Davis kept the nickname “Four Door” by becoming a solid kid and plowing through other schools’ defensive lines for the Mirabeau Bees. (Our school mascot comes from a less-than-stylish play on the name of the second president of the Republic of Texas, for whom our fair town is named: Mirabeau B. Lamar. It has cursed all Mirabeau High School graduates with horrible memories of wearing too much yellow and black during our formative teen years.) Davis had kept his owlish look, though, and now he worked as a lawyer and was also a part owner of KBAV, our county’s only radio station. Not that many men in Mirabeau wear coats and ties on a daily basis, but Davis always looked as sharp as a crease. By Mirabeau standards, you understand. He wouldn’t have kept a single client if he’d represented them in an Armani-too sophisticated to trust at that point. Today he wore a gray suit with a red striped tie. He stood at the counter with Bradley, who did not look too happy.
Bradley’s big for fourteen-he’d gotten his growth spurt early, a gentle blond boy with a smiling face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bradley unhappy; but when life is so very simple as it is for Bradley, I suppose it’s more difficult to be sad.
“Hello, Jordan.” Davis greeted me with his usual cool formality. He’s one of my oldest friends, but he never addresses me by my nickname.
“Hi, Davis. Hey there, Bradley.”
Bradley, for some reason shy, shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “Hi, Jordy,” he finally said.
“Jordan, this is a little embarrassing. I found this under Bradley’s bed.” Davis reached behind Bradley’s back and produced a thin children’s book: Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. It’s a classic. Most boys Bradley’s age are hiding a different kind of wild-thing literature beneath their beds.
“Bradley neglected to return this book when we returned several others a few weeks back,” Davis said, using what sounded to me like his courtroom voice.
“I like it-cool pictures,” Bradley said by way of defense. Nervously, he dragged a hand across the back of his mouth and along a freckled cheek, leaving a wet smear. Bradley salivates more when he’s tense, I’ve noticed.
Admiring a book was a good defense with Judge Poteet. “That’s okay, Bradley. I love books, too. But other people might want to read it, too, and we only have one copy.” I kept my voice real kind. I have a reputation for being sharp-tongued (not sure how I earned that) but I’m genuinely fond of Bradley. I opened the book and peeked at the due date. Whoops, twenty weeks ago. This one’d slipped through the cracks. Bradley gave me a cautious, toothy smile. Davis looked pained. Breaking rules was not ever on his daily agenda.
“Say you’re sorry to Jordan, son, for hoarding the book,” he instructed.
“Sorry, Jordy,” Bradley whispered, staring at his feet. I take back what I said before; he could and did look sad.
“Bradley’s going to pay the fine out of his chores money,” Davis announced, Bradley hung his head in fur-flier shame.
I did a quick calculation. Usually we notify someone of an overdue book three times, then charge them the fine, the replacement cost of the book, and a five-buck extra processing fee. That’d come to over thirty dollars for this particular transgression. But we hadn’t notified the Foradorys; Itasca probably forgot to file the card right. I couldn’t entirely blame the problem on Bradley. He’d kept the book because he loved it, and we’d let him. The book was being returned in perfectly good shape. How many pleasures in life did this kid have?
“It’s a quarter, Bradley,” I said, using my patented authoritative voice.
Bradley began digging around in his pockets. Davis frowned; he pointed at a sign some idiot-in-charge (who shall go unnamed) had left hanging behind the counter.
“That says ten cents a day, Jordan.”
“That applies to adult literature,” I said smoothly. “We’re currently running an amnesty program on overdue picture books.” Note I was careful not to say children’s books in front of Bradley. I’m sure he must have some pride.
Davis wasn’t buying. “Now, Jordan-”
I wasn’t about to brook argument. “Mr. Foradory, I am the director of the Mirabeau Public Library and do believe I know our current overdue rates.” I said this with all the gravity it was worth. I was glad Candace wasn’t here to see me in my nobler moment; I’d never hear the end of it. Bradley carefully picked a quarter out of a palmful of change, held it up for my inspection, and when I nodded, he placed it in my open hand.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Jordy. I won’t do it again,” Bradley offered. I knew he was right; I’d just decided what to give Bradley for Christmas. With his own copy of Sendak, he wouldn’t be tempted by ours and he could spend hours with Max and his fanciful friends.
Davis still frowned. Okay, if he wanted to make up for Bradley’s minor crime, he could help me decide how to keep poor Ed from selling his soul to Elvis merchandisers.
Inspiration struck. We’d received three new books today: a best-selling, sex-dripping potboiler, the latest James Lee Burke, and a new children’s book. They still lay on the counter.
“Bradley. We just got in a new picture book. Want to be the first to look at it?”
His sky-blue eyes lit up and he laughed, a deep-chested cawing. If he hadn’t been deficient in certain areas, he might have been considered the handsomest boy in the junior high school. It really was a shame.
“Sure! A new book! Yeah!”
“Now, you can’t check it out yet, because I haven’t done all the paperwork or put in the date-due slip.” This went over his head and I hurried along. Best with Bradley just to give him instructions rather than options. “You sit over there and be real careful with it, since it’s new. I need to talk to your daddy for a minute.”
Bradley took the book and ambled to a chair mumbling to himself. Davis looked like he’d just been summoned to the principal’s office.
“You have a second, Davis?” I asked.
“I guess. I need to get Bradley home, though. Cayla doesn’t like it if he’s out long.” He followed me into my little office. I sat on the desk and gestured toward a chair.
“How’s he doing with home schooling?” I asked.
Davis shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Cayla has the patience of a saint with him, of course. I think it’s hard not being around other kids as much, but he’s probably learning more. Maybe we’ll have him in regular school again before too long. If Cayla’s comfortable with him being back around other kids.” Davis indulged himself in a long sigh. “I’ve found it’s best not to hope too highly for Bradley. That way he doesn’t get disappointed.”
I thought it was more that Davis didn’t get disappointed, but I forced my jaws shut. Davis misinterpreted the thinness of my mouth.
“I’m sorry about the book, Jordan.” Davis ran a hand through his thinning strawberry-blond hair. I hoped I wouldn’t lose mine as quickly as he seemed to be relinquishing his.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Actually, I wondered if you’d talked to Ed about his Institute of Elvisology. You know that Wanda cavorts about town acting like the King during various stages of his career. She’s practically auditioning for a postage stamp.”
Davis permitted himself a quick smile. “I had lunch with Ed yesterday. Wanda’s pretty excited about their new venture. Her mother’s pushing Ed and Wanda to make a success of it.”
I sighed. “Ed’s heart isn’t in that store. I’m not sure he even likes Elvis. Poor Little Ed. I swear that woman and her mother are going to clean him out. Look, he’s got a good job with you at KBAV. I hope he’s not going to forsake that.”
“He says he won’t-Wanda and Ivalou are going to run the store. Ed’s just putting in all his money.”
I made a face. Okay, call me immature. “Doesn’t that sound crazy to you? Ed and Wanda aren’t exactly famous for business savvy.”
Davis nodded, back on the familiar ground of commerce and bankruptcy. “First the nursery she wanted to start, then the arts-and-crafts store, and now this. Not a single one ever pans out for them, I’m afraid.”
“The only good that could come out of this is if he went bankrupt, maybe Wanda would divorce him. That’d get both her and that vulture Ivalou out of his hair. I hate to see him throwing money away, Davis. Can’t you talk him out of this crap? You’re a lawyer. He’d listen to you.”
Davis preened a little at the compliment, like a peacock settling its plumage before a flock of hens. “I tried, but Wanda’s got him by the short and curly. I’m not sure what he sees in that woman.”
I shrugged. “Isn’t it awful, Davis? He hasn’t even started and we’re both already sure he’s going to fail again. I ought to have more faith in him.”
