'I don't give a sweet Jesus what you think, Harry. I am not going to take a position one way or another.'
Great, Don thought gloomily; just great.
The position was which side of the dispute to be on; Harry was Mr.
Harold Falcone, his biology instructor and president of the teachers' union.
'Look,' his father said as Don poked his head around the doorway, 'I've pushed damned hard for you and your people since the day I walked into that place, and you know it. I got money for the labs, the teams, for the goddamned maintenance, for god's sake, so don't you dare tell me I don't sympathize.'
Norman Boyd was sitting in his favorite chair, a monstrous green thing with scarred wood trim and a sagging cushion. His back was to Don, and it was rigid.
'What? What? Harry, goddamnit to hell, if my mother hadn't taught me better, I'd hang up on you right now for that kind of nonsense. What do you mean, I don't give a shit? I do give a shit! But can't you see past your wallet just this once and understand that I'm caught between a rock and a hard place here? My god, man, you're screaming crap in one ear and the board is screaming crap in the other, and I'm damned for doing this and damned for doing that, and double damned if I don't do a thing-which is exactly what I feel like doing sometimes, believe me.'
He tapped a long finger on the handset, looked up at the high plaster ceiling, and used his free hand to rake through his greying brown hair.
A deep breath swelled his chest beneath a white crewneck sweater; the tapping moved to the top of his thigh.
'I will be at the negotiations, yes. I've already told you that.' He shifted. 'I will not-' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Yes, of course my contract is up for renewal at the end of this year. I know that, you know that, the board knows it-for Jesus's sake, the whole damned world knows about it by now!' He saw his son and grimaced a smile. 'What? Yes!
Yes, damnit, I admit it, are you happy? I do not want to jeopardize my job and my future just because you assholes couldn't come to terms over the summer. No,' he said with acid sweetness, 'I do not expect your support either if I decide to run for office.'
He grinned then and returned the handset to its cradle on the floor beside him. 'The creep hung up on me. He ain't got no manners, and that's shocking in a teacher. Hi, Don, saw you talking to the kids tonight. You change your mind about joining us and being a teacher, carrying on the new family tradition?'
'Dad,' he said, suddenly cold. 'Dad, there's a big test next week. Mr.
Falcone is my teacher.'
'I know that.'
'But you were yelling at him!'
'Hey, he won't do anything, don't worry about it.'
Don squeezed the soda can. 'You always say that.'
'And it always turns out, right?'
'No,' he said softly. 'No, not always.' And before his father could respond, he said, 'See you tomorrow. It's late. Mom wants me in bed.'
He took the stairs slowly in case his father wanted to join him, but there was nothing but the sound of his mother bringing in the coffee, and the start of low voices. He heard his name once before he reached the top landing, but there was no temptation to eavesdrop. He knew what they were probably saying.
Dad was wondering if there was anything wrong, and Mom would tell him it was all part of growing up and Donny was really in a difficult position and perhaps Norm shouldn't lose his temper like that at the boy's teachers. Dad would bluster a bit, deny any problems, finally see the point, and reassure his wife that none of the faculty would dare do anything out of line, not if they wanted his support in the strike.
It was getting to be an old story.
Great, he thought as he pushed into his room. I'm not a son anymore, I'm a weapon. An ace up the old sleeve. If I fail, it isn't me, it's the teachers getting even; if I get an A, it isn't me, it's the teacher kissing ass. Great. Just ... great.
He slammed the door, turned on the light, and greeted his pets by kicking the bed.
'I don't understand it,' said Joyce Boyd from her place on the sofa when she heard the door slam. 'He's a perfectly normal boy, we know that, but he hardly ever goes anywhere anymore. If we hadn't insisted tonight, he would have stayed home, playing with those damned things he has upstairs.'
'Sure he goes out,' Norm said, lighting a cigarette, crossing his legs.
'But with all your zillion civic projects and that Art League thing-not to mention the Ashford Day business- you're just not home long enough to see it.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'That's a crack.'
'Yeah, so?'
'I thought we agreed not to do that anymore.'
He studied the cigarette's tip, the round of his knees, and brushed at an ash that settled on his chest. The coffee was on the table beside him, growing cold. 'I guess we did at that.'
'I guess we did at that,' she mimicked sourly, and pulled her legs under her. A hand passed wearily over her eyes. 'Damn you, Norman,' she said wearily, 'I do the best I can.'
'Sure you do,' he answered without conviction. 'Whenever you're around.'
'Well, look at him, will you?' Her lips, thin at best, vanished when her mouth tightened. 'When was the last time you spent an evening with him, huh? I don't think that poor boy has seen you for more than a couple of hours in the last two weeks.'
'I have a school year to run,' he reminded her tonelessly, 'and a possible strike on my hands. Besides, he sees me at the school every day.'
'Not hardly the same thing, Norm, and you know it. You're not his father there, not the way it should be.'
He pushed himself deeper into the chair and stretched out his legs.
'Knock it off, Joyce, okay? I'm tired, and the boy can take care of himself.''
'Well, so am I tired,' she snapped, 'but I have to defend myself and you don't, is that it?'
'What's to defend?'
Her eyes closed briefly. 'Nothing,' she said in mild disgust, and reached over a pile of manila folders for a magazine, flipped the pages without looking, and tossed it aside. She picked up a folder-schedules for Ashford Day. She was one of the women in charge of coordinating the entertainment from the two high schools. She dropped that as well and plucked at her blouse. 'I worry about all that running he does too.'
He was surprised, and he showed it.
'What I mean is,' she said hastily, 'it's not really like jogging, is it? He's not interested in keeping fit or joining the track team or cross-country. He just ... runs.'
'Well, what's wrong with that? It's good for him.'
'But he's always alone,' she said, looking at him as if he ought to understand. 'And he doesn't have a regular schedule either, nothing like that at all. He just runs when he gets in one of his moods. And he doesn't even do it here, around the block or something-he does it at the school track.'
'Joyce, you're not making sense. Why run on cracked pavement and take a chance on a broken leg or twisted ankle when you can run on a real track?'
'It just ... I don't know. It just doesn't feel right.'
'Maybe it helps him think. Some guys lift weights, some guys use a punching bag, and Donald runs. So what?'
'If he has problems,' she said primly, 'he shouldn't ... he shouldn't try to run away from them. He should come to us.'
'Why?' he said coldly. 'The way you've been lately, why should he bother?'
'Me?'
Her stare was uncomfortable.
'All right. We.' And he let his eyes close.
A few moments later: 'Norman, do you think he's forgotten that animal hospital stuff?'
'I guess. He hasn't said anything since last month. At least not to me.'
