For a confused moment, I wonder what he's doing, but once his jacket is off, he slips it around my shoulders. I find the arms and put it on while he rolls up the sleeves, like he used to when he wore it as a little kid. He zips it up the front and we kiss again. It feels natural now, save for the crackling excitement that surges through me wherever we touch.
JP made me feel desirable as a supermodel. Alex makes me feel like he'd walk past a line of supermodels without a second look, just for the chance to hold me, and now he's given me his jacket so the whole world will know that he wants me to be with him and no one else.
The jacket smells like him, like sandalwood and Tiger Balm and musk. I press the collar to my face and inhale, then smile. He looks down at me like he expects me to suddenly realize what I've agreed to and panic. I won't. He's stuck with me now. I dig in one pocket of the jacket and hand him his cell phone. In the other, I find his lighter and run my thumb over “Alexander W. Katsumoto”.
“None of my business,” I say, “but who gives a teenager a monogrammed lighter?” I hand it to him.
“Yeah, good question. It came with a business card holder and a keychain-” he tugs his keys out of his jeans pocket with a jangle and holds them up for a split second “-so I guess it's supposed to be something I use at a cigar lounge, while meeting with clients or... I dunno.” He puts his keys away. “My great uncle sent it to me. I'm thinking he got it out of a catalog and didn't really understand the description. He doesn't speak much English.”
That makes me feel bad for joking about it, but Alex doesn't seem to mind. He lets me go and I open the door to go get my jacket from where I slung it over a chair in the kitchen. As I dig in the pockets, I'm immediately self conscious of how much junk I allow to accumulate. I elect not to pick through all the used tissues in front of him, and instead just feel around for anything solid.
My fingertips touch smooth paper and I pull it out, unfold it, and find I'm staring at the rent forbearance letter. Alex pointedly looks away and I fold it up and stick it in the pocket of Alex's jacket, even though I know I need to be more careful about being such a pack rat now that I'm wearing an irreplaceable heirloom. I retrieve my cellphone, and then together we head out the door.
I show up at the library, late, with my arm around Alex. I know what this looks like, which is to say, it looks exactly how it is. While I try to think of witty responses to, “How was school?” I fail to notice that Mr. Beale's car is parked out front.
Alex gives me another kiss on the forehead and whispers, “See you later,” before letting me go.
I step inside.
“-just wanted to ask you some questions,” Mr. Beale is saying. “Given we're going to re-evaluate whether or not we think the library is a good use of municipal funds.”
Siraj looks over at me, his gaze lingering on Alex's jacket. “How was school?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“Madison,” says Mr. Beale.
“You're going to shut down the library?” I say.
“Now, now. We're just talking.”
“You want me gone so bad that you'd take away my job?”
“I didn't say-”
“I can work other places, all right? Leave Siraj alone.”
Mr. Beale shrugs as if I'm talking nonsense. “I should leave,” he says. “We'll talk later.”
I watch him exit, then turn back around.
Siraj rubs his forehead. “You usually talk to a Municipal Councilor like that?”
“What? I just asked him what he was doing.”
“I think you made him angrier.”
“There anything I can say at this point that will make him less angry?”
“For you, this may be just a boring after school job with a computer to send email from, but this is my career. The only one I've got.”
“I know.” It's the first time I've ever seen him upset, so I don't even go to take my seat. Instead I stay by the door, arms folded as if this puts a little extra distance between me and his fury.
“The family I told you about, my aging father and two disabled sisters, guess who supports them? You know what the economy's like.”
I nod. “I'm sorry.”
But Siraj's resting his head in his hands now, and takes a few deep breaths. “What's all this about? Why is he angry with you?”
“Did you hear what happened to Kailie?”
“Rumors. She attempted suicide?”
“Yeah, and when the 911 responders came to get her, they saw that her parents had taken her furniture and stuff. Maybe they could tell she'd been starved, I don't know.”
“And let me guess, you spoke up and told them all about how badly they treat Kailie?”
“It's evidence they can get from anyone who knew her, like teachers, or even just Officer Li who saw her room. I'm the scapegoat.”
“I've never understood, why are you friends with their daughter? She's behaved abominably towards you.”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“So why be her friend? You talk back to her father, but never to her. She's why your face got kicked in. What's it take to lose your friendship? And why, might I ask, are you now involved with the psycho who smashed a police car right in front of this library just a few weeks ago? There are nice people in this town, nice teenagers at your school.”
“Kailie doesn't have anyone else.”
“Yes, but there's a reason for that. It's called letting someone take the consequences. It's a lot better than shifting the consequences onto other people, such as me.” He takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to imply that you shouldn't tell the truth if anyone asks for it. Of course you should do the right thing.”
“I can quit my job here. I'll go work somewhere else. This doesn't have to involve you at all.”
“Anywhere you work in this town, the Beales can get to you. Any business in town will need something from the Council. So yes, you can leave me out of it, but you'll be asking someone else to become a target, and since you don't drive, you're stuck working in Pelican Bluffs, and since your mother's art isn't in the gallery anymore-”
“How do you know about my mother?”
“I may joke about never talking to anyone, but I do pay attention. I know what happens. I hear things.”
I go to sit in my chair, and notice how frail Siraj looks. “Can you think of anything I could say that would make Mr. Beale back down?”
“I don't know. That's why I deal with his wife to get matters before the Municipal Council. He's stubborn.”
“I can be stubborn.”
“I'm sure you can.”
“I broke into their house to rescue Kailie.”
“Think they'll sue you for that too?”
“I just mean to say that I do stick my neck out sometimes. I can. It's not like I'm all helpless.”
“I never meant to imply that you were.”
“So if you know the town, tell me who can stand up to the Beales. I can pretty much guarantee I've been nice to them.”
He gives me a watery smile, acknowledging this point. “Well, you know the power dynamic. Greg and Arlene Beale each have a vote on the Council and they control Meagan Romero, who runs the art gallery that they own.”
“Right.”
“I'm not sure there is anyone with leverage over them other than the people who've taken Kailie away. They've got all the proverbial cards. They've got her.”
“Yeah, well I talked to the social worker about him and she suggested I get a restraining order, but I don't think that's really going to help. Besides, it's not like I can suggest they not release Kailie until her father stops being mean to me. Forget family stuff. Who can strongarm him politically or economically?”
“No one, unless you can divine who's on the board of the Wilkstone Foundation.”
I think of the letter in my pocket. “Why?”
“Well, they own all of the bluffside commercial property. All the businesses on Ridge Road lease their facilities from t
hem.”
“No way. They'd be making money hand over fist.”
“And they do. You don't know this? The Foundation created this town. They're the reason your home even exists because Roger Wilkstone believed that Pelican Bluffs should be a real community. A place where the people who worked menial jobs, like pumping gas or waiting tables, should be able to live, run for the Municipal Council, and have a say.”
“How do you know this?”
“I met someone who knew him once. That's about as close to the Wilkstones as I've ever heard of anyone getting. You notice there's no one by that name here in town. I don't mean to sound jaded, but I've always wondered if Mr. Wilkstone's beliefs about how the town should be run sounded good in theory, but he didn't want to live here in reality.”
I pull out my rent forbearance letter and unfold it.
Siraj sees the letterhead and says, “Is it signed?”
“No.” I'm staring at the note at the bottom that reads, “cc: LLW, RMW, AWK, JDW”. I fold the letter up again. “Okay, so if we can't find a Wilkstone-”
“Or someone from their board.”
“Or someone from their board, then I can think of only one other higher power that might mean anything to Mr. Beale.”
“And that would be?”
“They're religious.”
“While I agree with you that seeing God may be more likely than finding a Wilkstone, you do realize it is quite rare.”
“They've got a scripture reference enshrined in their house. It's a longshot, but I want to look it up.”
He gives me a dubious look but turns to his computer. “What is it?”
“Luke 15:11-32.”
He types it into Google, then chuckles. “How appropriate.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It's the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Or in their case it would be a daughter, or both daughters even.”
“What’s that?”
“Famous parable about a son who is very disobedient, leaves home and lives it up, loses all his money and realizes he’s a bad person. When he goes home, his father immediately forgives him. Ring any bells?”
“No, but okay.” I get out my phone and call John. It takes five rings before he picks up. “Madison, hey.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Yep. I'm driving, so I might lose you, but what's up?”
“Tell me everything you know about the Parable of the Prodigal Son.”
“You want the Seminary lesson?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's been a while, but let me think here. It's a parable, so it's kind of about how parents should treat their children, but it's also about how God treats us. The idea that no matter how far we've fallen, He's watching and waiting for us to come back to Him and He'll rejoice when that happens.”
“Interesting.”
“You just being polite?”
“No, I'm taking notes. Keep talking.”
“What's this for?”
“I'm going to do... what was it you called it? Likening?”
“Um... okay. Well, let me think here.”
Alex shows up right at five thirty and gives Siraj a wary look as he strolls up to the circulation desk. My boss only nods in his direction, though. “Madison, please don't do anything rash.” To Alex's curious gaze, he says nothing.
I say goodbye to him and walk out with Alex.
“What's going on?” he asks, the moment the door swings shut behind us.
“Nothing. I just need to go talk to some people tonight.”
“Who?”
“I'm going over to Kirsten's house and then the Beales'. It's nothing, really. Just helping them with family stuff.”
He takes me by both shoulders, looks me in the eye, and raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, fine. Mr. Beale's been a jerk, but I can handle it-”
“Tell me everything.”
I try to hide a smile.
“What?”
“You remind me of my brother. In a good way.”
“He look out for you too?”
“Yeah, whether I want him to or not.”
“So you going to tell me what's going on?”
I lay it out for him, the whole situation, how the Beales want to run me out of town, and how I don't want them to win.
Alex's expression gets more and more grave as I tell the story.
“I'll handle this,” I say.
“Listen, not to put you down, but why do I think you might just try to give everyone a hug and fix matters that way?”
“It wasn't exactly what I planned.”
“I'm coming with you.”
“You don't have to-”
“I'm coming okay?”
“Fine,” I say, “but no rocks. No smashing things.”
This earns me a kiss, in public, where anyone can see.
Kirsten gives Alex a nervous look when she opens her front door. “Can I help you?”
I speak up before he can. “Come with me to see your parents.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Please.”
“You know my dad will just run me off the property with a shotgun, right?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You heard about what happened with Kailie?”
She leans against the doorframe as if that sentence just sapped away all her energy. “I know you found her and she's in the hospital.”
“CPS is involved now,” says Alex.
I expect Kirsten to look confused at the abbreviation, but instead she looks up. “What? Why?”
“They think your parents endangered or neglected her or both.”
“Well, I can answer that...”
“Listen,” I say, “your dad's trying to make my mom and I leave town.”
“So what's your plan here, Madison? My dad told me that he never wanted to see me again. He looks away if I pass him in the street. You think I can talk him out of bullying you?”
“I'm um, going to try to invoke a higher authority.”
“What? Report him to the state? Or the fed? What?”
I don't dare say it aloud. It sounds too stupid, but I want to believe that it could work and I have to try. “Please?” I beg.
“Can your father resist blue eyes like those?” says Alex.
“Yes,” says Kirsten, “but I'll come with you. You saved my sister's life. I guess I owe you one.”
The three of us plus Kirsten's daughter, whom she carries on her hip, arrive at the Inn ten minutes later. I know it's the Beales' dinner time, which is why I also know they'll both be in the house. I knock and ring the doorbell three times before I get an answer – I also know they have a habit of not allowing interruptions at dinner.
Mr. Beale jerks the door open and stares out at us. “What do you want?”
I take a deep breath. Do this, I think. “Let us in.”
He looks me over for a moment, then steps back and lets us past him, into the living room which has its furniture set up again, but is still missing most of its floor. Kirsten gives him a wide berth and turns to keep her child as far from him as possible. Alex looks him straight in the eye and Mr. Beale glares right back, so my first order of business, once we're all inside, is to step between Alex and Mr. Beale. I don't bother to sit down. I'd lose my nerve if I did. Kirsten goes by the window, bouncing her daughter gently.
I point at the cross stitch of the Bible verses on the wall and will my hand not to shake. “I've always wondered about that, so I looked it up today.”
Mr. Beale folds his arms across his chest.
“It's weird, because in that story, the father of the prodigal son is all happy when the son comes back. He was even standing out, watching and waiting for his son to return. Kirsten's here, and you don't seem to even care.”
“Has she come to beg forgiveness?” asks Mr. Beale.
“Hmm,” I say, “interesting. You read that parable lately? The son doesn't just ask for forgiveness. He asks for a job. A really low paid job. But c
learly the forgiveness part is what you care about, not employing your daughter to help her pay the bills.”
“Kirsten's never asked us for a job,” says Mr. Beale.
“The son in the story asks for a job because he remembers his father as a good and just man who treats people well, so he'd rather be a lowly worker in his father's house than out in the world. See, the story is about a child learning the hard way that his father is a good man and that he was lucky to have such a parent.” My courage starts to give, I feel it shift like sand being eaten away by the tide. “I think the moral of the story is, you don't get that ending unless you play your part.”
“Well, thank you for that,” says Mr. Beale, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
And my anger flares up, and with it, a second wave of confidence. “Listen, who are you to think you deserve any great blessings or whatever? Because that's why you have that on your wall, isn't it? It's because you think that story is about how no matter what you do to your daughters, it's their fault and they'll someday come to you and say, 'Gee, you were right, Dad. We're sooo sorry.' And you're going to cling to that belief even when trained professionals say that you need to re-evaluate your parenting style.”
“I think that's enough,” he says.
“Oh yeah? Well I don't care. Your thoughts aren't what I care about. I'm not here because you think I should be. I'm here because I know you're making a mistake, and you can pick on me all you want. You can drive me and my mom out of this town. I don't care. I am not your problem. You are. Even when I'm gone, your problems will still be here. Your daughter will still be in foster care and you'll keep doing the same stupid thing that put her there in the first place, too blinded by your own pride to catch a clue and grow up.”
Alex's hand clasps my shoulder and Kirsten looks at me, agape.
I take a few deep breaths, but don't even try to calm myself down. My rage is the only thing between me and tears right now. Still, I do my best to keep my voice steady. “You are literally, one second away from a smile from your granddaughter if you'd just swallow your stupid pride and ask your daughter for forgiveness, because has it ever occurred to you, you're the prodigal son? You're the person who decided to live his life one way and took the consequences? You may have a nice home and money and all that, but when it comes to your family you might as well be sleeping in a pigsty, that's the kind of mess you made. Your daughters are the ones watching and waiting, ready to forgive you if you just ask.”
Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand Page 20
