“Walter,” Wiz says, “this makes you . . .”
“A kidnapper,” Walter says. “I know that. Knew it the minute I decided not to throw the little bugger back onto the Boots Whirligig. But I’m pushin’ seventy, and it’s not a young seventy—can barely sit on my hog more than half hour at a time. I could get three-to-five or life and there wouldn’t be a lot of difference. Like I said, the boy’s safe, where nobody will find him without me tellin’ ’em.”
“Jesus,” Wiz says, almost to himself. “What am I supposed to do here? I can’t pretend I don’t know this. I mean, we’re talking criminal action.”
Walter nods. “Your situation any more precarious than Frankie’s?”
That stops Wiz cold.
“Listen,” Walter says. “I been hearing about your outfit since way back, when I first met Annie’s momma. I’ll admit, I was never gonna get a clear picture from her, but Annie’s a fan, much as she can be, and her version is just a cleaned-up version of Nancy’s. I know you mean well, Wiz; I do. And I believe you’d do well if they’d let you. But man, you’ve got the occupation with the worst job satisfaction of any I can think of but maybe sewer taster.”
“Walter, there are rules.”
“Yes, there are, and you’re handcuffed by them. I’m not. I’m not a religious man, Wiz; don’t know God from no God from Christian God from Muslim God from Star Wars God. But I know this: there comes a time to account, if only to ourselves. If you’d seen that little boy’s face when he asked me to save him . . . well . . . I was there an’ I’m accountin’.”
“So you’d go to jail.”
“In a minute.”
Wiz nods toward me. “And leave these people wondering . . . without their child.”
“’Fraid so. I don’t know a hell of a lot, but I do know in my world, the child comes first. You’ve never seen that little guy so calm as he is right now. Annie’s going to find her way. Her mother’s going to be in about the same pain, no matter; she’s hardwired. Sheila’s had about all the chances she has coming, and nothing has changed. I wouldn’t be leaving anyone worse than I found them.” Walter stands. “Think about it, Wiz. A woman gets into some domestic violence situation, runs, goes back, runs, goes back. You folks send her to some domestic violence therapy group that does its absolute damnedest to convince her this guy isn’t gonna change; yet you take a kid and keep puttin’ him back and puttin’ him back and puttin’ him back. How’s that make sense?”
Wiz strokes his chin, looks back and forth between me and Walter . . . for what seems like a long time. Finally he says, “Look, why don’t the two of you go have some lunch and fight over how pissed Annie is about the fact that you didn’t tell her.” He frowns toward me. “I might have a plan, but I need to sit with it.” He rises, extends his hand to Walter. “You have my word I won’t do anything that you don’t know about first.”
I run around the table and hug Wiz.
“I just miss him,” Marvin says. “It was no fun getting ahead of his bad habits, but watching him play and engaging in these way crazy conversations . . . it felt like I was helping him. I just miss him.”
Marvin and I are out on a run. I’ve convinced him that thespian nerdiness doesn’t necessarily preclude physical fitness, and he’s agreed to give it a try. I don’t expect instant results, but winning the Olympic marathon begins with the first step.
Marvin says, “You remember that line you said you read in a book once?”
“Which one?”
“Something like . . . ‘If you want to see how something works . . .’”
I say, “. . . look at it broken.”
“That’s it. It’s what it felt like playing with Frankie . . . like I was seeing a broken kid, and some things started making sense.” He’s giving it to me three words at a time, between gasps.
“Things like what?”
“Like how things work for people. I mean, look at what all’s been said about Frankie; why he does that with his poop? Why does he engage in negative activity? It’s about control, isn’t that what you said?”
“I guess. That’s what his therapists told my sister.”
“Okay, so that’s what he does when he feels out of control, which is most of the time. So you look at that and say, that’s gotta be where control freaks come from. They’re out of control so they get it any way they can. Right?”
“Marvin, it might be that you think too much. You’re, like, too smart for your own good.”
“Yeah, yeah, but do you follow?”
“I follow.”
“Okay, so a little kid probably doesn’t choose the right thing to get control of, because, well, he’s a little kid. But take someone like my dad, who’s gotta be in control of everything. You can’t play a game without him pointing out your foolish mistakes. If he thinks I’m a little too much on the sensitive side, he has to tell me how tough I’ve gotta get. He’s always talking to Mom about how some guy or woman at the office just up and quit. Think that might just be because he’s as hard to work for as he is to live with?”
We’re about a quarter mile from home because a run to Marvin is a much slower undertaking than it is for me. “I hope this is going further than we’re going.”
“It is; I wonder if my dad is broken. I mean, you almost never see him smile. He’s like a radar machine, always scanning for what’s out of control. I’ll bet that’s why he doesn’t like Frankie very much. They’re both fighting for control, but Frankie’s more at a . . . like primitive level.”
Marvin’s right. When you’re around Pop, you’re always looking for the thing you might be doing wrong. Not really wrong, just wrong in
