dropped the chair legs to the floor. Tom winced, but the guy with big fists only leaned into Tom’s face and spoke, man to man. “You know how it is. New kid in town. He’s always the target.”
“Hold on,” Tom said. He straightened his back along the wall, the desire to confess urgent.
“I told Manson, he’s got to protect himself.” The man’s voice rose in a whine, a tornado gathering momentum.
“He’s not that kind of boy,” the woman said. She lifted one side of her mouth, a twisted tooth gleaming. Tom could see the image she held of her son, doe-eyed, feeding bits of bread to ducks. Climbing into bed between cowboy sheets.
“You got kids, Mister?” the man asked.
“Yeah. Two.”
“Boys?”
Tom squirmed. “Yeah.”
The man opened and closed his hands, his fingers red and battered and mottled like sausages. “How do you stand it?”
“What do you mean?”
“People aren’t nice. You have to teach your kids not to be nice. If you don’t, they get hurt.” He stopped and gestured down the hall, too choked up to go on. While Tom tried to think of something to say, the man stood abruptly, walked down the hall, and out of the hospital.
“He’s gone,” the woman said.
“No. He, uh, he just stepped out. He needs some air.”
She smiled that crooked smile again. “He goes. He’ll be gone a month, maybe two.”
“A month?”
“Last time it was six.”
Tom looked down the hall, anything to get away from this woman’s sad eyes. “Do you want me to get him back?”
She shook her head. “Won’t be no use.”
The doctor beckoned from the doorway, and the woman stood and stepped into her son’s room. Tom sat and stared down the empty hallway, seeing the listing cart leaned into a wall, the tear in the carpet under his shoe, everything broken, and then that stringy red-haired kid who flailed a bat at a car.
Tom left the hospital and walked a few blocks in the night to clear his head. He wandered into the city park and sat down on a rubber swing. The metal S-hooks cut into his thighs. He rocked himself back and forth and thought of Manson’s father and the open road. He pictured himself alone in a bar, in a dingy motel room, in his car on a highway in Montana driving 110 miles an hour into a flat horizon with nothing more weighing on him than where he might stop to refuel. Just get in his car and go. He could. He closed his eyes and tasted freedom like acid in his mouth. Eventually he wore himself out thrashing about, and he turned his face toward the house where his wife and sons lay sleeping, warm and vulnerable. He remembered to breathe, in and then out, not so hard, and he stilled to the rhythm. Morning light began to break, and then there was nothing left but to let his feet lead him home.
Don’t Call Me Kid
Jason enjoyed the thought of disappointing his father. All week he rehearsed the moment when his dad would drive up in his big Jeep Cherokee, and Jason would flatly announce, “I’m not going.” Why should he help his father relive some Wild West fantasy that had nothing to do with him? He laid on the busted chaise longue in his backyard in Des Moines, dragged his fingers through the too-long grass. He was fifteen, on summer vacation, and he let his dreams carry him. On Tuesday, he imagined his father’s face elongated in surprise. On Wednesday, he heard his dad’s voice quiver with rage. On Thursday, all he saw of his father were his hands gripped on the steering wheel. On Friday, Jason got out of bed early and looked in the mirror. Schmuck, he said. And then he began to pack.
“That all you’re taking?” Dave asked, when he pulled into the driveway. Jason sat on the front step, a backpack at his feet. Sticking up out of it were his sketchpad and two books he was currently reading, The Catcher in the Rye and The End of Nature .
“What else do I need?” Jason didn’t get up. He didn’t look at his dad. He scuffed his Birkenstock sandal against the sidewalk and
“Hold on,” Tom said. He straightened his back along the wall, the desire to confess urgent.
“I told Manson, he’s got to protect himself.” The man’s voice rose in a whine, a tornado gathering momentum.
“He’s not that kind of boy,” the woman said. She lifted one side of her mouth, a twisted tooth gleaming. Tom could see the image she held of her son, doe-eyed, feeding bits of bread to ducks. Climbing into bed between cowboy sheets.
“You got kids, Mister?” the man asked.
“Yeah. Two.”
“Boys?”
Tom squirmed. “Yeah.”
The man opened and closed his hands, his fingers red and battered and mottled like sausages. “How do you stand it?”
“What do you mean?”
“People aren’t nice. You have to teach your kids not to be nice. If you don’t, they get hurt.” He stopped and gestured down the hall, too choked up to go on. While Tom tried to think of something to say, the man stood abruptly, walked down the hall, and out of the hospital.
“He’s gone,” the woman said.
“No. He, uh, he just stepped out. He needs some air.”
She smiled that crooked smile again. “He goes. He’ll be gone a month, maybe two.”
“A month?”
“Last time it was six.”
Tom looked down the hall, anything to get away from this woman’s sad eyes. “Do you want me to get him back?”
She shook her head. “Won’t be no use.”
The doctor beckoned from the doorway, and the woman stood and stepped into her son’s room. Tom sat and stared down the empty hallway, seeing the listing cart leaned into a wall, the tear in the carpet under his shoe, everything broken, and then that stringy red-haired kid who flailed a bat at a car.
Tom left the hospital and walked a few blocks in the night to clear his head. He wandered into the city park and sat down on a rubber swing. The metal S-hooks cut into his thighs. He rocked himself back and forth and thought of Manson’s father and the open road. He pictured himself alone in a bar, in a dingy motel room, in his car on a highway in Montana driving 110 miles an hour into a flat horizon with nothing more weighing on him than where he might stop to refuel. Just get in his car and go. He could. He closed his eyes and tasted freedom like acid in his mouth. Eventually he wore himself out thrashing about, and he turned his face toward the house where his wife and sons lay sleeping, warm and vulnerable. He remembered to breathe, in and then out, not so hard, and he stilled to the rhythm. Morning light began to break, and then there was nothing left but to let his feet lead him home.
Don’t Call Me Kid
Jason enjoyed the thought of disappointing his father. All week he rehearsed the moment when his dad would drive up in his big Jeep Cherokee, and Jason would flatly announce, “I’m not going.” Why should he help his father relive some Wild West fantasy that had nothing to do with him? He laid on the busted chaise longue in his backyard in Des Moines, dragged his fingers through the too-long grass. He was fifteen, on summer vacation, and he let his dreams carry him. On Tuesday, he imagined his father’s face elongated in surprise. On Wednesday, he heard his dad’s voice quiver with rage. On Thursday, all he saw of his father were his hands gripped on the steering wheel. On Friday, Jason got out of bed early and looked in the mirror. Schmuck, he said. And then he began to pack.
“That all you’re taking?” Dave asked, when he pulled into the driveway. Jason sat on the front step, a backpack at his feet. Sticking up out of it were his sketchpad and two books he was currently reading, The Catcher in the Rye and The End of Nature .
“What else do I need?” Jason didn’t get up. He didn’t look at his dad. He scuffed his Birkenstock sandal against the sidewalk and
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