by CJ Daly
I was forcing him to bridle his gifts. He balked every day, hating to dumb
himself down. Like putting a chain around the hoof of a racehorse, it went
against nature. Even though Andrew understood the situation better, he still
blamed me and wore his resentment like one of his new “Academy” T-shirts. I
couldn’t blame him. I’d felt the same way towards Mama when she made me
throw my game. It was a terrible way to feel towards someone you loved—a
double whammy because you felt guilt on top of resentment.
I was busy taking out the very thing I’d just been thinking of—a sharp
navy tee with a gold lion emblazoned on the front. I handled it like I’d just
pulled it from the cesspool instead of the washing machine. Felt like mixing
it in would taint the whole wash like a red sock in a load of whites.
Just like those mentoring sessions—even a little bit of that academy
seemed to be tainting my little brother. He was suddenly privy to all he was
missing in life. How good things could be. Would be . . . if he’d just sign
on the dotted line. I think ignorance would’ve been preferable for us. Not
bliss, but easier. I mean now that we’d had a taste of Pete Davenport’s world,
how could we possibly go back to our old existence and have a hope of being
satisfied? It seemed as bland as a bowl of oatmeal after a vacation filled with
elaborate breakfast buffets.
“Hey, Drews!” I called from the kitchen, dropping my basket to come in
for a hug. “How’d it go today?” He shrugged his shoulders, and I decided not
to press the sore point. “Are you hungry?”
“Nope.”
“Not even for homemade chocolate-chip cookies?” I used my most
tempting tone.
“Especial y not for chocolate-chip cookies.”
“Since when do you not like chocolate-chip cookies?”
“Since I learned cancer cells feed off sugar,” Andrew replied with more
emotion than he’d shown in a long while.
• 320 •
I was quiet a beat, thinking how to turn the conversation away from the dark side. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have cancer then.” This
was met with a scathing look, like I just didn’t get it. (I’d been on the receiving end of that look for quite a while.)
“Can I have his share?” Mikey came up behind big brother to unabashedly
hug on him. Andrew managed to turn it into a headlock. I waited for him
to let go until Mikey’s face started to turn the same color as boiled hot dogs.
“Stop that!” I yanked on Andrew’s arm. “You know I don’t like it when
you do that to your little brother, who’s been waitin’ all afternoon for you to
get home,” I said pointedly.
“Aw, Come on!—I’m just showin’ him some of my new moves.” After
which, Andrew tripped and flipped Mikey over his leg, so that he crashed to
the floor like a feed sack.
“Andrew!” I scolded as I peeled his shadow from the floor. “What’s gotten
into you?”
“It’s okay, Kadee. I’m not hurted.” Mikey spun around for my inspection.
I wrapped my arms around my littlest brother, and couldn’t help notice the
divide between us. Intolerable.
“I know what would make this better,” I said, reaching over to nab
Andrew. “A Drewy sandwich!” I pulled him into a squishing hug, between a
squealing Mikey and me, squeezing him like the force of my hug could push
out the old Andrew, from before all this Academy malarkey started. The best
I got was a giggle that finally pushed through his sealed lips to burst out into
an open laugh. Satisfied with that, I let him go but not before ruffling his hair.
“So, what’s this about not wantin’ my homemade cookies made especially
for you? I even added my secret ingredient—the one sure to combat cancer.”
Mikey grinned. Andrew rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his
lips. “Can anyone guess what it is?”
“I can! I can!” Mikey’s feet left floor the same time his hand hit air.
“Wuv!” he blurted out triumphantly, unable to refrain from revealing the
punchline to our long-running family joke. Plus, it had the added appeal of
being the only answer he could come up with faster than big brother.
“That’s right,” I said, taking his doughy hand, and one whose fingers were
already almost as long as mine. “Love.”
Andrew looked up at me with his wide, intelligent eyes; it was my
vulnerable little brother standing before me now. “But Mama got cancer and
she always used love as her secret ingredient.”
“Oh, Drews,” I sighed, pressing his face to my chest. Hoping he could
feel my love beating into him.
• 321 •
We were just sitting down to dinner when the thud of heavy work boots (which was a misnomer if I’d ever heard one) outside the door crashed our
party-of-three. Blue jumped up from under our feet, growling a moment
too late to be a proper watchdog. We watched as he skidded over to greet his
prodigal master, tail wagging, never one to hold a grudge.
The rest of us weren’t so forgiving. It’d been a few days since we’d seen
Daddy, and that was for about the span of two commercials—long enough
to hand down a bunch of orders and instruct us about what we were doing
wrong, then let us know he didn’t want to be bothered while he watched the
game.
“Uh-oh. Looks like The Sarge is home,” Andrew announced the obvious.
Our eyes cast around for something we had done wrong, some object left
out or muddy shoes left on. I wondered why we hadn’t heard the unmistakable,
unmuffled noise pollution of his Bronco pulling in. And then realized: he
must’ve planned a covert sneak attack to bust his wayward kids on some kind
of infraction we were getting up to in his absence.
I felt the familiar contempt creep over me. Not much he could say
though—we didn’t even so much as have the TV on tonight. When Daddy
barged through the door, you could practically here the dunt-dunt-dunt! His eyes zeroed in on me occupying the space at the head of the table.
“Katie, what’s that dog doin’ in the house?”
“Sorry, Daddy.” I rose from his seat to let a whining Blue out; he left a
bundle of sad dismay.
“If a commander can’t trust his troops to hold down the fort in his
absence, then how can I trust you to follow my rules when you’re called to
duty?” he said, forming some kind of analytical logic I was too tired to grasp.
He looked down on me like he was waiting for more contrition than I was
willing to offer up. When none was forthcoming, he began a preacher’s pace
across the length of the dining room table.
I breathed in through my nose, deciding on a preemptive strike against
his sermon. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I was seein’ to his sore paw with the salve you
use for the calves, and then forgot he was in the house when I started dinner.
It won’t happen again.” I went with a half-truth.
His hard look hadn’t softened one iota. What was I missing? Earnestness. I blinked my eyes up at him, trying to conjure crocodile tears. “I’m really sorry, Daddy,” I added, thinking three sorries should do it.
A few seconds of listening to the clock tick with three kids
sitting at a
table still as stones happened before Daddy relented. “Is them cookies I smell?”
“Yes, sir.” I immediately hupped to it. “Would you like some supper,
• 322 •
Daddy? I have your plate warmin’ in the oven.” I’d found the missing ingredient at last—solicitousness.
“That sounds good, Katie-girl.” He was mostly angry we hadn’t all jumped
for joy that he was rewarding us with his presence. He plopped down, in the
chair I’d just warmed for him, satisfied in the knowledge he was still king of
his castle. “How’s them lessons goin’, boy?” He cuffed Andrew on the back of
his neck—the closest thing to affection Daddy willingly gave.
“Good,” Andrew replied, digging into his cooling meatloaf.
“The Davenport cadet treatin’ you all right?”
A couple of chews and a swallow happened. “Yes, sir. He’s been great.”
“Good. Really apply yerself and get a lot outta these lessons, son. After
all . . . they’re free.”
“Yes, sir.”
With hot-padded hands, I brought out Daddy’s dinner and switched out
my cooling plate of mashed potatoes and vegetables then went and sat on the
other side of Mikey. “Hey Daddy,” he piped up before I could think to stop
him. “Didjaknow that Pete took us for a wide in his Hummer?”
I sighed, feeling like he coulda talked all day without saying that.
The fork going into Daddy’s mouth halted mid-air. Andrew and I
exchanged looks. Shoot. We forgot to tell Mikey not to tell. It happened over two weeks ago, but there was no statue of limitation on Daddy’s consequences.
His fork went down, and his anger went up. Mikey was on the receiving end
of one of Daddy’s filthiest looks.
“Now why would he do that?”
“Because I asked him to!” Mikey boasted.
“Excuse me, Daddy,” I quickly intervened because Daddy’s face was
starting to change colors, “it was very early on and Andrew had finished testin’
for the day. We had a few extra minutes, so he took us for a ride around the
parkin’ lot.”
“I do not want Andrew’s mentorin’ time wasted on joy rides anymore. Do
you three understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” we chorused.
“We got more work to do around here than I can shake a stick at. And
it continues to go undone, because you” —he air-stabbed me with his fork—
“claim there’s not enough time in the day to do it . . . We got fences to mend,
pens to muck, fertilizer to spread, need I go on?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ve said it once, I’ve said it twice, I’ll say it a thousand times: idle hands
is the devil’s workshop. You kids need to keep yer time occupied with fruitful
• 323 •
activities, like learnin’ and workin’ this ranch—teaches invaluable life skills.”
Daddy turned an approving eye on Andrew. “You see how my discipline plan
is pannin’ out for Andrew here. He’s not only top of his class, but he’s at the
top of all eighth-grade kids across America, accordin’ to the reports I’ve been
gettin’ from Cadet Davenport.”
Now it was my turn to put down my fork. Nobody told me anything
anymore. I wondered if Andrew knew and turned appraising eyes on him. His
expression was about the same as Mikey’s Batman mask, which scared me.
“He’d be a shoo-in at West Point. Although I don’t know why we’d wait
or fool around with senators’ nominations,” Daddy said derisively, “when the
best o’ the best is already offerin’ up such a good deal.”
Alarmed, I leaned around Mikey. “But Daddy, you read the contract. It
says you have to give up parental rights for the duration of his training. You’re
not seriously considerin’ that, are you?”
“Well, I’ll give you the short answer to that—maybe.”
“What?”
“Now you listen here, Katherine Lee,” Daddy said, his voice going to a
place that led nowhere good. “I ain’t just handin’ my son over to just anybody.
This here Elite Academy is the very best there is . . . in the world!”
“But Daddy!” I spluttered for the hundredth time in a month, “You
promised Mama you wouldn’t send any of us away to special schools!” Even to
my own ears I sounded like an over-played sad song you’d grown accustomed
to tuning out.
“I ain’t sendin’ you or Shadow anywhere. . . . Far as I can tell, Andrew’s the only one bein’ sought after here.”
“He’s only eight-years-old!” I reasoned, not taking the bait.
Daddy pointed the blunt end of his knife at me. “You forget yer place,
missy. Andrew is my son, and I’ll do with him as I see fit . . . as I will al you kids, for that matter. Now I talked over my concerns with Cadet Davenport,
and he said ninety-nine percent of the cadets’ parents sign the paperwork. It’s
just a formality, so that meddlin’ parents won’t in’erfere with the trainin’ . . .
and there are reg’lar visitin’ days allowed.”
“Al owed?”
Mikey shifted in his seat. I knew he was about to say something, so I
squeezed his thigh under the table. But a determined Mikey was a lot like a
penned bull, right after the chute opened. “Daddy . . .”
“You will speak when yer spoken to, young man!” Daddy interjected
quickly, eyes wildly bouncing around the room, refusing to settle anywhere
near his youngest child’s face.
• 324 •
Mikey reared across the table. “Daddy, you’wer NOT sendin’ Drewy away to that school!”
We watched as Daddy’s face turned the same color as the baked-in ketchup
coating his meatloaf. Andrew and I exchanged glances again. Mikey, relieved
of his mind-load, shoveled a mound of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Some of Daddy’s firm resolve seemed to implode like a cake pulled out of
the oven too soon. “I’ve still not made up my mind, that’s fer sure. It’s a big
decision. I sure don’t like the idear of not seein’ him ever’ day.”
I inwardly bristled, thinking he didn’t see him every day but didn’t say
anything, as this was a step in the right direction. He almost sounded like a
real father for once. The result of all this reasonableness was me wanting to
unburden myself to him. Explain my mystifyingly strong feelings about the
school, let him know we’d been followed and spied on, divulge the proof I
had that Pete lied, that we were being conned. I wanted help to make sense
of it all. To lay it all out on a bulletin board like a complex, unsolved mystery.
But I didn’t. Daddy had had it up to his eyeballs with female intuition and
conspiracy theories, having lived through Mama’s vivid breakdowns. He’d
made it very clear he wasn’t going through that again. Proof. That’s what I
needed. Like a victim of a crime—with no witnesses—coming to the police
to report it, there would need to be solid evidence before an indictment. Or
else I would end up sounding deranged. It was pretty much my word against
theirs. And frankly, they were more credible than my intuition. They had all
the numbers and facts on their side that Daddy loved so much. Especially his
favorite number in the world—one.
Unfortunately, the only proof I
actually had was against Pete. If I
convinced Daddy about his lies, he would most likely just demand another
mentor. An image of a dimpled-brute with a smirk-smile came to mind. I
shuttered to even think of it. And the catch twenty-two was: blowing the
whistle on Pete would result in his dismissal from my life. Even though I
knew he wasn’t on the up-and-up, I still didn’t want him to go. Not yet . . .
not ever. I couldn’t even fathom having him disappear from my life as though
he never existed. It was like suddenly trying to live without the sun—I was
already severely deficient in my vitamin D from my self-imposed sabbatical
of the last couple of weeks. But I still had the same problem I’d had since the
beginning: I loathed his organization and everything it stood for—preying
on the weak, lying and cunning, evil intentions creeping out from all sides.
But I felt the direct opposite of that about their ambassador.
It was an impossible position to be in—falling for the enemy.
• 325 •
The boys had gone off to bed, and I’d just finished packing lunches for school the next day and was headed off to my own bed, loaded down with a basket
of clothes and a bushel of worries. “Night, Daddy,” I called over my shoulder.
“Hold on a minute, Katie-girl.” Daddy clicked pause on the TV, and I
froze in the hallway. “Come on over—I wanna talk to ya.”
Warily, I plodded over to his duct-taped recliner. Daddy stood up, a wall
of denim-on-denim. My head tilted up, a little crease forming between my
brows. He cleared his throat before pulling me next to him on the couch.
It felt awkward and strange but not entirely bad. My heart rate was holding
steady. . . . I didn’t think this was anything too bad.
“Katie, I—” he harrumphed again. “I just wanna say I understand how
you feel ‘bout keepin’ Andrew home. I know it comes from a good place, you
tryin’ to keep this family together. And I want you to know that whichever
way it goes, my decision will be based on nothin’ but doin’ right by my boy.”
Yeah right. I could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes, so averted mine to the fake wood paneling.
“One of the worst things that can happen in life is to live with regret. I
know all about wasted chances,” he said referring to the track scholarship he
lost back when he still wore a mullet and didn’t have metal pins holding his
