Bristow County Line

By Jon Hyde

Set in the Texas hill country north of San Antonio and back dropped by the hoopla of Texas high school football, Jim risks his tenuous sobriety and relationship with his son to battle wealth, influence, and age old demons for one reason: it was the right thing to do.

Bristow County Line will appeal to fans of authors such as Greg Iles and James Lee Burke as it dances between traditional legal thriller and "Friday Night Lights." Mesmerizing, fully fleshed-out characters and a gritty spirituality fill the pages of this debut novel with a captivating storyline that will keep readers on the edge of their seats until the last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Hyde
• Release date: Sep 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465836359

Jon Hyde

Jon Hyde attended the U.S. Air Force Academy and graduated from the University of Texas at San Antonio and St. Mary's University School of Law. He has four sons and lives with his wife near Bulverde, Texas, and can be contacted by email at [e-mail]. Learn more about Jon at his website, http://jonhyde.webs.com.

Book preview

Prologue

The girl mewled as she felt a dull pressure impact her hind end. There was no pain--her body no longer felt pain; it was in survival mode, pooling what resources it had left to protect vital organs.

But something registered.

Almost simultaneous with the thud to her backside, she heard a sharp snap echo through the room. To her addled senses it sounded like the brittle crack of a bamboo piñata breaking before disgorging its cache of candy. Lying on her stomach face down on the filthy sheets, she struggled to breathe through one nostril and turned her head to the side to take short little gasps of the fetid air. Clinging to the last vestiges of her sanity, she floated backward in time to a happier, safer place.

~~~

It was her birthday, and all her friends and some of their parents were gathered in the backyard of the first house she remembered as a little girl. Freddy, the boy from next door, was blindfolded and being spun around in circles before excited children led him to the silver-horned, pink unicorn piñata hanging from the huge pecan tree that dominated the backyard. She looked at Freddy--he was so serious--and felt sorry for him when he missed completely with his first swing.

Freddy stood there quivering, his round cheeks red from exertion and embarrassment, made more noticeable by the glistening buttery sheen on his double chin--residue from the ears of corn (impaled on wooden skewers and slathered in margarine) he’d consumed early on in the party. He reached out with the broom handle and located the piñata, tentatively tapping it to get his bearings. This was his moment and he couldn’t afford to miss again. He was the chosen one--the one picked to wield the broom handle scepter that would yield the treasure trove of candy to the eagerly awaiting crowd; his one chance to be respected for his size, and he wanted that badly--to be known as something more than El Gordo, the fat kid.

The girl watched as her friends regrouped around the piñata--giggling, shrieking, and goosing each other--fighting for up-front positions as their parents stood by nervously, forced smiles on their faces while they secretly prayed their child would not get hit in the head by the feverish fat kid swinging the stick.

She looked at her dad standing next to one of his workers--the worker slightly borracho by the looks of it, his squinty eyes and silly grin giving him away as he tottered to reach for another beer out of the ice chest. Her dad looked over at her and smiled, giving her a wave. She beamed with delight and warmth flooded her body. He was so strong and handsome. My daddy, she thought.

Freddy clenched the broom handle until his pudgy hands turned white, took a deep breath, and swung the stick with everything he had. The broom handle sliced through the air hitting the unicorn square in the chest solidly enough to make the roll of fat around Freddy’s waist jiggle, and candy poured out in an avalanche.

There was a mad scramble, and amid the laughter and squeals the girl looked over at her mother standing with the other parents and saw the loving sparkle in her eyes. Her mother encouraged her, Go on, m'ija. Get some candy. But the girl didn’t want any. She just wanted to make the moment last forever: the sound of children laughing, the mongrel dogs happily sniffing the discarded corn cobs littering the yard, the smell of barbacoa lingering in the air. But most of all her parents--so happy, with pride and adoration in their eyes; she was at peace, complete…loved.

She looked down at the pretty yellow dress her mother had made her for her birthday and twirled around, watching it flare in a perfect circle around her knees until she lost her balance and fell backwards landing lightly on the ground. She didn’t get up. Instead she leaned back and placed her hands behind her head and looked up at the majestic pecan tree that provided an oasis of shade from the mild winter sun. Her eyes focused on a single leaf comprised of nine leaflets, lance-shaped with uniform curved tips and faintly toothed edges. She sighed contentedly at Nature’s flawless design and casually rolled over on her stomach with her head to one side. There, a few feet away, was what was left of the beautiful pink piñata.

It lay in a snarled heap, distorted and ugly. Amid the splintered wreckage--bamboo frame and Paper Mache mangled beyond recognition--was the unicorn’s silver horn, the only piece of the piñata left intact. It looked menacing and it frightened her, but she couldn’t look away no matter how hard she tried. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and she screamed but no sound came out. She gasped as her body suddenly turned ice-cold and a noise that made her shiver with terror jarred its way into her consciousness.

~~~

A blast of cold air blew in through the open door, hitting the girl’s nakedness. Her body was covered with sweat and other foul fluids--smeared on her skin, in her hair, and dripping from unspeakable places. She shivered uncontrollably on the soggy sheets as the frigid air from outside blew across her damp body; the fresh air cutting through the smell of stale smoke, sex, and vomit that pervaded the room, making the gagging stench all the more noticeable.

The demons were leaving now--jazzed with debauchery--laughing manically as they looked back at the girl to survey their accomplishment. The hideous noises coming from their mouths sounded like banshees fighting over choice pieces of a corpse and the girl thought she had finally lost her mind. When the door crashed close behind them it was if an evil mist had departed for another dimension, and she sobbed face down into the blood-spattered sheets praying they wouldn’t come back.

Abruptly, her stomach roiled and she let out a pitiful moan. Painful nausea cramped her insides, coming in waves, each one seemingly stronger than the last. Unable to contain the putrid feeling coursing through her bowels she soiled herself, and then mercifully, drifted into nothingness.

Chapter 1

Jim Taylor jerked his head up, startled out of his reverie by high beams bursting over the rise behind him. Rhythmic booming accompanied the lights emanating from a huge metal dreadnaught seemingly fixed on destruction as it barreled down on Jim’s car, which was fully stopped and patiently waiting on a red light at the bottom of the hill. Blinding light in his rearview mirror kept Jim from seeing exactly what, he was sure, was going to cause his imminent death, but regardless of what it was, it spawned instantaneous panic and a new found empathy for the sleepy Viet Cong in the movie Apocalypse Now, waking to the thundering chorus of a decidedly hostile Robert Duval hell-bent on surfing.

The booming grew louder as light flooded the interior of Jim’s ten-year-old Camry and his windows began to vibrate. What kind of idiot is playing his music that loud at six in the morning? Jim thought. So much for the Catholic priest Jim had been listening to on the tape player. The pleasant Indian accent of the founder of the Sadhana Institute had lulled Jim into a deep calm which was now shattered by the maniac behind him. Jim glanced at the stop light to see it was still red and checked traffic on the highway in case he had to run the red light to escape being rear-ended, or more likely, end up a squeeze toy in a monster truck show.

Hey, idn’t that Mr. Taylor? Dillon Peters drawled as he passed a joint to Lee Snyder behind the driver’s seat. Dillon, better known as Posse, fumbled for the electric switch that would lower the leather bucket seat to get his six-four, two hundred and seventy pound frame out of eyesight.

What the hell you doin’, man?! Lee yelled over the obscene rap music booming from the twelve inch woofers. Nobody can see through the fucking windows. They’re tinted so dark you could moon somebody and they couldn’t tell if you were smilin’ or shitin’. Besides, Mr. Taylor’s a faggot.

Posse thought that was hilariously funny in his drunk and stoned condition, and both boys started laughing as Lee laid on the brakes and brought the H2 Hummer to a squealing stop behind the Camry.

Jim squinted into his rearview mirror trying to dodge the glare from the headlights behind him. At least the son-of-a-bitch stopped. His heart was racing and he wished he had a rocket launcher or some other method of letting the asshole know how much he appreciated his music and bitchin’ ride. Mindless moron, he mouthed silently.

Right then the light turned green and Jim very slowly and deliberately turned left onto 281, hoping that this would somehow convey his displeasure. The other vehicle, which Jim could now tell was a black Hummer on steroids, complete with oversized tires and an eight inch lift, followed him and then accelerated past him on the left. It still had the dealer plates on it.

Wanting to see what type of person could irritate him this badly, he looked to his left, but could only see what appeared to be two balloons pressed against a darkly tinted passenger window.

As he watched the Hummer accelerate over the hill in front of him, Jim said the Serenity Prayer out loud: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Although a minor incident in the scheme of things, Jim knew how dangerous it was for him to start obsessing over perceived wrongdoing; such had been the downfall of many a recovering alcoholic. Having been sober for two and a half years now, Jim was not about to willingly allow some dumbass in a Hummer to get inside his head and ruin his day, or worse, threaten his sobriety.

His heart beating normally again, Jim cruised the rolling hills in silence enjoying the practically non-existent traffic and watched the twinkling house lights studding the surrounding countryside compete with the stars in the pre-dawn sky.

Barely discernible in the last grasp of night, Jim could still make out the shadows of the stoic remains of what was once a mighty mountain range. It might not grow anything besides cedar trees, but it sure is good to look at, he thought as he leaned back and relaxed.

~~~

The Texas hill country stretched from Austin in the north to San Antonio in the south, and was roughly confined between I-35 on the east and State Highway 16 on the west. US 281, the road Jim was on, ran straight up the middle. While not much good for farming and subject to drought, the last fifteen years had seen the scenic hillsides populated with expensive homes as retirees and Californians seeking relief from inflated real estate prices discovered the area. Despite the money brought in by these newcomers, they were not always welcomed by the native Texans, who tended to be very conservative and resistant to change. A bumper sticker Jim had seen recently summed up the locals’ attitude this way: Yankees SUCK!

As he watched the hills roll by, Jim’s mood lightened and he laughed at the recollection of the Hummer. Whatever floats your boat, he thought. Right now he was content, Clay had had a great game last night, the team had beaten their arch rival by twenty points, and provided he could get his papers graded by noon, he could hit a meeting, see his AA sponsor Fred, and be back at the house in time to throw something on the grill.

His good feeling sunk at the thought of Clay; they hadn’t been getting along well lately. We’ll see, he thought. Maybe Clay could invite Kaytee over and he could grill some burgers and they could all watch a movie together. It was worth a try at least.

~~~

Fifteen minutes later, Jim pulled into the school parking lot and wasn’t surprised to see from the pickups that lined the field house that the coaching staff was already there. After all these years, Jim still found it hard to believe how seriously Texans took their high school football. It was common knowledge that during football season, the coaches worked 24/7 for a solid five months.

For the most part, Jim got along well with the coaches. They respected the fact he’d played college ball, and being the dad of the starting middle linebacker didn’t hurt any. The only ruffled feathers he was aware of stemmed from not showing football players the favoritism they were accustomed to getting from other teachers. Only a few senior players took his civics course, but he had quite a few in his social studies class and he treated them the same as the rest of his students. Even then, the problem was not with the coaches, but the clashes he would have with Clay over being a dick to his buddies.

The football program at Crystal Canyon High School was led by head coach Gary Compton. Compton had been at CC when the doors opened some twenty-six years ago, and in that time the Cougars had won six state championships and taken district twelve times; no small feat in a 5A district that routinely had schools ranked state-wide and even nationally. The importance of football at CC was hard to miss as Jim walked into the state-of-the-art weight room and training facility courtesy of Snyder Concrete Industries. Snyder Concrete Industries, (or SCI as it was known), provided most of the concrete to the San Antonio metroplex and surrounding counties, and was probably the biggest corporate sponsor Coach Compton had landed over the years.

Jim didn’t see anybody as he made his way to the locker room, and after changing into his running gear, he headed out to the practice field. He leaned against a blocking sled to stretch his calf muscles, and looked up at the stadium adjacent to the practice field. He smiled and shook his head. There are colleges that don’t have facilities like this, he thought.

A sudden awareness of how good it was to be where he was, right then, right now, hit Jim as he started a slow jog past the stadium. Looking up at the sky he said Thank you, God out loud, and taking a deep breath of the crisp December morning air, broke into a brisk pace at the start of the track team’s long distance course, skirting the perimeter of the school.

Thanks to running, at forty-five Jim Taylor was in better shape than most twenty-year-olds. His six-foot, one hundred and eighty pound frame glided effortlessly along the route, his muscular arms swinging smoothly and easily with each stride. Ruggedly handsome, he was often mistaken for an early, Indiana Jones vintage Harrison Ford, which when he was drinking, he took advantage of shamelessly. Nowadays he was withdrawn and solitary, unsure of how to interact with people on a sober basis after nearly two decades of heavy drinking. Running helped fill the void in his social life as he slowly readjusted to a new way of living.

Two and a half years ago it wasn’t running though, it was walking--which is understandable given he was thirty-five pounds overweight and smoked two packs a day. Instead of going to his favorite watering hole, he started walking for thirty minutes, then for an hour, and then the walk turned into a slow jog. After ten months, he quit smoking completely and was able to run four miles in forty minutes without stopping. Today he would run the three mile route twice, and do it in less than fifty minutes.

While he couldn’t explain it, Jim wasn’t drawn to running for its positive side-effects; what hooked him was the peace it provided his tumultuous soul. There were times, usually around the third mile, where there was a clarity and sense of purpose that at other times eluded him. Even when his thoughts turned to his past or his relationship with Clay, the sound of the wind moving through the live-oaks would draw him back to center and the realization that life was just fine; it was his perception of it that needed changing.

Jim considered going another mile as he approached the end of his second trip around the course, but the thought of having to work Sunday if he didn’t get the papers graded prompted him to shift into a walk leading to the field house.

After a quick shower he headed to his classroom, a short stroll from the field house on the first floor of the west wing of the huge, main campus building. It was 7:45 a.m., and if he didn’t get distracted, he should be done by noon.

When he’d first started at Crystal Canyon, he wouldn’t have been done until late afternoon, but now--half way through his second year--he’d gotten the hang of it. In fact, it turned out he had somewhat of an aptitude for teaching, enhanced by a natural, theatrical flair that seemed to play well to seventeen and eighteen-year-old kids.

Well most of them anyway. His own son seemed to think that whatever he did was gay (meaning stupid) and done for the sole purpose of embarrassing him in front of his friends, which to Clay and his sixteen-year-old male ego meant everything.

~~~

With a grateful sigh, Jim inputted the last grade and put the stack of graded papers on the corner of his desk, ready to hand out on Monday. Instead of having a final exam, he’d assigned a research project with essay questions so his students would have the last two weeks of school to study for finals in their other classes. He laughed out loud as he thought of Diz’s answer to the essay question regarding the state of the nation. While most of his students answered it in a paragraph or two, Diz had written a five page, single spaced critique, neatly laying out the economic, environmental, social, and national security issues confronting the country. His concluding sentence read: In summary, WE ARE SCREWED, the end. He would have to talk to Diz about that.

Denzel Jackson, Diz for short, was the only mixed race student at Crystal Canyon and lived with his mother’s sister in a lower-income neighborhood on the outskirts of Altena, the county seat. Diz had never met his African American father, and when Hurricane Katrina forced his mother to move to Houston, he ended up with his aunt to make more room for his three sisters, all of whom had different fathers--just as absent--in the one-bedroom apartment provided by FEMA. Despite not having the most advantageous upbringing, Diz was a remarkably intelligent kid, and had an energy level in class that kept Jim on his toes. Energy level notwithstanding, Diz was no athlete, and Jim still bristled with anger at the memory of Clay’s off-handed remark in reference to Diz, complaining it wasn’t fair CC didn’t get any of Katrina’s fast welfare refugees, like the other schools in the area. Jim took a deep breath and thought it a good thing he had his AA meeting this afternoon.

~~~

As he walked back to the field house to get his car, he saw the parking lot was getting busy as players started arriving for their regular post-game film session. Scanning the parking lot, he saw Clay and Ben getting out of Ben’s distinctive Ford F-150, with its red and white, school colors paint job. Although it was probably the oldest vehicle in the parking lot next to his own, Ben loved his truck and took great care of it, probably because he was one of the few kids at CC who’d actually paid for his own transportation. Jim really liked Ben, and was glad he and Clay were buds.

Hey, Clay, hold up a minute! Jim shouted as he quickened his pace toward the field house. Clay ignored him even though it was unlikely he hadn’t heard him from the twenty-five yards or so that separated them. Hey, Clay! Jim shouted again, breaking into a slow jog toward the boys. Clay still didn’t respond, but then Ben said something to him and he slowly turned around toward his father.

Yeah, what? Clay said. Can you make this quick ’cause if I’m late for film I’m gonna get in trouble.

As Jim got closer he could tell something was wrong with Clay; not because of his surliness or for ignoring him--he’d gotten used to that--but because Clay’s face was the color of white pearl, and Jim would have bet money his eyes were puffy and blood-shot behind the Oakley wraparounds his Uncle Terry had bought him for his birthday.

You feelin’ all right? Jim asked, inwardly grimacing as soon as he’d asked the question, knowing that Clay probably felt like puking right now.

Yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?

He didn’t look fine, Jim thought as he said, Wondering if you wanted to invite Kaytee over tonight for some of dad’s famous hamburgers and a movie. You can ask Ben too, if you want.

I don’t know, maybe, I gotta go, Clay responded tersely, and turned and started walking away.

Jim stood there for a minute watching the back of Clay’s gray sweatshirt, wondering how he could talk to his son about drinking without getting the award for biggest hypocrite in the State of Texas, perhaps the world. Just when he was about to turn around and head back to his own car, Jim caught a glimpse of black metallic paint a couple of feet to Clay’s right.

Clay! Jim yelled.

What now! Clay shot back as he whirled around.

Easy stud, I was just curious about whose Hummer that is.

Clay glanced to his left. Lee’s, he shouted back over his shoulder as he turned away. His dad got it for him last week.

Maybe it was Jim’s turn to be defensive, but it sure sounded like "His dad" had some special emphasis on it.

Touch base with me if you want to do burgers, Jim yelled back, not liking the plaintive tone in his voice. Clay muttered Yeah, right, and gave Jim a backhanded wave that looked more like a get outta my face than see ya later.

Ben, holding the door, turned to give Jim an embarrassed smile, and then shook his head sadly before following Clay into the field house.

Chapter 2

As Jim rolled out of the school’s parking lot to start the forty-five minute ride into San Antonio, he couldn’t escape the fact that Clay’s obvious hangover was something that, given his own ignoble past and problems with addiction, had to be confronted. He neatly avoided dealing with Clay’s problem, however, like any good alcoholic, by looking to himself for the answer. The detour into these dark corridors elicited predictable self-condemnation.

Why am I such a fuck-up?! Jim shouted out loud, banging the steering wheel with his right fist and loathing himself for not having the strength to keep his life on track.

Trophy wife, beautiful home, prestigious job, heir to the throne--he had everything success was measured by. Except he couldn’t remember most of it; the black outs started occurring on a regular basis when Clay entered first grade.

Jim was pretty sure that Linda had been a good mom, although he wasn’t positive given he only had fleeting memories of Clay’s childhood. He did remember taking Clay to the zoo when he was still in a stroller, but only because he got in a yelling match with a little old lady by the duck pond. She just couldn’t believe a father would smuggle bourbon into the zoo by hiding it in his child’s baby bottle. Jim got in one slurred rejoinder before the lady’s shrill voice set the peacocks screaming to the point where panicked visitors started gathering up their children, thinking a wild animal was on the loose. If only they knew.

Jim’s thoughts turned back to Linda as he approached the outer loop surrounding San Antonio. He had met Linda in Dallas his second year out of law school. His college roommate had gotten Jim a job at his dad’s law firm, where Jim was assigned to handle a docket of about two hundred and fifty breast implant cases. In those days, Dow-Corning was settling cases that fit a certain profile for 30 to 50K a pop. Jim rarely saw a client as they were filtered through a review process; he spent most of his time identifying the one out of ten files Dow would pay on.

He was coming back to the office from a deposition one day, when he couldn’t help but notice a stunningly beautiful blond vixen in a short red dress sitting demurely in the waiting room. When he reached his office, a phone call to the receptionist revealed the beautiful blonde was a breast implant walk-in. Not fooling anyone, he informed the paralegal he would handle the intake interview himself.

Linda didn’t really have a claim; she just wanted to sue somebody because she believed one of her breasts was slightly larger than the other. Even after close examination on their first date, Jim was never convinced there was a difference, but he was able to slip her case in with some legitimate claims and got her fifteen grand. She used the money to have her already mouth-watering body touched up by Dallas’s top plastic surgeon.

Physically, she was magnificent. She was also high maintenance. Some years were better than others in the personal injury business, but even in the years he took home $600,000 plus, Linda always managed to find a way to spend it.

She had filed for divorce after her first (and only) visit to him in rehab when he told her he had quit the firm. Although the divorce petition was peppered with words like substance abuse and alcoholic, his alcoholism wasn’t the real issue. She was pissed off he’d walked away from his lucrative position.

In her last phone call trying to get him to change his mind about quitting, she’d candidly told him she didn’t give a damn about his drinking as long as he could still function, meaning, still able to bring home the big bucks. The way she saw it, there was no reason for her to suffer just because he wanted to find himself and this mumbo jumbo Higher Power he was going on about. He was just being selfish.

The memory of Linda made his stomach knot up as he turned into the strip center where the AA meeting was located and found a parking spot.

Maybe she’s right, he said as he exited his car and started walking toward the building with his head down.

~~~

When the meeting let out, Jim and Fred headed to Starbucks. Their usual routine was to go to the meeting together, and then have coffee where they would discuss anything and everything. Since it was a beautiful day, and not too cold, they left their cars in the parking lot and walked the two blocks to the coffee shop. Jim felt a bounce in his step that wasn’t coming from his Nike Outlet running shoes. He couldn’t explain it, but he always felt…lighter, after a meeting.

In the pregnant silence following the request for a topic at the meeting they just left, Jim had hesitantly suggested relationships. Without getting into specifics, Jim had started the topic by sharing how he had screwed up as a dad, and couldn’t figure out how to connect with his teenage son. As he heard himself regurgitate his problems, Jim realized he wasn’t offering any solutions, and was sounding like a newcomer on his pity pot. He ended weakly with, I guess the only thing I can do is pray and trust God.

The group’s feedback had been less than flattering, but, as he had come to find out, exactly what he needed. Comments ranged from, Quit your fucking whining and thank God you still have a child, to, Take it one day at a time, and be grateful you’re sober and can be there for your son.

The collective experience as shared by the group made one thing clear--he was not alone. Member after member shared their own stories of damaged and destroyed relationships. He was in a room filled with people who had screwed up their lives. Amazingly, a large number of these same people now had restored and healthy personal relationships, and were more vibrant, happy, and productive then they had ever been before. Jim didn’t understand how it worked, he was just glad that it did and that he was part of it. And glad too that he had Fred to go to for the more personal stuff that needed to be discussed in private.

Among other things, Fred was a retired, full bird colonel who’d flown F-105’s in Vietnam. He’d gone on to get his PhD in psychology from Stanford, and ended his working career as a clinical psychologist in California, or the Land of Fruits and Nuts, as he would put it. His third marriage went south after he wrapped his Miata convertible around a telephone pole and got sued by his passenger, a topless dancer by the name of Busty or Dusty…Fred could never remember her name. What he did remember is that after that, he made his way to AA and had been sober ever since.

Jim met Fred at his first AA meeting fresh out of rehab when, bright eyed and semi-delusional, Jim enlightened the group with his new found knowledge about alcoholism….or so he thought. Fred had walked over to him after the meeting and said, Professor, you’re way too smart for this program--you better let me dumb you down a bit. Smiling foolishly, Jim had nodded his head, yes, slyly thinking the crusty old fart had recognized his grasp of the subject matter and needed his help. Grandiosity, (or being full of shit, as Fred would later point out) was but one of Jim’s glaring character defects.

Fred lazily stirred sweet-n-low into his oversized coffee mug. So, what’s going on? he asked, looking at the swirls he was making in the coffee.

I don’t know if I can handle him anymore, Fred, Jim started out, referring to Clay, …and since I can’t send him back to his mom, I don’t know what to do. Jim kept his voice low, as if the chalkboard behind the counter read Loose lips Sink Ships, instead of Try an Eggnog Latte.

Fred put his spoon down, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together, setting them just above his belt line. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. At the bottom of the exhale, he fixed Jim with a penetrating gaze. From experience, Jim knew he now had Fred’s undivided attention; the lighthearted banter they’d engaged in up to now was over.

Start from the beginning, Fred said softly.

It started last weekend when you were in California visiting your daughter for Thanksgiving, Jim began. Clay wasn’t in that great a mood. He was glad they made the playoffs, but because they did, he had to practice and wasn’t able to go see his mom in Dallas. She’d promised to take him to buy some new clothes at Abercrombie & Fitch and places like that, so the atmosphere was a little tense from the beginning. Jim paused to sip his coffee and continued. So on Sunday, I’m doing the wash and low and behold, I find a joint in his jeans pocket. When I ask him about it, he blows up…started telling me how there was nothing wrong with it, that top athletes like that Olympic swimmer, Phipps or Phelps or whatever his name is, smoked pot, and he just couldn’t understand why I had a problem with a little weed. Jim took another sip of coffee, realized he was talking too loud, and proceeded in a lower voice.

And now I’m positive he got shit-faced last night. He looked like crap when I saw him this morning. Fred seemed to be dozing, eyes half closed, but Jim knew he was listening to every word so he continued. I stayed up until 1:30 last night--he must have come in sometime after that ’cause he was there when I left for the school this morning. Fred opened his eyes and lifted his left hand up to his face, placing two fingers on his cheekbone and curling the others so they rested on his chin.

I’m used to him getting in around 12:30 or 1:00 after a game, which gives him plenty of time to shower, change, get something to eat and get one of his buddies to drive him home, Jim said, breaking eye-contact with Fred and staring intently at the coffee cup cradled in his hands.

Fred, I just can’t trust him, he said sullenly, and looked up at Fred beseechingly. He got in-school suspension for skipping school two weeks ago…I know he was out smoking pot. When I try to talk to him about it, he flat out lies…sneers and laughs in my face. I lose it, and the communication, what little there is, goes out the window. Jim paused, and looked down dejected. Anything I say just doesn’t get through. I’ve used my best logic on him--it’s like talking to a brick wall. And now drinking like his old man….

Jim sighed, and went on, With my history, I don’t have any credibility with him. He thinks I deserted his mom and can’t hack it in the real world. In his mind, I’m lower than snail snot--and I’m pretty sure that if things don’t get better he’ll demand to go live with his mom, regardless of Humberto. He had it pretty easy there…lots of money and no supervision.

Jim’s eyes narrowed and his voice turned ugly, You know his mother told him I used some fancy, lawyer trick to get custody of him just so I could hurt her. His heart beat faster at the thought of Linda’s duplicity and the damage it was doing--had already done--to Clay.

Fred shifted forward in his seat and held his hand up for Jim to stop. He’d known Jim for over two years now, and didn’t need much background. He knew that Linda had taken Clay and moved back to Dallas soon after the divorce--that once there, she married a Venezuelan dermatologist her friends had referred her to for the latest beauty treatments.

He also knew that her new husband, Humberto, wasn’t too happy having another man’s strapping teenage boy under his roof….that there was a lot of tension between the two.

For his part, Clay didn’t seem to get along with his new stepdad much either. When school let out early on the last day before summer, he accidentally drove Humberto’s new Ferrari into the swimming pool after walking into the house to find Humberto and his mom having sex on the living room floor. That summer, Clay’s two weeks with Jim were permanently extended.

Does Clay know that moving back to Dallas isn’t an option? Fred asked, taking a drink of his coffee.

Miraculously, Jim had been awarded full custody of Clay after a non-contested proceeding he wasn’t even aware had been filed. When Jim called to find out what was going on, Linda had frostily told him, Humberto thought it best for the boy to be with his father. After all, he’s your child. You deal with him.

No, Jim responded, I haven’t had the guts to tell him--he’s just a kid--but I’m gonna have to tell him sooner or later. Like I said, if things blow up, I’m pretty sure he’ll want to go live with his mom. A silence ensued that only lasted a minute, but to Jim seemed interminable.

No, you don’t, Fred said at last in a no nonsense voice. Jim hated it when Fred went into his Colonel mode; it usually meant he was going to have to do something he didn’t like.

Why? Jim asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

Because, Fred replied without skipping a beat, it’s time for you to grow up. Jim hoped his face didn’t betray the swift and powerful humiliation that jolted his insides.

Look, Jim, Fred went on, you didn’t just screw up your life, you screwed up Clay’s life too, and it’s time to make amends. Let’s leave Linda out of it for now. This isn’t about her anyway, it’s about you and Clay. Jim didn’t like where this was going, but