The Trouble with Joe

by Emilie Richards

  He played another chord and tried to pick out a tune before he set the mandolin beside his computer. He had sat at his grandfather’s feet countless times while the old man played and sang for him. Grandpa Giuseppe had never been too busy for his grandchildren. He had loved them all, enjoyed every moment he spent with them. Joe sometimes thought that he had gotten his own love of kids from his grandfather.

  Sometimes, like tonight, he wished he was back teaching in the classroom rather than sitting in the main office. He missed the interaction with impressionable students, the heady feeling that they were clay for him to gently mold. He hadn’t done enough teaching to get burned out. Now his favorite days were those rare ones when he had to hold down a classroom while a substitute was on the way or a teacher had an emergency.

  Sometimes it seemed as if he spent more time with spreadsheets, with forms and all the other endless documentation that was required of administrators, than with kids. But none of that had mattered as much since Corey had come to stay.

  Joe wasn’t sure where that last thought had come from. It was too momentous to ignore. The thought wasn’t new; it had cropped up before. He examined it, waiting for the pain that should arrive, too.

  There was no pain. Just a jolt of anger. What was he thinking? He was grateful to a snot-nosed little kid because she had brought childhood, all its anxieties and sorrows, into his home? And who was he kidding? He was thanking Corey, troublemaker extraordinaire, because nothing was the same as it used to be, and every time he looked at her he remembered that he would never father a child of his own?

  Apparently he was.

  “Mr. Joe?”

  The troublemaker in question stood in his doorway, her eyes—what he could see of them—filled with hostility.

  “What do you want, Corey?” His voice came out harsher than he had intended.

  “Miss Sam says there’s a leak under the sink.”

  He stood, rounding his desk to squeeze past her before she could say any more. Only when he was in the kitchen and heard the throb of strings and the unmistakable splintering of wood did he remember that he had forgotten to put his grandfather’s mandolin back on the wall.

  * * *

  “SHE’S SCARED TO death, Joe.” Sam came out of Corey’s bedroom and closed the door behind her so that Corey couldn’t hear them arguing.

  “She should be.”

  Sam motioned him toward their bedroom. Her hand wasn’t quite steady. He followed, but only reluctantly. Corey had gone straight to her room after breaking the mandolin. He had wanted to storm right after her, but so far Sam had prevented him. That wasn’t going to be the case much longer.

  In the bedroom she shut the door before she turned. “Corey says she was just looking at the mandolin and it slipped out of her hands.”

  “Then Corey’s lying.”

  “I know how awful this is, but please, don’t make it worse.”

  “Worse?” He ran his hand through his hair, a sure sign he was furious.

  “Yes, it’s bad enough this happened, but maybe we can salvage something from it.”

  “Not the mandolin, that’s for damned sure.”

  “We don’t know that. There are repair shops that specialize—”

  “She smashed it against the desk, Sam. She didn’t drop it. The back is splintered, not cracked.”

  Sam wanted to argue. She didn’t want to believe that Corey had been so willfully destructive, so calculated in her hatred of Joe. But Joe was right—the instrument was shattered. Even if someone was willing to reconstruct it, very little could be salvaged. It would never be more than a facsimile of the same beloved mandolin.

  “She was making a statement,” Joe said.

  “We don’t know that—”

  “I know it. She was making a statement loud and clear.”

  “Let’s just leave her alone for the night, until we’re thinking clearly.”

  “No!” Joe had paced as they argued. Now he faced her. “What are you talking about, Sam? Is that what your parents did to you? You made a mistake and they let you lie awake all night and worry about what they were going to do to you in the morning?”

  “Of course that’s not what I’m saying. I’ve already talked to her. She knows we’re unhappy about what she did.”

  “Unhappy? You think this is unhappy? I’m furious.”

  “Then you should give yourself time to calm down before we talk to her.”

  “We’re not going to talk to her. I’m going to talk to her. You’re going to stay in here.”

  “What?”

  He moved closer. “I said I’m going to talk to her. Alone. This is between Corey and me.”

  “No. You can’t!”

  “What?”

  “I said you can’t. You don’t even like her, Joe. You don’t think she belongs here. You’ve made that point over and over again. And now you’ve got proof that she shouldn’t be living with us. You’ll be too harsh with her. You don’t love her like I do!”

  “Just who do you think you married?” He advanced on her. His fury was congealing into something as heavy as stone. “A monster? A man who doesn’t understand kids? I grew up with kids! Half a dozen of them. I helped raise Johnny and my sisters. I’m a high school principal. I deal with kids every day, and I’ve never beaten one yet, and I’ve never ruined anyone’s life or even his self-esteem.”

  “I know that, but this is—”

  “Different? How? Because she lives here? Because you love her? How does that make it different? Suddenly you don’t trust me? Suddenly you think that I’ve turned into some vendetta-seeking maniac?”

  “But it was your mandolin—”

  “Yes, it was.” He let his words settle between them for a moment. “It was my mandolin, and that makes this my situation to settle. And if you can’t trust me to do it fairly and compassionately, then you’re obviously married to the wrong man.”

  “I love her....”

  “Yes. Apparently you love her so much that your head’s not screwed on straight anymore. You’ve forgotten everything you ever knew about kids. You don’t leave them hanging, Sam. And you don’t pretend they haven’t done anything wrong when they have. You talk to them, then you tell them the consequences. There are always consequences, whether we set them or not, and I’m not going to let one of them be a wider rift between Corey and me.”

  “But—”

  He ignored her. “She was testing me. She wants to know my limits. She wants to know if we’ll keep her after this kind of behavior. She wants to know if this will come between you and me so she can squeeze into the gap and fill it herself.”

  Sam stared at him. “Come between us?”

  “You bet. And it’s working.”

  Sam felt suddenly sick. The truth was so apparent that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it. Worse, much worse, she hadn’t trusted Joe enough.

  She fell to the bed. “Oh, Joe...”

  “You wouldn’t let me deal with her when she burned down the fort. This time I’m going to deal with her no matter what you say. If you can’t live with it, then Corey’s won and we’ve both lost.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked up at him. “So, so sorry. Of course you’ll be fair. My God, what’s wrong with me?”

  “About one year of doubts and fears.”

  “I—”

  He waved her comment away. “We’ll finish this later.” He reached the door in two strides and opened it. He paused, but she didn’t say anything else. Satisfied, he went out into the hall and shut the door behind him.

  He knocked on Corey’s door, but there was no answer. He knocked again louder and called her name. There was still no answer. He was glad there was no lock.

  He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was lit by the
soft glow of night-lights. There was a mound under Corey’s covers, a little-girl-sized mound.

  He crossed the room without a word and sat on the edge of the bed. Then he tugged down the covers.

  “Go ’way,” she said.

  “Yeah, I bet you’d love that.”

  “I told Miss Sam I was sorry.”

  “Do you really think that’s good enough?”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  Joe saw that she was clutching the bear Sam had given her. She never carried it out of the room; she was much too old and tough to be caught with a fuzzy teddy bear. But he had never seen her in this room when she hadn’t been holding on to her teddy for dear life.

  He was touched—he didn’t want to be and fought it hard. But she was scared to death, and the bear was the only thing she had to comfort her. He was a hard man to impress. He loved kids, but with a professional’s distance. Sentiment had little place in his job; it blurred the distinction between what was good for a kid in the long run, and what was the easiest or most comfortable response.

  Now the easy, comfortable response was to walk out of this room. But it wasn’t emotional distance that made him sit tight. Something else kept him there, something he had no time to examine.

  “Let me tell you about that mandolin,” he said. “It belonged to my grandfather.”

  “You told me!”

  “I know. But I didn’t tell you enough. He was a wonderful old man. His name was Giuseppe. That’s Joe in Italian. I was named for him.”

  “So?” Her eyes were shining with tears, and despite all her obvious resolve her bottom lip trembled.

  “Grandpa Giuseppe could really play that mandolin. I wish you could have heard him. And he had a wonderful voice. He’d sing, always in Italian, because he’d been born in Italy and that’s the language he knew best. I can’t sing at all, but when I hold that mandolin and strum a few chords, I can always see him.”

  He was silent for a while, and she said nothing.

  “The best way to make somebody angry is to hurt them,” he said at last. “If I really wanted to make you angry I would find something you really love, like your teddy bear, and rip it to shreds.”

  “No!” She clutched the bear harder.

  “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’d do if I was trying to hurt you and make you angry. But that’s not what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to explain that I understand why you broke the mandolin.”

  “I dropped it! On accident!”

  “No. You smashed it against the desk to make me mad. And you did. I’m mad, and I’m hurt because now I may never be able to play it again. I’ll remember my grandfather, but not in that special way. Do you understand?”

  “No!”

  “You know what? I think you’re smarter than that. I think you understand perfectly.”

  Her bottom lip trembled harder, and she didn’t answer.

  He stood and walked to the window. “What do you think we should do about this?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “About what you did.”

  Again she didn’t answer.

  “We have to do something,” he said. “I think you should have some say in what happens to you. We don’t spank little girls in this house, but we have to do something.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “I think you care a lot. I think you want a chance to make this better. I’m giving you that chance.” He turned and faced her. “What would be fair, Corey? I think kids always understand what’s fair.”

  She sat up, still clutching her bear.

  “Can you think of some jobs you could do for a while to help me?” he prompted. “Since I’m the one you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  He nodded. “Okay. Can you think of something you might be able to do that would make me feel better, like bringing me the paper at night?”

  She shook her head again.

  He felt frustration build. He hadn’t expected this to be easy, but he’d learned from experience that all but the most intractable kids usually came around in a discussion like this one. And usually the punishment they assigned themselves was twice as harsh as he would have given them.

  “There are still some leaves that need raking,” he said. “And that’s a job I always do.” He tried not to picture Corey with a rake twice as tall as she was. “Let’s see. My car also needs washing.”

  She shook her head, but she didn’t look at him. She looked down at the bear in her arms, then she held it toward him. “Here.”

  For a moment he didn’t understand. “What?”

  “Take Bear.”

  He moved closer. “You want me to take your bear?”

  “Rip him up.” The tears were flowing down her cheeks now, and she didn’t try to wipe them.

  “Not a chance. I’d never do that.”

  “Take him.”

  He reached for the bear. “You really want me to have him?”

  She released it, and the bear was in his possession.

  For a moment he couldn’t speak. Then he pulled the words from somewhere. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. I’ll take the mandolin into town and have it sent off for repairs. When it’s all fixed, I’ll give you back the bear. Is that fair?”

  “You’re not gonna rip him up?”

  “I told you, I’d never, never do that. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “But I hurt you.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a little girl and I’m a grown-up.” He sat on the edge of the bed, but not within touching distance. They definitely still needed space between them. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m sorry I have to take your bear. I just want you to understand and remember that we have rules, and you have to obey them. The rules keep everybody from getting hurt, you, me and Miss Sam.”

  “Miss Sam hates me now.”

  “Nobody here hates you.”

  “You hate me!”

  “Nope. I don’t.” He couldn’t trust himself to add another word. He wasn’t sure what would come out of his mouth. He was a roiling, seething mass of emotions, none of which were easy to understand.

  “Bear’s scared of the dark.”

  “Is he?” Joe looked down at the bear. “Then I’ll be sure to put him by the window, where he can see the moon.”

  “He gets cold.”

  “Tell you what.” He stood. “I think you’ll need to come into my room before bedtime at night and tuck blankets around him to make him comfortable. None of this is his fault, after all.”

  “I can visit him?”

  “Any time you want. And if you think of something you’d rather do than lend me the bear, just tell me.”

  “No. Bear’ll make you feel better.”

  She was dead wrong. He was going to feel much, much worse. He wanted to stuff the bear back into her thin little arms. He wanted to tuck her in tightly and tell her she was forgiven. He wanted to kiss her wet little cheek and tell her how proud he was of her. He did none of those things, because he knew what was really needed.

  He had to take the damned bear.

  “I don’t hate you at all,” he said. “And neither does Miss Sam. We think you’re somebody pretty special.”

  “Not.” She burrowed back under the covers.

  He was at her side before he knew it. He tucked the covers around her. He could feel her shoulders shaking, but she didn’t make a sound.

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” he whispered. “Someday I’ll tell you about all the ones I’ve made.”

  She didn’t answer. He touched her hair. Just one quick, forgiving swipe of his hand. “Sleep tight, Brown Eyes.”

  Back in his bedroom he found Sam sitting on the edge of the bed where he’d left her. He held up the bear. “An e
xchange,” he said. “I’m going to ship off that damned mandolin tomorrow morning and ask for a rush job. I don’t care if they repair it with sheet metal. I can’t give this back to Corey until I have the mandolin again.”

  “Joe...” Sam began to cry.

  He set the bear on the windowsill, but he’d be damned if he was going to cover it with a blanket. “It was Corey’s idea,” he said, staring out the window. “She was the one who thought of it. I made the mistake of trying to explain that destroying the mandolin was the same as if somebody ripped her bear to shreds.” His voice sounded funny, even to him.

  “She wanted to make you feel better.”

  “Yeah. That’s what she said.” He felt Sam’s arms sneak around his waist. “I feel like hell.”

  “She’s so confused and unhappy, Joe.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” He turned and gathered her into his arms. He pulled her hard against him and buried his face in her hair.

  Sam’s cheeks were damp against his shirt. “She doesn’t know how to make people love her.”

  “She’s done a pretty darned good job of making you love her.”

  “But you’re right. I love her too much. I can’t see clearly enough. I want to take care of her and protect her so much I can’t see what’s really good for her.”

  “That’s where I come in.” He held her tighter and realized what he’d said. But it was true. He balanced Sam’s intensity with his own levelheaded good sense. His years of experience in a big family, his years of training, of teaching and beyond, had given him valuable insights. As painful as tonight had been for everyone, he had done what was right.

  “You have so much to give her,” Sam said. “And I’ve stood in the way. But not anymore. I promise, not anymore.”

  She lifted her face to his. He knew he should remind her that no real harm had been done, that the situation was temporary, anyway. But that seemed irrelevant. There was a more important message in her words, and he heard it.