“You can’t be absolutely sure who it was attacked you since you didn’t see them. You didn’t actually see them, now did you?”
It’s funny how one little insignificant phrase like “Now did you?” can be so telling. It was as though I was five years old, standing at the kitchen counter with chocolate smears all over my cheeks and chin and Mom saying, “A robber didn’t really break in and steal all the brownies, now did he?”
Mr. Welch repeated the offensive phrase, “Now did you?” but this time louder and with an air of condescension. I should have known Principal Welch wouldn’t take my side. Jamel’s father was Jeremy Crockett, one of the assistant coaches. Teachers, coaches, and principals stick together. They would never take a student’s side.
I lowered my head, took a slow breath, and gingerly shook my head. The pain in my head, ribs, and shoulder was intense. I didn’t have the strength to lie. All I wanted was a pain pill or two and to lie down.
Mr. Welch asked if I could remember anything else, and I said I couldn’t.
He said, “If there are no witness, our hands are tied,” and he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. At that moment, I wished I had lied and said I’d seen their faces.
Thelma Edward, the school nurse, or as she insisted we call her, Nurse Edward, said someone had to take me to the emergency room at Riverside General. When I objected, she said, “It’s protocol. Any time a student gets a possible concussion, we have them checked out by a doctor. No exceptions.”
Well, if it’s protocol, by all means.
As we waited for Lonnie, the school’s full-time custodian and part-time injured student transporter, to arrive, I heard a voice from the other side of the room. A girl holding an icepack to her forehead was sitting in a chair near the corner of the room. I had not noticed her before. I think her name was Audria, or Andria, something like that. She pointed at Nurse Thelma’s nametag and asked, “What’s the difference between a regular nurse and a nurse practitioner?”
Nurse Edward was quick to inform both of us that a nurse practitioner had to have a Master of Science degree in nursing. From her attitude, I was surprised she didn’t insist I call her Nurse Practitioner Edward, like Mr. Prescott, my homeroom teacher, insisted everyone call him Dr. Prescott. He had a Ph.D. in marine biology and corrected you any time you didn’t call him “Doctor.”
I pleaded with Nurse Practitioner Edward not to call my dad. I said, “My friend Law can come pick me up at the hospital.” With all the stuff going on with Mom, and with Dad having some kind of trouble with some of the church board, he didn’t need me getting beat up added to his problems.
The nurse called him anyway, protocol being what it was. Back in Houston, they would have called the cops, then the parent, but Branard wasn’t Houston, was it?
»»•««
When Dad first entered the treatment room, he stopped cold. His eyes widened, his face flushed, and his jaw dropped. He quickly calmed himself and settled into his default kind-but-unemotional mode, but after his initial expression, I wondered just how hideous I looked. I lightly ran my fingers over my face. A huge lump had formed on the left side of my forehead. My right eye was nearly swollen shut. I winced as I ran my fingers over a slit on my chin, a wound I no doubt received when I first hit the ground.
Odd, but the thing that hurt the most was my right ear. It wasn’t cut and didn’t feel swollen, but it was hot to the touch and the slightest pressure caused a sharp excruciating pain to shoot through the top of my head.
I held a plastic puke pan in one hand and a damp face towel in the other. I had been spitting up blood from time to time, which seemed to concern the ER doctor—and me.
“Oh, my Lord. Son, what happened to you?” asked Dad. “Were you in a car accident?”
“No car wreck, and no accident. In case you haven’t you heard, I’m responsible for our playoff game loss. It was payback time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Who would do something like this over a game?”
I shrugged. Ouch!
Dad frowned. He was never a big fan of shrugs. I could imagine his brain grinding in his head as he searched for some more reasonable explanation. “You mean to tell me this was over the football game?”
I gave my head an incredulous shake. Big mistake. An explosion of pain blew through my eyeballs.
“Son, who did this?”
The pain’s intensity waned enough for me to say, “I don’t know, Dad. They threw a tarp or something over me from behind and knocked me down. I never saw a thing.”
Dad gave me a look that said, “Don’t you lie to me, boy.” Which is only slightly different from his “You’re really in for it now” look. Not to be confused with his “I’m really disappointed into you, Son” look. The one I had seen a lot lately. He stood staring at me without saying a word.
The ER doctor asked Dad if he could speak to him in the hall, and they stepped out.
I remember the last time Dad gave me The Look. I got it when I brought home a D in English lit for the first six weeks, and again when I got detention for talking back to Mr. Prescott in homeroom. I told Dad detention wasn’t entirely my fault, but he wouldn’t listen.
During class, Mr. Prescott told me to change out his wall map. I was the only one tall enough to reach the ceiling hooks without a step stool. I told him I had to finish my homework for government and changing out the maps would take too long.
“I need you to do it, so do it,” he demanded.
I stiffened my back and said, “I’m not the school maintenance man. And like I said, I need to finish my homework.”
Again he insisted, and again I resisted. Not something I would have done a few short weeks ago. He just happened to catch me in a particularly bad mood over having to leave my life behind in Houston.
I knew it would be in my better interest to shut up at that point, but I couldn’t. Instead, I snapped back, “Don’t be such a fascist.” As it turned out, calling your teacher a fascist will get you a whole week’s worth of detention every time.
When Dad returned from talking to the doctor, he leaned first to one side, then the other, surveying my wounds. He shook his head. “Did you call the police?”
“And tell them what? I didn’t see who did it.”
“You still need to make a report. Someone must have seen something.”
“No one saw a thing.”
Dad sighed and asked, “Okay, then, who do you think it was?”
“It could have been a thousand people. Since the game, everyone in town would love to take a shot at me.” I knew exactly who it was. I just couldn’t prove it.
“And you don’t have any idea who it was?”
“Not a clue.” No point in getting Dad any more stirred up than he already was.
“What did the school officials say when you told them?”
I shrugged again, and Dad gave me the look again. I know he didn’t really think all of this was my fault, but I got the idea he wasn’t buying what I was selling. It didn’t matter anyway, prevailing attitudes being what they were. Dad couldn’t do anything and the school wouldn’t. If any justice was to be dispensed, I’d have to be the one to dispense it. I tried to scoot back on the examining table and every inch of my body screamed in pain. The payback would have to wait. What do they say? “Revenge is a dish best served cold?” I’ll find out if that is true—later.
Dad suddenly turned to Lonnie, who had silently and dutifully remained at my side the whole time. No doubt school protocol. Protocol being legalese for “Do whatever is least likely to get us sued.”
Dad put his hands on his hips and asked, “Just what is the school administration doing about finding those responsible for this attack on my son?”
Lonnie listed back, turned his palms up, and shrugged. It was Lonnie’s turn to get the stink eye.
Chapter Twelve
The ER doctor put six stitches and three staples at the base of my skull, five stitches in my chin, and four on my left elbow, a cu
t I didn’t even know I had. When the nurse helped me take off my blue-and-yellow rugby shirt the whole back side was solid dark-reddish brown from the nasty gash at the base of my skull. By the time the doctor finished sewing me up, my right eye was swollen shut. He insisted I keep an ice pack on it while he worked on the rest of my wounds and said I’d need to keep applying ice until bedtime, alternating thirty minutes on and thirty off.
He said, “The swelling ought to go down in a day or two. You’ll have quite a shiner, but I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.”
I guess that was his version of the good news/bad news bit. “Your right eyeball is now under your chin, and your internal organs have all been kicked up into your throat, but hey, the good news is, you may be able to see shadows out of your left ear someday.”
The fine folks at Riverside General finished X-raying and reattaching my entrails a little after nine. I stood up and took a couple of steps with the intention of walking out to Dad’s car without assistance, but my ribs felt like they were poking through my sides, and my head exploded every time I tried to take a step. A burly uniformed attendant showed up with the welcome news that hospital policy dictated I be wheeled to the door in a wheelchair and assisted into Dad’s car. Finally, a protocol I can agree with.
The night air helped clear my frazzled brain. “My truck, Dad. What about my truck?” Okay, beat the living crud out of me, but leave my truck alone. A strange thing to think about, but I’d spent a ton of time, energy, and my own money fixing it up.
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
I, on the other hand, was not so sure. Dad had no idea just how deep Branard’s football rabbit hole could go.
As we drove home, I thought about Mom and what she would say if she could see me. She didn’t need the added stress. Every time I thought of Mom lately, my insides cramped and I had to fight back tears. I knew I couldn’t stop Dad from telling Mom I got hurt. They told each other everything. I wanted to ask Dad to soft sell my condition, but soft selling never was in his repertoire.
I tried to push all the depressing thoughts from my head, but the dark voice inside was strong. It grew stronger by the day. It kept reminding me that everything I cared for, and everyone who cared about me, were circling the drain. The evidence was adding up. God hates me. What other explanation could there be? Maybe all of this was actually my fault. Maybe I actually deserved everything that was happening.
»»•««
At home, Dad brought me a blanket and pillow so I could lie on the couch as he cooked supper. I told him I couldn’t eat. My stomach cramped, and I couldn’t move my jaw more than a fraction of an inch without a shuddering jolt of pain.
“I’ll leave out a can of that fire-roasted peppers and corn soup you like, just in case you want something later. All you have to do is open the can and pour it into a pan to heat it up.”
Yeah, Dad, that’s why they call it Mama Maria’s Heat ’N’ Eat Soup.
He mumbled something about a quandary.
“About what?” I asked.
“I had planned to go back to Houston Wednesday morning and stay with your Mom until Saturday noon. I know Sue and her friend, Mrs. Guthrie, promised to take turns checking in on her, but still…” He paused to sigh, and then added, “I feel I ought to be there, but I need to see into this attack on you as well.”
“Go on,” I told him, talking through clenched teeth. “She needs you, and the truth is, since I didn’t see who did this, no one can do anything.”
“The school needs to take steps to see you are protected.”
Yeah, that’s just what I need. Special treatment. As if I’m not enough of a pariah already. “I’ll be careful, and I’ll get Law to watch my back. It will be fine. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know…”
“Dad, Josh can look after me.” Josh looking after me? Now there’s a joke.
He looked to the floor and then to the ceiling before saying, “I’m going to have to trust you to behave yourself and use good judgment.” He took a deep breath, and then added, “Given the chain of events, I’ll forego your punishment for lying to me about being at Law’s the other night, but there will be dire consequences should anything like that happen again.”
That’s my dad. He’d never let a little thing like a beating get in the way of parental correction.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I was wrong, but I really can take care of myself and Josh.”
He tilted his head toward me. “Look at yourself, Todd.” He slowly shook his head, disappeared into his study, and closed the door.
I checked the damage to my face using the camera on my cell phone for a mirror. What a freakzoid. Unless I wore a hockey mask, an oversize hoody, and wrapped myself up like a burrito in a big bedspread or something, I’d scare little kids a block away and have battle-hardened Marines shrieking in horror at the mere sight of me.
A thought hit me. How will Lisa react? And even worse, what will her father think? I remembered that I was supposed to go talk to him sometime before we went out. Good grief, Charlie Brown, my life is sooooo baked.
I retreated to my room and dug out the Starmaster 3 video game, but with my closed right eye and the throbbing pain in my head and jaw, I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t make it past the first Warrior Challenge even after five restarts.
I swapped out that game for one I knew better, Commander Ur’s Mission to Tulley. I almost got stuck in the loop at Pathor’s Doom Cave again, but this time I had a magic star gem to bribe the guard and get his Cipher Key. I carefully picked my way through one last Plasma Puzzle, and, eureka! A robotic voice announced, “Congratulations, you have achieved Level Ten.” Not bad for a half-blind invalid.
I did a victory fist-pump, and a pain registering at least a nine on the Richter scale shot through my side and out the top of my head. Not smart, Todd. Not smart at all.
Boredom, pain meds, and the rigors of the day finally overtook me, and I fell asleep. I roused up somewhere around four in the morning and took one of the prescription pain pills the hospital gave me. A short time later, I drifted off again. I’d worry about the future tomorrow. There’s a Bible verse that says not to worry about tomorrow because today has enough worries of its own. Ain’t it the truth?
In the morning, a little past ten, Dad came in to wake me up. He used his patented elevating-volume “Ahem! Ahem! Ahem!” voice alarm. “Planning to sleep your life away?”
“It’s a thought,” I said.
“How do you feel?”
“Like somebody rolled me down a stone mountain in a square-wheeled wagon.” I quoted Grandpa Collins. Mom’s dad died when I was twelve, but I loved his old-fashioned sayings, and I tended to use them every chance I got.
Dad said, “I called Dr. Newton and made you an appointment for Friday afternoon at two-twenty. Don’t be late. If you don’t think you can drive yourself, call Ed Wisener. His number is in the church directory.” Mr. Wisener, our retired neighbor from three doors down, was a good-hearted guy. He seemed to enjoy helping people in the neighborhood whenever he got the chance.
“You’re going to go see Mom?”
“I’m leaving now. Larry Shepp is going to come over tonight and stay here at the house with you and Josh until I get back sometime Saturday.”
I started to protest but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “Tell Mom I’ll be fine. Tell her I love her, and I’ll come see her Friday after the doctor’s appointment.”
“We’ll have to see how things go. It depends on what your doctor says.” He paused in the doorway and said, “Remind Josh to mind Brother Larry.”
I actually didn’t mind Larry Shepp staying with us. He was an easy-going widower a little older than Dad. He stayed with us back when Mom and Dad were busy with the move from Houston. Mr. Shepp let Josh and I do just about anything we wanted, within reason of course. One thing was for sure, I’d have to warn Mr. Shepp not to allow Josh to hang out with Kevin Brunson.
»»•««
Good news. A few more days reprieve from school was almost worth the beating.
I would have liked to gone to see Mom, but except for the swelling being down some, my face looked even worse than the day of the beating. Question: What is black, blue, purple, green, and red all over? No, it’s not a Mardi Gras frog in a blender. It’s my image in the bathroom mirror.
Saturday morning, Mr. Shepp tapped on my door before he left to mow and weed-eat the church yard. Mr. Shepp worked part time at the Post Office passport booth and tended the church lawn every Saturday.
He opened the door an inch or two and asked, “How’s it going, champ?”
“Train wreck, earthquake, attack of the Tollopus aliens, take your pick. How about you?”
I didn’t like him opening my door without an invitation, but Larry Shepp was such a likable guy it was hard to be angry with him.
“Oh, I’m blessed beyond measure. Like the song says, ‘I’m happy because heaven’s getting closer every day.’”
“You headed to the church?”
“That I am, and I’m taking Josh with me. You’ll have the place all to yourself.”
The idea of Josh helping with the yardwork at church must have come in the form of an order from Dad. Like most twelve-year-old new-pubes, Josh wouldn’t volunteer to do anything, much less something that included manual labor.
The front door slammed—Josh’s futile gesture of rebellion, no doubt.
Half the Distance Page 9
