Migrators (9 page)

“What about Joe?”

“I think he should stay here. He’ll be okay alone for an hour.”

“Yeah. We can tell him he’s not to leave his room for any reason. Give him a jar to pee in. Are you sure you want to see that video?”

“I need to,” she said. “I don’t want to, but I need to.”

X • X • X • X • X

Alan’s eyes flew open.

He’d heard five running steps. They sounded like they’d come from right outside the bedroom door. He slipped one leg and then the other from underneath the covers. Alan glanced back—Liz didn’t stir as he tiptoed across the bedroom carpet. At least it didn’t look like she stirred. The only light in the room was the dim light of stars and the green glow from the clock. Alan knelt by the door, listening.

It was probably just a dream
, he thought.
But it was so clear.

Alan reached up for the door handle.

So lightly that he wondered if it was his own heartbeat, he heard three knocks.

Knock, knock, knock.

Alan stayed his hand.

Knock, knock—a little louder.

Alan grabbed the handle and popped open the weird latch. As he opened the door, a wedge of black met his eyes. He opened the door a little more and he saw the outline of a small person.

“Dad?” his son’s voice whispered from the dark.

Alan opened the door the rest of the way.

“Joe—what’s going on? Why are you up?”

“Can I sleep in here with you tonight?”

Alan stood and slipped out into the hall. He pulled the door mostly shut behind himself and felt on the wall for the switch. Joe squinted against the bright light.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just want to sleep with you,” Joe said.
 

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“No.”

“Were you running around up here?”

“No,” Joe said. He shook his head emphatically.

“Come on,” Alan said. He put his hand on his son’s back and turned him towards his own room. “Let’s go talk about it.”

Alan turned on the light on Joe’s desk and sat next to his son on the bed.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I just felt lonely and I couldn’t sleep. I want to sleep with you tonight that’s all.”

“Joe, you’re twelve years old. I can sit with you here until you get back to sleep, but you’re too old to come sleep with us.”

“I know.”

“Joe, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay,” Alan said. He rubbed Joe’s back. His skin felt cold through his pajamas. Alan pressed his palm to Joe’s forehead—it felt cold. “Do you feel okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you upset about today?”

“I guess,” Joe said.

A cold breeze sent goosebumps crawling over Alan’s arms. “Why is your window open?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said.

Alan got up and shut the window. He turned the latch. Out in the dark, he thought he saw the shape of an animal skitter across the road. Alan pulled the drapes.

“Get under the covers. I’ll find you another blanket,” Alan said. The room had a big closet. It held a bureau and a few shelves. Alan pulled down a thick wool blanket. It had the lingering smell of the cedar chest where it had been stored before it found its way to Joe’s closet. Alan shook out the blanket and spread it across Joe’s bed. The boy was pressed up against the wall.

“Try to get some sleep,” Alan said.

“Can I come get you if I have a bad dream?”

“Of course, Joe. Do you want a nightlight?”

“No,” Joe said.

Good thing,
Alan thought.
I didn’t really have one to offer.

“Good night, Joe.”

“Night, Dad.”

X • X • X • X • X

SEPTEMBER 19

AFTER THEY watched the footage for the second time, Liz asked Mr. Beal to let it roll a little longer. Alan and Liz watched their son run after the little girl—not to help her up, but to grab his lunch bag before he turned and ran away.

Mr. Beal—the Vice Principal of their little school—grunted and stopped the playback.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you only suspended him. We don’t know what to say,” Liz said.

“Mr. McDougall was my first call, obviously. Mack is the one who petitioned for a little leniency.”

“Why is that?” Alan asked.

“He’s the?” Liz asked, she turned to Alan.

“Pauline’s adopted father,” Alan answered.

“Pauline’s had a rough go of it the past few years. She’s struggling to make any lasting bonds with her classmates. She and her brother transferred to us after her mother passed away and Mack adopted them. With everything they’ve been through, Mack didn’t want to see one of the more popular kids expelled because of an altercation with her. I understand his position.”

“I guess I don’t understand, then,” Liz said. “You let parents dictate the school’s policy? I thought you had zero-tolerance for bullying?”

Alan put his hand on Liz’s arm. “Honey,” he said. She was going into litigator mode, and it seemed like she was arguing against her son. Alan hoped to pull her back before she changed Mr. Beal’s mind.

“I deal with personalities, not policies,” Mr. Beal said. “When your son returns, I expect him to be contrite and polite. Children reward courage in the face of adversity. Ms. McDougall returned to her class this morning with a swollen lip and a new sense of pride. She did not squeal. She did not rat. When your son returns—appropriately apologetic—his stock will be reduced by the same amount that Pauline’s has increased. He can afford it.”

“You’re using Joe’s bullying to gain sympathy for Pauline?” Liz asked.

“Not sympathy. Respect,” Mr. Beal said. “If you disagree with my approach, you’re free to end your son’s enrollment. I can point you in the direction of several private schools. In fact, since you’re on the border of Kingston Depot, you might be able to transfer your son to Berry Middle School. Although I’ll warn you that Ms. Adams takes a dim view of any violence.”

“Who’s Ms. Adams?” Liz asked Alan.

“Principal at Berry,” Alan whispered.

Mr. Beal cracked the knuckles of his left hand, one at a time. Alan watched, wondering what the gesture was supposed to convey.

Maybe this man is crazy,
Alan thought.
Maybe he made this whole thing up to help out the unpopular kid of his friend. No—can’t be—we saw the video.

“We’d like to take some time to work with our son,” Alan said. “We want to make sure he understands the consequences of what he’s done.”

“That’s fine,” Mr. Beal said. He stood up to signal the end of their discussion. “We’ll expect him back on Monday, unless we hear from you.”

“Thank you,” Alan said. He stood and shook the Vice Principal’s hand. Liz was already heading for the office door.

Alan caught her in the hallway.

“Hold on, Liz,” he said.

“I’ll be in the car,” Liz said. She put a hand to her forehead and walked quickly.

Alan’s shoulders fell. He looked up and down the hall. All was quiet at the moment—the students were all closed in with their teachers, learning their lessons. Alan bent and drank from the water fountain. He was close to his son’s locker. He glanced around and found the door marked “Supplies.” Alan let himself in. The light clicked on as he stepped inside—it was motion-controlled. There wasn’t much in here except a shelf of paper goods and cleaning supplies. A broom and a mop hung from the far wall. The mop bucket sat underneath. The wall on the right had a slop sink. The center of the floor had a little drain.
 

Alan’s hand shook as he pulled phone out from his back pocket. He used the camera to photograph what he saw on the floor.

Just past the drain he saw two burn marks on the tiles. The burn marks were outlines in the shape of two little shoes. He imagined a little girl on fire and the flames leaving these black marks on the tile. Alan shut the door and hurried to catch up with his wife. She was at the bottom of the stairs and Alan hurried down. He stopped, seeing the stairs again in his mind from the camera’s vantage point. This is where the little girl, Pauline, had landed. His foot rested on the stair where her face had hit, somehow only bloodying her lip.
 

Alan put his feet back in motion and found Liz pushing through the door to the parking lot.

“Slow down, would you?”

“I just want to get out of here, Alan,” Liz said. She was pressing at the corners of her eyes, trying to shove the tears back inside.

She held out the keys and Alan took the driver’s seat. He had to slide the seat back just to fit behind the wheel of her car. Alan didn’t adjust her mirrors—Liz hated that. Her face was a blank mask as he turned to back out of the parking spot. Alan turned away from the Depot. He decided it might be better to take the long way home instead of driving through that row of depressing buildings.
 

“I think we’re in pretty good shape, babe,” Alan said. “At least Pauline wasn’t hurt and Joe has the option of coming back.”

“We have nothing, Alan,” Liz said. “I have no idea how we raised a son who is even capable of such a thing, and that man is only interested in helping the local children. He has no interest in us outsiders. Joe’s development doesn’t mean a thing to him.”

“That’s unfair,” Alan said. “I think he’s trying to make the best of a bad situation. Let’s consider the alternative. If we were still in the city, we’d probably be looking at a lawsuit from Mr. Mc-what’s-his-name. Let’s focus on positive here and try to find a way to communicate with Joe about what happened.”

Liz nodded as she looked out the window. For the briefest moment, Alan thought his point had landed well.

“Yup, the positive,” Liz said. “Well—I’m pretty
positive
that our son is either a psychopath or he’s just had a psychotic break.”

“What if it’s not entirely his fault?” Alan asked. “What if he was manipulated? Maybe her father advocated leniency because he knew that she was partly to blame?”

“Who cares? What could she possibly have done that would justify Joe pushing her down the stairs, Alan? Can you think of anything? Anything at all—let’s hear it.”

“I’m not trying to justify anything,” Alan said.

He took a left onto the twisty road that took them back in the direction of the house. Through the trees, a little pond twinkled down the hill. Alan glanced at it and saw his wife’s clenched jaw and wrinkled brow. Her tenacity served her well in her legal career, but it also meant that she clung to stress, refusing to let it go. Alan slowed and pulled over where there was a wide shoulder next to a curve.

He put Liz’s BMW in neutral and looked at her face.

“This is where Lyle stove up,” Alan said. It was one of her family stories. An old neighbor had slid off that same road one winter, and the family always referred to it as the time that, “Lyle stove up,” whatever that meant. Liz didn’t smile.

“You’re not helping, Liz.”

“Forgive me if my disillusionment with our son’s lack of character has left me out of sorts.”

“I don’t care if you’re disillusioned or not. You need to focus all of your energy on helping me figure out what we’re going to do next. Joe could be lying about the whole incident, in which case I guess we’ve just got a discipline issue. Or, Joe could honestly believe the story he told us. In that case, I don’t know what we do—take him to the doctor?”

“If he’s got some sort of brain tumor or chemical imbalance, then we need to know immediately. We start with the doctor,” Liz said.

“I agree,” Alan said. “And I think we keep him grounded, but make sure that he knows we’re trying to impress upon him the importance of impulse control, and not just punishing him.”

“Agreed,” Liz said. “I have to go into the office.”

“That’s fine,” Alan said. “The doctor’s office hasn’t called me back yet, but I can try them again. Can we both sit down with Joe before you go?”

Liz looked at her watch. “Of course.”

S
EPTEMBER
23

A
LAN
’
S
BACK
screamed and threatened to cramp. He kept his legs churning forward. All he could see was the ground rolling by underneath him. He saw grass—that was good. He knew he had to be close to the road.

Alan thought he heard the phone ringing. He let the bow of the boat hit the ground and he rolled it off of his shoulders. He stood panting as he looked up at the big white house, listening for the phone. It was too soon—Joe had just left on the bus a few minutes earlier—but he was terrified he’d miss a call from the school.

He didn’t hear ringing. He heard a gentle, padding step approaching.

Bob jogged up. He pulled out his headphones.

“You found a boat,” Bob said.

Alan smiled. “It’s the Colonel’s old boat. My wife said it had a leak.”

“You need help carrying it?”

“No, I’m fine. I don’t want to interrupt your run.”

“Nonsense,” Bob said. “I’m almost done anyway.”

“Okay,” Alan said. He walked to the back of the aluminum skiff and grabbed the handles. Bob lifted the bow by the painter. As they shuffled the skiff up the driveway, Alan wondered how he’d managed to get the boat as far as he did—it was heavy.

When they reached the dooryard, Alan slowed.

“Right here is good,” he said.

“Did you get it running?” Bob asked, pointing at the outboard still mounted to the dolly.

“I did. You want to see?” Alan asked.

“Of course.”

Alan slid the dolly and outboard and trash can out of the little shed and into the morning light. The water sloshed. He made a show of pulling the choke, setting the throttle, and then made one dramatic pull of the cord. He smiled and removed the choke as the engine sputtered to life on the first pull.

“Impressive,” Bob said over the gurgling engine.

Alan shut it off.

“I’ve been working on the carb, trying to get it dialed in,” Alan said.

“Sounds good to me.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a little rough, but I don’t know how it sounded when it was new,” Alan said.