Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes Page 15

  I got a bit of a kick start from Carver, Mom’s boyfriend. He listened quietly to our conversation—Jody was here for dinner—then followed Jody and me out into the garage. I was on the stepladder, pulling down some canned goods Mom keeps stored in the high cupboards, when he said it. “My father killed himself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My dad. He killed himself.”

  I glanced over at Jody, then back at him. “God, man, I’m sorry.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t say it for sympathy, Eric. It was a long time ago, I was eight. I thought it had to be my fault; he was always mad at me—you know, because of things I couldn’t do. I was halfway through a week’s grounding for my grades when he killed himself. He put a gun in his mouth.”

  I was off the ladder now, standing with an armload of cans, speechless.

  “I was thirty-five when I finally came to the conclusion that it wasn’t my fault. I’d gotten very depressed, and a guy I worked with talked me into seeing someone—a therapist who talked me into tracking down family members who could tell me about Dad. Turned out no one was all that surprised. Seems he was one of those guys who just felt bad all his life and decided to get out. His brother took me on a long camping trip into the Idaho primitive area. Three days we hiked in—I was so lost I couldn’t have found my way out in an airplane—and Uncle Ned wouldn’t bring me out until he was convinced I knew everything about my dad he could teach me, and until he was convinced I knew Dad wrote the end to his own story.

  “Your teacher was right, guys. Taking on someone else’s monsters will kill you.” He turned and walked back into the house.

  “Thank you,” Jody said as the door closed, then turned to me. “He’s a good one, Eric.”

  I knocked on Lemry’s door tonight sometime after ten-thirty, after dropping Jody off. “You guys still up?”

  “Yup. Some of us.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “You from Blockwatch?”

  “No, I mean at school.”

  “Come on in, Mobe,” she said, and I kicked the snow off my shoes and stepped in, handing her my letter jacket. She hung it on the coat stand and we walked into the living room where Sarah Byrnes sat in her pajamas and a robe, drinking hot chocolate.

  “Ms. Byrnes and I are having a discussion on risk-taking,” Lemry said.

  Sarah Byrnes looked up at me, a bit sheepishly, I thought. “We’re going to try to find my mother; give her one chance to do the right thing.”

  That Lemry is some kind of genius. No way I could have figured she’d pull off an alliance with the orneriest kid north of the equator.

  “We’ve been reevaluating our lives,” she said with a smile. “If we don’t start taking some chances, we’re both going to make the same mistakes over so many times we’ll rot.”

  I understood about Sarah Byrnes, but why Lemry?

  She went on. “I’m trying to decide whether to rip out Mr. Mautz’s heart, hold it a second for him to get a good look, then give him a loud round of applause.”

  I flinched. “What for?”

  “Mr. Patterson went out of town this afternoon, which makes Mautz acting principal for three days. He’s suspended CAT class because Mark Brittain’s father came to the school to complain, charging I was irresponsible in my handling of ‘sensitive material,’ leading to Mark’s suicide attempt.”

  “To hell with Mautz,” I said. “Let’s have class anyway. We’ll organize a protest.”

  Lemry smiled. “Thanks but no thanks, Mobe. That would be a protest orchestrated by you and Ellerby; sort of like a picnic organized by ants, no offense. Actually, I’m going to take three days’ sick leave. Ms. Byrnes and I are going to Reno to try out a blackjack system she heard about in her math class.”

  Reno. “What’re we gonna do for CAT? What about swimming?”

  “Study hall for CAT—that couldn’t hurt anyone—and John Billings for workouts. I’ve already written up the workouts and called John. He’s willing to drive the bus to the meet on Friday, too.”

  Sarah Byrnes smiled like a little kid and shrugged. “You said I could trust her,” she said. “Swim fast. We’ll see you on Monday.” I had never seen her calm.

  I pulled out a quarter and flipped it to her. “Put it all on seventeen black.”

  I got home after midnight, and all the lights were out except in the hallway leading to my room. A note was tacked to my door: A man called looking for Sarah Byrnes. I said I didn’t know where she is, but he left a number for you to call, no matter how late you got home—482–4366. Mom.

  Shit.

  I took the note at its word and dialed the number.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello. This is Eric Calhoune. I had a message to call you. It said I should call…”

  “Yeah. Well, young Calhoune, do you know who this is?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean, I assume it’s Mr. Byrnes. Sarah Byrnes’s dad.”

  “Well, you assume correct.”

  We were both silent a minute, until I said, “Uh, why did you want me to call?”

  “Why do you think?”

  I was scared to death, but unwilling to say anything he didn’t know. “I don’t know, sir. I just got home and there was this note….”

  “Don’t mess around with me, boy!”

  I held to it. “I’m not messing around, sir. Why did you want me to call?”

  He was quiet another second. Then in a low, dangerous voice he said, “Now you listen, and you listen good. I know you know where my daughter is, and you best be telling me before you hang up that phone, or I’ll skin you alive, and that ain’t just a figure of speech. I want no more of your nonsense. Tell me where the girl is.”

  My heart hammered in my throat, my voice shaky, as if a vibrator were poised on my Adam’s apple. “I don’t know where she is,” I said. “I haven’t seen her since right before she left the hospital. She was mad at me.”

  “Did you hear me say I wanted no more of your nonsense?”

  “Yes sir. This isn’t nonsense.”

  His low laugh chilled my spine. “I can smell your fear clear across town,” he said. “I’ll give you one more chance, then I’m hanging up. If that happens, you better be on the watch for me every minute. Next time you and me talk, it’ll be up close. I’ll hurt you, boy. Believe that.”

  “I’m not denying I’m scared,” I said. “But I don’t know where Sarah Byrnes is. If you’re threatening me, I’ll call the cops.”

  The same laugh. “Be my guest.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 15

  So don’t think that doesn’t give me a reason to forget my homework and my newfound girlfriend and my five-hundred-yard freestyle times. Someday, when we’re all looking back on this and laughing—a time I hope comes very soon—the quick minds will say I should have called Lemry and told my mother and notified the police and sent up a bat signal. But there’s a method behind the madness of keeping my mouth shut. If Lemry and Sarah Byrnes get lucky in Reno, they could come back with Sarah Byrnes’s mother, and if she puts the finger on old Virgil, that’ll end it.

  See, in court, as she has reminded me a number of times, Sarah Byrnes would be trying to recall an incident that happened when she was three years old, in the courtroom with her father, knowing if he got off, her life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel. The defense attorney would ask scores of questions about other things that happened when she was three, things she couldn’t remember or would surely get mixed up about; things her father could remember and wouldn’t be a bit mixed up about. He has had no run-ins with the law on record, not even a parking ticket. He is a mean man—a smart, wicked man—who has kept totally to himself. Reasonable doubt would be on his side. If he got off, so long Sarah Byrnes. Only Sarah Byrnes’s mom can set the record straight.

  So why should that stop me from telling about his threat to me? Because if it’s brought out that I know her dad burned her, then he’s got more reason to want to do me h
arm. Plus Sarah Byrnes would never tolerate someone else being threatened by him. She’d do something stupid like go back home, or run away and be left with those horrible scars and no one who loved her. I might be missing something, but it doesn’t seem so. What I intend to do, at least until the Maverick sisters are back from Reno, is lay the hell low and never be out alone. For some reason, Mr. Byrnes doesn’t come to school or he would have already, so I feel safe there. This might be a good time to see whether or not terror creates a faster distance swimmer. Ellerby and I stopped by Lemry’s house on my way to school today to be sure there wasn’t a mass murder overnight. Lemry and Sarah Byrnes were loading the car.

  “We’ll drive straight through,” Sarah Byrnes said, and I noticed how alive she looked. Her scars were the same and I still couldn’t imagine anyone laying eyes on her for the first time without flinching, but something seemed different.

  I dragged her off to one side. “Tell me how this happened.”

  “What?”

  “You and Lemry. A few days ago you couldn’t say her name without spitting it into the dirt.”

  “Jealous?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m just thinking that a few days ago I risked teeth to get you over here, and now you guys are Butch and Sundance.”

  “She didn’t bullshit me.”

  “Huh?”

  “She didn’t say everything was going to be all right, or that my face wasn’t really ugly, or that there were other kinds of beauty than physical.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said it looked like my life had been pretty hard.”

  Lemry called from the car, and Sarah Byrnes put her hand on my elbow, for the first time ever that I remember. “Thanks, Eric. You really are a good friend.”

  During study hall, which should have been CAT class, a call comes over the intercom for me and Ellerby to report to the office immediately.

  “This has to be about Brittain,” Ellerby says quietly as we walk side by side down the empty hall.

  I agree. “What do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, and he sets his jaw, “but I’m getting pretty tired of this crap.”

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Mautz says as we appear in his open doorway. A man in a dark business suit sits erect in a chair across from Mautz’s desk. He’s bald save for the short-cropped semicircle of brown hair stretching from ear to ear like a fat equator, and he looks very solemn. “Boys, this is Cal Brittain. Mark Brittain’s father.”

  Ellerby says, “Pleased to meet you.”

  When we’re seated, Mautz says, “Mr. Brittain has something to say to the two of you.”

  We’re silent.

  Mr. Brittain clears his throat, staring sternly at us. “I came to tell you boys I don’t hold you responsible for my son’s unfortunate actions.”

  I don’t know about Ellerby, but I could sit three or four hours and not know how to respond. The silence is quite uncomfortable.

  Finally Mautz says, “What do you boys have to say to that?”

  Ellerby pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Will you be calling the rest of the students in, two by two, to tell them the same thing?”

  Mr. Brittain looks confused. “Of course not. I…”

  “Then why are you talking to us?”

  Mautz breaks in. “Mr. Ellerby. I’ll caution you one time to show respect.”

  Ellerby looks right at him. “I don’t have any to show.”

  “You’re getting yourself into deep water, young man. Let me recommend…”

  “No deal,” Ellerby interrupts. “I don’t need forgiveness for something I had nothing to do with.” He turns to Mr. Brittain. “I’m really sorry Mark tried to kill himself,” he says. “I really am. But you guys calling us in here to let us off the hook is just a way to tell us we’re on the hook.”

  Mautz’s neck is swelling, his eyes blazing, and I learn something from Ellerby right this minute that I’ll use against bullies for the rest of my life: Call in the goddamn cavalry as quick as you can.

  Mautz says, “As much as it may have been lost on you boys, Mark Brittain is an exemplary…”

  Ellerby says, “Could I use the phone?”

  “What?”

  “The phone. Could I use it?”

  “For what?”

  “To make a phone call.” Without Mautz’s response, Ellerby reaches across his desk and punches out seven quick digits. “Dad? Hi, this is Steve. Look, could you come over to the school? I’m in a bunch of trouble and if I were these people I’d want you in on it. No, right now if you can…Thanks.” He drops the receiver into its cradle, looks up at Mautz, and says, “He’ll be right over. Until he gets here, my friend Eric and I are standing on the Fifth.”

  Ah, the Fifth. There’s a piece of legal artistry I’ll bet Mautz wishes had never been penned.

  Reverend Ellerby is an impressive guy. He’s big and handsome, and he looks more like a movie star than he does an Episcopal minister, except he wears one of those stiff white collars you normally associate with a Catholic priest. I see him moving through the outer office, smiling at the secretary, before he raps lightly on the open door.

  Mautz says, “Please come in.”

  Mr. Ellerby introduces himself, gives Steve a playful punch on the arm, and sits between us. He gives Mr. Brittain a nod of recognition and says he’s sorry about the unfortunate experience he’s been through with his son. Mr. Brittain nods back.

  “So,” he says, “Steve tells me he’s in a bit of trouble. Somebody want to tell me about it?”

  Mautz appears uneasy. He’s bigger than Mr. Ellerby, but definitely outmatched in presence. “Actually,” he says, “I’m not sure it was necessary that you come. That was your son’s idea. We’re trying to sort out what we feel is the problem with Mr. Brittain’s son, and we believe your son and Mr. Calhoune could shed some light on it.”

  Mr. Ellerby turns to Steve. “That doesn’t sound like ‘a bunch of trouble’ to me, Steve.”

  “I guess I should have said I was about to get into a bunch of trouble,” Ellerby says. “Mr. Mautz thinks Mark’s problems started in CAT class—you know, the one Ms. Lemry teaches—and that Mobe and I tried to push Mark over the edge. In other words, I get the distinct feeling, though I admit no one has actually said it, that we’re being blamed for Mark gobbling downers.”

  Mr. Ellerby looks perplexed and turns immediately to Mautz. “Is that true?” You can tell he knows more than he’s letting on, that he and Steve discussed this earlier.

  “Of course not,” Mautz says, a bit defensively, I thought. “No one is being blamed, actually…”

  Mr. Brittain breaks in. “Reverend, I’ve worked hard to bring Mark up as a God-fearing citizen. I know there are some major theological differences between your beliefs and mine, but I’m sure you can appreciate what I’ve tried to do with my son. I talked with Mark extensively after his suicide attempt, and he’s been quite repentant. But he’s also been adamant that he felt driven to it by your son and Eric Calhoune. They have constantly taunted him in public and generally treated him with disrespect. My son is quite a serious boy, with high expectations of himself. He’s in a vulnerable part of his life, as I’m sure you must know. Frankly, I’m asking that you get control of your boy. I’m already making some moves to get limits put on this so-called CAT class.”

  Mr. Ellerby nods. He looks Mr. Brittain square in the eye and says, “I’m truly sorry about your son’s misfortune, and I think it’s probably been helpful for my son to hear how you feel. He and I will talk about that.” He stands and offers Mr. Brittain his hand. “Now if it’s all right with you, I’d like to have a word with Mr. Mautz alone.”

  I don’t think Mr. Brittain is ready to leave, but the power of Mr. Ellerby’s dismissal leaves him with nothing to do but get up and go anyway. At the door, he turns to Mautz. “I’ll talk with you later by phone.”

  Mautz nods. “That will be fine.”

&nb
sp; Steve and I rise to leave, but Mr. Ellerby motions us to stay. “You two hang in for a minute,” he says, and turns again to Mautz. “Tell me the real purpose of all this.”

  Mautz says, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean my son doesn’t call me in on anything unless he thinks it’s out of hand. So far a lot hasn’t been said. I want it all said.”

  Mautz seems knocked off center. “Well, Reverend, your son may have jumped the gun a bit. Mr. Brittain came with some concerns about Steve and Eric, and I thought we could get to the bottom of them if we just brought it all into the open.”

  “I’m assuming you agree with Mr. Brittain about Steve’s and Eric’s responsibility.”

  “Actually, to some degree I do.”

  “To what degree?”

  “To the degree that Mark Brittain is trying to do some very difficult things—exemplary things—with his life….”

  “Christian things?”

  “Yes,” Mautz says. “I’m sure you can appreciate that. At any rate, he is running into some very stiff resistance, even attempts at humiliation, from these boys. I believe the pressure on him was just too much. I’m sure you’ll agree suicide is very grave business.”

  “No pun intended, I’ll bet,” Mr. Ellerby says. He really said that. “And you believe that Eric and Steve, combined with this Contemporary American Thought class, drove him over the edge?”

  Mautz nods. “I’m sure there are other factors, but I do believe that is the major part.”

  “Other factors,” Mr. Ellerby says quietly. “Could some of those other factors include the kind of pressure this boy feels to perform? The kind of thinking that allows no mistakes? Pressure from home and church to never let his guard drop?” He leans forward. “Mr. Mautz, do you know why our constitution advocates a division between church and state?”