The leather briefcase slides a few inches, closer to Jack’s feet. Close enough for him to see inside. My son shifts in his seat. Without turning, I can now feel Jack’s eyes drilling two perfectly round holes in the side of my head.
At a red light, we jerk to a stop.
“What’s that?” my son asks.
My head begins to throb. “Protection.” I turn the wheel and head up the hill that leads to the college. It’s only about a mile away now.
Jack sinks lower in the seat, pressing himself against the door.
When we drive past the gates, I see the flashing lights.
CHAPTER 7
JACK
THURSDAY, MARCH 25
Dad slams the truck into park. “Stay here,” he tells me and gets out. His door stays open, letting in gusts of cold, black air. He doesn’t take the duffel bag or the gun.
Shivering, but not from the cool night, I watch as he walks over to the policemen. Mo’s dad, Mike, is there in his uniform, along with some other sheriff’s deputies I recognize from around town. I squint and try to see better, but can’t tell if they’ve caught anybody.
Where are the college kids being questioned by the cops? Being led away in handcuffs? Or shoved up against the back of one of the squad cars?
If Thor showed up, he’d toss his enchanted hammer, Mjӧlnir, at the guys who took the statue, and they wouldn’t have a chance. If anyone got away, he could slow them way down by starting a lightning, wind, and rain storm. All he has to do is pound the hammer’s handle twice on the ground. If the bad guys decided to take on Thor, Mjӧlnir deflects bullets, and his Belt of Strength makes him practically unbeatable.
As a Norse god, Thor can also fly and move stuff—like a statue—and has the ability to pass through time. If my dad really wanted to get rid of whomever stole the Spartan, Thor could use his superstrength to launch them out of the Earth’s atmosphere.
When I lift my chin up and look around, though, there’s no huge muscled guy in a blue suit and red cape carrying a leather-bound hammer. I tuck my feet up under my legs and hug my knees to my chest. It’s too bad. ’Cause I think Thor and I could be best friends.
For a long time, my dad talks to Mike. There’s nothing for me to do but wait. I can’t even listen to the radio because I don’t have the keys.
After a while, I’m so bored that I lean my head against the truck and stare up at the sky. The moon’s huge; it looks like every star in the universe is out. Even though the night looks magical and the air smells like just-washed sheets, I just want to go home. I close my eyes and think about my soft blanket, big pillow, and warm bed.
In my dream, someone is calling my name.
“Jack! Jack, wake up, honey!”
I recoil as something grabs me. Blinking back sleep, I see Ava shaking me. Her face is all crunched up and she’s holding Sam, who doesn’t look happy either. Officer Mike stands beside her, arms crossed against his barrelchest, forehead crinkled up.
Before I can say a word, Dad stalks right up to Ava, his eyes flashing black with glints of silver. A sure sign he’s angry.
“Excuse me,” he barks at Officer Mike, who pauses before tipping his hat to Ava and stepping away.
“Listen,” he begins, grabbing at Ava’s shoulder.
Ava steps back and shakes her head. “We’re going home, Mitchell.”
My stomach corkscrews. Ava opens the truck door and waves at me to jump down.
“But, Ava—” My dad stops then and clenches his jaw.
Sam starts wriggling like a porpoise. His face screws up like he’s just about to start wailing. It’s way past his bedtime. I don’t look at Dad, I just stare straight ahead and get into Ava’s Jeep. She’s got the top up and the heat blasting, so it feels about a hundred degrees warmer.
After she buckles Sam in and hands him his fuzzy brown bear, he quiets down. I give him my finger to hold, and he squeezes it with both hands, telling me “Ja-Ja-Ja” like a story. His curly hair is wild tonight, and there’s a drooly shine on his bottom lip.
When we pull into the driveway and wait for the garage to open, Ava shakes her head one more time.
“Your dad shouldn’t have dragged you out tonight.” She turns around and looks at me.
I’m warm now and feel safe, so I smile and shrug. “No big deal,” I say.
“Jack,” she tells me. “Your dad doesn’t like kids—anyone—messing with ‘his’ stuff on ‘his’ campus.” Ava makes quotation marks with her fingers, but she’s not making fun of him at all.
I nod. Yep. My dad has a temper sometimes. Like a button you press, and everything explodes. I’m used to it. She’s not as much. Ava can say stuff, though. I can’t. I lick my lips a little. “Was that . . . in his briefcase . . .” I don’t want to say the word.
“Yes.” She nods and closes her eyes tight. She puts a hand on her forehead and brushes hair from her face. “Believe me, I’m not happy about it.”
In the back, Sam starts to kick. He’s impatient to be set free from all of the buckles and straps.
“Let’s go inside, okay?” She ruffles my hair and tilts her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to get your brother to bed. We can all use some sleep.”
Ava grabs Sam. I head for the house, brush my teeth, and change clothes. I grab another blanket and try burying myself under a mountain of covers, snuggling down deep.
I wake up again when I hear my dad come home. Ava must have been waiting for him in the kitchen, because I can hear them talking right away. And it’s not happy words. My insides twist tight, like cooked spaghetti wrapped on a fork. I try not to listen, even put my head under the pillow, but then I can’t breathe.
“What were you thinking, Mitchell?” Ava asks him.
My dad’s voice muffles. I only catch half of what he’s saying. “Going to protect . . .”
“Protect who . . . from what?” Ava cuts him off. She’s totally upset, because she’s all out of breath like she’s about to cry. “From a bunch of kids . . . playing a silly prank? Really, Mitchell?”
My dad mumbles.
“And you were going to use—that gun?”
A chair scrapes against the floor in the kitchen and I can’t hear my Dad.
Ava’s voice gets louder. “I don’t care. D-do you know that Jack asked me about it? He’s only eight, Mitchell. Eight.”
There’s a bang, then, like something got slammed down on the table. My whole body jumps. Holding my breath, I pull the sheets up to my chin.
“What sort of example does that set for him?” she lowers her voice.
“The right kind,” my father shouts back at Ava, and a chair scrapes against the floor.
It’s dead quiet in the house now. Spooky-silent. I’m hoping they don’t come into my room. If they do, I’ll pretend to be asleep. Some of my friends say that their parents fight all of the time. I guess I’m lucky because Dad and Ava don’t do it much.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think about soccer. About tomorrow’s game. Maybe I’ll score a goal. And the team will cheer for me. And that will make my dad happy.
If he’d just say he’s sorry, Ava would be happy too. My dad’s wrong this time. Even I know that. But he doesn’t apologize. And I don’t think that he ever will.
CHAPTER 8
JACK
FRIDAY, MARCH 26
The whistle shrieks. Time out. I float back to Earth and the soccer game. The team huddles up. We’re ahead 4–0, so everyone’s relaxed and a bit cocky. Coach urges us to keep our heads in the game. We clap once, yell, “Team!” and get back in position. I glance at the bleachers. Dad’s there, proud smile, his arm around Ava, Sam in her lap.
Focus. I crouch down and shield my eyes from the sun’s glare. My gloves rasp against my knees. A bee buzzes in circles around the goal posts. A cheer erupts from the other side. A player in red breaks away from the pack. His legs pump as he rushes toward me. The ball is a blur as he dances around defenders and breaks downfield.
&nbs
p; Adrenaline courses through my arms, and I tighten every muscle to spring. I coil and ready myself to move, a trigger. We size each other up. He darts to the right; I match his movement. He cuts left, then back. I mirror him, hands outstretched.
A breeze gusts across the field, catches the ragged edges of the bandage on my chin. My face throbs and I hesitate. The ball stops under the kid’s foot. He rears back and kicks with force. I glue my eyes to the ball’s trajectory and leap to block the kick. Too late. My fingertips brush the leather. It falls behind me as I crash to the ground. The whistle blows.
I eat dirt. The game is now 4–1.
My teammates gather around. Mo offers a hand and pulls me to my feet. “S’all right, man. Tough break.” Someone else slaps me on the butt. Another punches my shoulder.
I shake it off, brush blades of grass from my uniform, and wait. The clock ticks down another ten seconds. Halftime. We jog off the field. Before I can grab a Gatorade and collapse on the bench, Dad corners me. He towers over me and the other players like a giant on the field. He’s still wearing his navy suit from work. His shoes gleam so much I can almost see my face in the shiny reflection.
“Jack, what was that?” he mutters under his breath.
Someone throws me a thick, raspy towel. I wipe sweat from my forehead. “A mistake.”
“Is that what you call it?” I don’t want to look up at him. His eyes get all dark and spooky when he’s mad.
I shrug and sling the towel around my shoulders. A few teammates listen in, hanging close by to hear. My throat aches. I can almost taste the tangy, sweet Gatorade, but I have to wait, even though the last thing I need is my dad giving me pointers.
He played ball at Alabama and therefore believes he is the all-knowing God of all sports. And he cares about winning. A lot. Coming out on top. Being number one.
Dad tells everyone we’re two of a kind, how we think the same way, like the same things. And it’s somewhat true; up until the point he starts barking orders. It’s like he can’t just watch. He has to out-think the coach, the other team. If I interrupt, the lecture gets longer. I’ve learned this much: stand there and act interested.
Tweet! Coach blows the whistle, red-faced, motions for a team meeting.
With a raised eyebrow, Ava catches my eye from the sidelines. I push up the corners of my mouth so she doesn’t worry about what Dad is doing. She gives me a thumbs-up.
“Gotta go, Dad.”
“Fine, fine.” He grabs my shoulder, pulls me close. It’s so I’m the only one who can hear. “Pay attention. Start using this.” Dad taps my forehead.
His touch thuds against my skull, and I recoil into myself.
“I’m not—”
He cuts in, puts his back to the coach, and lowers his voice. “Don’t argue with me. Make excuses. That’s a coward’s way out.” With that, my father turns and walks away.
Coward?
Stinging with disbelief, eyes lowered, I jog to the pack and take my place, wishing the whole time someone or something would swoop down onto the field and help me out.
It really happens on this show called The Fairly Odd Parents. Magical “godparents” Cosmo and Wanda—little people with wings and halos—follow this kid, Timmy, around, grant his wishes, and get him out of messes. How cool is that?
If some wish-granting relatives landed on the field right now, I know what I’d do. First, I’d ask to play soccer like David Beckham, just for one game. Score enough goals to make my dad’s mouth hang open, and get awarded MVP. Then once I’d wowed my father, I’d make him pay more attention to what’s important. My grades, Sam’s first steps, the dinner Ava slaved over to make just right. I promise I won’t even complain if she fixes broccoli.
Last, I’d have Wanda and Cosmo whip me up a memory eraser; pocket-sized, so bad thoughts and dreams just fade away, kind of like the faces on my old, worn-out Justice League T-shirt.
Going, going, gone.
CHAPTER 9
MITCHELL
FRIDAY, MARCH 26
I walk back to the stands, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun as the second half begins. Ava’s waiting, forehead furrowed, bouncing Sam on her knees.
“Everything okay?” she leans close and whispers. Her hair catches the sunlight as she gazes up at me. Her clear green eyes, flecked with gold, look like jewels. My wife is beautiful. Even more so when she’s concerned.
I break into a smile. “Of course.” I clap my hands together and rub them for warmth. The breeze sneaks down the collar of my jacket, giving me a chill.
Ava turns back to the game, letting out a little squeal when Jack makes an attempt on goal. The ball grazes the keeper’s glove and rolls away from the net.
“Next time!” I shout, cupping my hand so that Jack can hear me. I grip my knee. He either won’t acknowledge my encouragement or can’t hear me, though I choose to go with the latter.
A smart child listens. And learns much from his father, especially. From the simplest tasks—crossing the street, telling time—to the most complex—excelling at sports, developing good study habits, and preparing for a successful career. You can’t start too early.
I tilt my head toward Ava. “I tried to give Jack some motivation out there. Told him to get his head in the game and focus.”
My wife raises an eyebrow. “How’d he take that?”
“Aw, he’s a trooper,” I say. “Look at him now.” I point out to where Jack is driving down the field, passing back and forth with his teammate.
“It’s important for him to know that I care. That I’m watching,” I add. “I’m here at the game, cheering him on.”
Ava nods and gives me a small smile, then hugs Sam to her chest. “Both of your boys love you.”
I reach out, squeeze her fingertips, and lean close. “I won’t be like my parents.”
It’s a story Ava has heard a million times. In the solar system of all relationships, my mother and father resembled an off-kilter sun and planet, each rotating on its axis, but never in complete alignment. Too close, get burned. Too far, freeze to death.
When the pressure became too great for my mother, she imploded. My father, a great athlete, escaped by lecturing me on sports and conditioning. When on leave from the army, he’d take me to my own games, talking strategy and technique until he dropped me off at the locker rooms.
If I succeeded, I’d get a smile, a slap on the back, or a wink. If I failed, my punishment was silence. Black and deafening. For days. Which is why I challenge Jack, talk to him, motivate him through my words and my presence. I’m here. He matters. We’re a team.
I can’t become my father. It has to be different this time.
CHAPTER 10
GRAHAM
FRIDAY, MARCH 26
My nephew scored his first goal tonight. He’s elated, and his team’s dominating the field. He made striker this year and is clearly a valuable asset to the forward line.
I grin, clap, and whistle, making the shrill pitch sound over two soccer fields.
Truth be told, this soccer game is my first crack at any social life in Mobile, Alabama, outside my nephew’s birthday party. I scan the crowd for my brother, but it’s halftime and he’s buried ten people deep.
It’s a warm afternoon, even for March, with the air off the Gulf of Mexico hanging thick and heavy overhead. The sky, painted postcard blue, is punctuated only by the occasional wisp of clouds. I lean against the trunk of a thick oak, my hand gripping the rough bark. My knee throbs from standing so long. For the millionth time, I curse my next-to-useless joint and dig in my jeans for Advil. The concession stand is close, and the sweet, spicy scent of grilled hot dogs fills my nose. Balanced out with a tall, icy cold Coke, it’s the closest I’ll get to heaven this morning. At least that kind of temptation won’t get me in trouble with anyone, except a cardiologist.
And I don’t need problems. Of any kind. Yeah, I know. I’m different. A paranoid lawyer with a conscience. If you’re asking why, the long version is compl
icated, but the quick answer is Vicodin. Those pills could erase Mother Teresa’s devotion to Calcutta. Convince a person to sell his soul.
I know, because I did it. Ruined everything, had my law license suspended. Managed to keep my Harley and worked my ass off to regain a shred of self-respect. Thanks to my brother and Narcotics Anonymous, I’m clean two years, three months, and one day.
After a torn ACL playing flag football on spring break from law school, I got hooked on pain pills. Because my grades were stellar, I still managed to land a job at a big downtown Birmingham firm. The salary paid for my habit until the day I showed up to try a case under the influence.
It was only through the grace of God that one of the partners noticed and sent me straight home. His caveat? Check into rehab that week. I was later politely and quietly asked to resign, but didn’t lose my license. I could have lost everything. Mobile is my second chance. And I’m not going to screw it up. This time I’m one of the good guys.
I take my place in line, check for my wallet. The baby in front of me catches my eye and starts to babble in my direction. He’s adorable and chubby with the sort of blush-pink cheeks grandmothers like to pinch. The woman holding him has long hair, shining gold-red in the fading sunshine.
It hits me then. The woman and her baby. From that day in the hospital.
It’s her turn at the counter. “Hey, y’all. One Coke, a hot dog, and a small popcorn.”
It’s clear she knows everyone. They banter back and forth while she reaches for her purse.
She hesitates, studying my face with wide bottle-green eyes. “Have we met before? You look so familiar.”
“Springhill Medical Center,” I remind her. “I think you crushed my foot.”
Her face lights up and she starts to laugh. “That’s right,” she replies. “My son, Jack, was getting stiches that day. Of course he’s right back out on the field.”
Center of Gravity Page 4
