by Gene Gant
He punched his fist into my shoulder, releasing my sweater and shoving me roughly away in the same movement. With a grunt, I stumbled backward into the front wall of some building, hitting the side of my head against the bricks. When I pushed myself upright and turned, Lorne had moved away, storming down the street. That coiled thing in me twisted down, a screw driven deep, and like a spring wound too tight, it snapped.
I was a bullet going after him, a missile, my entire force aimed at his head. Some sound, or perhaps some instinct, must have warned him; at the last instant he turned and saw me. He ducked, and instead of smashing dead center into the back of his skull, my fist caught the tip of his right ear and the side of his head. A glancing blow, but it was enough to stagger him.
I followed with a left uppercut. Lorne recovered quickly, regaining his balance and stepping back, dodging my second blow entirely. He moved nimbly, laying a slap across my face so hard it jerked my whole upper body to one side.
There was no pain, and I wasn’t deterred. I swung my body back, my left fist coming around in a tight arc and crunching into Lorne’s jaw. He let loose a deep, startled gasp. His head snapping back from the blow, he looked into my eyes. In the space of perhaps two seconds, his pissed-off glare widened into surprise and fear.
My right fist was coming at his mouth then. He ducked the blow, but this time when my fist shot past his face, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me forward, pulling me off balance. As I fell to my knees on the sidewalk, Lorne twisted my right arm up behind my back.
I tried to elbow him in the nuts with my free arm but missed, jabbing into his left thigh instead. Then he got my left arm trapped behind me as well. He pressed his shoulder against my upper back and bore down, effectively pinning me in such a way that I couldn’t get any leverage to do much of anything, except breathe. I struggled in vain for about a minute, trying to tear myself out of his grip, frustration and fury whipping into a hurricane within me, until finally I began to howl in pure, incoherent rage.
“Calm down, kid,” Lorne said quietly and firmly, his lips at my ear. “Just calm down.” My yells only got louder. Lorne pressed down harder on my back, using not just the strength of his muscles but the full weight of his upper body. His voice dropped to a harsh, urgent whisper. “Jesus, boy, shut the hell up. The cops hear you, they’ll haul both of us off to jail. You want your parents to have to come downtown to bail you out? Is that what you want? Come on, calm down.”
It felt as if energy was draining rapidly from my body. My screams devolved into thick, hitching sobs. At some point, the pressure on my back eased, and shortly after that, my arms were free. I sagged forward and down, collapsing into a crying heap.
For a while, I couldn’t move. Then, sitting back on my heels, I pressed my fists to my eyes, as if that would dam up the tears. An arm slid almost shyly across my shoulders. Then Lorne was kneeling beside me. “You’re gonna be all right,” he said softly.
It sure as hell didn’t seem that way. It felt as if every bit of anger, hurt, and hatred I’d kept bottled up in me was pouring out now from some dark and bottomless void. But minutes later, the tears were gone and so was the vortex of emotion. I was left with a cold, bone-deep weariness. Wiping the sleeves of my sweater across my face, I started to get up.
Lorne rose and then hooked his hands under my arms, pulling me to my feet. “Are you okay now?”
I nodded dully. Remaining upright seemed to require an inordinate amount of will. I wanted to crawl into a dark corner, curl up, and never move again.
“Go on home,” Lorne said. “And be careful.” He stood beside me a few seconds longer, probably to make sure I wouldn’t fall over. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner onto Beale.
After he was gone, I trudged off in the opposite direction, head down, staring at my plodding feet. My whole body felt numb. When I found myself, a couple of minutes later, stepping off the corner at the opposite end of the block, I realized I had walked right by my car. Turning around, I went back, only I didn’t see the car. The white Buick was there, in its spot, but the space behind it was empty.
I stood there for a few more seconds, staring at the vacant spot beside the curb where the Impala had been, before the reality sunk in that the car had been stolen.
Twenty
HANDS down, it was the most miserable two hours of my life.
First, there was my phone call to Mom, in which I had to explain that not only had I sneaked out of the house and driven my unlicensed self into downtown Memphis in her deceased uncle’s car, but said car had been stolen. Hell, after leaving the key in the ignition and the driver’s door wide open, I’d pretty much hung a sign on the Impala saying “Free Car. Help yourself.” Stupid, stupid, stupid!
After telling me to stay put, Mom said she was calling the police. Two cops showed up ten minutes later. Then, I spent a good forty-five minutes sitting in the backseat of a squad car being interrogated by a policeman who was probably twice my age but half my size. The officer barked questions at me so relentlessly, I’d have confessed to every unsolved crime in Memphis just to get him to leave me alone.
By the time Mom and Dad arrived, I was shaking. They were both pretty agitated, asking me over and over again if I was okay. The sight of Dad started my anger rising all over again. I didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Every time he tried to squeeze my shoulder or pat my back, I pushed him away.
I climbed into the backseat of Dad’s car while he and Mom gave the cops information about the Impala. Fifteen minutes later, the cop who’d been writing up the report ripped off a copy and handed it to Mom, and she and Dad got into the Lexus. I was expecting them both to chew me out. I felt so bad for what I’d done, I actually wanted them to chew me out. But neither of them said a word the entire drive back to Oakland.
Dad dropped Mom and me off at her house. We came in through the front door. Mom tossed her purse into a chair. “Your hand’s bleeding,” she said.
I raised my right hand. A big patch of rust-colored blood had soaked through and spread across the top of the bandages. Mom got the first-aid kit and led me up to my room. I checked the digital clock on my nightstand: 4:37 a.m. In my bathroom, I sat on the rim of the bathtub while Mom removed the bandages. The wound was swollen and ugly. Mom cleaned it without saying a word and applied fresh bandages. Then she gave me one of the pain pills.
I was physically exhausted and emotionally raw. I went out into my room and curled up on the bed, shoes and all. Mom turned off the light on her way out.
I conked out right after that.
A SOFT clink woke me. I opened my eyes to a sunlit room and a tray of French toast and sliced peaches perched on my nightstand. My boots had been removed and sat neatly together on the floor beside the bed, and a blanket had been spread over me. I pushed myself upright in bed, squinting against the brightness and careful of the ache that announced itself in my right hand.
Mom was there. She pulled the chair from my desk and sat down. She looked at me evenly, her face composed. “Good morning.”
“Mornin’,” I mumbled back. “What time is it?”
“Eleven thirty. I would have let you sleep longer, but I have to leave in about an hour, and you and I must have a very serious conversation.”
Her tone made my insides shrivel. Not that I wasn’t already feeling horrible for what I’d done. “Mom, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are, but that’s hardly enough this time. Why did you do it? Why did you leave the house and take the car without permission?”
“I don’t kno—”
“I don’t want to hear ‘I don’t know’, Kyle,” Mom said, the volume of her voice going up a notch. “You know exactly why you did it, and I want you to tell me now.”
“I… I was so mad last night.”
“At anybody in particular?”
“Dad, mostly. And my friend Dwight. And you.”
“Just what did we do to make you so angry?”
“Mom, you treat me as if I’m some little kid, like I’m too young to understand anything. I saw that prescription your doctor gave you. I know you’re pregnant, but you never said a word to me. You never tell me anything that’s going on with you. Believe it or not, I do know how babies are made.”
Mom looked surprised for a moment. Then she smiled. “So you’ve been snooping through my desk.”
“It’s just about the only way I ever find out anything around here.”
“You’d make a good reporter. Or detective. But, Kyle, I have reasons for not telling you certain things. I didn’t say anything to you about the baby because I’m not sure yet if I’m going to have it.”
“Wait. Mom, you can’t… you aren’t gonna have an abortion—”
“As I said, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Neither Reece nor I planned on having another child at this point in our lives. In two years, I’ll be packing you off to college somewhere. If I have this baby, I’ll be starting all over again with the bottles and the diapers and the tantrums and the wonderful little talks like the one we’re having now. Reece and I would practically be sixty before we got this one out of the house. And pregnancy’s a lot riskier at my age. I’m not sure I’m ready for all that. Neither is Reece.”
“Mom, you can’t have an abortion.”
“That’s between Reece and me. It isn’t something for you to concern yourself with, and it isn’t what you and I are here to discuss. You broke the law last night, got my car stolen, and put yourself in danger, all because you were upset with your parents and your boyfriend. By the way, your dad told me what happened at his place.”
My memory flashed on Stephanie’s pained face, and the anger came rushing back. “Jesus, I so understand why you want to divorce him. He’s a total asshole—”
“Stop it!” Mom snapped, her eyes blazing. “I won’t have you talk that way about him. Whatever you think he’s done, he’s still your father.”
“Mom, he cheated. He cheated on you, and now he’s cheating on Stephanie. She’s really nice, and you should have seen the look on her face when we caught him. How am I supposed to have anything to do with him when he hurts people that way over and over again?”
“Kyle, your dad’s relationship with his girlfriend has nothing to do with you—”
“Yes, it does. How can you say that? You and dad separate, and then you bring all these new people in, and I’m supposed to get along with them because they’re important to you. You can’t have it both ways, Mom. You can’t get me to like these people and then expect me not to care when they get hurt.”
There was admiration in the way Mom looked at me now. “You’re right, son, but that isn’t what I meant. You have your own relationship with your father, and you can’t let what happens between your dad and me, or between your dad and his girlfriend, get in the way of that. That’s why I don’t tell you about my problems with your dad. I don’t want anything I say to affect how you feel about him.”
“But he cheated—!”
“Yes, he did. And yes, he hurt me, and now he’s hurt his girlfriend. But that doesn’t make him a monster. He’s a good man who’s made his share of mistakes. You have to forgive him and move on. That’s what I’ve done.”
I rolled my eyes at her in a get-real look. “Mom. You threw him out of the house.”
“Because I can’t stay married to him. Because I’m not in love with him anymore. But I have forgiven him. You, my son, hold onto grudges. People are going to make mistakes, and if you keep holding those mistakes against them, you’re going to be one big miserable soul. When it comes to mistakes, you’ve made some doozies yourself over the past week or so. I’ve already forgiven you for those, but you’re about to suffer the consequences, just as your dad is suffering the consequences for his.”
My insides shriveled again. This time, I think they shrunk down to something about as small and hard as a year-old raisin.
“Your dad and I had a long talk this morning and made some decisions. I am grounding you for the next three weeks. That means you are to be in this house every day after school no later than three forty-five.”
“But I have basketball practice.”
“Not for the next three weeks.”
“If I miss practice for that long, the coach will kick me off the team.”
Her mouth made a dismissive twitch. “Too bad.”
Horror shot up my spine. “Mom—!”
“And there will be no video games while you’re grounded. I’ve already removed your game systems and locked out all games on the computer. I also confiscated your phone with all those wonderful apps and dug this out for you.” She tossed an ancient little cell phone onto the bed next to me. “That’s one of my old phones. You’ll be able to make and receive calls, but you won’t be doing any texting, e-mailing, game playing, or web surfing on that one, believe me. Oh, and you won’t be doing any driving for three weeks, either.”
“Oh, God, Mom. Don’t ground me like this. I know I gotta be punished, but just take my shoe and beat me and get it over with, okay?”
“Don’t tempt me.” She folded her arms across her chest, frowning at me. “You’ll be happy to know the police found the Impala. Some idiot went drag racing in it and banged up the front bumper. You’ll be paying back out of your allowance whatever it costs me to get that fixed.”
“Okay, Mom. I’m glad they found the car, and I’m sorry for all this. Is that it?”
“Not quite. The weekend is your father’s time with you. You’re going over to his house, I don’t care how angry you are with him. He’ll be coming by at twelve thirty to pick you up, so you get yourself together and be ready when he gets here. And just so you know, he’s going to have a little talk with you about your behavior too.”
Great. I blew out a breath, closing my eyes and squeezing my head between my hands.
“Kyle, honey. Look at me.” When I looked up at Mom, she gave me a tender smile. “If you want to be treated like an adult, you have to start acting like one. Here’s a clue. Sensible adults manage their emotions and don’t go running off doing something stupid every time someone or something upsets them.”
She got up. “Now eat your breakfast,” she said as she headed for the door.
AFTER finishing breakfast, I carried the dishes to the kitchen and washed them one-handed at the sink. Mom was gone; Reece had come by, and they were off to retrieve the Impala from the police impound lot. Returning to my room, I gave myself a one-handed sponge bath and dressed in black sweats.
Dad showed up at twelve thirty on the dot. I stuffed a couple of sci-fi paperbacks into my backpack and walked outside to meet him.
He had been walking up to the side entrance and stopped when he saw me emerge. “Hey, man,” he said sadly.
I walked past him, silent. He followed me to the car, and we climbed in.
Dad slipped the key into the ignition and started to turn it. Then he stopped and looked at me. “Son, about this thing with Stephanie…. Is there something you want to say to me? I know you’re upset about that. You can say anything you want. Tell me how you feel.”
He waited. I just stared through the windshield.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ve got some things to say, so just listen. What I did to Stephanie, and to your mom, was stupid of me. Sex is—has always been—sort of a coping mechanism for me. Other people get overstressed or worried or down, and they drink, smoke, or overeat. I chase women. That’s no excuse for what I did to your mom and Stephanie, and it’s something I’m going to have to work on.”
I slumped indifferently in the seat. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just shut up already. I don’t want to hear it.
Dad waited again for a response. When there wasn’t one, he reached up and turned the ignition in a resigned motion. The engine whispered to life. He backed the car out of the driveway and drove toward his town house.
“Now, about last night,” he went on. “You gave your mother and me a very bad scare. Downtown Memphis is n
o place for a boy your age, by himself, at one o’clock in the morning. Anything could have happened to you. What the hell were you doing down there? Trying to get into a bar? Were you trying to… pick up guys?”
Oh, hell. I should just open the door and throw myself out the car now.
Dad saw my unease and reacted in kind. “Kyle. Son. You can’t do that. Not that way. It’s too dangerous. Have you got some kind of fake ID to get into bars?”
I shook my head.
“There’s no reason for you to be doing any of that. You’ve already met Dwight, and he seems like a very nice kid. If you don’t like him, there’s got to be other ways for you to meet gay guys your age. Don’t they have a gay club or something at school?”
Before I could catch myself, I rolled a wry look his way. “A gay club? At a Catholic school?”
“Well, there’s a gay community center in Memphis somewhere that has dances and stuff for gay kids. Stephanie told me last week that she was looking up information on that for you. We’ll find out where it is. The bottom line is that there’s no reason for you to be running the streets, alone, at night. And you know you are only supposed to drive when you have a licensed driver in the car with you. Then there’s all the trouble you’ve been into at school. We know you cut your classes yesterday. One of the teachers sent me an e-mail. Your mom and I can’t have this kind of behavior from you.”
I watched Dad brace himself. He had always hated punishing me. When they were together, he left the disciplining entirely up to Mom. He sighed and said, “When you’re at my house, you’re grounded. No video games, no driving, no going to the movies, no going anywhere. For three weeks, same as at your mother’s. Understand?”
I gave him the barest of nods and turned away, gazing out the side window. There was deep remorse in my heart for the anguish I’d caused Mom. For Dad, I just felt contempt. He deserved whatever pain he felt. God knows, he’d caused enough to Mom and Stephanie.
