The Fight for Kidsboro (54 page)

It felt like I had just fallen a sleep when there was a knock at our door. Mom's friend poked her head in the room we were staying in. “Hey.” We both woke up. “There's a policeman here to see you.”

It wasn't quite daylight yet, and I looked at the clock—5:54. This had to be important. We ran up the stairs and met the policeman just inside the front door.

“Sorry to wake you up, but I thought you should know this as soon as you could,” he said.

“That's okay. What's going on?”

“We have your husband in custody. He's in the Richland jail right now.” My mom gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She hugged me as tightly as she ever had. I felt a hot tear running down my face. It was as if an anchor had just been unchained from my heart.

After we'd cried on each other for a few moments, Mom talked with the policeman. “How did you catch him?” she asked.

“We didn't,” he said. “He turned himself in.”

“Really?” I said. “He must've known there was no way out.”

The policeman shook his head. “That wasn't it. He turned himself in in Richland, which is about two hours away from here. He must've caught a ride or hopped on a bus or something. We probably wouldn't have caught him all the way out there. He could have gotten off scot-free.”

My mom looked at the officer as if his nose had just melted off his face. I must have looked the same way because he said, “You folks need to sit down?” We were too numb to move.

“What did he confess to?” Mom asked.

“Enough to keep him in prison for quite a while.”

“I can't believe it.”

“He's at the Richland sheriff's office if you want to go see for yourselves. A lot of folks want that.”

“Yes,” Mom said. “I think I need to see him behind bars for myself.”

We took our time getting ready, even though I think Mom was anxious to get on the road for the two-hour trip. We ate breakfast, got dressed, and walked out the door into the bright sunlight. I noticed that Mom didn't put on any makeup, and though she may not have thought about it herself, I considered this important. My dad always wanted her to wear lots of makeup. Now she was going to see him for the first time in five years, and she didn't care anything about what she looked like to him. He was not going to tell her what to do any more. Or maybe her mind was in other places and she forgot. I liked the first reason better.

We didn't talk much on the road. My head was filled with all sorts of emotions—mainly just relief. I couldn't believe It was finally over. But I was also a bit confused by the whole thing. As the road flew by, I came up with a theory.

“Mom,” I said, the first word out of either of our mouths in 20 minutes.

“Yes?”

“Dad said something to me in the living room, and I was just thinking about it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that he wanted to prove to me that he had changed. Do you think maybe this was his way of doing that?”

“Turning himself in?”

“Yeah.”

“Could be.”

“I mean, why would he go all the way to Richland to turn himself in? I think he was trying to show us that he did it because he wanted to, not because he had to.”

“You may be right.”

She turned left and merged onto the interstate. There was little traffic. “Do you think he's changed?” I asked.

She chuckled under her breath, but then seemed to think it over. She glanced at me with sympathy. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? To know he had changed?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Why?”

“I guess … well, sometimes … I miss him.”

She breathed a long, difficult breath. “Me too. And I wish he would change; I really do. But Ryan, I don't think there's anything he could do to prove it to me. There are just too many scars.”

I adjusted myself in the seat and pretended I was very interested in the trees passing by the window. I didn't want her to see me cry.

An officer sat alone at a big desk at the sheriff's office. He seemed to be expecting us. “Ms. Cummings?”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you come on back with me?”

We followed him through a steel door and back into a damp, concrete walled area that felt like my uncle's unfinished basement. Along the far wall were two jail cells—one empty and one holding my father. I could see Dad stand up from his cot. We approached him slowly as the officer pulled two chairs over from the opposite wall. He placed them in front of the cell for my mom and me, and then stood by the door. I was glad he was there. Mom pulled her chair back a little farther away from the cell, and then sat down.

Dad gave a half-smile to Mom. “You look nice.” She didn't answer. “Both of you look so nice.” I didn't answer either. After an awkward pause, he stepped toward the bars and leaned against them. “I did some research last week at the law library. With all the stuff I've done, it looks like I'll get a minimum of five years.” He smiled, probably wondering if we wished it were more. “Guess that'll give me some time to think… . Give you guys some time to think too.”

“I don't need any time to think,” Mom said, stone-faced. She sat up straight in her chair, seemingly determined not to show any emotion but complete indifference.

“I understand that. I do. I can't blame you for all the things you feel about me right now. I'm not expecting any miracles. Maybe just a letter every now and then.” He pressed his face between two bars and looked at us like a puppy dog about to be left in the pound. “I miss you so much.”

There was another awkward pause. He studied us. I guess Mom had gotten her closure—she saw him behind bars and was satisfied—because she stood up quickly and scooted her chair back against the wall. “I'm ready to go. Come on, Ryan.”

Seeing him behind bars was not what I came to do, though. I wasn't through yet, and I didn't quite know why. “Can I stay for a few minutes?”

She looked surprised that I'd asked, but then softened for the first time since we had walked through the door. “I'll be out here,” she said, and without looking at Dad again, she headed out.

The heavy door clanged shut behind her, leaving only Dad and me and the police officer. I had no idea what to say and was grateful when Dad finally started talking. “Do you hate me?” he asked, his face looking as if he were preparing for someone to punch him.

“Sometimes,” I said. “But not right now.”

He chuckled a little bit. “I guess I'll take what I can get. Do you know why I turned myself in?”

“Why?”

“Because I didn't care about anything. I didn't care about being stuck behind bars for five years; I didn't care if I never made another dime; I didn't care if I ever lived another day in the sun. The only thing I wanted was a chance to be your dad again, and I knew you'd never let me do that unless there were steel bars between us. And at least five years for both of us to think about … each other.” He ducked his head and pressed his hair against the bars, looking at the ground.

“I'm so proud of you. The Way you've grown. You're so smart and kind and … I was actually kind of jealous talking to your friends in Kidsboro, because you've got something now that I never had: respect. You've made enough good decisions that people respect you. I never made any good decisions—always selfish ones.” He lifted his head and looked at me again. “Don't ever lose that, Jim. Don't ever do anything that would make others lose respect for you. Trust is a hard thing to get. Pretty easy to lose, though. Look at me. I'm gonna be working a lifetime trying to get you to trust me again. It may take even longer than that.”

“It may not take as long as you think,” I said. His eyes gleamed a bit. It was probably his first ray of hope in a long time. “I'll write to you, Dad.”

“I'd like that. And I'll write to you, too.”

I turned and looked at the door. “I'd better get going.”

“Okay.”

I scooted the chair against the wall and headed for the steel door.

“I love you,” he said, again acting like he was waiting for someone to punch him. My lips formed the words to tell him I loved him too, but they got stuck in the back of my throat. All I could manage was a nod and a smile. I pushed the door open and joined my mother.

8

THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH

I
DIDN'T FEEL READY
to go back to Kidsboro the next day, but I did want to do one thing. I went to the services at Kidsboro Community Church at least twice a month, mainly to show my support for Pastor Joey, who always tried hard to say something meaningful.

Mr. Whittaker attended services almost every week and sat in the same place: front row on the right. I saw him before he sat down. “How's your mom?” he asked.

“She's not ready to have a party yet, but she's getting there. She's taking off work for a few days.”

“Good. I've been praying for you guys.”

“I know. Thanks.” He smiled and nodded, and then we sat down for the service.

There were only five of us there—Mr. Whittaker, myself, a young African-American boy whom I had never seen before, Marcy, who sat in the back, and Joey, who had a large bandage above his eye. “Healing okay?” Mr. Whittaker whispered, pointing to his head.

“Yeah.” He'd had to get three stitches.

Joey started the service with announcements. He began reading from a sheet of paper. “We have choir rehearsal this Wednesday at 5:30. I could really use more tenors … and basses … and sopranos. Last week only one person showed up, so I guess we need just about anybody.” Mr. Whittaker and I exchanged looks, wondering if we should volunteer for the choir.

“Also, we only had three people sign up for the church softball team. We really need more than that, especially if the other team hits any balls to the outfield. I put the sign-up sheet on the meeting hall bulletin board, but all I got were three names.” He read the names off. “So far we have Lou Gehrig, Ken Griffey Junior, and Gen … Geng …” He showed the name to Mr. Whittaker to get help pronouncing it.

“Genghis Khan,” Mr. Whittaker said, rolling his eyes.

“Thank you. Um … I don't know any of those people. If you happen to see them, they didn't put phone numbers down, so tell them we'll practice next week if we have enough people for a team.”

I was sure Mr. Whittaker would give him the bad news later.

“Now, for the special music, my little brother Terry is going to play his xylophone.”

The little boy that I'd never met before stood up and pulled out a toy xylophone. The mallet was attached by a string. Without looking up at anyone, he started playing the slowest version of “Amazing Grace” I had ever heard. He missed a few notes, but it was still very moving. After he played the last note, he slid the xylophone under his seat and sat down, still without looking at anyone. “Thank you, Terry,” Joey said.

“Let's turn to Second Corinthians, chapter 11.” I had forgotten my Bible, but Mr. Whittaker let me share his.