It’s Bill,” the boy replied, forcing his voice gruff. “Are you here to tell on me? You just want to get me in trouble.”
“No, son, I don’t.” He was surprised to find this was true; he didn’t want to add to this boy’s pain. “Now what are you doing out here?”
Billy wiped his nose. In the light from the window, he saw a trace of dried blood where it had trickled from one nostril earlier that evening.
“I left…they were fighting again.” He stood and started to unzip his coat. Johnny’s dad reached out to stop him, and as he did, he felt his hands—they were shivering.
“Why are you taking your coat off?”
“It’s his—my mom’s boyfriend’s. I—I have to put it back before he comes home.” Fear shone brightly in his eyes.
“Just wait a minute, Bill; he won’t be back right away.” There was a weathered terrace beside the bush, and Johnny’s father sat down on it. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re out here?” He took a closer look at the boy’s nose, and found his answer.
“I just put on my earphones when they fight. But tonight…well, after I came out here, I guess I fell asleep.” Billy’s voice cracked, and he looked away, shivering. Johnny’s father realized why his head had been tucked down into his coat—he had no hat or hood over his head. He took off his own, and handed it to him.
“Here, put this on, or you’ll freeze.” Billy paused before reacting. Suspiciously, he pulled it over his head.
“You really aren’t going to tell my mom—you know, about Johnny?” he asked. Hesitantly, he sat beside him on the terrace. Billy’s hands were shaking.
Johnny’s father wavered. His anger over Johnny being bullied was closer to his heart, but Billy’s circumstances were so grave, he found he had little anger left toward him.
“Take these,” he said, handing him his gloves. “You look a good deal colder than me tonight.” Billy quickly put them on, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You brought up a good point though. Johnny’s not having a very fun night either. I won’t bother your mom, but maybe you can help me.” Billy looked away again, not wanting to meet his gaze. “It’s Johnny’s mom you’re mad at, isn’t it?”
Billy choked back a sob and nodded quickly. Then he coughed, and cleared his throat. “You going to tell him I’m a crybaby now?”
“No, Billy, I’d never embarrass you like that.” He wondered at the change in heart he had for the boy, in only a minute’s time. This bully suddenly looked like a whole other person to him. “My wife didn’t want to embarrass you either, on that Sunday last summer. She only wanted to protect the kid you were fighting with. He was a couple years younger than you, right?”
“Yeah. I do stupid things like that sometimes.”
“We all do, Bill,” he said, smiling warmly. “Sometimes when we’r
e hurting, we’re tempted to hurt others. It never makes us feel better for long.” He paused, wondering what he could possibly say next. “You know what? Johnny was sad when you stopped coming to church. He kind of looked up to you back then.”
“He did? I didn’t know that.”
“Do you think you can work things out with Johnny—you know, find a way to work things out without fighting?”
Billy coughed back another sob.
“Yes sir…I can do that.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. You know what? It’s time you got back inside.” A thought flashed through his mind—when he had closed the door to the house, the air rushing out wasn’t all that warm. “Do you have heat in there tonight?”
“The heater broke last week.”
Alarmed, he reached for the boy’s shoulder. “Billy, does your hot water still work?”
“Yeah, it does.”
He sighed inwardly. “You need a hot bath before you go to bed. Will you promise me you’ll get a really hot bath, and put on all your covers?”
“Promise?” Billy repeated, clearly doubting his concern.
“Yes, I want you to promise. I have something for you if you do.” He reached into his jacket pocket and found the MP3 player he’d bought for his son. He dangled it between his fingers.
“For real?” Billy asked. “Sure, I promise. I’ll take two baths,” he
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