In Reach by Pamela Carter Joern Page A

against it.
    That was nothing, though, compared to Trent. He walked inwith his mother. She had her hand on his shoulder, all Big Nurse, guiding him. His lights were out, a zombie-child who moved like a nursing home patient. Tom tried to pull his son into his arms, but Trent stood stiff as a stop sign, his head thrown aside. Tom rubbed his open hand over his mouth. Ellen walked Trent to their bed, laid him down, and covered him with a blanket. His eyes were open and staring when she closed the door.
    “What’s the matter with him?” he asked.
    Ellen leaned back against the wall, her body sucked in and arched away from him. “Shock, partly. He’ll be worse when it wears off.”
    “Worse,” he said.
    They sat up through the night, he in the den, she in the living room. He waited for Ellen to accuse him, but she didn’t. She said nothing, nothing at all. They were polite when they passed each other on the way to the phone. Without talking about it, one or the other called the hospital every hour.
    Late in the night, while Ellen was in the bathroom, Tom crept into the bedroom. Trent hadn’t moved, his slim body stretched out like a sheeted corpse. He’d fallen asleep, his mouth slack and hanging, his breath foul and dear. Tom sat on the opposite side of the bed, afraid to touch him, afraid he’d waken.
    He wished Trent had been the one hurt. No, no, not his head bashed in, not that, but the usual boyhood hurts, something of the body only, something that could heal into a scar and be shown off later in life to a girl who would laugh with him about narrow escapes and the stupidity of youth and trace the scar with her tongue, her teasing touch awakening him to hunger and love. He realized too late that he was making noise, sucking in big gasps of air. Trent rolled over and looked into his face.
    “Dad?” Trent said. His voice high and young.
    Tom tried to smile. “I’m here, son.”
    “Is Alex all right?”
    Tom swallowed. “He’s fine. He’s sleeping in his bed.”
    “I tried to be a fireman.”
    Tom nodded, but his lips would not shape consonants. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would start to howl. He muttered something like a groan, but it seemed to quiet Trent. The boy closed his eyes, turned on his side, and fell like a weighted anchor back into sleep.
    Still later, after Ellen had fallen into a fitful sleep on the couch, Tom walked over to the hospital. He didn’t know what he would do once he got there. He saw only one couple in the waiting room. They looked beat down, the woman frowsy and glassy-eyed, her hair thin, dry, and spiked like cactus. She wore a short-sleeved shirt, her elbows sharpened to knobby points. A man sat beside her on a chair tipped back against the wall.
    His belly hung over a silver belt buckle of Mount Rushmore. He wore jeans and a plaid collared shirt, wire-rimmed glasses. He looked bookish and tough and like he could beat the crap out of Tom.
    Tom peered up and down the halls but saw only a metal cart missing one caster and listed sideways. Looking for punishment, he sat down on a molded plastic chair and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You Manson’s folks?”
    Expecting anger, reproof, he was unprepared for the way the woman brightened. “D’you know Manson?”
    Tom shook his head. He couldn’t give Trent up to these people. “No, no. I heard . . . how’s he doing?”
    “Twenty-seven stitches. And a concussion.” The woman’s voice swam in horrified awe.
    “A kid did this to him,” the man said. He fisted his hands on his thighs. Big hands and hard, like knots of wood.
    “But he’ll be all right?” Tom said.
    “Doc’s checking on him,” the woman said.
    Tom raised one trembling hand and stroked his jaw. “Helluva deal,” he managed to say.
    “Another boy . . . he used a rock. Why would he do that?” The woman’s eyes, red-rimmed, bore into him. Tom inspected his shoes, fixed his attention on a jagged tear in the carpet.
    The man