Hathaway answered her unspoken question. “We’ll have your son join us in a bit. I’d like to talk to you privately, if I may.”
“Of course.”
He stepped aside and allowed her room to enter. “Please have a seat,” he said after closing the door. Then he strode to his chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Did Miss Prescott explain the nature of the problem when she called you?”
“Not really.”
The principal flipped open a file folder in front of him and studied the paper on top. “Dakota is apparently quite bright, but our concern isn’t about his grades. It’s his attitude. An attitude that seems to extend toward any person with authority. He has a boulder-size chip on his shoulder and is daring one and all to knock it off.”
Claire nodded. The principal’s assessment wasn’t news to her. She’d watched Dakota’s attitude evolving over the past three years, her sweet-natured son turning into this belligerent teen. What she didn’t know was how much of it was because of his age, how much had to do with his father’s desertion, and how much was her fault.
“Ms. Conway, have you considered getting counseling for Dakota?”
She hated discussing her private affairs with this man or anyone else. But if it would help her son …
“We both saw a counselor three years ago.” She lowered her gaze. “That was right after his father and I got divorced. But I couldn’t afford to continue the sessions. We hadn’t any insurance coverage, and I couldn’t pay without it.”
“I see.”
Yes, he probably did see. He probably saw plenty of such situations nowadays. This high school had to be filled with kids from single-parent homes. But did most dads just disappear, cut off all contact, and seem to forget they’d ever fathered a child? That’s what Dave had done.
Claire thought back to the summer of her divorce. She’d taken back her maiden name as a small act of defiance and hadn’t been particularly surprised when her son said he wanted to change his name too. He didn’t want to be Mike Porter, he’d said. It reminded him of his dad calling him “Mikey.”
So, with his mother’s help, Michael Dakota Porter had petitioned the courts to legally become Dakota Conway. Claire had expected Dave to object. She’d secretly hoped it might bring him to his senses. But he hadn’t cared. He’d signed the necessary forms without missing a beat, allowing all traces of familial ties to be erased by the stroke of a judge’s pen.
There’d been no contact from him since. She didn’t even know where he was living. The last time she’d tried to write to him at his Portland address, her mail had been returned as undeliverable.
“Ms. Conway?” The principal’s voice intruded on her thoughts.
She looked up, straight into Mr. Hathaway’s compassionate gaze. “He’s not a bad boy.”
“No, I don’t think he is,” he replied softly. “But he’s heading for real trouble if something doesn’t change. I’d like to find a way to turn things around before it’s too late.”
“Please, tell me exactly what happened this morning.”
Dakota stared at the closed door, wondering what Hathaway was saying to his mom. He’d felt ashamed when she walked into the office, ashamed because he was the cause of her having to leave work, ashamed because when he faced her again, he knew she would look at him with those sad, confused eyes of hers. She would blame herself; she always did. But he knew she wasn’t to blame. He was. Of course, he didn’t mean to disappoint her like this, any more than he’d meant to mouth off to his U.S. history teacher.
Still, he wouldn’t have done things any differently this morning. Mrs. Foster had been riding Sally Thompson extra hard, harder than usual, picking on the girl when it was obvious Sally couldn’t answer the questions. The teacher had intentionally embarrassed his classmate, and everybody knew what the old hag was doing. Sally was nearly blind without her bottle-thick eyeglasses, the ones she’d lost last week.
About the fourth time Mrs. Foster called on Sally, Dakota had just plain had enough. So he’d told Mrs. Foster what she could do with the Bill of Rights, in graphic terms.
That was when he’d been sent to the principal’s office.
Dakota shifted on the hard wooden seat of the chair. What was taking them so long in there?
“Hey, man. What’s going on?”
He turned toward the main door. “Hey, John.” He shrugged. “I’m waitin’ to see Hathaway.”
John Kreizenbeck entered the room and came over to sit beside him. “Kids are sayin’ you really told old Mrs. Foster off.”
“Yeah.”
“Your mom in there?” John jerked his head toward the principal’s office.
He nodded.
His friend let out a low whistle. “Foster probably had it coming, but I think you’d better get control of that temper of yours before you land in real trouble.”
“You think?” The two words were laced with sarcasm. The last thing Dakota needed was a lecture from his best friend, even if John was right.
John obviously wasn’t offended by the remark. He grinned, slouching in the chair, at ease as usual. “Yeah, I think.” He glanced out the window, watching students as they headed for their next class. “The youth group at church is going bowling tonight. Care to join us?”
“I got a feeling I won’t be going anywhere for quite a while. By the time Mom’s finished in there with Mr. Hathaway, I’ll be lucky if I get to leave the house again before I’m thirty.”
“Bet you’re right.” His friend chuckled. “Well, just thought you should know we all miss you and wish you’d start coming again. We’ve got us a great new youth pastor. Things’re really happening.”
Dakota grunted his response.
It was a long time since he’d done anything with the Kreizenbeck family. After his mom had been forced to sell the house, they’d moved away from the old neighborhood, and with Dakota’s whole world turned upside down, he’d become an expert at avoiding people — especially a family that was as happy and whole as the Kreizenbecks. He couldn’t bear to see others who were content. Not when he had to watch his mom struggling to hold things together, scraping to pay the rent and put food on the table. Things were tough, thanks to Porter’s skipping town and saddling his mom with all the unpaid debts.
Porter. He muttered a curse beneath his breath, and his mouth thinned into a hard line.
He never thought of Dave Porter as a dad. As far as Dakota was concerned, he didn’t have one. He was the man of the family now. It was up to him to take care of things for the two of them, up to him to make sure his mom was okay.
And you’re doing a great job of that, aren’t you?
His face grew hot with shame. His mom shouldn’t have to be in there with Hathaway. Why’d he have to mess up all the time, giving her all this grief?
John leaned toward him. “There’s somebody that can help you, man.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Dakota gave his friend a hard look. Bitter words rose in his throat but wouldn’t come out. Through the haze of time, he remembered the peace he used to feel, sitting in church with the Kreizenbecks. He’d liked listening to the pastor, liked hearing the choir sing. Back then, he’d believed everything was going to be okay. Really okay.
John seemed to understand. “Nobody said life was gonna be easy. God never said things would always go our way. He just said you wouldn’t have to go through it alone.” He punched Dakota in the arm. “You think about it.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “Catch you later.”
The glass door to the main hallway swung closed behind John mere seconds before the principal’s door opened and Mr. Hathaway appeared.
“You can come in now, Dakota.”
Only the twenty-fifth of October, and it was snowing outside Sara’s fifteenth-story office window. The flurry of white was so thick she could barely make out the building across the street. That meant the drive home would be treacherous. Denver freeways at five o’clock were a wild
and wooly experience under the best of circumstances. But throw slick roads and low visibility into the mix …
A knock at the opening of her small cubicle drew her attention from the window.
“Sara?” Melanie Slade leaned in. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind about tonight? My brother’s keen on meeting you.”
“No, but thanks.” She reached for her purse. “I want to get home before it really dumps on us.”
“You need to get a life, girlfriend.”
Melanie’s parting comment echoed in Sara’s mind as she drove out of the city, heading north. She knew her coworker was right. She didn’t have much of a life.
At the end of her freshman year of college, Sara had come to Colorado, hoping to escape the memories that were around every corner in Boise. She’d found a place to rent, taken an entry-level clerical job at Richards and Clemmons, and burrowed in to nurse her wounded heart. More than three years later, she was still nursing it.
She tried not to think of that dark spring, but the unwelcome memories lingered, worsening whenever a man indicated interest in her. She would look at him and wonder, Are you lying to me too? Are you another Dave? Do you have a wife and child at home? She never stayed around long enough to find out. It wasn’t worth the risk.
“You ought to find a church to attend, dear,” Kristina Jennings had said over the telephone last night. “It would do you good, and you might meet some nice young men there. And what about your acting? There must be a community theater in your area. They would be thrilled to have someone with your talent, and you’re sure to make some new friends if you get involved.”
But that suggestion only caused Sara to remember opening night of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, to remember the applause she’d received, to remember Dave and the night she’d given herself away so easily, so cheaply.
How sordid the affair seemed to her now. How foolish and naive she’d been. But at least she would never play the fool again. She’d rather live and die all alone than trust another man with her heart.
By the time Sara turned into the parking lot of her apartment complex, she was thoroughly depressed. This wasn’t what she’d expected out of life, to live like this. She’d always been the darling of the family, the spoiled one — and she’d known it too. Everything had come easily to her. Now she was far from her parents and brothers, just getting by on her lousy salary, living in a one-bedroom apartment with only her cat to keep her company.
Maybe she should have gone with Melanie and the others tonight. Dinner, a drink, maybe some dancing. It might be nice to do something different for a change.
But what if she liked Melanie’s brother? No, it wasn’t worth the risk.
She nearly slipped and fell on the slick sidewalk as she made her way from the carport to the stairs. It wouldn’t have surprised her if she had. It would be just her kind of luck to break her tailbone or ankle or something.
Sara’s calico cat meowed a greeting as the door swung open. The feline twisted, serpentine, around the legs of the wooden rocker in the living room, her tail sticking straight up in the air.
“Hello, Gretchen.”
Sara lifted the cat into her arms and rubbed her cheek against warm, soft fur. Her reward was a loud purr of contentment.
“It’s not so bad, just the two of us, huh? It’s just the way we like it. Right?”
TWELVE
The tip of Dakota’s cigarette glowed red as he took a deep drag. He wished he had one of those beers he’d stashed in the garage, but he didn’t dare leave his room. He was taking a chance just sitting here on the windowsill.
He ought to throw some things in a duffel bag and take off. He could hitchhike over to Portland or down to San Francisco or L.A. He could pass for eighteen if he had to; he was plenty tall enough. And lots of guys his age were on their own, not having to put up with being grounded by parents or listening to a mental school principal or jerk teachers.
Yeah, it would be easy to just take off.
Like you-know-who did.
That was an unpleasant thought. He didn’t want to be anything like Dave Porter. Not in any way. But leaving his mom would make him the same, and he knew it.
Dakota muttered a few choice swearwords. He hated school and his teachers and Mr. Hathaway, hated never having any money to call his own, hated just about everything and everyone. He definitely hated the man who’d been his father. He even hated himself.
The one person he could never hate was his mom. She’d done everything for him. She’d sacrificed everything for him. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought herself something that wasn’t a dire necessity. When there was any extra money, which there rarely was, she spent it on him.
There’s somebody that can help you, man.
Sure, he knew what John had meant. He’d been talking about Jesus Christ. But Dakota didn’t belong in church, not with all this ugliness inside him, and he knew it even if John didn’t.
Nobody said life was gonna be easy … He just said you wouldn’t have to go through it alone.
“Well, that’d sure be nice if it was true.”
I am true.
Guiltily, he flicked his cigarette out the window and jumped up from the sill. He turned toward the door. No one was there. The Voice had seemed so real, but his mind must have been playing tricks on him. Still, his heart continued to pound at a rapid rate.
“Too weird.”
There’s somebody that can help you, man.
What if John was right?
Claire looked up from the pile of papers on the kitchen table. The clock on the wall read eleven-fifteen. Weariness blurred her vision, but there was no stopping now. She needed to get these bills paid. Some were already a week late.
Suddenly overwhelmed by her circumstances, she pressed her forehead against the heels of her hands. Hot tears burned her throat and the backs of her eyes. Every month it was the same thing, robbing Peter to pay Paul, choosing whom to pay now and whom to pay late — or not to pay at all.
More than once she’d considered filing for bankruptcy. It would be a way out from under all this. But she’d always resisted the temptation. Maybe pride kept her from it. More than likely her belief that doing so would give Dave another victory kept her from it.
Bitterness, all of it centered on the memory of her ex-husband, twisted her heart. If Dave would make even an occasional child-support payment, it would help. But he never did. Paying even a little would have tipped off the authorities that were charged with finding deadbeat dads. But the real reason he didn’t pay was because he simply didn’t care what happened to his ex or his son.
Claire often wanted to give up, to just curl into a fetal position and die. If it weren’t for Dakota …
She straightened and looked toward his bedroom door. What was she going to do about her son? There was so much rage walled up inside of him. She recognized the feelings because they were a reflection of her own. Even the changing of their names was an extension of their shared bitterness.
Looking down at the stack of bills, she reminded herself that there were plenty of good reasons for Dakota to hate the name of Porter and the man who’d given it to him at birth. Claire also knew it was wrong for her to encourage those feelings, but she couldn’t help it. The same hate festered in her soul.
A soft moan slipped from her lips. Oh yes, she hated Dave. She hated him much more than Dakota did. She hated him for betraying her. She hated him for stealing the dreams and expectations she’d once had. She hated him for not being the man she’d thought him to be.
It wasn’t only his affair with that girl she’d seen him with. Claire probably could have gotten over that, given time. She’d believed in him and the sanctity of their marriage. She’d meant the promises she made on their wedding day, even if he hadn’t. Being his wife had defined her existence. Being Mrs. Dave Porter—and mother to his son — was all she’d wanted to be.
Without him, it seemed she’d vanished too.
; She sighed, remembering it all. She’d loved him so very much, enough to forgive him anything, even infidelity. Now she could forgive him nothing. Not after he’d deserted their only child. She could never forgive that. The pain in her son’s eyes wounded her beyond the healing hand of time.
How could Dave have done it? How could he have tossed aside Dakota as if he didn’t exist?
Claire abruptly shoved away her checkbook and the bills, rose from her chair, and walked into the living room of the small house she rented in an older section of town. The insulation was poor, and cold air seeped in around windows and exterior door frames. Even with the curtains drawn, she could feel the draft.
Just one more symbol of her miserable existence, of her string of failures.
“I certainly know how to feel sorry for myself,” she whispered in disgust.
She crossed to the living room window and drew aside the faded drapes to look outside. A streetlight illuminated her lawn and the misshapen oak tree in her next-door neighbor’s yard. Across the street, the Thorndike home was decorated for Halloween with carved pumpkins and a straw-stuffed scarecrow. A family lived in that house. A whole family—dad, mom, and kids. Just like the Porters used to —
“Mom?”
She gasped and spun around, pressing her right hand against her speeding heart. “Dakota, what are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” One corner of his mouth curved in a crooked, halfhearted grin. “Sorry I scared you.”
Her laugh was shaky, still affected by the surprise he’d given her. “You should be.”
“Mom … I … ah …” He dropped his gaze to the dull hardwood floor. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you today. You shouldn’t have to leave work on account of me. I really am sorry.”
“I know you are.”
He met her gaze once more. “I don’t mean to do things like that. It’s just sometimes —”
Again, more softly, “I know.”
“Well, I just wanted to tell you.”
The Forgiving Hour Page 8
