“No, probably not. Miguel’s an illegal, you know? He probably didn’t want to bring attention to himself by reporting it.”
Mr. Joseph didn’t comment. Quietly, he closed my file. Guess he didn’t want to get involved with that. Not that I cared much then, but it bothered me later on that we both kind of brushed it aside.
“Look, Digger,” he said, “the point here is that we tell your story in court. We say you’re sorry, that you’ve changed and that you’re—why are you smiling?”
“’Cause you said that I changed.”
“Why is that funny?”
I shrugged. “’Cause I guess I didn’t think I could change.”
He didn’t even blink. “Of course you changed! I mean, you could have kept on running, but you didn’t. You didn’t have to jump in that cold river. You didn’t have to risk your life saving those horses in the barn fire. You didn’t have to take such good care of Andrew, or Luke, or whatever his name is. All these things—they were totally selfless acts. You’re a different person now! You matured!”
I thought about that and I don’t know about matured, but I was changed some. I stopped running at least, and it’s true, I did look at things different.
He continued, “So we talk about how you’ve changed and how you’re ready to serve your time and pay restitution for the damage you did. Authorities recovered the stolen bicycle and the canoe, but the big thing is damage to that tractor-trailer truck.”
At first, I thought what he meant was that I’d have to serve more time for stealing the truck and burning it up. But then I looked up the word in the dictionary when I was at the clinic, and the next time I saw Mr. Joseph he made it clear what restitution meant. It meant I would be held responsible for actually paying for the damage I done—paying, as in money.
“I did some research,” Mr. Joseph said, picking up a legal pad with notes. “A tire on a tractor-trailer can cost from three hundred and fifty to six hundred dollars. That’s for standard width. The new Michelin X One tire, which is twice as wide, is a bit more, so we’ll have to find out what kind of tires were on that truck. From what I see you pretty much burned up all eighteen tires as well as the cab.”
Wow. Math was never my strong point but if I ruined all the tires, then three hundred and fifty dollars times eighteen wheels was a big number—thousands of dollars—and that was just the minimum. It would take me years to come up with that kind of cash.
I shook my head sadly. How could I ever start over and have a life if I owed all that money? What was the point in even trying to find another dream?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
A RAINBOW
While I was “in the hole” in Hagerstown, I had two other visitors. One was my Cliffside counselor, Mr. R. They brought me to wait for him in a small room that had a table and two chairs, and one poster on the wall with just words: YOU CAN’T CHANGE THE PAST BUT YOU CAN CHANGE THE FUTURE. I crossed my arms and stared at it, wondering if that could possibly be true.
When Mr. R. came in, I stood up. I didn’t know if he’d shake my hand or come round to give me a big ole hug or what. But he didn’t do any of that. He just pulled out a chair to sit down. So I did, too. Then I whipped out my white card and grinned when I showed it to him. “I had it with me the whole time.”
Mr. R. didn’t think that was funny. He didn’t even crack a smile. “The thing is, Digger, what did you learn from that card?”
I dropped the grin ’cause he was right. It wasn’t a joke.
“I learned a lot more than you think,” I said. “I made a mistake taking off like that. I’m sorry I put you to so much trouble.”
“I was never concerned with you troubling me, Digger. And you know what I’ve always said about mistakes—they’re not all bad because that’s how we find out who we are, by making mistakes. But I was worried about your safety and I wondered why you took off. I thought you were smarter than that. Running never accomplishes anything, unless you’re training for a marathon.”
“I hear ya,” I said.
“Some of the other boys were concerned about you and why you ran, too. Genuinely concerned,” Mr. R. said. “Your old friend, J.T., must have asked me every other day if there was any news.”
I looked up, astonished about J.T. “Are you serious?”
“Totally. Even after his father passed away, J.T. kept asking about you.”
“What?” My eyes got wide ’cause I didn’t know anything about that. “His father?”
“A month ago,” Mr. R. said. “They let J.T. go home for the funeral, but he had to come back to serve out his time.” I put a hand over my face and closed my eyes, ashamed all over again. No way could I ever make this up to J.T.
Then I kind of spaced out and went on to have another thought: what if it had been my father who died? He’d be gone. He wouldn’t be there anymore to beat on my mother and me. But then I wouldn’t have a father anymore either, and somewhere, in the deepest, darkest, tiniest corner of my heart, there was an ache. I sat there, feeling that ache spread until it clenched up my heart. I didn’t want to not have a father. I would never have said this out loud to no one— no way—but I think I still wanted there to be the possibility of a day when my father and me could be like a real father and son again. Like we were a long time ago driving the rig all those days and nights with hay or watermelons or frozen chickens stacked up in the trailer behind us.
Miracles still happen. Don’t they? Maybe someday my father would actually say he was sorry. If I could change, maybe he could, too. Then I’d forgive him and we could all move on and like, be a family. It was then—thinking about this—that I realized I could never have seriously hurt my dad. It had always been in the back of my mind that I’d have to shoot him or bonk him over the head or something to protect my mom and the kids. But no matter how angry I got at my dad, there’s no way on earth I could seriously take him down . . . especially not after Ben. Not after all that. Not ever.
So all that running I did? It wasn’t me running home to get rid of my dad, or even to protect Mom and the kids. No. It was me running away from all the stuff in my head. All the guilt, all the anger, all the regret . . . I was like that dog Woody talked about, the dog with the kite tied to his tail. He kept running away from it but it was always going to be there.
When Mr. R. saw how quiet I got, then how upset I was, and how I pushed the heels of both my hands against my eyes and started crying, he softened up some and came round the table. He even put his arm around my shoulders. He kept saying it wasn’t my fault J.T.’s father didn’t get a kidney in time and died. No one could blame me for that. But we all knew it was my fault J.T. couldn’t go home to help his family now when they needed him the most, which, truth be known, was not the reason I was crying.
Mr. R. and me, we sat there for a long time. Eventually, we had us a good talk about putting yesterday behind and starting over, taking each day one at a time. We talked about watching the ole temper, keeping my fists in check ’cause violence was never the answer to anything no matter how angry you got. We talked about staying out of trouble by avoiding negative people like my old friend Tio, and the boys in gangs. And we talked about me working hard in school so I’d have a future. Neither one of us ever mentioned my dad.
When we finished up, Mr. R. asked if there was anything he could do for me. At first I didn’t think so, but then I told him, “Yes.”
“If it’s not a big deal, or too much out of your way, I wonder if you could check on that dog that was with me the past two months. Like maybe see if he got taken care of, or whatever. The officer, that day I got taken in, he said he’d take Buddy to the pound.”
“Sure. I can try to find out for you,” Mr. R. promised.
—
The other visitor I had was my mom. She drove up to see me again only this time she looked a lot
better than the time before. She didn’t have makeup caked on her face hiding some bruise. She hugged me long and hard and her eyes watered up. “I thought I’d lost you for good,” she told me. “Grampa sends his love. I saw him at the nursing home yesterday. He wants you to come home.” After she let go, she pulled out of her purse a little Ziploc bag full of my favorite miniature Snickers bars. “Hank set ’em aside from his Halloween loot,” she said. “And here, this is for you, too.” She gave me a picture LeeAnn had drawn and colored in with crayons. The picture was a rainbow with me on one side (I was a stick figure holding a basketball) and home at the other end (a house and three stick figures which I took to be LeeAnn, Hank, and Mom. They had big smiles and held flowers, except for LeeAnn who, Mom pointed out, was not holding a big pizza like I thought, but a plate of chocolate chip cookies).
“We’re doing okay,” my mother said as we both sat down. “We’re back in the house, you know. And hey! We got the toilet fixed!”
I smiled some. I had to smile after hearing that.
My mom went on, more serious. “I got the court to give me a restraining order so your dad ain’t been a bother to us. He’s living over to Church Hill with your uncle Chip. I know what you told the public defender, Digger, that you run away from that juvenile detention center to get home and protect us. But you gotta know, hon, that there’s nothin’ you can do to fix that situation. That’s for us adults to fix, not you. I’m tryin’ hard, I really am. And like I said, I think I’m doin’ better. You need to take care of yourself. Do your time and come on home to us.”
All those days sitting in that cell alone I had a lot of time to think about what Mom said. I thought a lot about Nora, too. I wondered what it was like in Las Vegas. Was it hot every day? I hoped she was in a good high school ’cause she sure was smart. School would keep her going. It was her ticket out, no question. I thought about Luke (I just couldn’t think of him as Andrew) getting reunited with his mother, and Mrs. Crawford finding places for all the horses. I thought about a red-colored stallion, too, a horse with a shaggy forelock and a nose like velvet, and wished he had taken a chance on me.
I didn’t waste much time thinking about Woody. I figured he was where he belonged. But you know what? I hoped that someday he could change, too, ’cause I knew he really loved his son and for sure he’d want to see him again.
A lot of long, boring days with a lot of think time followed. Then Mr. R. surprised me by showing up a second time before my court appearance.
“I checked on your dog,” he told me, “and he’s already been adopted.”
“No kidding,” I said. I was happy Buddy found a home so soon, although I have to admit, there was a little pinch deep inside that hard heart of mine.
“Yeah,” Mr. R. went on. “Some woman came in looking for that dog. Folks at animal control thought she’d lost it earlier because her little boy was so happy to see it. They couldn’t give me any names, but the woman behind the desk said the people who adopted your dog were on their way to Texas.”
A little smile had sprouted on my face when Mr. R. started telling me and it was full-blown by the time he finished.
—
When my day in court finally came, what they call my “dispositional hearing,” I was ready. I just wanted to get on with things. They shaved off the rest of my hair—everything they didn’t shave when I got my stitches. And I was back in detention clothes: those blue Dickies pants and a white T-shirt and a navy blue sweatshirt, some clean socks to wear in my boots. Mr. Joseph had pretty much prepared me to get more time tacked on to a new, nine-month tour of duty. He thought that I’d be sent to a different detention center, too, and warned me that I’d be on AWOL watch for a while. That is, someone would be watching me 24/7 within an arm’s reach, and I’d have to wear slippers instead of shoes. I guess so I wouldn’t run.
In court, I listened to Mr. Joseph tell my sad story out loud. He pointed out how I didn’t commit any violent acts and didn’t carry a weapon. He made a big deal out of me working at the farm and running into the barn that night for the horses. He told the court about me sharing that venison at the campground and talked up big how I was the one took care of eight-year-old Andrew Hardesty and jumped into the river to save him, and how that boy had been reunited with his mother. He also pointed out that I was the one who discovered Andrew couldn’t read and how I got him some help. He made me think that hey, really, if you stood back and took the long view, I wasn’t a total screwup!
But then some other lawyer person, a woman, stood and detailed out loud how I stole the truck and caused a bunch of damage, including the burned-out tires and the cab, which was aluminum and had melted. The good news, they said, is that the truck was hauling a load of logs in the trailer, but that the trailer was intact so there was no additional loss there. Still, estimated total damages was fifteen thousand dollars.
It was pretty depressing to hear that final figure. That’s the restitution I had to pay back. I figured I could pay it off in about ten years if I got a decent job after high school. That is, if I ever finished high school.
Finally, it was time for the judge—excuse me, the master of the court—to weigh it all up in his head and come up with his wise disposition order for me.
Just when I thought the whole ordeal was about over, something else happened. This guy came forward. He was wearing jeans, but he had a jacket and tie on, like he was halfway dressed for court. He favored one leg as he moved to the front of the courtroom. He said his name was Edward Houseman and told the court he worked for Houseman Freight Company. I didn’t recognize him at first, but he was the truck driver I ripped off. The guy with the cell phone pressed to his ear who limped into that restaurant talking about biscuits and sausage gravy. I remembered the sound of his boots on the gravel and the clenched-up feeling in my stomach ’cause I was already thinking of stealing his truck.
So why did he show up? So he could take a good look at me and spit in my face for what I done?
I sighed and slumped back in my chair, bracing myself.
“Your Honor,” the truck driver began, “I came today for a couple of reasons. Number one, I wanted a good look at the young man who stole my Kenworth back in September.”
He turned and had his good look at me and, as much as I wanted to, I did not drop my eyes.
“This young man dealt my business a big wallop. But Your Honor, I am also here because I have heard all the facts about Michael Griswald. I heard how he ran into that barn on fire, and how he jumped into the river to save that little boy. I had a little boy once myself and I can tell you this, that I wished he were here now to help me run my business . . .”
The guy stopped and paused to sort of rub the end of his nose. I wondered if he was stifling a sneeze—or something else.
Then he continued: “What I’d like to do, if the court will allow it, is to make an offer to this young man. If Michael Griswald—Digger, as he is known—can finish his time and go back to high school and graduate without getting into any more trouble, and if he’s willing to work for me, the summer after he gets out of juvenile detention, to pay back some of the damages, then I will forgive the rest of the restitution charges, full and complete.”
I sat up in the chair and shifted position. My eyes did not leave Mr. Houseman. Was he serious? I glanced at my public defender beside me and saw he had this silly grin on his face.
I leaned toward him. “Is this for real?” I whispered.
He whispered back, “I’ll tell you, Digger, truck drivers make good money. You could set yourself up for a full-time job!”
The master of the court asked me to stand.
“Michael Griswald, what do you say to Mr. Houseman? Can you promise to finish your time, return to high school, work one summer for him, and graduate without getting into any more trouble?”
Where was my voice? I took another breath.
/> “Yes! Yes, sir, Your Honor,” I said. Then I turned toward Mr. Houseman. “I’m grateful to you, sir. And I want to say that I am truly sorry for what I did.”
Mr. Houseman nodded and kind of lifted his hand. “A long time ago, when I was a boy your age, I got into trouble myself. Someone gave me a second chance, and I made good with it. Except for this bum knee and losing my son, I’ve had a good life. It’s time for me to give back.”
I nodded my thanks again to this bighearted man I had wronged and who I didn’t even know. This man who was giving me a second chance.
Incredible. A second chance. A chance to really start over. A chance to give back and lead a good life . . .
Was it possible that one day I could make up some—if only a little—for the life I had taken from a three-year-old boy?
At the Deep Valley Juvenile Detention Center, where I started a new, ten-month gig and walked around all day in slippers, I once again had a bed with scratchy blankets in a row with eleven other beds. In between my bed and the next was a tall gray metal locker for my toothbrush and a change of clothes. Only this time, I had something to tape up inside the locker door. I had that picture LeeAnn drew of a rainbow—with me on one side, and home on the other.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have many people to thank for helping me research this book. First on my list are the teachers, counselors, administrators—and boys—at Backbone Mountain and Meadow Mountain Youth Centers, two juvenile detention centers in western Maryland run by the Maryland State Department of Juvenile Services. Michael Lewis, principal for the youth centers; David Symanski, lead teacher; Mari Freno, mental health counselor; and Barbara Miltenberger, reading specialist, were especially helpful.
I thank Mark Livingston, a therapist at Potomac Ridge School in Crownsville, Maryland, for helping me begin to understand the challenges of treating young people who get in trouble. And I am grateful to Judith Hale, a reading specialist in Frederick County, Maryland, for her special insights.
The Journey Back Page 19
