EQMM, August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  "You know,” said Dexter, “when I gave you my number on the phone, I kind of thought I got the brush-off. So I'll admit I was a little surprised when you invited me over for a drink."

  "It seemed the right thing to do,” said Evan, careful to keep the edge out of his voice, keep his breathing regular.

  They were sitting on the back patio now. Dexter was sipping a bourbon. “Still your drink?” Evan had asked earlier, standing at the liquor cabinet, and when Dexter had replied, “Oh, no. Just ginger ale,” Evan had said, “Old times’ sake,” and Dexter had finally agreed. Evan had studied his features carefully for some hint of the boy he'd seen in the yearbook photo, to ferret out what Dexter was thinking about that night behind the squash courts or spur some hidden memory of his own from the halls of the high school. Dexter's features betrayed nothing significant, but Evan noticed that the hand that held the bourbon twitched occasionally, and each time it did, Dexter swirled the glass, as if trying to mask the tic. He hadn't even sipped it yet.

  Dexter carried the conversation with the same bumbling, nervous enthusiasm that Evan had heard on the cell phone, now admiring Evan's house and patio and taste in bourbon, commenting on the weather in North Carolina versus Seattle, asking what there was to do around town, chatting about residential real-estate prices, commercial real-estate prices—covering everything from the meteorological climate to the business one.

  The tangle of blond hair the younger Dexter had worn was now closely cropped and tightly combed and darker than the picture had shown, and while that lower jaw still jutted firmly, some monument to the fact that things still stood the same, a thick moustache now balanced out the bottom half of his face and helped to accentuate the fact that most of the boyishness was long gone. Small furrows stood at the top of his cheeks when he smiled. Fine lines radiated from the corner of his eyes behind his sunglasses. The eyes will betray a liar, his father had once said, but Dexter hadn't taken off those glasses, hadn't dropped the smile.

  Everything was hidden, Evan thought, even as he tried to hide all the images replaying in his mind from just a few nights before. Scrambling to shut down the pop-ups filling his daughter's computer screen with lewd pictures. Telling Heather again and again to go play in the living room, honey, just go and her just standing there, watching, asking, Is everything all right, Daddy? Did I do something wrong? And thenhim finally just ripping the cord from the wall, the outlet's plastic case snapping viciously as he yanked the plug free, and his daughter erupting into tears.

  "My wife and I are in an apartment for the time being,” Dexter said. Twitch, swirl. “Better to settle in a little and then figure out where to buy, you know. Get the lay of the land. Get the business going."

  "Security, right?"

  "Did I mention that when we talked?” Dexter's forehead wrinkled. “I guess I must have. You really were paying attention, weren't you? Yes. Spectrum Security is the name.” He leaned back, orating now: “'For the Full Spectrum of Security, Always Go With Spectrum Security.’ My wife's idea, actually. She's..."

  Evan nodded, not listening. He knew the slogan, had seen it when he went back to the Web site to get Dexter's number. And seen more then too, studying it more closely. “From your home to your car to your business, we keep you protected throughout the day.” And lower down: “If someone's watching, let it be us ... watching out for you.” And then another starburst graphic with the words “Internet Security a Specialty!” Home, car, Internet—all of the details standing out in sharper, more sinister relief. Evan had felt a chill run down his spine as it all came together.

  "...and she also suggested that you might know some business organizations around here, networking stuff. Chamber of Commerce, sure, no-brainer there, but how ‘bout the Jaycees here or anything like that? And it doesn't have to be just business. I mean, my wife would love to meet some more gals around here, I'm sure. She said so herself. In fact, I was sorry your wife couldn't join us. I would've brought Pam over and introduced them."

  "Karen's at her mother's,” said Evan, bristling inside at Dexter's aw-shucks ramblings. “She doesn't get the chance to see her mother much, so I encouraged her to make a visit.” His father's words this time: Preparation is control. First steps to success.

  "Do tell her I'm sorry I missed her."

  "I will,” Evan said. But he wouldn't, of course, since Karen didn't know Dexter was there at all, and wouldn't have liked it if she'd known.

  So you're saying it's revenge? Karen had asked after she'd come home and calmed Heather enough for bed. A grown man moving across the country to engineer a dead battery in my car? And to hack into Heather's computer? All because one of your classmates made him do some push-ups twenty years ago?

  His company is all this security stuff, Evan had said, not elaborating on the coarser details of the incident, not wanting to try to explain or defend that. He was in the computer club in school. You know the old cliche, Karen. It takes a thief. That's all I'm saying.

  And what was the next part of the dream? Seen any books coming down the hill?

  The yearbook I looked through. That could have been it, couldn't it?

  You're reaching, Evan. You really are.

  And who says it's a real dream and not something he made up? He talked about the two of us trading names, Karen, trading places. You've seen those movies. The babysitter that wants to take the mother's place in the family. The neighbor who admires the family next-door a little too much. And what about that Robin Williams movie we rented, huh? The photo guy? This Dexter's got something planned. Who knows what'll happen next.

  His concern had grown so great that night that he had double-checked the locks on the front and back door, and he'd checked the nightstand for his gun, too, waiting until Karen was in the bathroom to avoid an even sterner look from her. He had the gun in his jacket pocket now.

  "Well, I look forward to meeting her another time,” said Dexter. “Maybe Pam and I could have the two of you over, huh? Our place isn't much yet, like I said, but—"

  "You didn't mention what brought you two back."

  Dexter reddened, looked away. The longest break yet in his constant banter.

  "Change of pace, I guess,” he said finally. A small shrug—clearly evasive. “Seattle had become a little ... claustrophobic somehow. Beautiful city, don't get me wrong, but ... all that rain and—” He stopped himself, and Evan saw something breaking loose in Dexter's expression. “Well, that's not entirely true. It's my wife, you see. We've been trying to have a child, you know? Well, of course, you don't know, really. I hardly mentioned it on the phone. But we have. Unsuccessfully, I should add. Doctors, treatments. Just doesn't work. And all of our friends, sympathetic, sure, but sympathy ... After a while, all that pity from them, and then the reminder of their own kids, and us just feeling ... envious.” His expression had darkened, his nervous energy had smoothed, and as he spoke that last word—a word brimming with raw emotion—Evan felt that he was finally seeing Dexter's true self.

  Trouble having a child. Envy for other families. The dream that they'd trade places. Evan thought of his daughter laughing in that tire swing—the only investment that counts—and then crying inconsolably a few nights before—the only investment worth protecting.

  Dexter brightened again, abruptly. “Like I said,” he went on, with a fragile smile, “change of pace. Tough to make friends, get the business kick-started in a new place...” On and on, but Evan had had enough—he had more than enough. “My wife's actually the one who suggested I check and see if anyone was around from the old school and if they might—"

  "Have you stopped by campus since you've been back?"

  Dexter flinched. “No,” he said, a wary look on his face. “Can't say I've found the time."

  Evan laid down his drink. “Want to take a drive over there now?"

  * * * *

  The year after Evan graduated, the Rat System had been abolished—an Old Boy pushing the limits too far, an ugl
y incident with a double-edged razor, parents involved, controversy, condemnation, the end of an era.

  Evan couldn't condone the incident, but he was sorry it had shut down the whole system. Some abuse was inevitable, but excusable. Soap races, those rug burns—the Old Boys loved the sport of it, but at least you could argue that it was a bonding experience for the Rats, an initiation of some kind. Minor abuses at worst, and despite them, Evan had believed in the system and the ways it had helped many of these boys become men. So many of them had come in with a sense of entitlement, as if the world belonged to them and should stoop to their wishes, and the system taught them to respect a world that was bigger than they were—to respect community or school or family. Or other people's families. The system punished them when they stepped out of line—put some fear in them when they needed it.

  Respect, power, control.

  The problem wasn't in pulling out the double-edged razor, or even in pressing it against the skin. The problem had come in actually drawing blood. You just had to know how far to go.

  "You passed the front gates,” said Dexter from the passenger seat. Evan hadn't even slowed down. Beside them, the brick and iron fence rushed past.

  "They've upped security,” said Evan. “After eight p.m., no entry on campus without authorization."

  "I guess having been Head Monitor two decades back doesn't carry much weight these days, huh?” Dexter laughed hesitantly, and Evan didn't mention being on the school's board or the pride he took in still being recognized and respected on campus. He didn't mention that he could have gone through the gates with just a wave of his ID. “Oh, well,” Dexter said. “Can't say it really matters much."

  "Oh, we'll get there yet,” said Evan, turning down a side road into a small neighborhood.

  "Don't put yourself to any trouble."

  "Too late. We're already here."

  Houses had always surrounded the school—pictures on the walls of the school's main building showed the campus and community as far back as the Civil War—but that neighborhood had gone through a series of ups and downs over the years: farmers’ houses and fields, small suburban homes, expanding city limits. Now it was experiencing a regentrification, a reinvention of itself, with developers coming in and tearing down older single-family homes to build condos. But the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Through it all, legions of students had escaped the rigors of the school schedule by crossing those fences toward the rear of the campus, escaping into that neighborhood. And now Evan was going to use it in reverse, hoping that security back here was no tighter now than it had ever been.

  "I think I snuck off campus once this way myself,” said Dexter as they tromped through the woods, leaving the car parked in a dusty construction site for what looked like a series of apartments or townhouses—just the studs, the framing, a skeleton of whatever it would eventually be. “Imagine us now, both of us in our thirties, like kids sneaking back on. We must be crazy or something."

  "Or something,” said Evan, reaching into his coat to make sure the gun was secure enough for him to climb the chain-link fence. As he jumped down, it jostled but didn't dislodge. He paid more attention to the pain in his leg. Not the boy you once were, he thought, ruefully. Those shock absorbers are beginning to wear out.

  Dexter was still on the other side, staring at Evan through the links of the fence.

  "You know, sneaking out this way got me in trouble more than once a few years back,” he said, his expression uneasy, even behind the sunglasses. “Maybe we should go back to your house, have another drink there."

  "It's summer. There's no one back here,” Evan said. “Think of it as a bonding experience.” He turned and walked away, and soon heard Dexter clambering over the fence.

  They walked deeper into the forest, tall oaks and pine trees shadowing the setting sun, making the day appear dimmer than it really was. The air was filled with the smell of honeysuckle from a bank of vines. Hummingbirds flitted toward the flowers. Something rustled through the undergrowth—likely a squirrel, maybe a snake.

  "Where does this come out again?” Dexter asked, slowing his step just slightly.

  "The old squash courts up there,” said Evan, just as the building came into view. Some old maintenance equipment was piled against its walls—an aging red mower, some rusted shears, a coil of wire fencing. “Remember now?"

  "I never played,” said Dexter, grimly.

  "Well, we're not playing today either,” said Evan.

  As they reached the center of the small, mossy clearing, he turned and pulled out the gun. It felt heavy in his hand, but he pointed it directly into Dexter's face.

  The squash courts blocked a view of the full campus, the lush grounds and stately buildings that Evan knew were just around the corner and across the soccer fields. Afternoons during the school year, those fields would be echoing with the shouts and cheers of kids chasing victory—Evan could hear those echoes in his memory now. But after dusk, it was a lonely, desolate spot—a far cry from campus. Literally.

  "What the hell is this?” asked Dexter, involuntarily lifting his arms, by reflex it seemed. He struggled to support his faltering smile.

  "I'm sure you recognize this place, Dex. What more do I have to say? ‘For your transgressions, Dexter Hollinger, you are being sent up before a higher power....'” Though Evan spoke the words mockingly, they rolled smoothly off his tongue, and his mind recited the rest of it as if automatically: You will submit to the school whose authority you shunned, you will bow before the code you have dishonored, you will recognize the weight of our history, of all the men who have come before you, of all the boys who will follow in your path. He could still picture some of the new boys who'd come before him and his fellow monitors—each with the same panicked, unbelieving expression that he saw in front of him now. But Dexter should have known better. “You threatened an Old Boy's family, Dex,” said Evan, “and there is a price to pay."

  "What the hell are you talking about? Threatened somebody's family?"

  "My family,” said Evan. “And you're going to leave them alone."

  "Is this a joke?” Dexter dared a small laugh. “I've never even met your family."

  "Take off those damn glasses,” Evan said, his anger bubbling forth, and when Dexter hesitated, he shouted, “Do it now!"

  Dexter removed his sunglasses, and Evan looked into his eyes for the first time. He watched them, looking for the lie, and looking as well at the sides of his face. Had the soap races left any scars there? He almost hoped they had.

  "Your dream,” he said. “You dreamed about a dead battery, and my wife's car battery went dead just hours after you called."

  "And that's my fault?” Dexter met his gaze, challenged it.

  "Car security's one of your specialties, right? And Internet security? That filth you put on our computer—on my daughter's computer."

  "Your daughter,” Dexter said, and something in his expression shifted slightly—just the smallest glance to the side, but Evan knew that he'd caught him in the lie. “I never wanted—"

  "But what did you want, Dex? Revenge for what happened all those years ago? Envy that you couldn't have a child of your own? I've been trying to figure it out myself."

  "You've gone too far,” Dex said, and the shift in expression deepened, some small collapse in the cheeks, a sagging at the corners of his lips. “Bringing me out here. You've gone too far."

  "I've gone too far? What was the next step for you, Dex? You and me trading names? Wasn't that it? Where was it going to end? I'll tell you where it's going to end. Right here.” He took a deep breath, jiggled the gun, and then steadied it. He could see the fear in Dexter's eyes, the respect for the gun. A good decision to bring it, just the scare tactic he needed. Respect, power, control. “You have violated the rules,” he said, the words coming back to him as if it were yesterday. “You have broken the code. After tonight, you will not step out of line again. After tonight, you will always remember your place.�
�� He pointed the gun toward the ground. “Now get down there."

  Dexter hesitated.

  "Don't make me ask twice,” said Evan, leveling the gun at him. “Kneel, Rat."

  At the word, Dexter's posture shifted. His eyelids narrowed and the corners of his lips tensed upward again. He straightened his back, and as he did so, his chest moved forward, stood out in pride. He seemed to be reinflating, and to grow about a foot in the process.

  "No,” he said.

  "Get on the ground.” Evan waved the gun. “I'm not afraid to use this."

  "You won't use it,” Dexter said, and his voice was different now, calmer, more focused, more assertive. “You can't even drive through the gates. You're not about to let that gun go off here for everyone to hear. Your car is back in the cul-de-sac, the neighbors back there could have seen us.” He stepped forward. “Just admit that and put down the gun."

  Evan moved back. “Don't tempt me."

  Dexter stepped forward again, and Evan stumbled briefly over some tree roots that had twisted themselves out of the ground and arched across the soil. He caught his balance just in time, aiming again, at Dexter's chest this time.

  "Think about it, Evan. We're not kids anymore. I'm not a Rat anymore. That's a gun, not a game."

  Double-edged razors, Evan thought then, and he wondered about the boy who'd used them, about why they'd actually been used. Maybe the Rat simply hadn't been scared by the sight of them. Maybe he'd challenged the Old Boy, refused to bow down appropriately. If you didn't gain the respect in the first place, then where was the power? Where was the control? The only choice then was to prove you were willing to go all the way.

  But if you're not ready to make good on the threat.... If you're not ready to draw blood, then you might as well put the gun away.

  Profit and loss. Investment and return. The photo on the desk—his wife and daughter watching him. He had been doing this for them. But the next step would be too far.