by Karen Harter
Millard headed for the garage, shuffling through his scattered leaves. He hung the rake in its appointed place on the pegboard along the back wall with a sigh of defeat. God commanded man to take dominion over all the earth, and then he sent things beyond his control to try him. Moles, gales of wind, rampant boys. He tossed his gardening gloves onto the work bench. His once ordered life was a flurry of dry leaves, spiraling out of control.
As he approached the front steps, he paused. The eave of the house sheltered the window from glare and he could see Tyson clearly, still across the dining room at the west window, his back to Millard. The boy’s shoulders drooped; his arms hung at his sides. He looked for all the world like a juvenile gorilla Millard had once seen at the zoo, staring at the glass that enclosed him. Like the ape, Tyson looked as lifeless as if a plug had been pulled from his soul, draining all hope of living in his native habitat again. Millard cleared his throat loudly, stomping a warning of his approach on the porch steps, and removed his dirty shoes.
He found Tyson back at the table again, his back to Millard, flipping cards from the deck in his hand.
“There’s a big old buck out there,” Millard said. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen that one before.”
“I have.”
“You sure? He’s not the only four-point in the forest.”
“I know him.” Tyson slapped a series of cards down in rapid succession. “He knows me, too.”
Wild deer weren’t exactly sociable in Millard’s experience, but something made him ask, “Would he let you walk right up to him?”
“Not anymore. He wanders off if I get too close. Somebody got to him. There’s a nick out of his ear. I think he got shot at.”
Not even an eagle could see a nicked ear from that distance. Millard pulled his high-power bird-watching binoculars from a drawer next to his easy chair just as the phone on his lamp table rang. “You might as well get that,” Millard said. “It’s always for you.” Tyson got up and took the phone from its cradle. Sure enough, it was the court’s computer monitoring system calling again to confirm that Tyson was where he was supposed to be. The calls were random, anywhere from two to five a day. A robotic voice would ask to speak to Tyson and he had two minutes to get to the phone. Millard heard the boy repeat a series of numbers back to the voice recognition software (the numbers were different every time) and hang up the receiver.
The buck raised its head, sniffing the air. “Well, I’ll be darned.” Millard dropped the field glasses to his side. “That’s a bullet hole all right.”
“He beds down at the bottom of the hill. Not far from Sparrow Creek.”
Millard turned to look at Tyson. “Do you know the whereabouts of other animals?”
Tyson nodded.
Millard dropped into a chair at the table. “Like what, for instance?”
The boy shrugged. “Like skunks and coyotes and mice. There’s a big old cedar stump on the other side of a pond.” He gestured in the direction of the woods behind his house across the road. “Some skunks live in there. I usually see them come out only at night. I watch coyotes in the daylight sometimes, though. There’s a whole family of them in this little cave behind a fallen tree over there beyond this pasture.”
That was the longest paragraph Tyson had ever spoken to him. Millard glanced out the window. The buck was gone. “I hear those coyotes at night. Sounds like a boys’ choir tuning up.”
“There are seven of them. The pups were born last spring, just before school got out.”
“Coyotes are pretty private animals, with a keen sense of smell. I’m surprised they’d come out while you’re anywhere in the vicinity.”
Tyson shrugged. “I saw the dad sometimes—the male—before he had a whole family. He got used to me being around, I guess. I used to lie on this little hill at the edge of the woods for hours, watching the clearing because so many animals came through there on their way to the creek. I figured out his territory by watching where he peed, marking his borders, you know?”
Millard nodded. “Your mother told me you like to spend a lot of time in the woods.”
The solitaire game froze up, even after the boy had run through his deck five times. He scooped the cards into a pile with a sigh of frustration. “Living all cooped up in houses is stupid. And school. I don’t know why everyone thinks it’s normal to live like that—with walls all around them.”
“Come December you might think differently. Even the animals crawl in somewhere to keep warm.” Millard buttoned another button on his gray sweater just thinking about it. “And school—well, that’s just a necessary part of life. A young man needs an education. Why, you’ll be a man before you know it. What do you intend to do with your life?”
The boy rolled his eyes and plopped his deck of cards onto the table. “I’ve got to take a pee.” He pushed out his chair and headed for the bathroom.
Millard fumed. Disrespectful kid. Why did he bother with him? The boy had a good mind according to his mother. But he was wasting it. Kids nowadays took everything for granted. They had it too good. Back in his day, boys longed to go to school but too often got pulled out to till the family farm while their fathers traveled to any town that had work. Still, even during the Great Depression, when kids had so little in the way of material things, they seemed happier than the kids of today.
The phone rang again. So soon? Millard picked up, expecting to hear a robotic voice. “Hello.”
“Mr. Bradbury? It’s Mark Dane, Tyson’s probation officer.”
“He’s in the bathroom. Can he call you back?”
“Sure. But while I’ve got you here, how’s he been doing since we met last week?”
“Oh, all right, I guess. He comes and goes right on schedule.”
“Is he keeping up with his schoolwork?”
Millard glanced at the backpack on the floor over by the couch. Books had been pulled from it that morning while Ty searched for his deck of cards and there they lay, untouched. “Oh, it’s coming along.” Millard was surprised by his blatant lie. If the kid didn’t do the work, they’d toss his butt in juvenile jail. Millard would be free of him.
“Make sure his mother drops his assignments off at the school by Friday,” Dane continued. “Principal Weston and I are keeping in touch. Now, on another matter: Tyson’s community service. Deputy Sheriff Estrada has been in touch with me and has a project lined up. Since Tyson is on house arrest, he’s going to have to be closely supervised. Will you tell him the deputy will pick him up from his home Saturday morning at nine?” Millard heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. “Here he is. You can tell him yourself.”
He passed the phone to Tyson and watched him as he grunted one-word answers into the receiver, his head and shoulders in their perpetual drooping state like a begonia in desperate need of water. The boy glanced at the schoolbooks on the floor. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay.” He listened some more. “I know.” He hung up without saying good-bye and stared out toward his house across the road.
“Community service, eh? What does that look like?”
“Fixing a porch and building a wheelchair ramp.”
Millard nodded in approval. “Good. They think that’ll take up your required forty hours?”
“It’ll take me forty years. I don’t know how to do that stuff.”
Millard wondered if the kid’s dad ever showed him which end of a hammer to hang on to before he took off. “Oh, I’m sure someone will be there to oversee the job. You’ll learn.” He walked over to the sofa, stooping to pick up the carelessly strewn schoolbooks from the floor. “American history, geometry, English . . .” He tossed them one by one onto the coffee table. A packet of papers was clipped together. “These must be your assignments. Have you looked at them?”
“Yeah.”
“How much have you got done?”
“Nothing.” The kid dropped into Millard’s blue chair.
Millard frowned as he took the liberty to ruffle through the pages. “Let’s
see what you’ve got here. ‘Read chapter eight in your math book and work the problems on pages 52 and 57.’” He flipped to the next page. “Says here your English assignment is to write a one-page analysis of a poem you like.”
Tyson scoffed. “Poetry sucks!”
Millard flashed back to a rebellious student he had tried to teach back in his days at Silver Falls High. Donald? Dennis? A kid who would write on his jeans, his hands, anything but a piece of paper. That boy had felt the same way about English, which had infuriated Millard. So many good minds going to waste while his feebleminded son struggled with telling his right hand from his left.
“You’ve got a problem, then.” Millard dropped the packet to the coffee table. “You either have to wade through this sucky situation like a man or sit out your sentence behind bars. It won’t be so bad, though. You’ve already done a week in jail. You’d have less than fourteen weeks to go. That’s what? About a hundred days. In fact, you might as well be bored there as here. I say you just let it slide. Take a load off both of our minds.”
Tyson scowled. “Maybe I will.”
“You’d rather be locked up where you can’t even see a bird fly by than exercise your brain a little bit?”
“Nobody’s locking me up. They’d have to find me first and they never will.”
“What is it with you? You think you’ve got it so bad; everyone’s out to get you. You poor, mistreated boy. Everyone else—your teachers, the law, me—we’re all idiots and you’ve got the world all figured out. You’re pathetic!”
Millard snatched up his newspaper, swatting the air in front of Tyson. “And you’re in my chair!”
15
BRADBURY’S DOOR flung open before Sidney had a chance to knock. Tyson emerged, his backpack hanging from one shoulder, his face wearing the angry countenance that had become too familiar. Her father used to warn her when she made a face to be careful; it could get stuck that way. Perhaps that had happened to her son. She poked her head in the doorway. “Hi, Millard. How did it go today?”
The old man sat with both hands gripping the arms of his faded blue chair. His narrowed eyes spoke first. “Splendid. Like a tea party in the morgue.”
“Mom, I’m going home,” Tyson said over his shoulder as he stormed off the porch. She watched him push through the picket gate, letting it swing behind him.
“Not good, then.” She stepped inside and closed the door to keep the cold night air outside where it belonged. “What did he do?”
“Nothing. Not a blessed thing all day. I tried to get him to do schoolwork but he’s got his mind set on giving up. He lies around here like the King of Ham Bone eating and watching TV.”
She dropped her head, shaking it sadly. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t do that. I’m just venting a little steam, that’s all.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “Why don’t I get your food containers?”
She followed him into the kitchen, where the counters were clean, dishes washed and resting in a drainer by the sink. “Did you guys finish off that bread already?”
“That was the best loaf so far. I ate some for breakfast while it was warm and made a sandwich for lunch. Tyson did the rest. Good soup, too. My daughter, Rita, is getting jealous. You’re a much better cook than she is.”
Sidney laughed. “Ooh, now I’m really motivated. Let me know when she’s coming again. I’ll make a gourmet feast.”
“Yeah, well, feel free to throw a little meat in there sometime.”
She raised her chin. “Millard, I like you too much to do that.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “How’s the car running?”
“About the same. I pray over it every morning and it eventually starts. The only time it wouldn’t kick in was the morning of Ty’s hearing—which turned out to be a blessing for me and a curse for you. If you hadn’t been there to save the day, Ty would be in jail right now.”
Millard’s lined face grew solemn. “Might be the best thing for him.” He cleared his throat. “The probation officer called today.”
“Yes, Mr. Dane called me at work, too. About the community service project.” Sidney tucked a plastic container inside her slow cooker, and she and Millard walked together toward the front door. “I understand Deputy Estrada is going to pick Ty up on Saturday and actually work with him on the project.” She shuddered. She longed for the day she would never have to deal with that condescending man again.
“Do they still suspect it was your boy that committed that other robbery?”
“I don’t know. The man at the Sheriff’s Department wouldn’t tell me anything. Made me feel like a criminal for asking.” Sidney paused at the door. “Ty has only three days to get this week’s assignments done. Did he even look at them today?” Millard shook his head grimly. She sighed, a wave of fatigue washing over her, making even her clothes feel heavy. “I’ll talk to him about it tonight.” She hugged him with her free arm. “See you in the morning, Millard.”
She ran across the road, not because she had the energy, but because the night air was chilly. She was anxious to be home with her children and there was so much to do. She hadn’t prepared anything that morning for their dinner and she was running out of options. There would be no more groceries until after payday on Friday.
Rebecca greeted her at the door. “Mom, will you tell Sissy to stay off my bed? There’s dirt all over my comforter.”
“My day was just fine, thank you. How was yours?”
Rebecca rolled her eyes.
“Mommy!” Sissy ran out, wrapping her arms around her mother, almost tripping her.
“That’s what I like. A little enthusiasm.” She bent, Crock-Pot still in hand and her coat halfway off one shoulder, to kiss the top of her daughter’s head. “Oh, Sis. What have you got in your hair?”
“Caramel apple. It was Willy Goodwin’s birthday today. For my birthday I want caramel apples, too. No carrot muffins.”
“Okay. Where’s your brother?”
“In his room on the computer. He’s mean. I just wanted to talk to him but he slammed his door.”
Sidney set the slow cooker down in the kitchen, slid off her coat, and shuffled through the mail. No invitation to the prince’s ball, no winning sweepstakes notice, not even a note from her mother. Just bills. “I’ll talk to Tyson. That is not acceptable behavior in our house. Neither is getting your sister’s bedspread dirty,” she added just to be fair. “Tell her you’re sorry and bring it out to the laundry room.”
The phone rang. Sidney grabbed the portable from the kitchen counter. “Hello?” she said cheerily.
“Mrs. Walker, this is Deputy Estrada.” The smile dropped from her face. “We don’t need your diamond ring anymore. The burglary victim confirmed that it’s not hers. I can drop it by tonight if you like.”
Fat chance. She’d rather see Hannibal Lecter. The insult of the deputy’s innuendos on the night he took the ring was still like a barbed hook in her skin. “No, thanks. Why don’t you just leave it at the Sheriff’s Department? I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” She didn’t often hear such iciness in her own voice.
“All right. That will be fine. Just didn’t want you to have to go to any trouble. Speaking of which, I guess Mark Dane called you today about the community service project.”
“Yes, he did. I was surprised to hear that you’ll be involved. I thought Ty could line something up on his own.” She walked down the hallway into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
“Well, Mark—Mr. Dane is ultimately in control of all that. He feels that as long as I’m there to supervise, this would be a good thing for everyone.” She immediately wondered how it would be good for the deputy and how close his friendship was with the probation officer. “This way Tyson can start working off his hours while he’s still on house arrest.”
“And how does it benefit you, Deputy?”
There was a long pause. “I’ll have the satisfaction of seeing your son make some retribution.”
&n
bsp; “Why do I get the feeling there’s something personal here?”
“I can’t speak for your feelings, Mrs. Walker.”
“Is Tyson still a suspect in that burglary in town?”
Another pause. “Prime suspect.”
The conviction in his voice chilled her. What if he was right? It would mean a new charge against Tyson, two strikes on his record, and another legal ordeal. She took a deep breath. “I understand you’ll pick him up at nine o’clock on Saturday. We’ll see you then.”
She clicked the phone off and held it to her chest, willing her blood to slow to normal speed. She could not think about this tonight. For the sake of her children and her own sanity, she would not.
She decided on baked potatoes topped with meatless chili for dinner. While the potatoes were baking, she cut carrots, celery, and green peppers into strips, chatting with the girls about the upcoming marathon they had both chosen to compete in at school. It was a nightly ritual, this gathering in the kitchen where the kids could twirl on their bar stools at the raised counter while she cooked. Ty wandered through the kitchen, slicing off hunks of cheese and reaching over his mother’s shoulder to nab strips of vegetables as fast as she could cut them. “Don’t blame me if you lose a finger,” she chided. “Anyway, we have enough finger food.” She believed he was glad to be home, though he rarely showed any sign of it.
“Ooh, Mother!” Rebecca recoiled with her usual drama. “That’s disgusting!”
Ty rolled his eyes. “That is so lame.”
