In the Middle of the Night (11 page)

At that moment, Lawrence looked in Denny’s direction, and their eyes locked. Denny wasn’t sure what he saw in those eyes, particularly at this distance. But he could see something. Fear, sure. Anger? Denny turned away.
This is not my business; it’s got nothing to do with me.
He got out of there, tripping and stumbling as he made his way back to the school, trying to decipher Lawrence Hanson’s expression.

Later, between social studies and math II, classes he didn’t share with Lawrence Hanson, he met him face-to-face in the corridor. He looked normal enough except for a small swollen patch near his left eye. Denny opened his mouth to say something—but what? They stood facing each other for an excruciating moment. Denny was surprised by the anger in Hanson’s eyes, as if Denny were the enemy, not the two guys who had assaulted him. Denny had left the scene, yes, but Hanson had refused to fight back.
All I did was mind my own business.

After classes, crossing the quad, Denny spotted Jimmy Burke coming his way. He didn’t want an encounter with him at this moment. Had no answer for him. Not yet, if ever. Denny changed direction, headed for the administration building as if he had an important errand to run. Thought he heard Jimmy Burke calling his name but kept on going.

Later, on the bus, he slumped in his seat, dejected and angry, not sure why he was angry or who he was angry with.

The day did not brighten but continued its dark descent when he stopped in at the 24-Hour Store and found an older man, a fringe of gray hair surrounding his bald head, behind the counter. The owner, probably.

Denny waited until the customers had departed before stepping up. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his nervousness.

“My name is Denny Colbert,” he said. “The assistant manager said that I might be able to work here.”

“Oh, yes,” the man said, frowning. “My name is Arthur Taylor—this is my store. Dave told me about you.”

He scratched his bald head. “Dave’s an enthusiastic kind of guy. But he gets carried away sometimes. Sure, we get quite a turnover here, but there’s nothing open at the moment. How old are you?” All in one quick breath.

“Sixteen.” Disappointment causing him to almost stammer.

“Let me explain how this works, Denny. I try to hire older, more experienced people. There’s a lot of responsibility in a job like this. Sometimes you have to work alone. You never know who’s coming through that door.” Pausing, apparently noticing Denny’s disappointment, he said: “I’m sorry, son.” Kindly, sympathetic. Then, sighing: “Okay, why don’t you fill out an employment form. Maybe I can find a spot for you sometime.”

Denny took the form and slipped it into one of his books. He suspected that the store owner was letting him down easy. A kind man, but no job to give out.

“Good ol’ Dave,” Mr. Taylor said, shaking his head. “I guess he took a liking to you. Drop around now and then, son, although I can’t make any promises.”

Denny was glad when a customer came in and he was able to make his getaway.

At home, the telephone rang as he poured himself a glass of orange juice. He drank the juice slowly, listening to the rings. Counted them as usual. If it goes beyond ten, I’ll answer it, he thought. He walked toward the telephone, counting: eight, nine. As he reached to pick it up, the ringing stopped. He picked it up anyway and heard the dial tone, feeling a pang of loss although he couldn’t imagine over what.

The next afternoon, as he sat at his desk pondering a math problem that had no importance in his life except for a mark on his report card, he heard someone knocking at the kitchen door. Sharp, insistent raps. Then silence. He waited, pen poised over the page. The knocking resumed. Dropping the pen, he made his way to the kitchen.

Knock knock, who’s there?

He and his parents had had no visitors since moving to Barstow. Nobody from UPS had delivered a package. Mail was left in the standard metal box on the first-floor porch.

More knocks. One, two, three, four.

I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.

A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. Denny strained to listen. Heard the voice say: “It’s important. Please open up.”

A man’s voice. Not a woman’s. Definitely not a woman. Not the telephone caller. He stood uncertainly at the kitchen table. He did not want to open the door.
Who knows who might be standing there, only a few feet away?

Cut the dramatics, he told himself. This is the middle of the afternoon and someone is merely knocking at the door. Could be a salesman. Or an emergency: a neighbor in desperate need of help. What had the knocker said? “
It’s important. Please open up
.”

Denny opened the door. Just a crack. Peered suspiciously through the narrow opening. Saw a middle-aged man, horn-rimmed glasses, gray hair, jacket pocket jammed with pens and pencils. Knew instantly who this was: a reporter. Remembered his father’s command:
If approached, tell them nothing. Never say yes. Always say no. Or don’t know.

“Is Mr. Colbert at home?” the reporter asked.

Denny shook his head, began to close the door.

“Wait … Do you know when he’s expected?”

The reporter’s air of urgency stopped Denny’s hand. More than that: this reporter seemed like a nice guy. Looked tired. His eyes bloodshot, as if he had not slept the night before. Denny knew that look, had seen it on his father’s face.

“I don’t know,” Denny said. A stupid answer. Of course he knew when his father would come home.
After work.
Stupid question, too. The reporter should know that his father worked at Madison Plastics and would not be found at home in the middle of the afternoon.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to
you
,” the reporter said. “You’re Dennis Colbert, aren’t you? I’m from the
Wickburg Telegram
.”

“I’m sorry,” Denny said. “I’m busy.”

And began to close the door again.

“Wait a minute,” the reporter said. “I want to help. I want to help you, and your father.”

“We don’t need your help,” Denny said, his reply fueled by the memory of that blazing headline and story in the
Telegram
years ago. Maybe this reporter had written that story, that headline.

“I think you do,” the reporter said. But speaking kindly, not threatening. And also speaking wearily, sighing. “Would you please listen to me for a minute?”

Denny’s impulse to close the door was overwhelmed by curiosity. Maybe the reporter could tell him things his father had never revealed to him. Maybe he could help, after all.

“In a week or two, there’re going to be big stories about the Globe tragedy,” the reporter said. “Your father’s an important part of that story. My paper’s the biggest in Worcester County, Dennis. And my editor wants to pull out all the stops. He assigned me to head the team working on the story. Interviewing the survivors. Tracking down relatives of the victims. But my editor also wants drama. By drama, he means sleaze. Know what sleaze is, Dennis?”

Denny did not answer, riveted by the reporter’s words, immersed in his father’s tragedy.

“Sleaze is a lousy approach to news. Started by TV.
Gossip, innuendo … the worse the better.
Inside Story. Tough Copy.
No holds barred, kid. The sleazier the better. So, newspapers have to keep up with the sleaze factor. Your father’s the only living survivor of the scandal—theater owner’s dead, city inspector’s dead, even the investigator’s dead. That leaves your father. The problem, kid, is your father isn’t talking. When someone tracks him down, he always says: ‘No comment.’ That makes him fair game. And, frankly, I think it’s going to be brutal this time. For him, for your mother, for yourself. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary.”

The reporter spoke quietly, sympathetically, in contrast to the cruel words that came out of his mouth.

“What can I do to help?” Denny asked. Yet felt it was a useless question.

“Your father has never given an interview in all these years, and I respect him for that. But that means he never gave his side of the story. The human side. People have never found out what kind of man he is. What kind of family he has. Maybe a story from you can humanize him. Maybe if you tell us about him it will help. What do you say, Dennis?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Denny said. “My father always told me not to talk about it to anybody. Not even to answer the phone.”

A light leaped in the reporter’s eyes. “That’s the kind of thing I need, Dennis. The fact that he’s trying to protect you,
protect his family.
This can give the public an entirely different picture of your father. Right now, a lot of people wonder about him. He’s mysterious, and it’s easy to make him a scapegoat. We can change that around. Our story
can be first, can set the pace for other newspapers, television, radio …”

“I don’t know,” Denny said. He was afraid he was betraying his father by talking to this reporter.

“What’s your name?” he asked, stalling, having to say something.

“Les Albert.” The reporter searched his pockets, came up with a limp, soiled card. “Here’s my card. The
Telegram
’s phone number, too. Think it over, Dennis. Call me. Collect. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll drop by again. But time is a factor.”

“I don’t know,” Denny said, aware that he was repeating himself, must appear slow and stupid. Yet the reporter, with his sad, red-streaked eyes, seemed sympathetic.

“Trust me,” Les Albert said. “I mean it.”

That was the problem, Denny thought, as he closed the door: could he really trust him?

He listened to the reporter’s footsteps receding, the porch door opening and closing. In the living room, he looked out the window, waited patiently. After a few minutes, Les Albert emerged from the shadows of the driveway and walked to a car parked at the curb. An old model, nondescript, faded green. He took a camera from the car and swung it toward the house. Denny drew back, let the curtain fall into place. Although he was out of sight, he felt exposed and defenseless.

He took out the reporter’s card and began tearing it in two, but stopped. He found some Scotch tape in his desk and repaired the card, then slipped it into his wallet.

Next day, more knocking as he walked by the 24-Hour Store and turned to see assistant manager Dave rapping on the window, beckoning him inside. Denny hesitated, then entered.

“I’m sorry about the job,” Dave said. “I didn’t realize Mr. Taylor wasn’t hiring teenagers.” He patted his roof as if to make sure it was still there.

“That’s okay,” Denny said, although it wasn’t. He felt as if somehow Dave had betrayed him.

“Sounds like age discrimination, doesn’t it?” Dave said, obviously trying to be friendly.

Denny didn’t feel friendly. “Maybe I ought to sue,” he said, remembering when “This Litigious Society” had been the topic in social studies for an entire week. “For a million dollars.”

“I’d be a great witness for your side,” Dave said brightly.

They both laughed at the prospect. Looking at Dave’s pathetic wig, like a black pancake on his head, the false teeth, the eyes begging for forgiveness, Denny could not remain angry.

“I think you should make it two million,” Dave said.

“Or three,” Denny added.

They both started laughing, caught up in the absurdity of it all, and Denny felt drawn to the strange man. He decided to hang out at the store for a while. He had no one else to talk to during the long afternoons after school anyway.