Half the Distance

by Stan Marshall

  Way to go, Pop. Volunteer all the information they need to hang you with, why don’t you?

  “And what about Mrs. Nelson? Does she work outside the home?”

  “My wife passed a few short weeks ago.”

  Instead of offering an “I’m sorry for your loss,” or “That’s too bad,” the heartless cow said, “So the boy is without adult supervision much of the time?” She made another note.

  After she asked me about my schedule, she held up an official-looking folded document with a blue cover page and said, “As this court order states, I have the right to do a thorough physical inspection of the premises, and I need to do so without your assistance or interference. Please wait here while I check the house.”

  Dad didn’t ask to see the order. Instead, he sat motionless and looked out the window the entire time. Not even a blink.

  Who would have thought it? My dad, my rock, the unshakable Reverend Nelson, folding like a cheap lawn chair in a hurricane.

  The old bat began her physical inspection. She rummaged through the kitchen pantry, cabinets, and drawers, and then tramped off to the bedrooms. After almost thirty minutes in Josh’s room, she emerged with two video games. She held up one in each hand. The title I could make out was The Demon Wars, a game with a Mature rating. I couldn’t see the title of the second one, but I could see the AO rating, for Adults Only, clearly printed across the back of the box.

  Even the Urban Scavengers game was no worse than a T, for Teen rating. The little sneak held out on me when I’d told him to turn in all the stolen goods.

  Vondenhoff told my dad, “I’m surprised you would allow a twelve-year-old to have these.” She virtually shook the games at Dad and half-sneered.

  I couldn’t tell if she was disgusted that a minister would allow such a thing in his house, or if she found some perverted pleasure in pointing it out. She made no effort to hide the fact that she had no special respect for Dad, reverend or not.

  “I’m appalled.” Dad’s face wrinkled in horror. “I had no idea.” Any fool could see my dad had no clue those games were in the house, but Vondenhoff wasn’t just any fool. She struck me as a witch on a search-and-destroy mission. And so far, so good—for her.

  “When was the last time you were in the boy’s room?”

  “I couldn’t say, exactly.” He opened his mouth to say more, but she held up her hand in an abrupt stop sign manner, and Dad backed off.

  Why didn’t Dad try to defend himself? My anger boiled, both with Greta Vondenhoff for her presence in our house, and my dad for not standing up to her.

  Her mouth twisted into a half-smirk. I wanted to slap that wicked grin off her face. She disgusted me. Führer Vondenhoff looked to be somewhere between her early fifties to her late one hundreds—it was hard to tell. Her hair was artificially black and twisted on top into a tight bun. Her complexion was a waxy tan with a green tint. She wore no discernible makeup, but in her defense, it probably wouldn’t have helped.

  The more she talked—or I should say lectured—the more the term Gestapo officer came to mind. As she persisted with her accusations veiled as questions, my mind wandered. She droned on for an eternity. Pure torture.

  My eyes were open, but my mind was a million miles away. I thought about all the Sunday afternoons when the whole family used to gather around the living room TV and watch old classic movies. Dad would pop popcorn, and Mom would make us hand-squeezed lemonade. Although I like the new CG-filled movies, I guess those family nights are why I tend to have a soft spot for some of the old ones. Mom used to say the new ones lacked heart, and I guess that’s true.

  Frau Vondenhoff and her inquisition reminded me of a scene from an old movie, My Fight. The one where the Gestapo interrogators are hammering the American prisoner with questions and he begins every answer with a sharp “Jawohl mein kommandant!” He then goes on to insult them in pig Latin. They get into this big argument over whether the prisoner is speaking English or very poor German.

  I smiled at the memory. It was a pretty funny scene.

  “Do you find this amusing, young man?” Vondenhoff snapped.

  Dad kicked me under the table to indicate she was talking to me.

  She cleared her throat and repeated her question. “I asked if you found this amusing.”

  The evil presence over my right shoulder growled, “Tell her, Todd. Go on. Tell her what you really think of her and her inquisition.”

  Dad spoke before I had a chance to make things worse. “It’s just a nervous smile. We’re all stressed and a little anxious.” He sounded embarrassed and apologetic.

  For Dad’s sake, I buttoned my lip.

  When Ms. Vondenhoff finally closed the last file folder and dropped her pen into her briefcase, we Nelsons heaved a joint sigh of relief.

  As Dad and I escorted Vondenhoff to the door, Josh remained at the table, refusing Dad’s gesture to stand. I guess he figured he was already in about as much trouble as one kid could be.

  Our adversary stopped and turned to face us. “Mr. Nelson, Scott, Josh, good day.”

  Scott? When did my name change to Scott? I must have missed that memo.

  Dad placed his hand on my arm. Under ordinary circumstances, that would have been enough to make me bite my tongue, smile, and say, “Good day,” but I couldn’t let it go without at least a little jab. I said, “Good-bye, Miss Vandersnoop.”

  Greta Vondenhoff grunted a harrumph and walked to her county-owned sedan at the curb, her black prison-guard shoes clopping on the walkway with every step.

  Dad hardened his face and shook his head. He walked into his study and closed the door without a word.

  Josh broke the uneasy silence with a sarcastic, “Well, I think that went well.”

  His wisecrack angered me. I wanted to kick his smart-aleck butt. I took a quick step in his direction, and he flinched. I stopped. Suddenly, I was very tired and very sad. I wanted to be alone, completely alone.

  Josh, still at the table, rocked his chair back on two legs, hitting the wall and blocking my path. He looked up at me and said, “I didn’t do it.” His voice was quiet yet firm. “I didn’t break into the field house. The cops planted that pry bar, or they’re lying about my prints being on it.” I could see tears welling up in his eyes. “Honest, Todd, I didn’t do it.”

  You think I don’t know that?

  I shoved his chair upright and pushed past him on my way to the back door. I said, “I’m going out,” and slammed the door behind me.

  I wasn’t supposed to leave the house or drive my truck, but I fished my magnetic Hide-a-Key box out from under the back bumper and retrieved my spare key. I didn’t give the consequences of my actions a thought. Nothing much mattered anyway. I turned off my cell phone.

  »»•««

  I drove around for a couple of hours. I had no place in particular in mind. I just drove.

  The average high temperature for January in middle Texas is sixty-three degrees, but the sign in front of the Guardian Bank reported a warm eighty-one. One of Dad’s few humorous stories is about a minister from Green Bay, Wisconsin who stayed with us in Houston for two weeks in early January a few years back. He asked, “Don’t you ever have winter down here?”

  Grandpa Walls, who had dropped by, piped up with, “Sure we do. We had one only three years ago. As I recall, it happened on a Tuesday, and for a while in the early morning, we didn’t even need the AC.”

  Dad even told that story in church. Other than the funny stories for sermon illustrations he got off one of his preacher web sites, I bet it was the only joke he knew.

  I drove by the park where Lisa and I had been on the night my truck was trashed. Talk about mixed feelings. Three older ladies in sweats were walking along the river bank. Texas was having summerlike weather, and the three walkers wore clothes warm enough for winter in the Bering Sea.

  I drove by Law’s house but didn’t see his truck. I drove on, with no particular destination in mind. Before I knew it, I’d turned rig
ht on Franklin toward Bulldog Benny’s. It was a lost cause, a fruitless gesture nailed to a dead hope. I knew things for Lisa and me were over—more than over, forever dead and cremated, but my heart was too bullheaded to give up. It’s like the song says, “My heart’s made up its mind.” I told myself going to Benny’s was a bad idea, but I couldn’t help it. Call me the dope of the decade. The poster child for Glutton-for-Punishment.org.

  I parked in the shade of a live oak opposite the drive-up window side of the building. I could see in but didn’t think anyone inside would notice me. I didn’t see Lisa, not at the counter and not by the grill. I did see a cute Hispanic girl working the drive-through, but she was taller, and a little thinner than Lisa. To be honest, some would say she was as pretty, but she was pretty in an artificial way. Sort of like a fiberglass Tuscan Gold Ferrari body on a Ford Prius chassis. She was attractive the way fashion models are attractive, all paint and plastic. She did nothing for me. She was no Lisa.

  I sat in my truck for over an hour waiting. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. Maybe I thought Lisa would show up for work, see me sitting there, and rush into my arms, beg me to forgive her, and plead for me to give her another chance. A crazy fantasy indeed. It was stupid, I know. I barely knew the girl. We’d only had one date. Still, with every car that drove into the lot, my heart rose and then fell as I realized it wasn’t her.

  Lisa never showed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wednesday was Josh’s juvenile offender evaluation, and Dad didn’t want me to go. “You need to be in school. I’ll be there, and Brandon Lupo will be there.”

  “Come on, Dad, this is serious. You saw how Frau Vandersnoot acted.”

  “Vondenhoff,” he corrected. Dad has never developed an appreciation for subtle sarcasm.

  “Frau Vondenhoff could tell them anything, and besides…”

  Here comes the kicker.

  “…I want to be there to support him.”

  Dad squinted and rubbed his forehead. At least he was giving it some thought.

  I asked, “Aren’t you always saying how he and I need to not fight and be supportive of each other?”

  I don’t think Dad was a hundred-percent convinced of my sincerity, but lately, he had pressed the issue that Josh and I needed to be more supportive of each other. What I really wanted to see was how deep a hole I had dug for my little brother. Any way you looked at it, the kid was in a splat spot.

  Dad relented. “You can go, but you have to go back to school right after it is done. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  »»•««

  The sign on the county courthouse annex door read: CONFERENCE ROOM 202A. A paper stick-on label near the bottom read: Case 34212—J L Nelson, Minor.

  The room was smaller than I expected. Its bare pale-green walls and faded-gray floor tiles reminded me of a Houston soup kitchen Dad and I once visited. Both the soup kitchen and the courthouse room shouted, “Not worth the effort.” A lone drab green metal conference table with a gray laminate top and six well-worn wooden chairs dominated the room. Three chairs on either side.

  A pale, overweight man with a shaved head sat in the middle chair on the far side. He looked to be about my Dad’s age and wore a white short-sleeved dress shirt, cream pants, and a too-wide off-white tie. Pure retro. There was something comical about his appearance. All soft and creamy, with a carrot-like nose, he reminded me of a big marshmallow snowman.

  To his left sat a deputy sheriff, all pressed and polished, with his sharply creased uniform and military haircut. A fit specimen in his mid-to-late thirties and all business.

  Brandon Lupo was already there. He and a middle-aged lady in a smart blue pinstriped pantsuit stood near a small table in the far corner chatting and smiling politely.

  When Brandon saw us, he nodded to the woman and made his way around the table to shake Dad’s hand. He patted Josh and me on the shoulder.

  He asked, “Reverend Nelson, Josh, Todd, how are you?”

  We grunted our replies as he motioned toward the woman. “This is Mrs. Letterman. She’s with the County Family Welfare department.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood tall. Danger, Ranger Tim. Danger.

  Mrs. Letterman nodded toward the deputy and said, “Mr. Nelson, this is Deputy Sergeant Langston of the county sheriff’s department.” She motioned toward Marshmallow Man and said, “This gentleman is Drake Hoffman with the juvenile division of the district attorney’s office.” As do most grown-ups, she ignored Josh and me. “Please be seated.”

  Dad and Brandon sat on the near side of the table with Josh in the middle. Because there had been only three empty chairs, I leaned against the doorjamb three feet behind Josh.

  Marshmallow Man fussed with the inch-thick file folder directly in front of him, then said, “What say we get right to it?” He opened the top file and took out a single typewritten sheet.

  “Mr. Hoffman, I was just wondering.” Brandon spoke up and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Why is the DA’s office pursuing a first-offence juvenile with so much vigor?” He sat back, taking a less aggressive posture. “I’ve been here many times in support of other kids…”

  “And you do the community a real service too, Mr. Lupo.” Marshmallow smiled a thin, insincere smile.

  Brandon ignored the comment and asked, “What is different this time?”

  The deputy spoke up, his voice loud and stern. “Perhaps, Reverend Lupo, you ought to sit still and listen to the charges before you say anything else.” He nodded to Hoffman.

  Charges? Did he say, “Charg-es?” Plural?

  A quiet pause later, Hoffman straightened his spine and stretched tall in his chair. He no longer hit me as comical. “Criminal trespass: one count. Burglary of vehicles: four counts. Burglary of private property: one count, and felony criminal mischief: four counts.” He paused and added, “And, there is a pending grand theft charge concerning an automobile.”

  My head was reeling. This can’t be happening.

  The deputy said, “You see, gentlemen, the only identifiable prints on the crowbar we found at the school field house were the reverend’s. The other prints we found were smaller, that of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old child. When we realized Reverend Nelson had a son that age, we obtain Josh’s prints from his school.”

  I’d heard all that before from the night the cops brought Josh to the house.

  Brandon stood and said, “You can’t do that…”

  “…without a warrant.” Deputy Langston finished Brandon’s sentence. “Yes, that’s true.” The deputy picked his briefcase up from the floor and placed it on the table. He pulled out a blue folder and retrieved a document with Warrant in bold black letters printed across the top. He said, “Duly sworn, recorded, and served.”

  Josh was tugging on the side of Dad’s suit coat. “I didn’t do it, Dad. I didn’t do it.” He was in tears. Josh barely cried at Mom’s funeral. It was plain that, even at twelve, he knew ten charges, some of them felonies, meant he was in serious trouble.

  Dad pushed Josh’s hand away and gave him a look he’d never given either of us before, one of utter disgust, and even worse—disdain. Josh turned and said something to Brandon who patted his arm and whispered something back.

  With a flood of tears rolling down his cheeks to his chin and an expression of panic on his face, Josh twisted in his chair to look at me. He was scared, desperate, and confused, and from the look in his eyes, dead sure I had sold him out.

  In that same moment, the demon spoke from the recesses of the shadows cast by the room’s outdated incandescent lighting. “Keep your trap shut, Todd. Don’t say a word. The little creep deserves it, and you know it. You don’t want to lose your shot at big-time college football, do you? It’s all you’ve dreamed about since you were a little boy. If you say anything, you can kiss any chance of a Division I football scholarship and career good-bye. You’ll be lucky to get an offer from Eastern Podunk Community
College.”

  I wanted to run. The doorknob wasn’t four inches from my right hand. I could quietly reach over, turn the knob, open the door, and run. I could’ve been down the stairs and out of the building before anyone stopped me. But where would I go? What would I do? So I did nothing. Although my stomach was churning and my head spinning, I kept my mouth shut, and let my little brother take the whole fall, his and mine.

  Every time Langston or Hoffman read another report from the file, I heard a cell door clanging shut.

  The meeting ended with Hoffman’s official statement for the record. “By cause, we the undersigned, request Case 34212, in regard to Joshua Lee Nelson, juvenile, with all the charges enumerated therein, be referred to the District Attorney’s Juvenile Criminal Division for prosecution with prudence and urgency.”

  He slid the printed recommendation over to Drake “Marshmallow” Hoffman who produced a self-inking rubber stamp and slapped it down hard on the paper. Charges Accepted.

  Deputy Langston stood and walked around the table, stopping just over Josh’s right shoulder. “Young man, you need to come with me.” Langston turned to Dad. “I’m going to escort him to Judge Cactus Cargill’s court up on the third floor.” The deputy pointed to the ceiling with his thumb. “Take a right when you get off the elevator. There’s a plaque at the door saying Precinct 14, County Criminal Court.”

  So, little brother’s going to trial, and maybe jail. Was it my fault the little zump wasn’t smart enough to wear gloves when he urban scavenged? I wanted to laugh, cry, scream, and blow chunks, all at the same time. I couldn’t wait to get out of that building.

  Dad told Brandon and me to go on home. He told Brandon, “I’ve always said I wouldn’t pay for the boys’ bail or a lawyer if they ever got arrested, but this is looking pretty serious. I may not have a choice.”

  I turned to walk out to the parking lot, expecting Brandon would follow, but when I reached the elevator doors I turned to see him still talking to Dad.

  Brandon shouted, “You go on home, Todd. I’m going over to the courthouse to see if I can talk to Cactus in his chambers.” If he knows the judge well enough to call him by his first name or nickname, he must know him pretty well.