Episode 20
EPISODE 20
It’s Christmas and our living room is warm and softly lit. Holiday music plays on a radio. The tree sparkles with blinking lights and tinsel. Tinsel’s my favorite, and I’m given a handful with the caution to get it all on the tree. She pops a peppermint cane into my mouth.
I put the strands on one by one instead of tossing them in clumps, so the pleasure of trimming the tree will last. Peppermint juice escapes onto my chin, but I can’t take the cane out because handling it will make the filmy tinsel stick to my fingers. She’s my mom and I want to please her.
Blinking lights zoom off the tree and swirl around me, mostly an angry red, not Rudolph or Santa or the stripe on a candy cane. The radio music turns ugly, like the winding down of a siren.
The wreck. Ernie. John. The Caddy. The bag of money, the sweat lodge, lunch on the terrace, running for an out-of-bounds tennis ball, shooting at Hoodoo.
There’s a rush of cold air and I think it’s my dad opening the front door, carrying last-minute gifts for us. Then there’s a lot of urgent conversation and rushing footsteps, pain in my head and hands, I’m in my narrow bed and it’s flying through the night.
When I crawl out of the dark pit again, the room is light, not bright. I’m in a real bed now, and the pain is muffled. My ears still feel stuffed with cotton. There’s a bandage over my eye. Not on my eye, thank God. Venturing to open both, I see Ernie asleep. His chair is pulled close enough that he’s slumped on my bed. They’ve shaved a place for the sterile pad taped to the back of his head, though uncut hair mostly covers it. His left wrist is wrapped.
My hands are covered with soft white gloves, like a burn victim. A brace on my left shoulder. What did I break? Shoulder blade? Rib? Collar bone? At this point, I’m just glad we’re in a place where we’re being taken care of. “John?” I’m unsure if he’s around the corner, or even in the hospital.
Ernie’s not asleep, because he sits up as soon as he hears me speak. He looks like he’s about to cry and my heart flip-flops. Is John dead? In jail? Is Ernie upset over the wreck of the black Caddy? Have the Suits finally found me?
“I’m so sorry,” he says, and that tells me nothing.
“You’re always sorry,” I say stupidly. “Mostly without reason.”
“I should have thrown away those damn cartridges. Should have warned you that gun was a dangerous piece of shit, just like Hoodoo.”
“What happened to him?”
“Arrested for all sorts of things, including kidnapping Francine.” He smiles.
“Is she okay?”
“He dumped her on a street corner in Taylorsville. Once she got to a shelter and called Dad, yeah, she’s fine.”
In the hallway people clatter stuff on carts, call to each other, give bursts of laughter. In the next room a tv blares the jangly music of a game show.
“He is crazy.”
“Unfortunately that’s probably true so the bastard will likely end up in a psycho ward instead of where he belongs.”
I start to draw a deep breath, but the medication has worn off. “What’d I break?”
“Collarbone. Pinky on your right hand.”
“What’s wrong with my head?” I try to raise my eyebrows, which doesn’t work too well because of the bandage.
“Not as bad as it looked last night,” he tells me. “Part of the pistol gave you a nasty gash that bled a tee shirt full and then some.”
All over your car seat, I think, before realizing the car is probably totaled. “It’s all my fault for not waking you when I saw him in the yard.”
Before either of us can move on to another topic, like where’s John or what’s going to happen now, a slender middle aged woman appears in the doorway. I recognize her from the framed photo in Ernie’s room. She’s pretty, shoulder-length light brown hair, and wearing a pink-flowered summer dress and sandals. A shoulder bag matches them, but nothing about her shouts ‘money.’
Ernie turns to follow my look, half rises, gasps, “Mom.”
She doesn’t seem to know what to say, or do. Neither does he. They start toward each other, stop, then a few steps more and they’re hugging. I figure they’ll go into the hall or to a waiting room, but no they’re coming toward me.
“Mom, this is Vinnie—”
He’s never heard my last name. I’ve always suspected the East Wind records were made up by somebody who thought I should answer to Scott. To ease his embarrassment, I bite the bullet and introduce myself. “Hello, Mrs. Gordon, I’m Vincent Scott.”
Her smile is shaky, like she doesn’t know what to say to me either. My bruises and bandages must look worse than I thought, and she’s careful not to offer to shake my injured hand. Ernie seats her in the only chair, a plastic oversize thing that makes her seem younger and more uncertain than ever. “Your dad called. A candy striper told me where to find you.”
“So you know Frannie’s home?”
“Yes. And that awful boy is in jail. I hope she’ll testify against him.”
“Dad will see to it that she does.”
“What about you, Tommy? The doctor said you have a concussion. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Hearing her call him Tommy throws me, then I remember how confused I was when the man at the body shop didn’t know who I meant by ‘Ernie.’ Seems we’re all sailing along under assumed names, one way or another.
“We both have a light concussion, but we’re fine, really. Be out tomorrow.”
And then—what? I don’t have to wonder long, because a large man strides into my room and declares, “Vincent, I see you’re on the mend. We’ll send a car when you’re done with the hearing, and you’ll be home in no time.”
It’s O’Leary. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth so tight I can’t even ask for a drink of water. He takes my silence as gratitude or something, and turns to Mrs. Gordon. She looks startled. O’Leary doesn’t notice, he talks about the weather, how happy he is that nobody was hurt (?!?) in the wreck, and how East Wind security has been beefed up so nothing like this will ever happen again.
His parting shot at me is, “Don’t worry, you won’t have to testify at the trial. It’s just a hearing and I know you’ll tell the truth. You’re a good boy.” He says to the others, “Straight A’s, don’t know what got into him.” Then he’s gone.
We all let out a huge sigh, and then laugh. Ernie’s mom is a warm, sweet person, when her tense face relaxes. Even in a situation like this, it’s not permanently lined by anger, the way my foster mothers’ faces were. Ernie briefly explains how we met at the picnic grounds and have been traveling together, but he leaves out specifics, like where I came from, or how we hooked up with John. She doesn’t show much interest anyway. She’s more concerned about Ernie’s part in what’s coming next.
“There’ll be two hearings,” Ernie explains. “One for Hoo— Frank, and one for John.” To me, he adds, “You’ll testify only at John’s, and it’s set for day after tomorrow.”
So John’s alive and able to face whatever goes on at a hearing. He’d better be. I decide to rely on my innocent look and scholastic track record, and play dumb.
Ernie’s mom opens her shoulder bag. I expect her to offer him cash, but it’s a credit card. She avoids chewing him out for letting Fran or Hoodoo steal the other one. “You have your cell?”
“Yes.”
“Everything you need?”
“Yes, Mom. Everything’s okay. We’ll be in touch.”
“See that you are.” She leans and hugs him again, holding him a long while. At the door she turns. “You know where to find me.”
He lifts his chin once to mean ‘yes,’ and she’s gone. “I like her,” I say, and he says, “Me, too.”
We’re silent for several long minutes. The hall noise hasn’t stopped, the tv has. I mention that I’m starving.
“Well, you missed breakfast, and judging by the menu they brought around, you won’t be thrilled with lunch.”
“Smuggle me in a cheeseburger.”
“If I could, I would, for both of us.”
Another dead spot. I’m sweating over O’Leary showing up, nervous about the hearing. Ernie pours ice water into a glass and bends the straw so I can drink. “You talked to your dad today?”
“Last night. He flew in from that conference this morning. Grace has been gathering evidence and once he’s digested all the facts, he’ll build a case against Jordan.”
“What if John lied?”
“When everything’s laid on the table, we’ll know.”
I don’t plan to lay everything on the table. “What about the money? The fake ID. And those strings you pulled.”
“What money?” Ernie grins, and I have my cue.
We eat lunch together in my room. Soggy veggies, tough Mystery Meat, and school Jell-O. Unlike other East Winders, I’ve never thrown mine against a wall to see if it sticks or bounces, especially when it’s lime. The taste reminds me of the margarita.
Between bites, and gulps of milk, Ernie fills me in on John. “Fractured his ankle, broke a rib, and cried like a baby when he saw the Caddy smashed like a drink can.”
“You didn’t cry?”
“Nah. I know where there’s another one. Mint condition, like she’s right off the factory floor.”
“Pink?”
We grin. “So where is he now?”
Ernie sobers. “In custody. Bond is set at fifty thousand, but I can’t pay it with my own money and I’m not going to involve Mom.”
I wonder if John’s thinking of Margie, the farmhouse, shooting Jordan, shooting Hoodoo. Frank. If Ernie’s dad is the lawyer he’s supposed to be, all of John’s actions have been justified. Except not coming forward when the story broke.
‘Hell,’ I can hear him say, ‘I was off fishing and didn’t know anybody wanted me.’
That’s what one of the Suits brought up that day in the coffee shop, so the idea’s not that far-fetched. And since we did fish, we all should be able to use the alibi with a ring of truth behind it.
Ernie says, “Want me to read to you?”
“Sure.” Then a nurse comes in and adjusts the drip and I don’t hear past the first paragraph of some story in a magazine he’s brought with him.
My dreams are not all sweet but when I wake around supper time, I can’t remember any of them, and Ernie’s gone. He’s left the magazine, and a note: Mouse, I’m in Room 328. Send someone if you need me.
A child protection agency person arrives and stays with me until I’m discharged into her care. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone connected with the hearing, and don’t have access to a phone. It’s like being in a strange foster home again for two endless nights, and then I’m on stage alone without a copy of the script or any clue which character I’m supposed to be.
* * *
At the hearing, I tell the truth, nothing but the truth. The whole truth is none of the judge’s business.
So I leave out the part about Jerry and Steve’s plan to escape our prison, the fact that Jerry gave me money, and their help in getting over the wall. I definitely leave out everything about Al, and John’s two-o’clock-in-the-morning wailing that scared the pee out of me. Hell, it could have been a ghost for all I know.
The judge is gray-haired, overweight, and a poker player. Harder to read than Ernie or even John. What will he buy?
“After seeing that woman’s body pulled up out of that well, I must’ve had a kind of breakdown. Felt like I had to get away from the place. I had bus fare from savings. East Winders always get charitable gifts at Christmas. I traded toys I didn’t want, for money.” In Boy Scout mode again, I’m encouraged when he nods, like he understands.
He reveals that he already knows I met Hoodoo, Francine, and Ernie in the picnic area, and since the gun is what got me into this present mess, I explain how we came to have it, ending with, “Ernie was trying to keep Hoodoo—Frank—from killing anybody.”
What else can I say? I wait for him to ask a question, he just nods a ‘go-on.’
I don’t mention the blonde in the red convertible, and since Ernie had warned me that breaking and entering is a felony, I skip over our night at Haw Creek Elementary School. Instead, I concentrate on our adventures at the thrift store, the rest areas, the cafes, and the coffee shop in the town where we saw—I almost call them ‘Suits’ but catch myself—Martin and the reporter.
I admit that’s where we met John. Keeping the pink Caddy under wraps, I talk about the festival and what a great time we all had. Not wanting to paint too sweet a picture, I think twice before going into some detail about our stay at the farmhouse.
“So you were never held hostage by this—” He checks the papers on the table in front of him. “John Burand?”
“No, sir! We were out of money and needed a ride. He wanted somebody to help with the camp tent.”
“And did he tell you why he was camping?”
“We fished in a stream where he used to go with his dad.”
The judge gazes over his half-glasses at me for a long time. “And then Thomas Gordon—known to you as Ernie—invited both you and Mister Burand into his home.”
Feeling near the end of the inquisition, I breathe deep, try to relax. “Yes, sir.”
“Because Thomas Gordon’s father is an attorney, and Mister Burand believed legal counsel to be necessary.”
“I guess so.” I’m still trying to get used to hearing Ernie’s real name.
“So, to your knowledge, there was no connection between the murdered woman and Mister Burand.”
Lying on small matters is easy. Lying outright to a direct question by a man who probably knows the answer chokes me.
“I knew she was his wife.”
“He never told you about their problems, or why she left him?”
“No, sir.” No, he told Ernie.
“And after Mister Burand shot and wounded Jordan, you weren’t frightened to be in his company?”
“That was self-defense.”
“Were you there?”
“No, but our camp was five minutes away by foot and we heard the guns firing just the way John explained it.”
“So when you shot at Frank Logan at the Gordon residence, you believed he had done something to the car.”
“He had. He loosened the wheel so it would come off and maybe kill somebody.”
The judge sits back, twiddles his pen with three fingers, watches me. I try to pull a poker face, too, though with only a giant gauze patch instead of the bulky bandage, my eyebrows have a life of their own. They rise in a silent question. Are we done here?
“That’s all. Thank you.” He leans forward and writes on his legal pad.
Slowly I stand up. “Sir. Will I be sent back to East Wind?”
His eyelids flick up at me, his hand pauses over the notes. “I’m afraid so.” He sounds genuinely sorry. I swallow my disappointment.
TO BE CONTINUED!