Fragile

on the fingers of one hand the times she’d done either.

“I’m just tired,” he said. “Just really tired.”

In the dim light, she watched him. He had his head back on the chair, looking up at the stars. She could already tell by the set of his jaw, the way his arms were folded across his body, that he wouldn’t say more. She drained her glass and thought about another, then noticed that the cut on her finger had started to bleed again.

She got up to bandage it, and when she returned, Jones had already gone inside. She found him lying on the couch, the remote in his hand.

“Want to watch anything?” he asked. But she knew he’d just flip through the channels until he found something that interested him.

“No,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just catch up on some paperwork.”

But he was already tuned out, just gave her a little nod. She stood in the doorway a minute, watched him settle in. She went upstairs and listened at Ricky’s door, heard him singing along to something on his headphones. She worried that he hadn’t eaten but figured he’d know there was pizza downstairs when he got hungry. Then she drifted back to her office, unlocking that door, moving through quietly, and closing it behind her.

Their house was always dark, not like at Leila and Mark’s, where every light was always shining and there was a television going in one room, a radio playing in another. Everyone was always talking, yelling from room to room, his cousins were in and out, chatting on the phone, speaking in loud voices, laughing, arguing, goofing around.

Boys, please, Leila’s eternal plea. The noise. But she never really sounded angry, not in the way he was used to. Even when she was scolding, she always seemed on the verge of laughing.

The refrigerator was always full to bursting; there was always something simmering on the stove. There was no room for dark or quiet or cold in that house.

“It’s a three-ring circus over there,” his father complained. “How did you stand it?”

“The circus is fun, Dad. People laugh and have a good time.” He’d tried that good- natured joking around that was acceptable at his aunt’s house. But it didn’t work with his dad.

“The circus is for idiots.” His father’s words had the sting of a hard slap. Then, as if the slag weren’t already implied, “You must have felt right at home.”

Marshall had felt right at home. He really had. But when the judge had asked him where he wanted to live, he’d said, “I want to be with my dad.” And he had wanted that.

“Why, Son?” the judge had asked with something like disbelief. He remembered that office, overwarm and dusty. The judge sat behind a giant wood desk that Marshall would swear was designed to make people on the other side feel small. The shelves were lined with books, matching leather-bound volumes. He remembered that a few years ago, this judge who looked so imposing now in his big black robe had slept on their couch, too drunk to drive home after a poker game. “Why would you want that?”

“Because he’s my dad.”

It was all Marshall could think to say. There was something deep within him that clung, held on tight. Even when he hated his father-and sometimes he really, really did-there was still a part of him that waited like a puppy for a bone. Anything-a smile, a pat on the shoulder. Anything.

Now he heard his father hammering in the basement. He flipped on the fluorescent light in the kitchen and walked over to the refrigerator. There were some dishes in the sink; the garbage was starting to smell. In the fridge, a six-pack of Miller Lite and the leftover Chinese takeout from last night sat lonely and uninviting. He let the door swing closed, then reluctantly walked down the hall and descended the stairs to the basement.

“You’re late,” his father said. Marshall sank onto the bottom step, wrapped his arms around his shins.

“Sorry.”

His father didn’t look up from what he was doing. “Where were you?”

Marshall didn’t answer. Travis let the hammer drop and turned his gaze on his son. Something about the look on his father’s face, and the hammer in his hand, made Marshall’s heart beat fast, his throat go dry.

“I told you to stop going there,” Travis said.

“I told her,” said Marshall quickly. “I told her I didn’t want her in my head anymore.”

Even saying it now, remembering how she’d looked at him, he felt sick. He didn’t tell his father how he’d hung around her house for hours, almost went to see her to apologize, then ran off when she came out and spotted him, too afraid, ashamed, confused to say what he wanted to say. All the words and emotions jammed up in his throat and his chest. All he could think to do was run.

Travis gave his son a nasty smile. “And what did she say to that?”

“She said it was my choice to come or not.”

“Damn right it is,” said Travis. He went back to his hammering, a slow lift and a heavy drop.

He was building shelves for his office. His father had a talent for things like that. The walls were painted, the new carpet laid. The office was starting to look good. They’d put together his desk, bought a computer on credit. They’d had a phone line installed and ordered a plaque: TRAVIS CROSBY INVESTIGATIONS. He was proud that he’d helped his father, even if Dr. Cooper didn’t seem overly impressed. What did she know?

“So where were you all this time?”

“I went to see this girl I know.”

“Oh, yeah?” Travis looked up at him, a crooked smile on his face. There was a shade of shared mischief there, the slightest hint of approval.

“And?”

“And we hung out. I took her for a ride in the car. She had to go home; she’s got a strict mother.”

“Is she a slut or a good girl?”

Marshall let out a little laugh at that. “I don’t know,” he said. He felt the heat rise to his face.

Travis gave him a look. “That was a trick question, Son. They’re all sluts.”

Now it was Travis’s turn to laugh; it sounded more like a cough. Marshall looked down at the toes of his combat boots, which he’d bought from the army-navy shop in town. He had that feeling he always had with his father, like he’d failed a test he didn’t know he was taking. No matter what answer he gave, it always seemed to be the wrong one.

“At least you’re seeing a girl in the flesh instead of living your life on that box upstairs.” His father meant the computer. Why he insisted on calling it a box, as if he didn’t know what it was or what it did, was beyond Marshall. His dad wasn’t that old.

“I didn’t hear you complaining when we hacked into Mom’s Facebook account,” said Marshall. He brought this up as often as possible because it always made his father smile.

Predictably, Travis let out a laugh at the memory. “That was pretty cool. Did she ever figure it out?”

“Nah. But she’s not seeing that guy anymore.”

Marshall had a gift for figuring out passwords. It really wasn’t that hard; most people were pretty lazy, wanted something easy to remember and then used that same password for everything. He knew his mother’s password for the wireless router at her place was his name and the year of his birth. Marshall figured it was probably the same for Facebook, and he was right. Last week, he and his dad had logged in to her account and left a wall message on her boyfriend’s page: I don’t want to see you anymore. Your dick is too small. You’ve never satisfied me.

Marshall hadn’t seen or called his mother since then. If his mother suspected him of hacking into her account, she didn’t get in touch to say so. Marshall noticed that she’d “unfriended” the loser she’d been dating, and that her boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend) had done the same to her. Mission accomplished.

Josh, Amber’s boyfriend, had been equally easy. His nickname on the football team was All-Star. Marshall guessed that was his password, and, again, he was right. Now the school was buzzing with Josh and Amber’s breakup. But, of course, she still didn’t seem that interested in Marshall, not even with the cool car and smokes. In fact, she’d practically run away from him.

His father went back to his hammering. It took Marshall a minute to realize that whatever nail Travis had been hammering was already sunk deep into the wood. Why was he still hitting it like that? Marshall stood and started