“I didn’t mean it. We weren’t trying.”
“No shit. What is she going to do about it? Get rid of it?”
“I don’t know.” I blinked my tears. They rolled down my face. “I don’t know anything,” I said.
“Are you going to be on the hook for child support?”
“I…I don’t really know what that means.”
“Jesus Christ!” Dad shouted. He stood up. He kicked the computer tower, which was sitting in the corner of the room. “Miz!” he shouted. “I need some air. Let’s walk.”
Miz got up fast and hightailed it after Dad, who was stomping out the door. It was maybe forty degrees out there, but they didn’t take their coats.
They disappeared down the street. I stood at the picture window and watched for them because I wanted to tell Dad I was sorry for breaking the rules and being such an idiot and everything.
While I was waiting, Darius came upstairs. “Don’t worry about that asshole, man. He barely gives us any cash anyway. Every month it goes down by like fifty bucks. Pretty soon I bet he doesn’t give us anything. This is our house, not his house.”
“Really?” I asked.
“I paid the rent for November. All of it,” Darius said. He puffed out his chest like a king or something. But he actually made me scared because I know Darius wasn’t a king.
“Shit. I have to… I should get a job…you know, to help you out.”
Darius shook his head. “You don’t think I can take care of you?” he bellowed.
“There are expenses, Darius. You have expenses, and I have expenses. I have a fine to pay, you know? And there’s Maggie.”
Darius glared. He spoke really slowly. “That is not the deal. I work my ass off so you can be a kid, so you do well in school, so you do your stupid extracurriculars, so you graduate and go to college. You will not get a job, Taco, or all this torture you’re putting me through is a total waste.”
“But we’re screwed,” I said.
“I can handle it.”
“But my fine? And Maggie?”
“I can handle your fine,” Darius said.
“But the baby?”
“Shut up, Taco. You don’t have a baby. Maggie Corrigan has a baby.”
“No, asshole,” I said. “I have a baby too. If I can’t get a job, give me my damn swimming pool money so that I can afford my stupid life!”
“You tell Maggie Corrigan that she’s not welcome in this house anymore. Not ever again or I’ll call the cops. You got it?”
“You’re a jerk!”
“I’m your dad!” he shouted back.
We both got quiet. Just then we heard a car start. Dad and Miz were back from their walk, but they didn’t come inside. We watched them through the picture window. They just took off.
“What the hell?” I shouted. “Miz’s sleeping-bag coat is in the closet!”
“They’re probably going back to the hotel to drink.”
“Why aren’t they staying here?”
“Because Dad’s an asshole. I’m sure they’ll waddle their fat butts back soon enough though. Dad won’t want to buy her a new coat,” Darius said. Then he turned and went back down to his basement.
Dad didn’t contact me for the rest of the day. Later he called Darius and invited him out.
“I’m going to meet the jerk over at Dieter’s,” Darius said. “He wants to discuss you.”
“Why can’t I go?” I asked.
“First, you’re in high school. You can’t go to a bar. Secondly, he doesn’t want to talk to you—just wants to talk about you,” Darius said.
I still figured Dad would swing by sometime during the evening to talk (and to get Miz’s coat), but it didn’t happen. Around 9:00 p.m., the phone bleated, but it wasn’t Dad. Mr. Frederick was on the other end of the line.
“Hey there, Taco,” he said.
“Yeah?” I asked. I couldn’t get a lot of air because I was home alone and didn’t know what the shit was going on with anyone.
“You and your dad are meeting me at Country Kitchen at 9:15 tomorrow morning.”
“We are?” I asked.
“Your dad will pick you up at nine, okay?”
“Why didn’t Dad tell me?” I asked. “Why are you calling?”
“He’s a little stumped about your state of affairs, son. He didn’t want to yell at you, so he asked me to make the arrangements.”
“He probably didn’t want to hit me either,” I said.
“Hit you?” Mr. Frederick asked.
“Never mind,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
I had a very shitty night.
Chapter 14
I was barely showered and dressed when Dad pulled up to the house. My eyes were hazy. I had the cold sweats, and my brain was only half present. I was a zombie boy.
It was a cold day. All the leaves were off the trees, and the wind blew hard. I didn’t want Dad to come back into my house ever again, so I carried out Miz’s fragrant coat to Dad’s car. He had the heat on, which was nice. (I was surprised he even used heat. Wouldn’t that affect his gas mileage, the cheap bastard?) I threw Miz’s coat in the back seat. Dad grunted. He pulled away from the curb.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said.
“Me either. Not a wink,” he said. “Sorry I hit you.”
“Yeah. Great. Thanks for that,” I said.
Dad drove slowly, and he kept glancing at me. His eyes were wet. “I mean, really sorry,” he said.
Shit. I couldn’t stay pissed, which pissed me off. “I appreciate that, okay?”
Dad focused on the road. “But the fact remains you’re in big trouble.”
“Okay,” I repeated, not sure what else I could say that would change the situation.
“I didn’t tell Frederick about your pregnant girlfriend. He doesn’t know,” he said.
We rolled down the hill and took a right at the high school grounds. The Big M, this giant white M (M because the college was a mining school way back in the day) that college students built on a hill like a thousand years ago, hovered to our left. Then Dad hit the gas, and we shot across town to the strip on Business Highway 151, where there are a bunch of chain restaurants, including Country Kitchen.
Inside Country Kitchen, we found Mr. Frederick and an unexpected guest sitting with him at the table. It was Randy Nussbaum, this big-faced, round-bellied lawyer. I’d heard other people say he was a little crooked. But I’d always liked him. He always showed up at football games and basketball games. He was funny. Shouted funny stuff.
Dad shook hands with both men, and we sat down. Dad asked Mr. Frederick about Cody. Apparently UW—La Crosse had a play-off game against Whitewater the following day. Cody wouldn’t start, but he might play because the starting quarterback had a sprained wrist.
While Dad and Mr. Frederick talked, I nodded at Randy Nussbaum. He smiled at me, sort of laughed. “You’re sure shooting off like a Roman candle lately.”
“Yeah,” I said, but I wasn’t sure what he meant.
Apparently Dad had heard his comment. “You don’t even know the half of it,” Dad mumbled.
“Let’s get you guys some coffee. Hot chocolate, Taco?” Mr. Frederick asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
After the waitress put our steamy mugs in front of us, Mr. Frederick said, “Randy and I’ve been talking about Taco’s legal predicament. Disturbing the peace isn’t the worst charge, but Taco’s got a fine coming.”
“Hundred and seventy-seven bucks,” I said.
“Damn it.” Dad shook his head.
“That should be the end of it,” Nussbaum said.
“Except,” Mr. Frederick continued, “Taco’s a hell of a student. Listed in the honor roll every semester.”
“Is
that right?” Dad asked. He seemed surprised, which was dumb because it was in the paper. Mom used to cut out the rosters for honor roll and hang them on the refrigerator.
“Well, yeah,” I said.
“Scholarship material. Elks, Jaycees, VFW, all the service organizations in town are liable to throw support behind a kid like Taco because of his—”
“Impoverishment,” Dad said.
“More like his can-do attitude given your family’s history,” Nussbaum said.
“Uh-huh,” Dad said.
“But, Chuck, I got to say, a blemish on his criminal record is likely to sway those scholarships toward someone else, someone maybe less deserving but who looks better on paper.”
“Wait. Are you guys talking about college? College scholarships?” I asked.
“There are consequences for idiotic behavior,” Dad said.
“Randy had a suggestion, but we wanted to discuss it with you, Chuck,” Mr. Frederick said.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
“An internship,” Nussbaum said. “Up at my office.”
“For pay?” Dad asked.
“No, although I’d provide Taco’s legal representation for free. I’d go up to Lancaster for court next week.”
“Slave labor,” Dad said.
“No, sir,” Nussbaum said. “Experience. Taco’d have an opportunity to do some paralegal work, see how the judicial system functions. And we’d be able to tell the judge about the steps he’s already taking to get his life back on track after his juvenile mistake. I bet we could get that fine reduced or dropped entirely.”
“Oh yeah?” Dad said, seeming more interested in the idea. “No fine?”
“An internship would look good on his college applications too,” Mr. Frederick added.
“I have my summer swimming pool money for college,” I said. “I’d really like to go to college.”
“You what?” Dad spat. “How much money?”
“I don’t know. Darius takes care of it,” I said.
“You’re damn thieves,” Dad whispered.
Mr. Frederick and Mr. Nussbaum stared at us.
Dad stared back for a few seconds with a grimace. Then he said, “Taco will do this internship of yours, Nussbaum. Thanks for looking out for him. We appreciate it.”
“We know he’s a good kid, Chuck,” Nussbaum said.
“Cody adores him, Chuck,” Mr. Frederick added.
“Yup,” Dad said.
But I’ll tell you this, dingus: Dad didn’t seem to appreciate the complimentary feedback at all. He slid out of the booth, shook hands with Nussbaum, and then said to Mr. Frederick, “Hope Cody kicks Whitewater’s ass tomorrow.” Then he turned and walked out.
I slid over and stood. “Thanks, Mr. Nussbaum. Thanks, Mr. Frederick.”
“No guarantee the judge will go for it, but I think he will,” said Nussbaum.
“I don’t have money to pay for my hot chocolate,” I said.
Mr. Nussbaum smiled. “I’ll take it out of your pay, Taco. You be ready to go to court Wednesday morning at 9:20. Got it? I’ll swing by the school and pick you up. We’ll ride over to Lancaster together.”
“This is a good opportunity, Taco,” Mr. Frederick said.
I thanked them both again, although I wasn’t sure what it was I’d actually agreed to. Then I speed-walked to catch Dad at the car before he tore out of the Country Kitchen parking lot without me.
On the way back to the suite, Dad said, “Look what you make us do.”
“What?” I asked. “What are we doing?”
“Accepting charity. They pity us.”
“They’re just being nice. They’re good neighbors.”
“Meanwhile you and Darius are hiding money and pretending you don’t have enough for food,” Dad said.
“No,” I said. “Darius is protecting my future.”
“Bullshit,” Dad said. We didn’t talk for the rest of the drive.
When Dad pulled his car in front of the suite, he had this final thing to say, “You’d goddamn better get it together, Taco. You make sure that girl has a plan for this baby that doesn’t include you paying for it because unless you plan on dropping out and getting a real job, we can’t afford it. I’m through digging you and Darius out of your messes. Do you understand? I have my own responsibilities.”
“Fine,” I said.
I got out of the car, but before I shut the door, I leaned back in. Dad’s the only dad I’ll ever have, right? “Listen. Why don’t you come in for a few minutes?” I said. “We don’t get to see much of you. Darius is kind of sad, you know? Kayla is getting married to some other dude. Did you know that?”
He didn’t even answer the question. All he said was, “We got to get back north. We’re taking Miz’s daughter to dinner because we couldn’t spend Thanksgiving with her.”
“Are you and Miz married?” I asked.
Dad looked straight ahead. “Not yet,” he said. “Take care of that thing with your girl.”
I slammed the door as hard as I could, and the car shook. All I wanted was a little kindness. I’d be happy for Dad to tie the damn knot with a puffy-coat sack named Miz! But I got no kindness, only jerkiness!
Of course, then I felt bad. I called Dad’s cell from the suite later in the day and told him I was sorry for slamming the car door. I decided, no matter what, I should be happy he’d found new love.
He said, “Okay,” and hung up.
Chapter 15
So the Wednesday after Thanksgiving, Darius wrote me a note to get me out of school.
Dear Whoever,
Taco has to go to court today. He’s gotta leave after first hour. Maybe he’ll be back later in the day, but maybe not. Please excuse his unexcused absence.
Darius Keller
A heaviness had settled in my heart. Maggie hadn’t shown up on Monday or Tuesday. Did she stop loving me? Did she have an abortion? She hadn’t called me or anything, so what was I to think?
But as I walked past the trophy cases on my way to meet Mr. Nussbaum out front of the school, there she was. Danielle Corrigan was dragging Maggie by the hand toward the office.
I stopped cold in my tracks, dingus. I couldn’t move. My heart pounded in my throat.
Maggie saw me and stopped. “Taco!” she shouted.
“Maggie!” I cried.
Danielle gave her a big yank. “God. First person we see. Don’t you look at him. Don’t you speak to him. Let’s go. Now.”
Maggie stumbled forward and turned to wave at me as they rounded the corner, but she didn’t say another word. I could tell she wanted to though. The time apart hadn’t destroyed our love. No way! And holy nuts, pal, she looked thick and puffy in her face. Something—maybe the ghost of my mom—whispered in my ear, The baby is still inside her. And so I walked out the front door with huge pep in my step, a wind beneath my wings, and outside I found Randy Nussbaum waiting for me in his super fly Cadillac.
“Hey, hey!” he called from the open window. “It’s the Taco!”
Lancaster is only like fifteen minutes away from Bluffton. You get to roll through these crazy deep valleys and up along these sweet ridges that let you see for miles and miles. All the corn was in, but a few black-and-white Holstein milk cows were out munching the frozen ground, so you could tell you were still in farm country.
I popped on Dad’s old clip-on tie he used to wear to weddings and other festive/formal occasions.
“Looking good,” Mr. Nussbaum said.
“I want to make a good impression,” I said.
“I already chatted up Janice. She likes our plan. She’s going to drop the charges at the arraignment.”
“No fine?” I asked.
“You’re lucky people like you so much. It’s like every day is Taco Tuesday,” Mr. Nussbaum said and
smiled.
“It’s Wednesday,” I corrected him.
“True enough, Taco.” Mr. Nussbaum smiled even bigger and nodded.
Dingus, you don’t even know. At the courthouse people treated me so well. Everyone smiled like Nussbaum, and Janice, who is the prosecutor, shook my hand when she saw me.
There was also this other kid there about my age from Potosi. Instead of a sweet clip-on tie, he was wearing this giant Tweety Bird T-shirt about three sizes too big with the words I tawt I taw a puddy! on it, and his pants were all sagged, so his jean crotch was about at his knees. He had his turn with the judge right before me. Turns out he’d been charged with criminal trespassing for breaking into an old railroad car. He pled guilty, and the judge told him he was acting disrespectful, even though I didn’t hear him say a word. Then he got a thousand-dollar fine and fifteen days at the county juvenile facility. Holy nuts!
I was up next. The judge smiled at me, so I figured we were off to a good start. Janice said she was recommending I go under the tutelage of Randy Nussbaum so I could better understand the legal system and make brighter decisions in the future. The judge said it all sounded like a good plan. “Keep getting those good grades and keep your nose clean, Mr. Keller,” the judge said. “Your amygdala will catch up to your talents soon enough.”
“Mr. Keller is my dad. Call me Taco,” I said.
Everybody laughed. But I wasn’t laughing. I just don’t like being called Mr. Keller. To be totally honest, I was a little pissed at the judge for treating Tweety Bird so badly. Kid just did a little trespassing. But he had to go to jail and pay a huge fine? Where was Potosi’s Mr. Nussbaum? Where was Potosi’s Janice? Why couldn’t Tweety work in a law office instead of getting locked up?
After court Mr. Nussbaum took me to Doolittle’s, this bar and grill by the courthouse. He bought me a cheeseburger. While I munched, I asked Mr. Nussbaum why Tweety Bird had it so bad.
“Attitude is half the game, Taco. If you had shown up wearing a profane T-shirt and gangster pants, the judge wouldn’t have treated you so well either.”
“What if Tweety doesn’t have a tie? What if he can’t afford one?”
“You can’t afford a tie, but you showed up in one, didn’t you?” Mr. Nussbaum pointed out.
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