Over the Wall (2 page)

TIM CARHARDT STARED
at the small suitcase on his bed. The zipper was stuck halfway, so he couldn’t get it open or closed. He’d taped the back of it so it wouldn’t flop open. The bottom was frayed from use and smelled like Tyson’s closet—which smelled a lot like smoky cotton balls.

Tyson stuck his head in the door. “We’re headed over to Wal-Mart. You need anything?”

Since Tyson and his wife had discovered Tim was moving to North Carolina, they’d been nicer. Vera had even taken the stickers off most of the food in the refrigerator. The ones that said
Vera’s, do not touch
.

Tim shook his head and Tyson shut the door. Tim could count on one hand the number of times the guy had asked if he needed anything. Most of the time
Tim felt like an unwanted pimple (and what pimple is wanted?) in their lives. He was looking forward to getting away, not just from them but from the trouble he’d found in Tallahassee.

The truck fired up outside. Every time it did, Tim shivered because it was his dad’s truck, and the sound reminded him that his dad was gone and never coming back. But his life was about to change big-time, and he couldn’t help but think things would get better.

There wasn’t much to pack. Mostly just his clothes, and he didn’t have many. Two pairs of jeans. A few T-shirts. Underwear. He’d thought about starting to shave, but every time he passed the razors and shaving cream at the drugstore, he’d gotten cold feet. Those commercials on TV made shaving look like it was a breeze, but he’d tried it once with one of Tyson’s old razors and cut himself under his nose. He wished he had someone who could show him how to do it, but he wasn’t about to ask Tyson. The guy would just laugh and point at what he would call the peach fuzz on Tim’s face.

A motor chugged to a stop outside, and Tim’s heart jumped. Whenever he heard someone pass, he thought it might be Jeff and his friends who had jumped him. He couldn’t wait to get away so he wouldn’t have to worry about that. They had taken from him the one thing that meant the most—his
dad’s diary. When Tim read a few pages, it felt like a connection with his dad. Now all he had was the sweat-stained hat his father had given him with the number and logo of the race crew his dad used to work for.

Something clicked outside. Then a motor revved and gravel spun. Tim looked out and saw a rusted Bronco pulling away from the mailbox. It was the wild-haired mail lady. When they had a lot of bills, she’d secure the mail with a rubber band, and Tim sometimes found her hair wrapped in with it.

He walked to the box and looked up and down the street of the trailer park. Some younger kids played a game of tag next door and squealed. At the end were a few older kids wearing goggles. They used pellet guns and played war, the pellets pinging off the tin trailers and an occasional curse floating down the street. Vera called them the devil kids, and she told Tim to stay away from them. She didn’t have to tell him. He liked the thought of shooting a pellet gun but didn’t like the thought of getting hit with one.

He grabbed a handful of mail and stepped into the dimly lit kitchen. Pizza coupons. Flyers for half-off LASIK surgery. A big sale at the supermarket—pork chops and Coca-Cola were on the front page. Lots of other junk mail, a few bills, and what looked like a check from the government. Probably the aid
his social worker said was supposed to come every month. Tim didn’t see any of that money, of course.

However, one envelope caught his eye because it was a dark brown and seemed important. The return address said
McConnel and Brennan, Attorneys at Law
and listed an address in North Carolina. The flap of the envelope was loose in one spot, and Tim pried it open and saw just a portion of the letter. All he could see was
. . . rtin Carhardt estate
, but that’s all he needed to send his heart racing.

Tim dropped the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and rushed back to his room. He sat on his bed and stared at the envelope. It was addressed to Tyson Slade, but since it had his dad’s name inside, he couldn’t help feeling like it was his.

Carefully he tore the rest of the envelope and it ripped. He was going to have a hard time explaining that. He pulled the page out at an angle, but it was difficult because the paper was a lot thicker than regular paper.

The letter said
Dear Mr. Slade
at the top, and Tim shook his head. If these people had any idea what kind of guy Tyson was, they wouldn’t have called him
Mr.
Tim had wondered why his dad hadn’t prepared a will, but the bigger mystery now was why he’d put Tyson in charge of his money and belongings. Why hadn’t his dad put Tim’s name on the will?

The first part was a greeting and some legal mumbo jumbo Tim didn’t understand. But he read the next paragraph twice.

Per your request, we are writing you instead of the son of the deceased. We hope Timothy is recovering from his devastating loss. This letter is to inform you that we have liquidated the remainder of the Martin Carhardt estate with the exception of the truck you have in your possession, the miscellaneous items in storage, and the other item in the safe-deposit box.

“What item?” Tim said out loud. Tyson had told him his dad didn’t even have a will, and here was a letter from a lawyer that showed his dad had left something behind.

The letter continued.

After settling the fees to the various creditors and paying the rest of the loan on the truck, there is a positive balance of $324.56. Unless otherwise instructed, we will mail that sum to you at the end of the six-month waiting period.

The letter ended with instructions on how to get in touch with the lawyers and then added:

We are including a key to the safe-deposit box with this letter. We have a duplicate here at the office if you would prefer having us send you the contents.

Tim looked at the plastic case with the tiny key. He held it up and checked the number, wondering what could be in the box at the bank.

JAMIE FOLLOWED THE AMBULANCE
toward the hospital, the radio off for a change. (She usually kept it on a local station and up loud.) She was lost in how great her run around the track had been and how awful she felt about Chad, her thoughts swirling like the lights of the ambulance in front of her. If she hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have tried so hard to beat her. The whole thing was her fault.

Another part of her knew that Chad had made his own choices. Everybody made their own way, their own decisions, and Chad had made a bad one. The only question was whether he’d live to make any more.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, God,” she prayed out loud, “but . . .” Her
voice trailed off, and she stopped at a red light, the ambulance rolling right through it.

Who was she kidding? If God was more than just a hope and a dream her parents believed in, she might have kept praying or perhaps promised she’d go to church every Sunday for the rest of her life or become a nun in some convent or never use bad language when she blew a test in biology. Or all of the above.

If God was really up there listening, he’d probably written her off a long time ago for all the stuff she’d done, all the rules she’d broken, all the services she’d missed. She’d promised him those things before—several times—like in New Hampshire when her dad had T-boned the wall doing 185. She and her mom had rushed to the infield care center, hoping, praying. Her mother had been unbelievably calm but still concerned. Her dad had been okay in the end, but Jamie never forgot the promises she’d made to God and how much she’d gone back on every one of them.

“You don’t have any reason to help me, because I’ve done the opposite of everything I promised. But if you’d make Chad okay, I’d appreciate it.”

She had a hard time finding a parking space at the hospital, then ran into the emergency waiting room, where Mr. Hardwick paced. Chad’s father was at one of the computer terminals giving a lady some information.

“Do you know anything yet?” Jamie said.

“Butch said he was groggy but talking in the ambulance,” Mr. Hardwick said. “Chad didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it was clear he didn’t want to come here.”

Jamie glanced around at the sad faces in the plastic chairs and couldn’t blame Chad. The hospital staff concentrated on their jobs, moving from area to area without looking at any of them.

Chad’s mom was one of the first people to arrive at the hospital. She went to her husband and hugged him. She was a pretty woman, classy, well dressed, and it looked like she’d just come out of a salon. If Jamie believed what her friends said, Mrs. Devalon had a day spa right in her house and servants that catered to her every need.

Jamie’s mom and dad were next through the door. Jamie ran to her mom and hugged her.

“Where’s Kellen?” Jamie said when she pulled away, looking past them for her 10-year-old brother.

“We dropped him at a friend’s house,” her mom said. “Jamie, what happened?”

“I was at the track with the Devalons. Chad had a problem and . . .”

Mr. Hardwick walked up and shook her dad’s hand. Jamie knew he could tell something was wrong
because he squinted at her. “They didn’t know anything about your test run?”

“About what?” Jamie’s dad said.

“I rode in one of the Devalon cars at the track,” Jamie said. “Just a test to see what my time would be.”

Her dad looked like somebody had sucker punched him. “And whose idea was that?”

“It was mine,” Butch Devalon said behind him, and Jamie’s dad turned. “I wanted to see how she’d do against Chad before I nominated her.”

“For what?” her dad said. Then a look of realization came over him. “You want to sponsor . . . ?”

Her mom put a hand on his arm. “Dale, this is not the time or place. We can talk about it later.”

“You’re right.” Her dad nodded and pursed his lips. “Butch, how’s Chad doing?”

“He’s a tough kid. That six-point harness probably saved his life. But he’s banged up. That’s for sure.”

“What happened?” her mom said.

“Looked like his tire just shredded on turn three. He fought it into the wall, but it got loose and went sideways on him.”

“He went airborne?” her dad said.

Mr. Devalon nodded. “He said he closed his eyes as he flipped. Then all he saw were the sparks from the racetrack and the grass and dirt coming at him under the windshield.”

“Well, I’m thankful he’s okay,” Jamie’s dad said, then looked at Jamie, as if he were saying,
That could have been you
.

Nurses and staff ran down the hall, and Mrs. Devalon looked at her husband across the room. “Something’s wrong with Chad.”

SOMEONE KNOCKED
ON THE DOOR
of the trailer, and Tim stuffed the brown envelope under his pillow and quietly walked to the kitchen. A thin curtain blocked the window on the door, but Tim noticed someone standing there, and he froze. It looked like a man, not Vera’s friend from down the street who came over and talked and cried with her about her marriage and all her troubles in what Tim called a boo-hoo-woe-is-me session.

The man knocked again and shifted from foot to foot. He took something from his front pocket, dipped his head, and just stood there a few moments. Then he bent over out of Tim’s sight, and something plopped against the front door before he walked down the creaky steps.

Tim inched forward, looking out the
front window at a red SUV parked in front. He finally recognized the lanky frame of the pastor at the local megachurch. The guy who had hired Tim and then fired him after Tim had gotten into a fight with a guy named Jeff and his goony friends.

When the man pulled out, Tim opened the door and something fell into the room. He wasn’t sure, but it looked a lot like his dad’s diary with a page paper-clipped to the front.

Tim,

I’m sorry I missed you. I heard about your run-in again with Jeff and his friends, and I have a friend at the reptile park who found this floating in one of the ponds. I figured you’d want it back.

I’ve been thinking a lot about your future. If you ever need to talk or just a safe place to go, please call me.

Tim saw the pastor’s name and number, crumpled the note, and threw it in the trash. He couldn’t believe one of the gators hadn’t chomped the notebook. It was three times its normal size—water will do that to paper, get inside it and expand it. He’d heard that in his science class one day when he was halfway paying
attention. (Tim remembered a joke of his dad’s, that he was too poor to pay attention.) He flipped through the pages and saw the faded writing stained with mud. He couldn’t read most of it, but at least he could see some of his dad’s writing.

He opened the trash can lid and brushed away some grit and grime from the pages, then closed the cover and ran a hand over his dad’s name on the front.

I guess not everybody in churches are jerks,
Tim thought.

The phone rang and Tim picked up the cordless handset. Tyson didn’t have caller ID. He said they were lucky to afford phone service, let alone all the bells and whistles. It was Lisa, the social worker he’d been talking to since he’d moved to Florida.

“I have some bad news, Tim. The Maxwells have had an emergency and need to reschedule the trip.”

“You mean they’re not coming?” Tim said. “They don’t want me, do they?”

“No, that’s not true,” Lisa said quickly. “They’re really excited about you coming to live with them, but there was a wreck of some sort, and instead of Dale driving down to pick you up tomorrow, he’s going to have to push that back.”

“What kind of wreck?”

“I’m not sure, but you have to believe me that this
doesn’t have anything to do with their wanting you up in North Carolina.”

“When will I go?”

“I don’t know yet, but I should hear from them tomorrow.”

Tim got quiet, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He chewed the thin line of skin when he was nervous or scared or felt bad about something. He even did it in his sleep and sometimes woke up biting down.

“Tim, are you okay?” Lisa said. “Is something wrong?”

He walked into his room and sat on the bed, pulling the lawyer’s letter out and turning it in his hand. “No, I’m all right. Tell them they can take their time. And if they have second thoughts, I’ll understand.”

“They’re not having second thoughts. Just get your stuff packed and be ready to go.”

I already got my stuff packed
, Tim thought.
Took me two minutes
. “I’ll be ready,” he said.