After the Race

By Michael B Jones

After the Race recounts the unraveling of the family Reed. and the raw, serpentine trails the father-son pair of Wayne—an Army Special Forces veteran whose reckless pursuit of contentment propels the story—and Charles—a gifted runner whose effortless successes on the track contrast his struggles everywhere else—blaze through, over and around Wayne’s worsening alcoholism and deteriorating mental health. The plot ricochets between vaulted ceilings—an enormous financial windfall, near misses on distance running records, romance and reunion—and concrete basement floors—arrests, bar-fights, accidents, near-death experiences, the Blizzard of 1993, and the collapse of North American Honeybee populations.

The result is a character-driven exploration of the tension between appetite and restraint, between gunpowder and glue, set deep in Virginia apple country, along the northern rim of the Shenandoah Valley.

Early reviewers have drawn favorable comparisons between After the Race and Pat Conroy's The Great Santini, as well as Daniel Woodrell's Winter's Bone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael B Jones
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9780988886414

Michael B Jones

Michael B. Jones was born in Palm Springs, CA, and grew up in northern Virginia (primarily Woodbridge & Winchester). In 2000, he moved to Chapel Hill, NC, to study literature and creative writing at UNC, where he graduated with highest honors in fiction-writing in 2003. He won numerous awards for poetry and short-fiction throughout his undergraduate career, before abandoning the short form to focus on developing and refining a longer project. He has at various times been a weatherman, musician, customs broker, marketer, farmhand, and IT professional, among other occupations. He is an avid runner and traveler, and currently resides in Chapel Hill. Ten years in the making, After the Race is his debut novel.

Book preview

Part 1

(Summer 1991-Spring 1992)

1

Charles knelt behind a waist-high row of forsythia, soaking his blue jean knees in damp mulch. The long white finger stretching from the policeman's flashlight picked through the branches, then continued down the fence's boards. Blue beams shot from the cruiser parked at the curb, strobing the fence and row of houses behind it.

The flashlight's beam moved back through the bushes, down the fence a final time, and winked out. The door of the black-and-white opened, its radio squawking and crackling. Charles plucked a blade of grass off the bright red mower in front of him and shredded it.

The car's door shut, the fan belt screeched, and the motor turned over. The squeal bounced around the houses and back yards of Franklin Lane. A dog howled and dug along the base of the fence.

The engine and fan belt noises stopped. The dog's barking echoed alone in the night.

The light reappeared on the bushes and neared Charles. It crawled through the branches, meticulous this time, and flickered as it passed over the Toro's glossy black handle. It hovered on the spot of gloss, traced the thin line to the mower's base, and inspected the dirt around it. It stopped on Charles's sneaker.

All right, son. Get out of there.

Charles darted from the bush.

Stop! the cop shouted.

Charles made it halfway down the thirty feet of fence between the shrub and the corner before the beam overtook him. Running was pointless. He halted.

Come on over here, the cop said, hand on his baton. Now, he said, as Charles neared the cruiser, since you didn't have the sense not to run, I reckon you haven't got the sense not to run again. Turn around and let me cuff you.

The cop grabbed the back of Charles's shirt and pushed him against the trunk of the car. He clacked handcuffs over Charles's wrists and spun him.

Why'd you run? he asked, moved the flashlight beam into Charles's eyes.

I guess I got scared.

Should I bother to ask why you were hiding in a bush with a lawnmower at two in the morning?

I was borrowing it.

Borrowing it?

Yes sir. My friend Pablo's mom said I could use it while they were on vacation. He stepped toward the cop. Could you get that light out of my eyes? It hurts.

The cop lowered the beam to the center of Charles's t-shirt. I have to say, when someone tells me he's borrowing someone else's property in the middle of the night, I'm inclined to think he's lying, he said. His face was lean, his chin strong. His broad shoulders and thick arms swelled his uniform shirt. His gold star glittered, and a dry spot of coffee darkened the en of the Jenkins on his nametag.

Being inclined to think a thing doesn't make it so, Charles said.

Maybe not, Jenkins replied after a pause. How old are you?

Almost sixteen, sir. And I'm telling the truth. I'd ask you to call Pablo's parents, but, like I said, they're out of town.

So you decided to pick it up at two in the morning?

I've been busy.

Why don't I call your parents? I'm sure they can straighten this all out.

They're not—

Car 231, the radio on the policeman's waist crackled.

Go ahead. Jenkins gave the radio's volume knob a twist.

A resident in the Franklin Lane area just phoned in a complaint for a stolen lawnmower.

Jenkins aimed the flashlight back toward the bush. Could you describe the mower?

Copy 231 ... Push-mower is a red Toro, black handle, serial number—

10-4, dispatch. Property recovered, one Caucasian male teenager in custody. Send unit to fence line on Franklin Lane to retrieve mower.

A liar and a thief? Jenkins asked, flicking off the flashlight. He opened the cruiser's back door. Your folks must be proud.

Charles watched the moths circling a lamppost on the other side of the street. They burned and smoked when they hit the bulb. He tried not to think what would happen when he got home.

You have the right to remain silent, Jenkins recited. He pushed Charles into the seat, slammed the door, strode around the front of the cruiser, and slid into his seat.

This is my first time in a cop car, Charles said, sliding his hands to the small of his back to take the pressure off his wrists.

There doesn't have to be a second. Jenkins removed a pen from his shirt-pocket and scribbled a report. His face glowed a soft green in the LED lights from his dash and radio console.

You might as well take me straight to the station. Dad will just tell you to haul me to jail anyway.

I won't say it's never happened, but you'd be surprised what a parent will understand. You shouldn't have lied though.

He'll be so pissed about the stealing, I doubt he'll give a damn about a lie or two.

I wouldn't be so sure of that. Sometimes a thief steals because he thinks he has to. But lying is always a choice. He pocketed his pen, slid the clipboard under his seat, and pulled the cruiser onto the road.

2

Wayne's eyelids sprang open, the familiar sense of drowning heavy on his chest. He grasped his alarm clock and pulled it close, then tossed it back onto the pine bedside table. Its hands showed one-thirty, but didn't specify morning or afternoon. It had been months since it mattered when he slept or woke, so Wayne didn't care enough to stand and shift the thick dark curtains to check. He guessed A.M., since he'd been waking in the middle of the night a lot lately.

Half an hour later, he emerged from his pile of blue blankets and rose to face the day. He shuffled into the bathroom, the plastic protective shoe on his right foot scratching and clicking across the linoleum. He flicked on the light over the mirror and gazed into his lusterless brown eyes. He ran a hand through his wild beard and flattened his thinning patch of short black hair.

He brushed his teeth, popped a couple codeines, and hobbled down his townhouse's stairs to the kitchen. A leaning stack of dishes towered over the sink. The trashcan's plastic lid collected dust in a corner, tossed aside to make room for crushed cans, pizza boxes, TV dinner cartons, and burrito wrappers.

He shambled to the fridge. Its wire shelves were barren except for a bottle of ketchup, some ancient ranch dip, and three cases of beer. He grabbed two beers and pried a beef and bean burrito from the drifts of frost filling half the freezer. He slid his brunch into the microwave, spun the knob, then popped a beer and guzzled. Then, as he did every day while waiting for the burrito to cool, he hobbled into the living room, flopped onto the couch and prepared to inspect what remained of his right foot.

He undid a Velcro fastener, set his shoe aside, and unwound the bandage. The wrap grew yellower, ruddier, and tougher to separate as he worked closer to the wound. He paused at the blood-soaked cotton strip packed into the split in the side of his foot. He finished his beer, opened the other, and chugged until his eyes watered. He pinched the cotton strip between two fingers, shut his eyes, inhaled, and jerked.

The pain was like being electrocuted and burned. The nerves along the side of his foot stung like hornets. The burn shot through his ankle and radiated up his leg until the whole right side of his body felt like a throbbing, aching limb. The gash along the side of his foot opened like a fleshy canyon, the still visible fifth metatarsal at its base. The four-inch-long, two-inch-wide and inch-deep crater, held together by pins, stitches and staples, glowed like tenderized steak as it was bathed in oxygen for the first time in twenty-four hours.

He dropped the bloody patch, his face beaded with sweat. He moaned.

His mind ran to the corner where he hid his memory of the accident. It was late January, and he stood atop an aluminum ladder in a warehouse full of tires, his breath thick and white, his fingers stiff and dry. He dropped another wire nut, cursed the unknown idiot responsible for stowing the breaker box high on the wall, a misguided attempt to keep it safe from forklifts ferrying stacks of tires. It was way out of code, the reason they'd been happy to hire an unlicensed electrician.

The flashlight he'd bungeed to the top of his ladder emitted just enough weak yellow light to work by. He pulled a plastic cap from a pair of wires—wires that should have been spliced and cold.

But they weren't twisted together, and they were scalding. The red wire lashed his wrist. Current popped and flashed through his body, and he smelled seared hair. He was hurled from the ladder, tumbled through eighteen feet of empty space to the cold concrete floor.

The next thing he remembered, a face leaned over him:

Mr. Reed, the graying, bearded man said, are we glad to see you! We thought we'd lost you there for a bit. 60 amps would kill a lot of men. Such a long fall onto a concrete floor would kill a whole lot more. Would have killed you too, if you hadn't landed on that leg. I'm about to operate on the luckiest man alive.

Wayne suspected his mind blended several conversations. Emily, his wife, assured him nobody had talked with him until three days after the fall, when he'd first regained consciousness. He'd been pumped so full of painkillers he hadn't recognized her. He'd called her Cassandra.

Maybe he'd imagined the whole conversation. He'd forgotten most of February. Or maybe the man in the white coat had been God. All he knew for sure was he'd heard the word lucky at least a hundred times in the last five and a half months:

You're lucky to be alive.

You should feel lucky you didn't lose the leg, and extremely fortunate we were able to reconstruct the foot.

You'll never run again, but, if you're lucky—and we know you are—you'll be walking in no time.

He got up from the couch and hopped into the kitchen for the burrito and a few more beers. Without his plastic shoe, he felt like an amputee who'd misplaced his artificial limb. He washed down another codeine and devoured the burrito in three bites.

He returned to the living room, flicked on the television, and learned from the Weather Channel that it was 2:15 A.M. Monday morning. There'd be football to watch in the evening, but not much worth looking at until then. He switched the set to a shopping channel when he grew tired of the eight-minute weather loop, and went back to work on the six-pack he'd finish before cleaning and redressing the foot. The house was silent except for the TV.

Charles, his fifteen-year-old son, was sleeping upstairs, and wouldn't say two words to Wayne on his way out. Emily, near the end of a two-year tour of duty in Guam, wouldn't be back for another two months. She'd flown home when the doctors weren't sure he'd pull through, but returned to the island after a couple of weeks. Except for the boy and his television, Wayne Reed was alone.

The codeine and beer spun his head, and the current infomercial grew hard to follow. He drifted off, lost in fading frantic chatter about a once-in-a-lifetime sale on knife sets that never needed sharpening.

3

Wayne opened his eyes. He'd tried to snooze through the incessant pinging of the door-bell, but it was replaced by knocking that crescendoed into hammering.

He sat up, wondered why anyone on God's whirling earth would pound on his door after midnight. He rubbed his eyes, but the room stayed blurry and dim. He stood, wobbled to the foyer, and pressed his eye to the peephole. He couldn't make anything out. He turned the handle, pulled the door.

Good evening, Mr.—

What's the problem? Wayne asked. His head cleared when he saw the cop.

It's quite a story.

It better be, with you raising that kind of racket at this hour. Just give me the highlights, he said, smiled at Charles, tried to look understanding.

It's a mess, Mr. Reed, the cop said, shaking his head. He crossed his thick arms and frowned. I'm afraid Charles might have to do community service. Might even have to do a stretch in the juvy.

What did he do?

He stole a lawnmower. And lied about it.

Not my son. Wayne straightened his back, licked his chapped lips. I raised him better than that. Didn't I, boy?

Yes sir. Charles's eyes were focused on the mat.

I'm releasing him into your custody, but the owner plans on filing a complaint first thing in the morning. He said he wouldn't have minded if the property had just been returned, but when he found out Charles tried to lie his way out of it ... Well, you might need to teach him a thing or two about honesty.

Is that all? Wayne asked. He crossed his arms, rolled his head back and gazed down at the cop. Or do you have any other suggestions on how I should raise my son?

I didn't mean to offend.

I know exactly what you meant. Now, if there's nothing else ...

You can go, the policeman said. He nodded at Charles, who darted between Wayne and the doorjamb. You'll probably get a call in the morning about a family court date. Unless you have anything further, I'll be on my way.

Charles huddled in a corner of the living room. His father stopped in the dining room, about fifteen feet away, and pushed up the sleeves of his faded brown t-shirt. His face glowed crimson in the chandelier's light. I've tried talking, right?

Yes sir.

Over the course of said talking, I've told you it's wrong to steal and lie, right?

Yes sir, Charles said. His father reciting rhetorical questions was never a good sign. He was trying to make himself angrier.

Weren't you listening?

I was.

Then I'm confused. Did you believe me?

Yes.

So you took my words as suggestions, then, right?

What?

When I said, 'Don't steal and don't lie,' you must have thought I said 'I would prefer you didn't do these things,' right?

No sir.

Oh ... so you just chose to disobey me? He removed his belt and dangled it, buckle down.

I can explain.

What are you going to explain? He stepped toward Charles, wincing as he shifted his weight to his right foot. Case of mistaken identity? Someone else stole the mower, and you were in the wrong place at ... two in the morning?

Charles pushed himself against the wall.

His father limped closer. The humor softening his features vanished. He panted, and his pupils were wide black discs.

Come on, he said through clenched teeth, closing to within six feet. Don't make me take another step. He raised his good foot, drew the belt back.

Charles ducked, sprinted toward the sliding glass door. His father hobbled into his path, but Charles juked and spun like a halfback, sliding the door before his father got a hand on him. His father grabbed at his shirt, lost his balance, and dropped.

Charles darted onto the concrete patio behind the house, back into the muggy night.

He hurdled the stuffed black trash bags covering the porch, ran through a patch of trees, across the road, and into the woods. Branches scratched his face and arms and tugged at his clothes. At a small clearing, he sank to the ground, rested his back against a large oak, and listened to crickets and frogs.

Moonbeams filtered through thick branches overhead, cast shadows that stirred in a light breeze. Each shifting pattern of darkness seemed to conceal Wayne, belt in hand, hobbling closer.

Charles thought back to his last conversation with his mother, before the Navy put her on a plane back to Guam.

I don't have a choice, she'd said, standing near the trunk of an idling taxi.

Why can't I go with you?

Because your father can't make it onto a plane, and needs you here.

Like he needs another busted foot! Charles shouted. All he's said since he got home is, 'Get away from the TV,' and 'Leave me alone.'

He'll never run again. He'll never parachute again. No more National Guard. He may never walk without a limp. How do you expect him to feel?

What about me?

There's more to the world than 'what about me.'

He's going crazy, Mom. Yesterday, he accused me of stealing his pills. Last week, he said I was leaving things laying around so he'd trip over them.

It's 'lying around,' and he still needs time to get adjusted. She touched his cheek, smiled. He'll be fine.

You've been gone over a year. You don't know what's happening. How can you say what he's going to be? He's always drinking. Now he's popping pills, too. He can't even stand half the time.

You're exaggerating. She looked over his shoulder, through the kitchen window, toward where Wayne napped on the couch. He's the same man he's always been. What he needs to get through this just covers it up. Can't you see?

I know what he is. You think you see him better from the middle of the Pacific than I do from here?

He didn't see the slap coming, a hard shot to his left cheek.

Stop it. You don't know the first thing about what he's going through. She hoisted her green duffle bag and red plastic suitcase into the trunk of the cab. I have to go. She hopped into the taxi, long red hair waving in the March afternoon breeze.

Charles shredded a piece of bark. A pair of headlights moved down the road. The rumble from the big truck's exhaust echoed through the woods.

Things had been rough between his parents for ages. The skirmishes had started when Charles was ten, back in 1986, after his father returned from an eight-month temporary duty assignment for the Army Reserves. The details were classified. Charles's mother said it had something to do with the Persian Gulf, but she told Charles not to expect details.

When he returned, he brought back more than a love for jumping out of airplanes. He spent every Sunday on the couch, crushing cans at every quarter, then passed out before the end of the late game. When football season ended, he watched basketball.

He spent long stretches of time looking for better jobs. He grew a beard and said his bosses didn't appreciate him. Except for his monthly Army drill weekends, he stopped leaving the couch with regularity. Five years, two drunk driving arrests—which really pissed Charles's mom off—and a handful of low-paying jobs later, his father had been primed for detonation. All he'd needed was a spark.

The fights after his father's return, the muttering about who spent what when and where, had all been preludes to disintegration. Some nights, his father wouldn't come home until late in the morning. Other nights he wouldn't come home at all. His mother's surprise orders for a two-year tour of duty in Guam, delivered early in the summer of 1989, had thunked home with the planning of a sniper's bullet.

After the accident, his father didn't talk about his high school football days anymore. He quit telling stories about Army Reserve missions and growing up in Danville, Virginia. He gave up reading. He even lost touch with Bob and Hugh, two buddies from his time in the Marines. In previous summers, his father, Bob, and Hugh took Charles camping. The adults got drunk and told jokes and stories while Charles lit the fire and looked for places to fish. When they were boozed up enough, they let Charles tool around in the Jeep and laughed whenever he stalled it. Now, his father's only friends were cold beer and the flickering faces on the television.

Mom would be back in August. Things might get better, or at least be different. After the first two months of the summer, even the narrow hallways and cramped classrooms of Madison High School were an oasis on the horizon.

He stared into the dry purple sky painted by the predawn sun. He dropped his head back to his hands. He'd wait until later in the morning to make sure his father was down for the count.

4

Wayne sat on the living room floor, his back against the sliding glass door, his foot throbbing. He was waiting for the pain to subside before mobilizing. He couldn't believe his son had taken off.

When Emily got pregnant and refused to have an abortion—a reasonable request, given their ages and financial problems at the time—he'd tried to embrace fatherhood. The first ten years or so reminded him of tending the backyard garden in Danville, consisting of watering (providing sustenance), weeding (punishment), checking soil pH (grades and physicals) and ensuring adequate light (words of encouragement, toys, and such).

Since his return from an eight-month mission in the summer of 1986, he'd done far less cultivating. His son's welcome was delivered from arm's length, and his efforts to reenter the boy's life frustrated both of them. He'd resented it at first, but shrugged it off in time. One of his father's mantras was, Some horses, you can't lead to water.

After his wife's departure for Guam, Wayne adopted a minimalist approach to child-rearing. In the six months since his accident, it had become entirely hands-off. He spent most of his time too confused to know what was happening anyway, so the less he did, the fewer chances he had to make mistakes. His most recent parenting had more in common with growing a Chia Pet than tending an honest to goodness garden. The kid took care of himself, and it was hard to screw things up. The biggest difference was other people interfered when he forgot to water the kid. First Charles's teachers, then his guidance counselors, and now the police had said, in various ways, not enough attention was being paid.

Sometimes, Wayne almost forgot his son was there. But once in a while, he noticed the kid sitting in a corner and how much he'd grown. Wayne didn't beat himself up about it too much though. He hadn't chosen to fall. He didn't choose to need codeine. He didn't send Emily overseas. He was giving Charles the space he wanted, fostering independence.

He'd never understood the point of having children. It was different when parents worked and needed labor. But in the information age, with the death of the extended family, breeding seemed silly. People didn't expect their children to take care of them later in life. Electronics, cars, diapers, even houses were disposable. Taking care of old, useless things was bad for industry, un-American. What was true of things was true of people, in time.

The pain in his foot diminished. He pushed himself up, fished a couple codeines from his pocket and washed them down. He grabbed a couple more beers and sketched out a plan of operation. His military experience had taught him, to develop the best strategy, he needed to reflect on past experiences, determine available resources, and build in flexibility to account for the fog of war (random chance, weather, statistical noise, and incidentals).

His own youthful run-ins with the law had all been minor incidents until his junior year of high school. Then, in a fit of recklessness he'd never forgiven himself for, he and his brother had burgled The Sud, Danville's only liquor store. By the time the cops showed up, he and Ed had polished off more than half a fifth of whiskey and were loading boxes of assorted liquors into the back of their father's green Ford pickup. The police were unimpressed with their slurred explanation. They tossed Wayne and Ed in jail for the night.

A week later, before the Honorable Louis Phelps, Wayne had been silent and contrite.

Just a couple of boys, having a little fun, Jeff, his father, told the judge. They never meant any harm. Just got a bit liquored up. You know how it goes.

No, Mr. Reed, I don't. What I do know is that breaking into a liquor store and attempting to deprive its owner of his lawful property constitutes a great deal more than 'a little fun' in the eyes of the law. He eyed Wayne. I assume you're performing poorly in school?

No sir. I make good grades, and some college scouts are coming out to the game next week to see me play.

I see. I don't think they'll look kindly on a convicted felon, do you? He sipped his water. I'm giving you a chance I'm not sure you deserve. There's a war in need of strong bodies and able minds. Your choice is jail or the Marines. You have until 5 P.M. today to decide. You're released into your father's custody until then. We're adjourned.

Both choices sucked, but Vietnam was far away and alive with smoke, chaos, and gunfire. His brother's home for the next two to four years was tiny and cold. Wayne made up his mind before leaving the courthouse.

He manned the front gate at Reykjavik Joint Service Base in Iceland for two years and eight months. He jumped at the chance to get out when the Marines offered early separations to soldiers in non-critical fields, following the cessation of Vietnam hostilities.

He hadn't liked a single thing about the corps until after he separated. Then he missed the respect he'd received in uniform, the looks and winks from women. He was spared the scorn and abuse of anti-war protest, having spent his whole enlistment overseas. The uniform never brought him anything but smiles, nods, and salutes.

The Army Reserves allowed him to sport the camouflage without having to maintain his military bearing, discipline, or sobriety for more than a weekend at a time. In the Marines, he'd never been anything more than a glorified rent-a-cop pulling all night shifts of gate guard duty. The Army made him a Green Beret, Special Forces, with a pair of shiny silver jump-wings on his chest and a golden sword and lightning bolt patch on his shoulder.

If he could have skipped the Marines and joined the Reserves later in life, everything would have turned out fine. But his forced enlistment straight out of high school ruined his hopes of getting a college degree, of earning a football scholarship and making it to the pros. By the time he returned from Iceland, he felt too old to start college or learn a trade.

All of his subsequent troubles would have been avoided if he hadn't broken into that liquor store. He wouldn't have enlisted. He'd have gone straight to college, and on to the NFL. Or maybe he'd have become a history professor, written a book or two. He'd even thought his gifts for making up stories and pulling wool over people's eyes would make him a good lawyer, and he'd toyed with the idea of following a history degree with law school. At the very least he'd have landed a job that wouldn't electrocute him.

If his father had worked him over more, Wayne might have avoided the one bad decision that forced countless compromises down the line. His father had whaled on him after long days of work and longer nights at the bar, but not enough when it mattered. He'd had the right idea, but had chosen his spots poorly.

Talking never worked with Wayne, and he'd seen little to suggest it worked well with others. People ignored what they were told when it differed from what they thought. Fear—of punishment, pain, rejection, or prolonged discomfort—was the only reliable motivator.

Charles had enough of his mother in him to be too smart for his own good, and enough of his father to hate losing above all things. Through some baffling genetic interaction, he was also the most gifted distance runner Wayne or anyone he knew had ever seen. His frame was too sparse for him to grow into much of a football player, but the things he'd done in only a couple years of competitive running were astonishing.

He'd started ninth grade with a mile time around 4:30. By the end of his freshman year, he'd beaten almost every other high school runner in the state. He won every race by at least ten seconds, until the state final for the mile, where he'd finished seventh.

He almost never broke a sweat, never seemed to work hard at all. It was like he was carried along by a wind no one else felt, one that took him wherever he wanted to go as quickly as he wanted to get there.

Charles would do great things on the track if he avoided serious trouble long enough to get through high school. Then he'd no longer be his father's problem.

So Wayne would make sure he knew how important it was not to derail his future with stupidity. He'd whip his son so hard his ass would hurt at the mere thought of stealing or breaking the law. He wouldn't do it again.

The belt was the only resource Wayne needed. His experience told him to ensure this lesson stuck. As for the fog of war? Charles had no choice but to come home. This time, there'd be no running away.

He piled three pillows onto the couch and draped his blanket over them. He smoothed the wrinkles, sculpted a few convincing lumps, and placed his plastic shoe on the coffee table. The trap set, he limped upstairs to wait.

5

Charles trudged back toward the townhouse, his sneakers damp with dew. The orange morning sky was fading into a pale blue summer day. His father would be dead to the world by now. He might even forget about the whole thing, at least until the cops called about court. Either way, Charles would be gone by the time his father pulled himself off the couch.

He pressed his face against the glass back door. His father was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blue and white afghan Charles's mother had knitted. His blue plastic boot lay next to a pile of cans on the coffee table.

Charles crept around to the front door, slipped his key into the lock, and twisted the handle.

The door swung quietly. He tiptoed upstairs, skipped the squeaky fifth step, and slipped into his bedroom. He stripped, tossed his t-shirt and jeans onto a pile in the corner, and dug through his drawers for something clean to wear.

He threw on another t-shirt and some less dirty jeans. He grabbed his back-pack and turned toward the door.

His father's door opened down the hall. Charles's pulse doubled and his breathing grew shallow and rapid. He scanned the room, searching for somewhere to hide.

No room under the bed. He ducked into his closet, squatted beneath the hanging clothes, and pulled the door shut. A few seconds later, his bedroom door sprang open.

Morning, sunshine, his father said, thumping around the bedroom. I know what you're thinking right about now. You're thinking: 'Geez, a minute ago, I felt pretty damn smart. What could I have missed? Where did it all go wrong?' Sound about right? He stopped outside the closet, and jerked open the door. You thought, 'I'm really clever,' right?

No sir. I—

And when you heard my door open, and the floor creaking, you probably thought: 'Isn't that strange? I thought the old man was sleeping downstairs.' Right?

Charles crouched lower in a corner.

Answer me!

I wanted you to cool off. That's all. I thought we could talk about it when you weren't so pissed off.

His father undid his belt and raised it to his shoulder. Don't make me hold you still.

The phone rang.

His father dangled the buckle near Charles's head. He looked over his shoulder toward his room, glared at the source of the ringing. He waited through the fourth ring, then the eighth, letting the buckle swing like a pendulum.

At the tenth ring, he hobbled toward the hallway. He paused at the door.

If you so much as think of running, I'll make sure you never do it again. You have been warned.

Charles didn't move.

Yes? ... This is ... Already?... I see ... Can't we reschedule? It's hard for me to drive ... No, you don't need to send anyone. We'll be there.

He reappeared at the door. This might be the luckiest day of your short life. Get out of bed, grab a quick shower, and be downstairs in ten minutes. We're getting you a haircut.

What for?

Family court apparently has an empty docket. They want to see you, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at fourteen-hundred hours this afternoon.

Huh?

You're going to juvy. Get ready. Now. He did an abrupt about face on his good foot, stopped. Let me make myself crystal clear: if I hear a peep of your whining, a whisper of that 'my daddy neglects me' or 'nobody loves me' shit you pulled with that guidance counselor, there will be consequences.

6

The drive to the barber's was his father's first venture behind the wheel since the accident. He'd taken taxis to and from the hospital for his follow-up appointments and physical therapy, and to the grocery store when he ran low on beer. He kept an eye on the tachometer and hunted for the correct throttle position, scowling whenever his silver Jeep sputtered and lurched.

The stop at the barber's shop took less than twenty minutes. His father explained they were in a hurry, ordered a no. 2 clipper cut for Charles, and got a quick trim while he waited.

They pulled into a visitor's parking space in front of a squat brick building with no windows. A brown sign read:

Prince William County Municipality

Offices of Family Court

Men in suits and ties milled in the shade of an overhang along the front of the building. A group of cops stood around a picnic table under an old oak tree near the entrance, some of them smoking. Sweat beaded along their foreheads and dripped from their noses.

Charles and his father were led from the hallway's hard plastic seats into the courtroom, where identical orange plastic chairs were arranged around three folding tables. A plain woman in her late forties nodded as they took their seats. Her pale blond hair looked limp in the room's fluorescent lights. She could have been a teacher, whittling away her spare summer hours.

Mr. Reed? she extended her hand to Wayne. The silver bracelets on her wrist clinked as he shook it. She smelled like coffee and deodorant. I'm Rebecca Thomas.

She returned to her seat, thumbed through the file in front of her. She glanced at Charles, shut the folder.

The collar of Charles's white shirt had been itching since the haircut, and the itch grew more intense the longer he sat. Wayne had said, Take it all off—and I mean all of it, to the barber. All that remained was stubble. Some of what had tumbled to his shoulders was caught between the collar and his neck. He tugged, scratching the post of his clip-on tie against the base of his throat. Wayne swatted his hand.

The judge's gown billowed and swished as he took his seat. He tossed a stack of papers onto the table, ran a hand through his peppered brown hair. He settled a pair of gold rimmed glasses on his thin nose and cleared his throat.

Looks like you had quite a night. Want to tell me what happened?

I mow lawns for money. My lawnmower broke. I needed a new one and couldn't afford it, so I took one.

Did you ask your parents for the money?

Ever since Dad's accident, money has been tight around the house. I didn't think they could afford it.

I see, he said. He removed his glasses and set them on the table. Stealing a lawnmower seemed like a good idea?

At the time? Yes sir.

But not now?

No sir. Charles tugged his collar again.

That's a serious lapse in judgment, young man. What's the state's position? he asked, turned to the prosecutor.

The court and plaintiff are willing to drop the larceny charge if the defendant agrees to perform twenty-four hours of community service.

Anything else?

Charles is to see Ms. Watts before leaving. If she's satisfied, he can go.

Will the defendant please rise?

Charles and Wayne stood.

The problem with first offenses is, more often than not, they're the first of many. Charles, you are ordered to perform twenty-four hours of community service. Your father can meet with a court official to handle the details. I'm further ordering you meet with Ms. Watts, a counselor from family services, this afternoon.

Yes sir, Charles said, sat.

If there's nothing further, we're—

Does my son really need to meet with a social worker, your honor? Wayne remained standing. With my foot and all, we're in a hurry. I need to get home so I can elevate this thing and take my meds.

Miss Watts is a family counselor, not a social worker. And you aren't required to be present. If you can't wait until your son is ready, I can have an officer take him home.

I can wait if I have to.

Then we're adjourned.

7

Why don't you tell me about last night? Ms. Watts asked from behind a desk cluttered with manila folders and a foot-high tower of papers. A thin gold chain hung around her bronze neck. She had long, bright red fingernails.

Can I take this thing off? Charles asked, tugging at his clip-on.

Sure. Make yourself comfortable.

Thanks. He yanked off his tie and unbuttoned his stiff collar.

Now, about last night ...

Isn't it in that folder? Charles nodded toward the file at the center of her desk. She'd been reading it when he entered the room.

There's a lot that's not in this folder.

Like what?

I saw your father in the hallway, she said, rested her elbows on the desk. Where's your mother?

In Guam. She's in the Navy.

Are your parents ... not together anymore?

Not while she's in Guam, he said. He pulled on the rubber bottom of one of his sneakers and watched the men chatting in front of the building through Ms. Watts's window.

I mean, are they divorced?

No. She'll be back in a month.

I see. Do you think her leaving had anything to do with you?

Of course not. Orders are orders.

Did you ever steal before she left?

Charles drummed his fingers on his knee.

Charles?

No.

Everything you tell me stays right here. Between us.

In that case ... no.

Do you think your stealing has anything to do with her leaving?

You get paid to do this? Charles asked, shook his head. I needed a lawnmower, so I stole one.

Do you always steal things you feel like you need?

I've never stolen before.

Right, Miss Watts said. She hooked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. And how were things at home before your mom left?

Peachy.

Since? Any problems living alone with your father?

Never been better, Charles said. He crossed his hands in his lap.

How's school?

We're on summer break.

I meant during the year.

Boring.

What kinds of classes do you take?

The kind they make you take.

She sipped her Diet Coke, reopened the folder. She shuffled through its contents, looked up twice, and sat back in her chair. She drummed her fingernails on the desk. You really don't want to talk to me, do you?

What gives you that impression?

What are you afraid of?

He'd talked with some persistent counselor-types before, but this was ridiculous.

Do you ever stop to wonder if you do any good? I mean any good at all? he asked.

I do what I can. Don't change the subject.

Do you? You sit me down, we go through this dog-and-pony show, you check your boxes and that's the end, Charles said. He leaned forward. Let me tell you about my end: I leave here with him. I go home with him. And unless you've got a time machine that will let me fast forward through the next three years, there's not a goddamn thing you or any of these other clowns can do to help me.

You could let me try.

And what? Stick me in your bullshit system? Stick me in foster care? Not gonna happen. He sat back, crossed his arms.

There are other options.

Agreed. But all the ones that involve you suck. We're doing fine.

I'm just trying to help.

You can help me by not helping me. Seriously. Just leave it alone.

Ms. Watts wanted to keep digging. Charles had that effect on adults. They always wanted to solve his problems, thought they could if he'd satisfy their curiosity. It'd been touching the first time, until Social Services held the initial family counseling session. His father nodded a lot, gave polite responses, blamed misunderstandings, and left the social worker thinking Charles had an overactive imagination. He'd forgotten what happened afterwards, but his father kept him out of school until the bruising diminished and he could sit without wincing.

Here's the deal, Charles, Ms. Watts said, I know there's more going on than you're telling me. You're a very bright, mature adolescent who's distressed and alarmingly evasive.

You think that's a news flash? That I'm bright and mature? It's not. You people always say the same things the same way. It makes you sound insincere. At least my father doesn't read from a script. He buttoned his collar, slid his tie back into place. I'm distressed because I hate jumping through hoops. I'm evasive because you're asking about things that are none of your business.

You're just a kid, Charles. And you can tell more about people by what they do than what they tell you. Some kids, when things aren't going right at home, shoplift a soda at a 7-11 or roughhouse at school. You committed larceny.

Can I go now? Dad's been waiting a long time.

Do you think he's going to be mad at you?

"I stole a lawnmower. Is he doing cartwheels? Of course not. Is he