When Bill was healthy, he and Dad never discussed work. They stuck to football and families, lagers and stouts, because the worlds of logging and law have very little overlap. I’m sure the last thing my dad feels like rehashing is some tedious hotel case, but Bill can’t help fill this silence that’s becoming stifling.
Their friendship’s so strained now, nothing like the easy camaraderie they used to share. The transformation makes me sad, and nostalgic for the past.
Once, on a cloudless day when Max and I were twelve—Dad and Meredith had just announced their engagement—we attempted to chalk a rendering of the solar system in the middle of the street. Bill, who’d been busy trimming his junipers, set his clippers aside so he could plop down on the pavement with us. He talked about rocket launches and moon walks as he rifled through our bucket of chalk, helping us pick out colors for the planets. My dad joined us when he got home from work, armed with a reference book and a tape measure for accuracy’s sake, and by the time the lamps came on, the street had become a galaxy, and all four of us were dusted head to toe in chalk. Marcy joked about hosing us off before letting us inside for Cokes.
Now Dad launches into a dry monologue about misconduct and faulty documentation that would have me yawning under different circumstances. I feel sorry for him, and Bill. I wonder if they miss chalk drawings in the street as much as I do.
Marcy and Brett are nearly done loading dessert plates with gluttonous portions of pie, cookies, torte, and tartlets when the doorbell chimes. Zoe rises, but sinks back onto the bench as Marcy darts out of the kitchen ahead of her. Beside me, Ivy’s gone stiff. We sit in silence, waiting.
Marcy’s saccharine voice carries into the kitchen. “Officer Tate!”
Officer Tate serves on the police force of the town adjacent to McAlder, so this visit shouldn’t be in any sort of professional capacity, but why else would he show up unannounced?
A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck—Max.
He was hurt during a football game a few months ago, after being taken down by a tackle so violent it was startlingly audible from the grandstand. He made it off the field, arm dangling awkwardly, but the second he crossed the sideline, he hit his knees. I swear to God my heart stopped beating. It was all I could do to keep my butt on the cold aluminum bench, gripping Leah’s hand while coaches and trainers swarmed him. The injury turned out to be a stinger—a harmless but painful charge of electricity that shot through the nerves of his arm after the hit. They were brief but terrible, those moments I had to consider what life would be like if Max wasn’t okay.
He’s fine, I tell myself now.Hehasto be fine.
Officer Tate’s ramblings are indistinct, but I pick up a few key words:driving,beer,serious,illegal. The muted explanation carries on, peppered with fretful-soundingYes, sirs andI understands from Marcy. The tension in the kitchen is almost unbearable; even Oliver—who was presented with dessert before the doorbell rang and has made a mess of pecan pie on the table—has fallen victim to the grave atmosphere.
“I should have taken him to the station, Marcy,” we hear Officer Tate say. “Frankly, I put my job at risk by bringing him here. He’s underage, which means zero tolerance. He could have hurt himself. He could havekilledhimself, or someone else.”
Zoe drops the crayon she’s been clutching, and Meredith makes a little choking sound. Bill’s face has drained of color, and my dad’s tugging on his hair. I feel dizzy, light-headed, a little sick, like I just stepped off a roller coaster.
“I know,” Marcy says, her voice wavering. Max screwed up big-time—irrevocably. I can’t even look at my dad, who predicted a mishap like this weeks ago.
“You’re lucky it was me who stopped him,” Officer Tate says, “not another officer who doesn’t understand your… situation.”
The foyer, the kitchen, the house… So, so quiet.
And then, haltingly, Dad says, “Bill?”
Bill’s rigid in his chair. His hands form fists so tight the tendons in his knuckles strain.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Dad murmurs, using the slower speech pattern we all fall into when addressing him now, “but do you want me to… Should I go out there?”
Bill gives a jerk of his head—No!—before letting his chin drop to his chest. There’s worry in the hunch of his shoulders, helplessness in his slackening fists.
“Okay,” Dad says. “Okay.” I feel marginally better as I watch him make eye contact with the Holden girls: Zoe, who’s pulled Oliver onto her lap, and Ivy, whose quivering lip makes my throat tighten.
“I’m grateful to you for bringing him home, Officer Tate,” Marcy says. “Bill will be, too. We’ll talk to him. We’ll be sure nothing like this happens again.”
The front door slams. A moment later, Max storms into the kitchen, followed closely by his mother. “I was fine to drive!” he shouts, whipping around to face her. “I had a couple of beers at Becky’s. That’s it!”
“You had acasein your truck! You’reseventeen! I cannot believe, after everything we’ve been through this year, that you would climb behind the wheel of that truck half-drunk!”
Max yanks at the collar of his sweatshirt as if it’s choking him. “Tate’s a pompous ass. He had no reason to pull me over.”
Marcy grasps the gold cross hanging from her neck. “He said you rolled through a stop sign! Thank goodness there were no other cars around. Thank goodness it washimwho stopped you. Thank goodness he chose to pour the beer out. You heard what he said: You could have ended up in jail!”
“Oh, Jesus,” Max says, snotty and sluggish. “Let’s not blow a little beer out of proportion.”
It’s disgusting, the way he’s acting. I so want to wake him up to how he’s hurting his mother and devastating his father, but I’m frozen in my seat, a lot like Bill. I steal a glance at my dad; he’s glaring at Max, mouth set in a grim line. He catches my eye.I told you, his stare boasts.
“Out of proportion?” Marcy says. She points to the table where we sit, family and friends present to witness the train wreck Max’s life is becoming. “We have company. Company I had to abandon so I could speak to the police officer who would have been well within the limits of the law to throw you in a cell. How would a record affect your hopes of playing college football? Your scholarship chances?”
“College is a long way off,” Max says flatly. He glances at Bill, who’s staring at the opposing wall as if the people arguing around him are someone else’s family. Ivy slides closer to him, like her nearness might protect him from the hurt Max’s crappy choices inflict.
