The First Stone

by Don Aker

  The wheelchair rolled into the room and around to the other bed. “Hi, Leeza. Guess we’ll be bunk-buddies for a while.”

  Leeza’s response—a muted “Hi”—was fainter than she’d intended. She cleared her throat to repeat it but her mother was already introducing herself: “I’m Diane Morrison. Leeza’s mother.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Morrison. Despite what Matt the Rat here says about me, I’m pretty harmless.”

  “Pretty, yes. Harmless, no,” Matt said. “I still have a bruise from that time you rolled over my foot.”

  The girl lifted herself out of the wheelchair and lay back on her bed. “That’ll teach you to get in front of a wheelchair race.”

  Carly turned to a clearly startled Diane. “We don’t allow races, Mrs. Morrison. But Brett, here, never met a rule she didn’t break.”

  Brett threw an arm over her eyes in a gesture of eternal suffering. “That’s right. Pick on the gimp.”

  Carly chuckled, and Leeza could tell her mother was impressed by the easy relationship between patient and nurse. Leeza was more cynical. After all, what wasn’t there to like about a person who brought youpain medication on a regular basis? She’d be Carly’s best friend as long as the morphine was on time.

  “Well, Leeza,” said Matt, lifting the brake on the stretcher, “looks like you’re all settled so I’ll be leavin’ you with the rehab race queen. If she gives you a hard time, Just call me.” He nodded at the other three people in the room. “Later, ladies,” he said, then he guided the stretcher into the hallway and was gone.

  Leeza lay back on her pillow and tried not to think how much time would elapse before her next needle, tried instead to focus on her mother bustling about the room. “Where’s the best place for this?” her mother asked the nurse, pointing to the blue suitcase at her side.

  Carly turned to the two narrow metal doors in the corner. “Both these lockers are yours, Leeza. You might want to put your shirts, sweaters, things like that in the top locker and your footwear in the bottom one. But it’s up to you. Whatever you find easiest.” She glanced at Diane. “Maybe you could just leave that there and let Leeza deal with it when she’s feeling up to it.”

  Leeza’s mouth opened. She managed to close it before speaking the words her lips had nearly formed. How in hell was she supposed to unpack a suitcase when she couldn’t even imagine lifting her head off her pillow? There wasn’t enough morphine in the world to make that happen. Her suitcase could sit there until someone fell over it. It wasn’t as if she needed what was in it anyway. It’d be a hell of a longtime before she could wear something besides the hospital gowns that had been her only clothing since the accident.

  The nurse spoke again. “I have some papers that need to be signed. Perhaps we could go take care of those now and leave Leeza to get settled.”

  Diane nodded. Leaning over the bed, she kissed her daughter lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a bit. Okay, honey?”

  “Mmm.” Leeza stared at the ceiling.

  “She’ll be fine,” Leeza heard the nurse say as she led Diane out of the room.

  A long moment passed. She’ll be fine. Right, thought Leeza. Dislocated shoulder, broken arm and ribs, fractured leg and pelvis, metal sticking out of her like she was one of those half-human, half-machine characters in a sci-fi film. Or worse: something real. Like the turtle she’d once seen at summer camp flipped over on its back, unable to right itself, its legs waving uselessly in the air. Helpless. Like the feeble residents at Silver Meadows, diapered, washed and fed like babies. Completely dependent. Like Leeza was now. She’ll be fine. She fought to keep a sob from tearing her chest apart, focused on the white tiles above her, tried to ignore the bass-drum throb that began in her legs and ended in her left shoulder.

  Then, “The sprinkler on the left.”

  Leeza turned slightly toward the voice from the other bed, gasped as cruel fingers scrabbled up anddown her neck. “Pardon me?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

  Brett lay on her back too, pointing at the ceiling. “Up there, the sprinkler on the left. That was my focal point. When the pain got too much for me, I’d concentrate on that one thing. Sometimes it worked.”

  Leeza scanned the ceiling and saw four chrome-plated sprinkler heads. She’d seen hundreds like them in the past—in school, in department stores, in the many hospital rooms where Ellen had lain. Inside each was a thin, mercury-filled glass tube designed to burst when heat from a fire expanded the red liquid. Leeza felt exactly like that tube—fragile, ready to burst. She swallowed hard to keep from crying. “Why that one?” she asked, and was immediately ashamed of how pathetic her voice sounded. Like a croak.

  Brett didn’t seem to notice. “The four of them make a rectangle and that one’s in the top left corner. I’ve got a thing about top left corners. Like with envelopes? Most people focus on the name of the person they’re going to. Or the stamp. Me, I look at the return address. Top left corner, right? I guess I’m more interested in where letters have been than where they’re going.”

  Leeza tried to follow the logic in what she was hearing but gave up, listening instead to the musical quality of the girl’s voice. She sounded like one of those radio personalities whose voices run up and down three octaves when delivering everything from ads to late-breaking news.

  “So. Where’re you from?”

  It took Leeza a moment to realize it was a question that required an answer. “Here. I live in Halifax.”

  “I’m from the Annapolis Valley. Little town called Brookdale. about two hours’ drive from here.” She chatted about growing up there and how she still lived with her parents; about clerking at the Brookdale Home Hardware store; about Sam, her boyfriend, who worked shifts at the air force base in Greenwood, so he didn’t get into the city often to visit but called at least once every day. Brett continued to talk, but Leeza’s mind held on to only one fact: the size of Brett’s community. “You could probably fit all the people in Brookdale inside this one building,” she’d said.

  Leeza tried to imagine that. Having everyone you loved in one building. Her house had been like that once. Before Ellen had died. She turned her attention to the ceiling again. Focused on the top left sprinkler. Became aware that the chatter had stopped. A long silence followed, a silence Leeza had neither strength nor inclination to end.

  Finally, “Carly told me you were in a car accident.”

  Leeza didn’t respond. It hadn’t seemed like a question.

  “Uh … Anybody die?”

  Leeza said nothing for a while, listened to the moaning that filtered through the doorway from somewhere down the hall. Then, “Just me,” she said.

  Chapter 9

  Greg Matheson’s rusted Ford Escort hesitated, wheezed and belched blue smoke each time the social worker floored the gas pedal, threading the car in and out of traffic. Several of the Saturday morning drivers passing him made throat-cutting motions, and an attractive young woman on the passenger side of a Land Rover held up a “PUT IT OUT OF ITS MISERY!” sign hastily scrawled on the back of a McDonald’s napkin. Greg just smiled and waved good-naturedly, but Reef’s face reflected his humiliation, and he avoided eye contact with anyone.

  The judge had assigned Reef a new social worker following the hearing, and when he’d first met Matheson he’d been pleasantly surprised. For one thing, Matheson was much younger than all the other social workers he’d had, and he wasn’t wearing that Only-Five-More-Years-Till-Retirement look of weary desperation that Reef was so accustomed to seeing on the faces of government employees. They’d talked for a couple hours then about North Hills, what the judge expected of both of them, the whole christly package.

  But, to his credit, he’d at least pretended to enjoy meeting Reef, even showed him pictures of his kids, telling him about this one’s favorite toy and that one’s favorite cartoon show. Not that Reef gave a shit. But it was a break from the Barkers, who’d been watching him like a hawk since the hearing, perhaps
afraid they’d be murdered in their beds.

  Now, though, as much as he disliked the idea of moving to the North Hills Group Home, he’d have gladly stopped anywhere to avoid being seen in Matheson’s geriatric subcompact.

  It was bad enough that Scar, Jink and Bigger had been there when Matheson had arrived to collect Reef and his things. Despite the early hour, the Barkers had been out—Saturday was the big open-air flea market in Sackville, and Karl liked to set up early before the crowds arrived. Reef always marveled that people actually bought the junk the Barkers lugged there each weekend. Karl got most of it from the people he delivered mail to—usually seniors with attics or garages filled with stuff they wanted to get rid of. Some of them even paid Karl to take it away, and then he and his wife would clean it up and put ridiculous prices on it so the bargain-hunters could beat them down and everybody walked away feeling good. It didn’t matter that most of the things would just end up collecting dust in someone else’s attic or garage—it was thinking you’d got a deal, put something over on someone. “Free enterprise at its finest.” Karl had described it one

  Saturday—the only Saturday—Reef had gone with him. Reef had shaken his head in disgust.

  Much as he had when Matheson’s Escort had rattled into the driveway to pick him up.

  “Jeez, Reef,” Bigger had said, “how far you plannin’ on gettin’ in that thing?”

  “End ‘a the goddamn driveway,” Reef muttered.

  “I feel your pain, man,” said Jink, watching as the car wheezed to a stop.

  Matheson climbed out. “All set?” Reef saw he’d had to lift up hard on the door handle because the bottom hinge was about to let go. As the car idled, an ominous knocking sound reverberated under the hood.

  Reef tore his eyes away from the automotive ruin and nodded toward the tattered nylon gym bag sitting on the front step. “Would ‘a been all set if you’d called two minutes ago. Where ya been the last hour?”

  “Had a little trouble with the car.”

  “Imagine that,” Scar murmured.

  “Got a neighbor to boost me. I plan on leavin’ it running till I get home.”

  The four teenagers just stared at him.

  “Hey, so it’s a little old.” Matheson grinned. “You just wait till you’ve got a mortgage, Visa bills and kids who need braces. Then we’ll see how choosy you are about cars.”

  Hunkered down now on the passenger side of the Escort, Reef hoped his life never got so pathetic that he wound up driving a shitbox like that and calling it a car. Not that he spent much time thinking about what his life was going to be like. Reef Kennedy lived in the moment. Life was now. Not ten years, ten months, ten minutes from now. He could be dead in ten minutes, and riding in this rustbucket only increased the likelihood of that event. Why waste time worrying about couldabeens and gonnabes?

  Scar. Now, she was a person who thought about gonnabes. She and Reef had been together off and on since they’d met that day on the soccer field, and most of the time she was great to have around. But there’d always been a What now? between them that took the edge off whatever feeling he had for her, made him seek out other girls to remind himself—and Scar—that the less you carried with you, the less you had to lose. Reef’s Life Lesson Number Three.

  He thought now about the goodbyes they’d said above the knock of Matheson’s motor. Scar had put her arms around Reef’s neck, drawn his face toward hers. She’d kissed him, their tongues a warm tangle for a long moment before she pulled back. “So,” she said.

  Reef hated situations like these when people expected him to say or do something, like they had a picture of the moment in their heads and he wasn’t doing his part to make it happen. He looked at her. Waited.

  She turned away, stuck her hands in her jeans pockets, and he tried not to notice the wounded-deerexpression on her face. “They tell you anything about what the school’s like?” she asked finally.

  “It’s just a school.” He hated that he felt awkward, like he’d been far away for a long time and had just got back. At least, that’s how he imagined it would feel. He’d never been out of Nova Scotia. Hell, he’d only been out of Halifax four times, and never farther than Truro. Reef Kennedy: World Traveler.

  “Anybody else from the group home go there?”

  “Jeez,” Bigger said. “What is this? Twenty questions?”

  Scar’s face turned the color of her hair, and she shrugged. “Can’t a person be interested? It’ll be weird not having him at school with us.” Then she grinned. “With me, I mean. You two losers are never there anyway.”

  Bigger grinned back but Jink only stared at her. School was always a sore point with him. Nothing he joked about. Ever. “Yeah,” said Jink, “like you never miss a day. Or five.”

  Reef recognized where this was headed, could see Scar suddenly on the defensive. Of the four of them, Scar was the only one who actually enjoyed school, could even make sense of the stuff the teachers made them do. In fact, Reef had overheard Mr. Morse, the principal, telling her in the hall one day how she could be on the honor roll if she really wanted to be. Which was his way of saying come to school every day. But that was her old man’s fault, not Scar’s.

  Scar twisted her face up for a comeback but Reef interrupted. “I ain’t gonna be that far away,” he said.

  “Might as well be Dorchester,” Jink said, referring to the New Brunswick penitentiary where his uncle was serving time for armed robbery. “What’s that place called again?”

  “North Hills Group Home. Out near Waverley.” According to Matheson, a half-hour bus ride, including transfers.

  “Any groupies there?” Bigger elbowed Reef in the gut.

  Reef jabbed him back. “I wish.” This he said for Scar’s benefit, too, and it worked. He saw her clench her teeth, the muscles in her jaw tightening in annoyance. But she said nothing.

  “Well, man,” Jink said as he gripped Reef’s hand, “we’ll be by to see you after you get settled in.”

  Greg Matheson cleared his throat. “No can do, guys. At least not for a while. One of the rules.”

  “Screw the rules,” Bigger snarled.

  “Yeah, well, that’s pretty much been the order of things so far, and where has it got you?” Despite Matheson’s smaller size, he didn’t seem intimidated by Bigger’s bulk. “Unless Reef keeps his nose clean and follows the judge’s ruling to the letter,” he said, “his next stop very well could be Dorchester.”

  The car lurched now, backfired twice, and emitted a huge plume of blue smoke as Matheson stuck his arm out the window and turned left. “Signal light doesn’t work,” he said. “Gotta fix that.”

  “Yeah,” Reef muttered. Matheson’s arm out thewindow was drawing even more attention. “I’d be real worried about that.”

  Matheson glanced at him and grinned, then pointed right. “Here we are,” he said, pumping the brakes and pulling the car into a driveway that led up a short incline to a rambling, two-and-a-half story Victorian structure. Although clearly an older building, it was still impressive. “Used to be a single-family home before someone bought it and cut it up into apartments. After that it went to hell. Frank Colville got it for way less than market value and restored it himself before opening it as a group home. What do you think?”

  Reef ignored the building and looked instead at the sign on the narrow front lawn. Above a painted backdrop of rolling hills, a star—which, he presumed, was the North Star, although it looked more like an exaggerated Star of Bethlehem you’d see on Christmas cards and nativity scenes—shone jagged yellow rays down on the silhouette of a figure carrying a heavy load. Reef sighed. If the corny symbolism was any indication of life at North Hills, it was going to be a long twelve months. He grunted noncommittally.

  “If you don’t mind,” Matheson said, “I’m just going to drop you here. I’m low on gas and I want to get the car home before I have to shut it off.”

  “No problem.” Actually, Reef was relieved. The sooner that piece of shi
t was out of his sight, the better. He reached into the back seat for his gym bag and got out.

  “That’s Frank, there,” Matheson said. “You’ll like him. He’s a good guy.” He leaned across the seat and smiled through the passenger’s window at a tall man coming out the door. “Frank!” he called. “How’re you doin’?”

  “Hey, Greg,” Colville replied. “Good to see you, man. Got time for a coffee?”

  Matheson shook his head. “Thanks, some other time. Gotta get my car home before it quits on me. This is Chad Kennedy. Goes by Reef.” He turned to the teenager. “You’re gonna do fine here, Reef. I’ve already given Frank a copy of your file. I’ll stop by in a couple days to see how you’re settling in. If you need to talk to me before then, though, you have my number.” The Escort sputtered and Matheson revved the engine to keep it from stalling. “Gotta go. You take care ‘a yourself, okay?”

  “I’ll just do that.” Reef’s sarcasm was lost in the cacophony that was Matheson’s departure. The social worker ground the Escort’s gearshift into first and the car lurched down the circular driveway to the street, the motor hammering away like someone was trapped under the hood. Reef watched it trail blue clouds that lingered after the vehicle had gone, then turned and climbed several steps to a veranda that stretched the length of the house.

  “Greg’s still driving the clunker, I see.”

  Reef looked at the ham-sized hand extended to him, then at the smiling face above it.

  “Hi. I’m Frank.” The guy looked like an ad for L. L. Bean, his square, rugged face a roadmap of crinkled lines around steel-blue eyes. The plaid shirt and jeans he wore were snug on his large frame, but certainly not because he was overweight. Colville was well over six feet and two hundred pounds, and it was clear from the thickness of his shoulders and arms that what wasn’t bone was solid muscle.

  To many people meeting him for the first time, Colville would have been an imposing presence on that Victorian veranda, but Reef wasn’t intimidated. Life Lesson Number Four: The bigger they come, the harder they fall. He looked at Colville’s hand for a long moment, then hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat into the bushes at the foot of the step.