Bad Behavior (20 page)

“Don’t!” The sharp word was out of Enzo’s mouth before Grant could finish.

Grant ignored his father’s pleading eyes. “What did she ever do to you? Why did you hit her?”

Looking away, Enzo begged, “Stop, please.”

There was an extended silence between them. When Enzo turned back to face his son, Grant was shocked at the tears glistening in his father’s eyes.

“There are things you don’t understand. I—I never meant to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt any of you. It—it was the booze.”

A look of disappointment crossed Grant’s face. “Don’t you dare blame this on alcohol. Nobody held a gun to your head and forced you to drink! You chose this—you chose to hurt us. Don’t you know why Logan had an out-of-control gambling problem? Don’t you know why he used drugs all the time? It’s because he hated himself! He hated himself for not protecting Mom and me from
you
. You did that.”

“Logan was a grown man; he made his choice. You’re not pinning that on me.”

Grant shook his head with disgust. “I don’t know why I came here. I should’ve known what to expect from you.”

You can’t change your father.
Hunter’s words filled his head.
He likely won’t apologize or validate you, but it’s still important to tell him what you have to say.

Grant looked at the paper, which was almost ripped apart from his grip. Perhaps his father could deny all responsibility for hurting his mother and brother because both were dead, but Grant was right here. Enzo couldn’t deny the effects of his abuse on the man sitting across from him.

“I feel shame,” Grant admitted quietly, so softly Enzo had to strain to hear. “I feel ashamed of myself. I—I question and doubt myself nonstop. Not so much because of the beatings…” He sniffed. “Though they’re part of it. But mostly because of the way you talked to me. You called me weak, pathetic.”

An image of a dark closet flooded his consciousness, taking away his oxygen. The burn of his backside, the wetness of his pants.

“You called me a baby.” Grant hunched over and wrapped his arms around his torso, suddenly appearing younger than his thirty years. “You told me I was a fucking baby.”

Each word made Enzo flinch. Sickened, he watched as his son continued pulling inward, rocking, almost whimpering.

Grant’s breaths were shallow, and his body was frozen as he looked off into the distance. From far away, he heard a woman’s voice calling to him, coming closer, and suddenly he realized it was Sophie, just like she talked to him when he awoke from a nightmare.
It’s okay. You’re not a baby. You’re an adult now. He can’t hurt you. I love you. I love my McSailor.

Grant slowly sat up, tried to steady his breathing, and looked into his father’s dismayed stare.

“What’s
wrong
with you?” Enzo asked, taken aback.

Looking away, Grant clenched his teeth before bravely meeting his father’s gaze. “I have posttraumatic stress disorder.”

Enzo narrowed his eyes. “Vets get that, right? I knew you shouldn’t have joined the fucking military.”

Shaking his head, Grant scoffed, “This isn’t from the Navy! This is from you! From your abuse!”

“Abuse? That wasn’t abuse—that was discipline. You needed that.”

“Discipline? Is that what you call it? Is that what you call beating your son black and blue for spilling a glass of water? Is that what you call a father forcing his seven-year-old son to shoot a man dead?”

Enzo gasped, slumping back in his chair. An anguished expression crossed his face as his cold, black eyes turned glassy. Images surfaced of a frightened man tied to a chair, his father’s hand darting to unbuckle his belt, the feel of a cool metal gun in his hand…

“No,” he cried numbly. “That didn’t happen.”

Watching his father recoil with fear, seeming to leave himself, Grant suddenly understood he wasn’t the only one suffering from PTSD. Enzo’s father had cruelly traumatized him just as he’d traumatized Grant and Logan in turn, all in the name of love, protection, and
toughening up.
It was a family legacy Grant was determined not to pass on.

“You’re having flashbacks, Dad.”

Enzo gave him a blank stare.

“Remember to breathe,” Grant said softly. “Grandpa’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Enzo’s nostrils flared as he returned to the present and strained against the cuffs of his Y-chain.

“It’s a flashback. My psychologist showed me some strategies to get through it.”

“Your psychologist? The one who put you up to writing that ridiculous letter?”

Grant’s face fell.

Enzo was seething. “I
knew
some shrink put you up to this—no normal person reads a fucking letter to someone sitting right across from him! Telling me Logan got in trouble because he
hated
himself—that’s fucking bullshit. What the hell are you telling that shrink? You better hope you’re not sharing family secrets in there.”

“So what if I am,
Dad?”
Grant challenged. “You don’t want him knowing you’re an abusive, alcoholic, child-killer? Well, too late—he already knows. Everybody knows. I’m so
proud
you’re my father.”

“You son of a bitch!” Enzo yelled, jumping to his feet, clanging the chains. “You’re lucky I’m in this cage or I’d beat the shit out of you!”

Grant’s eyes widened as he looked to find his father almost frothing at the mouth.

“You better hope you don’t get put back in here!” Enzo snarled. “Or what I did to you as a kid will seem like a fucking picnic!”

Grant caught motion behind the cage out of the corner of his eye.

Enzo thrashed in his restraints, causing the chains to clang loudly. “You said I’ll never get out of here? We’ll see about that.” There was an evil glint to his eyes. “I may join you on the outside soon, son.”

Grant stopped breathing. What the hell did he mean by that?

The back of the cage burst open and two COs grabbed the prisoner, yanking him back and half-dragging him out of the cage. “Either on the inside or the outside, I’ll be seeing you soon!” Enzo hollered as he was dragged away. “And you’ll wish you’d never been born!”

Left in silence, Grant’s body shook as he carefully glanced around the visiting area, finding all eyes on him. He covered his face with his hands, feeling utterly miserable, his father’s parting words running in his head.

“I already wish I’d never been born,” he whispered.

A cold, swirling wind threatened to steal Sophie’s stylish brown hat, and she clutched the crown with one hand while snuggling into Grant’s warm, steady frame.

“I miss summer,” she said, sighing.

“Me too. I can’t believe it’s almost November.”

They’d just descended the stairs from the el and now passed storefronts littered with political signs, some for presidential candidates Gabe Kaufmann or Victor Ortiz and others hyping those vying to be governor of Illinois: Republican Tom Grogan or Democrat Darko Jovanovich.

“Well, I can’t believe it’s almost Election Day,” Sophie said.

“Not that it matters much to us,” Grant responded bitterly.

She snaked one arm around his back, and he draped his arm across her shoulders. Their simultaneous touches provided comfort. In addition to their weekly meetings with Officer Stone, there were countless reminders of their second-class status as convicted felons.

They arrived at Hunter’s office ten minutes early—right on schedule—and spent their wait time catching up on their evenings. Sophie had fallen asleep by the time Grant got home from work.

“When did you get in?” she asked.

“Around one thirty.”

“Isn’t that kind of late for a weeknight?”

“Yeah.” Grant suppressed a yawn.

There was a mischievous glint in her eye. “You missed curfew—maybe I should make you do some push-ups, Lieutenant Madsen.”

“Hey, I have an excuse! I stuck around to help clean up the bar.”

“Cleaning? Isn’t that beneath you? You’re a big star now! You have your own dressing room.”

“I have my own broom closet.” He sighed. “I can’t believe I’m getting
paid
to sing for just a couple hours a night—I wish there was more to this job. At least with the cruise I could quiz myself on new facts about architecture every day.”

She sat thoughtfully for a moment. “You still haven’t told Uncle Joe about your new job, have you?”

A flush of his cheeks answered her question. “We spent most of our last phone call talking about my dad.”

“Grant! Joe’s going to visit you soon, right? What’ll you tell him then?”

“The truth, I guess. I’ll have to ’fess up about my job once he’s here. I hope he won’t think it’s stupid. He takes his career more seriously than any man I know, and once he finds out I only work a few hours five nights a week
singing
, well, I don’t know what he’ll think.”

“He’ll be glad you’re not in prison is what he’ll think.”

Abruptly deflecting attention away from himself, Grant asked, “How was your night?”

“Kind of boring, I guess. I was preparing a lecture for this afternoon.”

“Theories of Personality?”

“Yep, we’re on Carl Rogers.”

“And how is my favorite couple today?” Hunter’s voice rang out in the waiting room.

The pair looked up, surprised by his stealthy entrance.

As they stood, Sophie glanced at Grant and pointed to Hunter. “That’s an example of Rogers’ unconditional positive regard, right there,” she said. “Hunter likes us even though we’re on parole.”

Hunter chuckled. “Ah, you’re teaching Carl Rogers to your students?”

“And to me as well, it seems,” Grant replied as they headed toward the office.

“Carl Rogers—what a great man,” Hunter mused. “New theories may come and go, but his ideas about unconditional positive regard and empathy will always prevail.”

They entered his office and took their seats while Hunter continued.

“Rogers modeled total acceptance of his clients, no matter where they were in their lives.”

“He sounds like one of your favorites,” Sophie remarked. “Do you have any teaching tips for me? We’re reviewing Rogers in class today.”

After a beat, Hunter asked, “Are you planning on covering how conditions of worth interfere with the organismic valuing process?”

Grant snapped to attention. “The orgasmic
what?”

Hunter laughed. “The orga
nis
mic valuing process—each person’s attempt to maximize themselves and their potential, the drive to do what feels valuable and worthy to the individual.”

Sophie giggled. “Yes, I was planning on covering that.”

“Well, when I was a teaching Rogers’ theory to undergraduates, I came up with an idea for helping them remember the OVP,” said Hunter. “You have to be willing to risk looking foolish in front of your students, though. Do you remember when Naughty by Nature did that song
OPP?”

“I’m not sure—was that from the nineties?”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “You two are making me feel old. Yes, it’s from
way back
in the nineteen nineties. I won’t go into the meaning of OPP because it’s rather crude, but it was a hit song. So anyway, I started singing to my class.” Hunter waved one arm over his head like a rapper, substituting OVP for OPP as he sang the song’s refrain. “The students loved it. They all got that test question correct.”

Sophie snickered. “That’s awesome!” Turning to Grant, she added, “See,
I
get to sing at work too.”

“Can I watch?” he grinned. “This should be fun.”

Sophie looked dubious. “Um, I’m not sure I want a professional singer critiquing my performance.”

“I’m hardly a professional. And at least you won’t have the governor of Illinois in your audience.”

“Are you coming to work with me today, then?” Sophie asked.

“That’d be great—I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Have you been doing that often, Grant?” Hunter asked. “Visiting Sophie at work?”

“Yes, sir. I make sure that David Alton creep stays away from her.”

Sophie smiled. “You don’t have to worry. David has totally been avoiding me since our little confrontation. Tanya and I think it’s hilarious.”

“Speaking of confrontations,” Hunter segued. “Grant, did you end up visiting your father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent! That was very brave of you. How’d it go?”

Grant shared an uncomfortable glance with his girlfriend. “Um, my father wasn’t exactly full of unconditional love for me, sir.”

“No unconditional positive regard from the dadster, huh?” Hunter smirked.

“It’s not funny, Hunter,” Sophie replied. “Grant was really upset when he got home.”

His expression turned more serious. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make light of the situation. What exactly happened?”

Taking a deep breath, Grant answered, “Well, first of all it was bizarre to return to Gurnee, especially as a visitor. I definitely don’t want to go back to that place.”

Sophie patted his hand and then rested her hand on his.

“When they brought my dad out, I was really nervous. I tried to remind myself to breathe, but it was hard to see him again.”

“How did it compare to when you first confronted him in the prison yard?”

“It was a lot different, sir. On my first day at Gurnee, I hadn’t seen him in twenty years. I had this grand plan then that I wouldn’t let him intimidate me, and I tried to stand up to him, but he knocked that plan down real quick. I was stupid to think I could outmaneuver him. When he allowed those guys to attack me, and I got thrown into solitary, I—I…”

“You can say it, Grant,” Hunter encouraged, watching his client squirm.

“When I had um, a, um, psychotic break, well, I figured out I couldn’t fight my dad.”

“It was a smart survival strategy to accept his protection.”

Grant shook his head. “It was weak. Once I got out of solitary, my father did let me kind of do my own thing, though, as long as I cut ties with Uncle Joe.”

Sophie interjected, “It infuriates me that he’d try to interfere in your relationship with Joe. Why does your dad care about that? It’s not like he ever took an interest in being a parent to you.”

“My dad has always hated Joe. I think he’s jealous of him or something. Dad thought Angelo should’ve raised me when Mom died. When Joe adopted me and gave me his name, I bet that killed my dad.”

“That
would
upset a narcissist,” Hunter agreed. “For another man to claim his son right out from under his nose—your father’s pride must’ve been quite wounded, especially when he knew Joe was a much better father than he could ever be.”

“I don’t think my dad would ever admit that.”

“Probably not,” Hunter said. “So tell me about this confrontation—it sounds like you were trying to approach him more cautiously this time. Did you get to read your letter? How did Enzo react?”

Grant bit his lip, his father’s mocking tone and menacing growl ringing in his ears.

Sophie gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. “I kind of want to hear this too.” She glanced at Hunter. “He was too shaken when he got home to tell me much.”

They both waited for a moment before Grant gave a faint smile. “He didn’t like my White Sox jacket.”

“I bet you felt like you were in Jerry’s office.” Sophie grinned.

“Your father’s a Cubs fan, I gather,” Hunter said. “What happened after he disparaged your jacket?”

“He said he was glad I came.”

Hunter and Sophie were astonished.

“That was right before he screamed at me for disrespecting him.”

“You? Disrespectful?” Hunter sported a look of disbelief. “You’re one of the most respectful people I’ve ever met, Grant. And feel free to stop calling me ‘sir,’ by the way. It’s really not necessary.”

“But you’re a doctor, sir.”

Tilting his head to one side, Hunter said, “Sophie may not have her license anymore, but she’s still has her PhD. She’s still a doctor, but I don’t hear you calling her ma’am.”

Grant looked at his girlfriend, and both burst out laughing.

“Don’t you dare start calling me ma’am, McSailor.”

He winked back at her. “Yes, Bonnie.”

Hunter got them back on track. “Why did your father think you were disrespectful?”

“Because he had things to say to me, but I had things to say to him first, and he didn’t like that.”

“What is he—twelve? Can’t he wait his turn? What did he want to say to you?”

Pondering Hunter’s question, Grant responded, “He wanted to thank me…for avenging Logan’s death…for killing Carlo.” He ducked his head. “He said he was proud of me.”

Hunter pressed his lips together, and Sophie now nervously wrung her hands together.

“But you don’t look too proud of yourself,” Hunter said.

“No, sir, um, Dr. Hayes.” Grant slowly raised his head, meeting the psychologist’s eyes. “I had to do it—he was going to kill Sophie—but I’m not proud of pulling the trigger. I’m not proud at all.”

Finding a resting place for her fidgeting hands, Sophie scooped up one of Grant’s into both of hers.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Your life would’ve never been in danger if you hadn’t met me.”

She looked sad. “You’re wrong, Grant. Carlo wanted his money back, and he would’ve found me eventually.”

Grant looked away, sighing. “Earlier you said you miss summer… Well, I don’t.”

“Why’s that?” Sophie gave his hand a squeeze.

“Because in the summer you sometimes wear sleeveless shirts.” He swallowed hard. “And I can see your scar.”

Her face flushed a rosy color. “You think it’s ugly.”

He inhaled sharply. “No! You’re so beautiful—I’d never think that, Sophie. It’s, it’s just…I feel awful when I see that scar. I hate myself for not protecting you.”

“But you did protect me.” She shook her head, exhaling loudly. “Don’t you know I feel the exact same way about
your
scar?”

His face tightened with dread, and she continued.

“You feel awful when you look at my arm. Well, I feel awful when I look at your back. I so wish somebody had been there to protect you when you were a little boy. I bet you were so adorable back then, and I…” She clenched her teeth. “I feel badly that nobody shielded you from your father.”

Grant bowed his head again, unable to look at her. She felt his shame emanating, evident in the trembling tension of his grip, and she deeply wished she could take it away.

Hunter gently said, “Good work, you two. You’re communicating very well. I also feel sad that Grant didn’t have anybody to protect him as a child. But now that you’re an adult, Grant, you have the resources to take care of yourself. You did a wonderful job standing up to your father.”

“It wasn’t so wonderful,” he countered in a low voice. “I started yelling at him about how he ruined Carlo and Logan, which totally pissed him off, and then I told him I didn’t want to be anything like him.” He exhaled derisively. “What a joke. I was acting just like he was—raging on him like he used to do to me. I’m no better than him.”

Sophie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Grant, you said you and your father cheer for different baseball teams, and you’ve obviously chosen very different careers,” Hunter said. “How do your religious views compare to his?”

Grant shrugged. “My father’s Catholic too.”

“How about your mother?”

“She was Protestant—Lutheran, I think, but she converted to Catholicism when she married my dad.”

Hunter turned to Sophie. “Didn’t you say you were Methodist?”

“Yes, but I’m a bad Methodist—I haven’t been to church in a while. My dad isn’t very pleased with his heathen daughter.”

“Let’s get back to that,” Hunter suggested, winking at Sophie. “Grant, do you consider yourself a Catholic?”

He tapped his long fingers on his thigh. “I guess, but I’m kind of like Sophie—I don’t go to mass as much as I should.”

“Hmm, you’re both Christian, but it sounds like you have some religious differences. I don’t want to veer off the discussion about Grant’s father, so we’ll have to get back to that topic too.”

“Oh, boy,” Sophie replied, feigning excitement.

“I’m not sure if I’m really a Catholic,” Grant said. “I used to go to mass with Simkins on the aircraft carrier, but the last time I was inside the Basilica was for Logan’s funeral.” He exchanged a mournful glance with Sophie. “And the last time before that was for my mom’s funeral.”

Hunter looked thoughtful. “You certainly have some sad memories associated with the church. Perhaps you’ll have to create some happier memories there.”