Sam slowly takes his hand off the Rat, sits down next to him, and looks at him seriously.“Would that matter to you?”
I know it is a genuine question. I see from the Rat’s eyes and body language that it is a threat. It is as if he is a spider caught in a web. His skinny limbs are flailing, trying to get away, but he is stuck.The Incredible Hulk is blocking his way.
“Shit, just drive the damn bus, will ya?” The Rat is still squirming.
“Well, Richard—”
The Rat looks away when Sam says Richard.
“Richard, I’d appreciate it if you’d treat people with respect. This is our bus, and I’d like to keep it a safe and pleasant place.”
Okay, Sam, you were doing well until now.That is weakling language you are using and the Rat can sniff a weakling.
Sure enough, the Rat’s nose is twitching and his mouth is curling into a smile. He turns to Sam.
But Sam meets him halfway, leaning over so he is at the Rat’s level, and puts his face right up to the Rat’s.
The Rat jerks back. “Jeez, get your stinkin’ breath away from me! You’re a freak!”
Sam does not move.“That’s not very respectful.” His face is serious. “Do you know how to be respectful, Richard?”
Sam is still staring at him. The Rat keeps looking away. He cannot meet Sam’s burning gaze.
Sam asks again, “Do you know how to be respectful?” Sam is about three times the size of the Rat. I realize how much I am enjoying noting this comparison.
The Rat squirms in his seat. He thinks Sam is threatening him with his Incredible Hulk size. I know that Sam is trying to perform another Quaker service, however misguided.
“Richard, do you need me to teach you about respect?”
The Rat squishes himself against the window. “I don’t need you, man,” he says, in a high squeaky voice.
“Are you sure? Because I’d like to help you.”
“Just get away from me!”
Sam stays. His two hundred and fifty pounds stay. His piercing blue eyes stay. For a full minute. At least. While the Rat squirms.
Finally, Sam says, “Okay, then.”
Sam gets up and the bus lurches again. He starts walking to the front of the bus.
“Freak,” hisses the Rat.
Sam turns around and leans his hands on the seat backs on either side of him, bending forward. “Did you want to have that chat with me, Richard?”
The Rat does not answer.
“Or do I need to call your father and have all of us sit down together?”
I see the fleeting flicker of terror in the Rat’s eyes. His jaw goes slack and his face is even paler than usual.“No,” the Rat squeaks.
I understand his fear. But not how he handles it.You will never control the violence with more violence. The Rat should have learned that by now.
“Okay, then.” Sam heads to his seat.
The Rat mutters “asshole,” but Sam does not hear. Perhaps the Rat believes he has won the battle since he got the last word in. But his slumped shoulders tell me that he knows he has lost this war. For the first time, I can look at him without fear. I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly. It is a pleasant change to be able to relax around the Rat.
The rest of the bus ride is silent.When we get to school my face is sore. It is twitching from tired muscles. I put my hand up to my face. And I realize what is happening. I am smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The kid can now sit up by himself at the kitchen table. He can even crawl up onto a chair, a regular chair, not the high chair.
We sit down to dinner and he looks over at Sam’s place, empty. “Saa-uh-Saa?”
“Sam is at a meeting, honey,” Jessica tells him.
“Saaa.” The kid sounds insistent.
Jessica pats his hand. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Saaa!”
“Sam is at a meeting.” Jessica sounds like a broken record.
The kid pushes his plate and utensils over to Sam’s spot and says, triumphantly, “Saaa!”
Jessica smiles. “Okay.” She gets another place setting for the kid.
He is still not satisfied. He looks around and his eyes stop at the kitchen counter. “Saaa, Saaa, Saa-uh-Saa!” He shakes his hands excitedly and starts drooling.
“What do you want, Rory?” Jessica asks.
I get up and go to the counter. I see what he wants. Green Eggs and Ham. I hand him the book.
The kid shouts with glee and puts it at Sam’s place. I know he is trying to stand it upright because he is moaning in frustration as it keeps falling flat.
I set it up for him, wedging it between the chair back and Sam’s plate. The kid claps. “Tayyyy!”
Jessica smiles at me.
The kid keeps pointing to Sam’s plate until Jessica puts food on it. Then he makes a sloppy of mess of feeding the book.
Jessica thinks it is adorable.
My throat gets tighter with every spoon of mashed potatoes that hits the orange cover.The sick tornado starts inside of me. Do you really not see the problem here, Jessica? The kid is too attached to Sam. That is a very bad thing. If he loses Sam, the kid could be completely destroyed.
And there has been another phone call to the Meeting House. About the peace vigils. And how they must stop.
The next night is Thursday. Sam puts on his baseball cap and grabs his puffy green vest.
I stare at him. “Must you go to the peace vigil every single time? You do realize your name is Sam Fox, not George Fox, right?”
“Saaa! Maaa!”
Jessica picks up the kid, who is reaching for Sam.
“See? Even the kid thinks you should stay home.”
Sam has one arm in his vest and one arm out. “Uh . . . well, I’m kind of a regular, I guess.” He grins and finishes plunging into his useless armor.
I fold my arms. “Are you really the only person who can lead the group? Surely someone else knows how to light a candle.”
He stares at me for a moment, his forehead wrinkled, but then the wrinkles disappear and he winks. “But no one can sing like me!”
Jessica kisses Sam good-bye. I can see the worry in her eyes, too.
The man has too many meetings.Too many appearances. I cannot stand to think of the outcome, so I do not. I cannot bear the idea of watching the kid feed the Sam-book, either, but that I cannot ignore. So I ask Jessica if we can go out to dinner.
She looks at me questioningly.
“It can be somewhere cheap. I do not care. I will even eat a Happy Meal.”
She furrows her brow for a moment but then nods her head. “Okay, let’s go to Mel’s, that little deli downtown.”
I remember with a sinking feeling that Sam has the Subaru. Jessica has not realized this yet, apparently. There is no place to eat close by. We are stuck. I hold my breath.
“Bundle up!” she says. “It’s a long walk, but the fresh air is good for us.”
I breathe out and get my coat.
It is freezing. Jessica pushes the stroller over the ice-encrusted sidewalk and streets. I shiver, thinking how cold it must be to sit in a stroller.
When we finally get there, Jessica orders hot chocolate for all of us, even her. Probably they do not have raspberry tea at Mel’s. I order a vegetable plate. Mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, double order of applesauce.
“So,” Jessica says, after working on feeding the kid his grilled cheese sandwich, “how’s your dinner?”
“It is quite delicious. The chef is not as good as you, however.”
Jessica is smiling at me. “Thanks.”
I shrug. “I am just being Quakerly. Speaking the truth.”
“Well, we try.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin and smiles wryly. “It was quite a change for me, of course, being a lawyer.”
“So you were a liar”—I do a fake cough—“oh, excuse me, I mean, a lawyer before becoming a Quaker?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Sam who b
rought you over from the Dark Side to Quakerhood?”
She laughs. And her face turns pink. So the answer is obviously yes. “I suppose he helped. But I became a convinced Quaker—”
“A what? Is that like being converted?”
“No. Converted implies that someone else has persuaded you to adopt a certain viewpoint. Quakers don’t do that.You explore and study the religion yourself.Then, if you’re convinced it’s right for you—”
“Then you are a convinced Quaker. But how did you become convinced?”
She smiles. “I guess I followed my Inner Light.”
I am tempted to look around for some pretend spotlight.
“Jessica,” I remind her, “when people are about to die, they see a light and follow it. If that is the light you are heading for, you might want to walk the other way.”
She laughs but then her face turns serious. “You know, you have a very strong Inner Light yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Jessica, you have an oversensitive light detector.”
“Me? Well, Sam says you have a blowtorch.”
I roll my eyes. “Please! Do not try to make me into a Quaker.”
“We’re not trying to make you a Quaker, Matt.We’re just trying to help you find a way to be happy.”
For some reason, I cannot think of anything flippant to say, so I stare at the gravy on my plate for a while. Finally, I need to say something. “So, are we ordering dessert, or what?”
“Sure, what would you like?”
“Apple crisp.”
Jessica laughs. “After a double order of applesauce?”
“Yes, it is apples in a completely different format.”
“Well put.” Then her face turns soft and serious and she stares at me for a moment. “You really like apple crisp, don’t you?”
I think about it and finally decide that it is okay to tell Jessica the truth. “Yes.”
“You know, I make a pretty good apple crisp myself.
How about I make it on some First Day?”
I swallow. “That”—I try to speak in a monotone, not rude, but still not eager—“that would be nice.”
Jessica smiles and looks at me like, well, like I believe a mother would. I am flustered and start shredding my napkin while I try to think of something to say to end the awkwardness. “I would still like it for dessert tonight, though.”
“Apple crisp, it is! With ice cream?”
I shrug with relief. “All right.”
Jessica orders the same thing for the kid. It is not a wise choice. His face is a sea of white foam with stubbly apple crumb rocks in it.
I look away.
Oh, my God.
It is him.
At a table. With the Wall.
The Rat.
I let out a scream. It is not a long scream. It is not a loud scream. And the diner is noisy. But it is still a scream and Jessica notices.
“What’s wrong, Matt?” She turns around to look where I am staring.
“Turn around!” I whisper, crouching low over the table.
She does, and crouches, too. “What is it?” she whispers back.
“A . . . a . . . dork,” I say.
Jessica and the kid both stare at me.
“From school. He’s just a . . .” I do not understand why I am at such a loss for words.There is so much to say about him. Too much. “Dork,” is all I can come up with. “Dork.”
“I see.” Jessica nods slowly, chewing her lip. “Well, we’re finished, anyway. Shall I go take care of the bill?”
I nod.
As she slides out of the booth, the Rat looks over at us.
“Jessica!” I scream. I did not mean for it to come out like that.
She freezes.
“Um, perhaps you could get some LifeSavers. For Sam. Wintergreen. Please.” In case he needs them.
Jessica straightens up and smiles.“Sure, Matt. Here, let me put Rory next to you while I go pay.”
She places the kid on my bench. I am still staying low, out of the Rat’s radar.
Jessica squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
I hear the Rat and the Wall, laughing. I wrap my arms around myself and mutter, “Shut up, dork.”
The kid watches Jessica leave and looks at me. “Maa? Maa?”
I stare at him. I have no words to comfort him. I cannot even comfort myself.
He starts moaning, “Saaam, Saaa-uh-Saaam.”
“Stop it!” I hiss. I do not want the kid using Sam’s name. I do not want the Rat to make the connection.
The kid picks up a fork and starts banging the table. I try to get it away from him but he is too quick. He grabs some Domino sugar and Sweet’n Low packets and throws them in the air. I reach over him, trying to catch a pink packet, flailing at it, almost hitting the Rat.
Who is standing by our table.
Leering at me.
I gasp.And sink back against the wall.Then I stop breathing. I cannot even scream.
But I do something strange. I reach my arm around the kid. I actually touch him. Even with his sticky apple ice cream face. I pull him up against me and the gack touches my sweater. But that is better than letting the Rat touch him. I know it is. I will not let that happen.
“So, who’s the retard?” He turns to the Wall, smirking.
I am staring at the Rat, clutching the kid, quaking.
The Rat turns back to us. “I mean, who’s the other retard?”
I do not know what to do. I want to say,“Shut up, dork,” to his face. But I do not want to die.
The Rat leans his greasy body over our table and sneers in my face. “Hey, moron,” he hisses, “I’m getting suspended because you told Patterson about the booze. You’re going to pay!”
I try to shake my head no because it was not me, but I cannot move. I cannot even raise my voice to summon Jessica.
I am stuck.
“Remember,” the Rat sneers.
I am frozen.
“I’ll get you.”
I can smell his breath.
“When you least expect it.” His spit hits my face.
“Shhh-uuup, dor!”
I jump.
The Rat flinches.
I turn to the kid with ice cream and apple crisp on his face. He is staring at the Rat. His face is red.
“Shhh-uuup, dor! Shhh-uuup, dor!”The kid is pounding the table with his little fist. And he is still staring straight at the Rat. Like he knows exactly what he is doing. I am staring at the kid in awe.
“What the hell is the little retard saying?”
I snap out of my awe and look at the Rat. He looks ready to pounce. I hold on to the kid even tighter.
But Jessica is here now, glaring at the Rat. “Please watch your language! And don’t call my son by that name!” She takes a sharp breath and says, slowly, quivery, “His—name—is—Rory.”
The Rat grunts, sneers at me with a Death Stare, and struts away. He goes back to the Wall, who are all laughing at him. He yells “shut up!” but they are still laughing.
Jessica’s hands are shaking as she puts the kid in the stroller. The kid is still shouting, “Shhh-uuup, dor!”
“Shhh,” says Jessica, through clenched teeth. She steps hard on the stroller pedals several times before the brakes release, and she pushes off with a lurch. She looks at the Rat through narrowed eyes as she whisks the kid by his table. It is not a look of the Friendly persuasion.
The kid gets in one more, “Shhh-uuup, dor!” and the Wall laughs again.
Outside, Jessica walks very quickly down the sidewalk. I understand. Her adrenaline is still pumping. There is no place for it to go. I want to tell her that it is okay, that it will be better soon, but her face is too pinched to hear, I think.
I walk fast, trying to keep alongside her. Inside of me, a smile is growing. The Rat has just been dissed by the kid. The kid outsmarts the Rat. Maybe the kid is smarter than I thought.
While we are stopped at a street corner w
aiting for the stoplight to change, I look down at the kid. And I gently squeeze his arm through his parka. He looks up at me and grins. “Ayyy!” He claps his mittened hands.
It is hard not to smile back. At least a little.
By the time we stop at another intersection a few blocks later, the kid is yawning and his eyes are closed. Jessica taps her foot on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change. When it does, though, she does not cross. Instead, she stares straight ahead. “Matt?”
She says it so softly I have to put my ear close to her to hear. “Yes?”
“Don’t you think we should teach Rory some phrases other than ‘shut up, dork’?”
I steal a look at her and see that her tight lips are spreading and the crinkly wrinkles around her eyes are growing. Then she puts her arm around my shoulders, leans her head against mine, and bursts out laughing.
So do I. I do not remember the last time I laughed. It is a strange echo. It sounds like it is coming from far away, like someone else is laughing, not me. It is a nasal wheezing sound, like an asthmatic trying to catch enough breath but already too far behind. But it is not painful. At all. I think, perhaps, I could even get used to it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I hear the phone ring downstairs and then Sam comes up to my room. His hands are in his pockets and his shoulders sag. “Matt, what’s going on with you and Mr. Morehead?”
How did he find out? I sigh. “It was just one stupid detention.”
Sam stands up straight. “Detention? For what?”
I stare at him. “I—I thought that was what you were talking about.”
“No, I got a call from the office that you’re failing the class. What’s going on? And what’s this detention about?”
I just shake my head. “He is an idiot.”
“Did you . . . is that something you’ve told him to his face?”
“Oh, come on, Sam! I am not stupid! I do not actually say such things.”
He is staring at me, biting his lip to hide a smirk.
“Okay, except to you. I would not say those things directly to a teacher.”
“Then why—”
“It was Fatima.”
“Who?”
“My term paper. I wrote it from the perspective of a Middle Eastern woman whose country was being invaded.”