“Of course not. These gentlemen simply don’t understand how to abide by the laws of polite society,” Dr. Hansen replies.
“There has to be a misunderstanding,” Emily says, her eyes wet.
“Don’t act like you care. It’s pathetic,” Matt says. “You never wanna see me again, remember?”
Dr. Hansen glares at Matt.
Emily turns and streaks up the stairs.
A single police siren blares in the distance; blue and red lights cut through the night sky. Tires screech as the cruiser stops in the driveway, creating black marks on the clean concrete. Chief Dave Campbell emerges from the cruiser, his hand on his belt, striding toward the action. His wide nostrils flare; his face is red, and his jaw set firm. Dr. Hansen steps inside, shuts the front door, and turns the deadbolt. Two more police cruisers park in the driveway, lights turning, without sirens.
“We’ve had calls of a disturbance,” Chief Campbell says, eyeballing Uncle and Matt.
“I bet you did,” Uncle says.
“Watch it old man. Let me see some ID.”
“You know damn well who I am. Is this why you became a cop? To satisfy your sick craving to have power over others?” Uncle spits on the ground in front of Chief Campbell.
Chief Campbell shoves Uncle against the door, his bulky forearm lodged in the old man’s throat. Uncle’s eyes bulge, his face turns beet red, then purple. The chief is focused and intense, looking at the fear in Uncle’s eyes. He’s unaware as Matt takes the nightstick off his belt. Matt winds up and smashes the side of Chief Campbell’s face, knocking him out cold. Uncle falls like a ton of bricks, his legs useless, as his head bounces off the sidewalk.
Matt takes one step toward his uncle, and he feels a bite on his back. His body stiffens like a board. He loses all motor function and falls awkwardly, facing his uncle. The pain from the 55,000 volts coursing through Matt’s veins is breathtaking. Uncle’s mouth and nose are filled with foam; his blue eyes are lifeless. Matt tries to reach for Uncle, but he can’t move. He focuses on the old man’s eyes, hoping they blink, hoping they show life. Matt is overcome with déjà vu. His eyes flutter and shut. He sees the face of a pale, gaunt young woman, her blue eyes lifeless. He touches her face; she’s cold.
[ 8 ]
God?
Matt peers through the bars on the van window, watching the early harbingers of spring. The edge of the wooded roadside is filled with rose-colored redbud flowers and clusters of white on the chokecherries. Deeper, beyond the edge, serviceberries bloom white, under the oak trees. He feels the social worker look over at him periodically, hoping to spark a conversation. He closes his eyes and pictures his bees dancing from flower to flower, covered in orange and yellow pollen specks. He imagines the bees returning to their hive, only to find it engulfed in flames. He opens his eyes.
The forest gives way to freshly planted cornfields, then strip malls filled with fast-food joints, dollar stores, and superstores selling all manner of consumer crap. Sprawling suburban developments of vinyl sameness surround the shopping meccas. The van drives past Kingstown. He sees the sign that reads Luxury Single-Family Homes Starting in the 200s. His stomach churns and his heart aches as he catches a glimpse of his home, or what’s left of it. The property looks naked and desolate. Much of the forest that once surrounded the property was logged, only stumps remain. The old cabin and barn are gone, erased as if his uncle had never existed. It’s only been seven months since Uncle took his last breath, but, to Matt, it feels like a lifetime ago. A mound of fill dirt is piled up where the pond and ducks once thrived. A gravel road cuts through the property. Wooden stakes dot the landscape, denoting property lines and homesites. He wonders if Blackie is still alive after a homeless winter.
The van turns down a road just beyond Kingstown into a middle-class community of homes built in the fifties and sixties. A hodgepodge of spilt-level, ranch, and colonial homes line the streets in no particular order or sequence. Some homes are neatly kept with Buicks and Cadillacs in the driveways, the occasional American flag out front. Others are ragtag—bikes, motorized miniature cars, and plastic houses laid out chaotically, with minivans and pickup trucks parked in front. Their garages are always full of everything but their cars.
The van pulls into the driveway of a colonial with white vinyl siding and black shutters. A porch covers the front of the house, with a swing swaying in the breeze. Closely mowed green grass dominates the quarter-acre lot, with boxwood hedges in front of the porch pruned in neat squares à la Edward Scissorhands.
“Are you ready, Matt?” the social worker asks.
Matt nods. His baby face is a bit more haggard, with a scar under his right eye and another above his left eyebrow. He grabs his duffel bag, containing all his belongings, from underneath the bench seat with ease. His build is still sinewy, but it’s bulkier and chiseled now. His light brown hair is cut short, military short. Matt steps from the van and throws his duffel bag over his shoulder. He wears a plain gray T-shirt from the Juvenile Detention Centers Association of Pennsylvania, with the letters JDCAP across the back, and generic blue jeans. A short, pudgy woman—with rosy cheeks, short red hair, and a jean jumper with buttons decorating the straps—bounds toward Matt and the social worker.
“Regina, it’s so good to see you,” the pudgy woman says, as she hugs the social worker. Regina’s tall, slim build and smooth black skin are a perfect contrast to the woman in her embrace.
“How are things with you, Ms. Grace?” Regina replies, as the pair disengages.
Grace smiles and shakes her head. “You know me. I always take on too much.”
“You better slow down, girl. Lord knows these kids need you.” Regina smiles; Grace touches the golden cross dangling around her neck.
“This must be Matt.” Grace motions toward Matt, with a wide, toothy grin. “I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you. You know I prayed for God to help me with my garden, and now I’ve got a bona fide farming expert right in front of me.”
“I don’t farm anymore,” Matt says, his head lowered.
“Well, that’s all right, sweetheart. I’m still happy to meet you. I just know you’re gonna do great here.”
“Matt, Ms. Grace here is one in a million. Everyone just loves it here with her,” Regina says.
Matt extends his hand. Grace pushes through and gives Matt a warm hug, her pins and large breasts pressing against his chest. Matt’s body stiffens; his arms go limp. Grace gives Regina a pouty look after the awkward hug.
Matt zones out, reading the pins as Grace and Regina talk: Kids First. It’s a LIFE not a Choice. Children are the Future. And a heart-shaped pin that reads Teaching Is a Work of Heart, plus another that states To Teach Is to Touch a Life Forever.
“Matt, are you ready to see your room?” Grace asks.
He nods.
“Good luck, Matt. I know you’ll do just great,” Regina says, as she holds out her hand, smiling, exposing bright white teeth.
Matt shakes her hand and manages a brief grin. He trails Grace into the house, following her into the immaculate kitchen. Pots and pans hang neatly over a center island of granite, with a spotless indoor grill. Stainless steel appliances fit neatly between cherry cabinetry.
“Now, Matt, you’re allowed to eat anything you like. I don’t have any restrictions on your diet. You’re old enough to make good decisions.” Grace opens the side-by-side refrigerator with a built-in ice-maker.
Matt peers inside at the stocked fridge with loaves of bread, seven different colored sports drinks and juices, milk, cheese, eggs, rotting fruits and vegetables, an aluminum pan of lasagna, rolls, condiments, ground beef, stacks of Lunchables, bologna, and cheesecake. Matt’s eyes bulge at the mini–grocery store in the kitchen. Grace opens the freezer side, exposing a plethora of frozen treats and microwavable Weight Watchers, Healthy Choice, and Lean Cuisine meals. The walk-in pantry reveals twelve different types of sugary cereals, one of which is essentially cookies, value-size bags of potato chips, cookies
that aren’t pretending to be cereal, oatmeal, candy bars, and cases of soda stacked as high as a man.
Grace leads Matt around the corner to the TV room where Fox News shouts at a thick, pasty, balding man with a bushy mustache, glasses, and small squinty eyes. He sits mesmerized in his recliner, with a bag of chips in his lap.
“Matt, this is my fiancé, Dwight.”
Dwight sits motionless, in a trance.
“Dwight, dear, why don’t you say hello to Matt?” Grace says, as she taps the top of his expanding forehead.
Dwight snaps to reality and smiles with his mouth shut tight. He stands, bits of chips falling to the floor. “I’m sorry, Matt. I get so focused on those darn Democrats. It’s really nice to meet cha,” he says, as he extends his hand.
Matt shakes his hand. Afterward Matt nonchalantly reaches behind his jeans and wipes off the grease.
“Let me show you the basement, where the boys play their games,” Grace says. “George and Ryan are probably down there.”
Matt follows Grace down the winding white-carpeted steps. He hears taunting and laughing with coarse rock music in the background. A fifty-inch television sits inside a wooden entertainment center, its glass doors shielding various boxes with tiny red and green lights, one flashing 12:00. Two boys sit on a couch, their hands holding identical game controllers, but their faces telling conflicting stories.
The younger boy is borderline obese, with red chubby cheeks, straight brown hair over his eyebrows, puffy eyes, a runny nose, and tears on his face. His clothes are oversize, the blue T-shirt reaching his knees and his nylon pants bunching around his ankles. The older boy, thin and handsome, with wavy blond hair, wears a winner’s grin, designer jeans, and an untucked blue polo shirt.
Grace rushes to the younger boy, putting her arms around him. “Ryan, what happened, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” Ryan’s crying intensifies in the warm embrace. Grace glares at the older boy. “What did you do, George?”
George smirks. “Don’t look at me. It’s not my fault he’s such a baby. He starts bawlin’ every time he loses.”
“It’s … because … he … laughs,” Ryan says between sobs.
George throws his hands up in the air. “What? I can’t laugh when I win?” George glances at Matt, lingering on the staircase. “Farmer boy’s not bunkin’ with me.”
“Matt, come on down and meet your foster brothers,” Grace says.
Ryan takes a deep breath and wipes his tears on his sleeve.
“This here’s Ryan. He’s in the fourth grade, and he loves his games. Can you say hi to Matt?”
“Hi, Matt,” Ryan says, barely looking up.
“Ryan has agreed to give up half his room for you,” Grace says.
“Thanks, Ryan. I appreciate it,” Matt replies.
“And our oldest here is George. He’ll be graduating in a couple months.”
“What up, bumpkin. I heard about you,” George says. He grins and leans back on the couch.
“We don’t need to be gossiping,” Grace says.
“Whatever, I just thought the boy might wanna know what he’s gonna be dealin’ with at school. I sure as shit would wanna know.”
“Language.”
George chuckles at Grace. “I’m just jokin’. No need to get your granny panties in a bunch. Don’t worry. I’ll show the boy around. Keep him out of trouble.”
Grace and Matt hold on to the bannister as they walk up the wooden stairs to the second floor.
“My bedroom’s down the hall on the first floor, but all the kids’ rooms are up here,” Grace says.
They walk to the end of the second floor hall. A crucifix, complete with Jesus bleeding from his hands and feet, adorns the wall. An embroidered picture of a house with Bless this House stitched on the roof hangs crooked. Grace pushes open the door at the end of the hall, revealing a bathroom. Towels hang neatly, the sink wiped clean. The toilet seat is lifted, revealing a sparkling bowl and rim. A hint of bleach and Windex lingers in the air.
“This is the boys’ bathroom,” Grace says. “George is fanatical about keeping it clean, so I suggest you do your best not to make a mess.”
Grace leads Matt away from the bathroom. She grabs hold of the first door handle and tries to turn it.
“I forgot. George keeps his room locked. Don’t go in there, unless he invites you in. He can be a bit territorial. He’s almost eighteen, so I try to give him his own space. It’s hard being the oldest.”
Grace waddles to the next door and pushes it open. “Heavens to Betsy, would you look at this mess.”
Two single beds, one made, one unmade, line opposite walls. A dresser sits against the far wall. Clothes haphazardly litter the floor, hang on bedposts, and spill from the dresser drawers. Action figures, with every color represented, all holding weapons ranging from a samurai sword to a death-ray gun, are set up as opposing gangs. Size is the only common denominator among the two forces, with large action figures on one side and small ones on the other. David and Goliath are being played out in gangland style.
Posters and pennants cover the walls, with the Philadelphia Eagles and Phillies represented. A small TV, with a built-in VCR, sits on stacked crates at the foot of the unmade bed. Cookie crumbs litter the sheets, with VHS tapes and their cases on top of the television, on the dresser, and on the floor. An empty toy box sits at the foot of the made bed. Grace gestures toward it.
“You can leave your bag on the bed,” Grace says. “That one’s yours. I told Ryan to clean up for you, but he’s just so unmotivated these days. Maybe you can help him.”
Matt tosses his duffel bag on the bed. “It’s really not a problem. I can clean it.”
They walk to the last door, decorated with a sign shaped like a pom-pom that reads Abigail Arnold cheers for Jefferson High. Angelic male voices, coming from the room, sing in the background.
Grace taps on the door, her fatty triceps jiggling with each rap. “Girls, open up.”
The door cracks open, an attractive blonde blocking entry. “What do you want, Grace?”
“Abby, open up and meet your new brother.”
Abby peers around the door at Matt. She rolls her eyes and puts one hand on her hip, still holding on to the door handle. Her hair is blonde, almost white, creating a stark contrast to her orangey-tan skin. She’s thin, shapely, wearing tight white shorts, exposing muscular thighs, with a braless pink tank top, revealing bouncy breasts. Her teeth are straight and white, and her facial features are rounded and buttonlike.
“Why?” Abby says.
“Abby, would you please be polite?” Grace says.
Abby exhales and throws her hands up. “Fine.”
Grace pushes in. The humongous room is dominated by pastels. A white canopy bed with lace hanging elegantly, pink walls, a lavender bedspread, and a white vanity and dresser covers the majority of the space. Posters of quartets of young men garnish the walls. In the corner, a dark, defiant blemish exists, like MLK swimming in the Grand Wizard’s pool. A thick teen girl sits upright on a simple wooden bed covered with dark flannel. She leans back against the headrest, headphones atop her head, scribbling furiously in a black marble composition book. Her hair is as unnaturally black as Abby’s is white. A ring grows out of her eyebrow, another from her nostril, and six studs follow the curve of each earlobe. Her face is full and round, with a wide nose, plump lips, and a wide mouth. Her makeup is powdery white, with black eyeliner and lipstick. Grace touches her black lace-up combat boots.
She glares.
Grace snatches back her hand, as if she touched a hot burner. Matt is still in the doorway, standing on the threshold, not sure whether to enter or stay out. Abby sits Indian style on her bed, leafing through a fashion magazine.
“Our resident writer here is Madison. She’s just a year behind you, Matt. We’ll have to let her be while she’s writing. She’s so focused.” Grace forces a smile; then motions to Abby. “And over here is Abby.”
Abby ignores Grace.
> “Abby, why don’t you try to make your new brother feel welcome? George was nice to you when you first got here, remember? Matt here is your age actually. I bet you two have a lot in common.”
Abby smacks her magazine shut. “I doubt that.”
Grace smiles at Matt. “She’s just being a teenager. I’m gonna leave you to get settled into your room. We eat dinner at six, and we leave for church tomorrow morning at 8:30 on the dot.” Grace leaves the room.
Matt stands, looking from faux sister to faux sister, his eyes settling for a moment on the nipples poking through Abby’s braless top. Abby looks up from her magazine, glares at Matt, and covers her chest with her arms.
“Pervert,” Abby says.
Matt stares at her, stunned.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Matt exits the room; the door slams behind him.
He returns to his room and chucks action figures into the toy box. He makes Ryan’s bed and brushes the crumbs into the trash can. He throws the clothes from the floor into the hamper, folds the clothes hanging out of the drawers, and resets the dresser. He grabs the toy box to push it out of the way. When he feels something sticky on the back of the wooden box, he yanks his hand back. He peers at the back of the toy box and gags. He sees a collage of mostly dry, but some wet, yellow, green, and brownish boogers covering the entire backside of the box. He pushes the box to the far corner, the boogers facing the wall. He sits on his bed and takes off his boots, pushing himself back. He closes his eyes, shutting them tight.
+++
Matt trudges to the kitchen, where morning light floods in. Grace sits at the table with a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin the size of a softball. She’s wearing a short-sleeved pantsuit, with a white blouse. Her bright-white, meaty arms and calves are exposed.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Grace says to Matt.
Matt nods. He’s still wearing his jeans and gray T-shirt from the day before.
“Feel free to have whatever you want for breakfast. Most of the kids have cereal or Pop-Tarts.”
Against the Grain Page 8
