Dad’s calm when he talks about the Lynches. “Nickie, no one can make that decision for Mr. Lynch.”
Nick argues, but his voice is soft and wavery like he’s about to cry. “What about Thomas? He has a problem he can’t solve himself. Who’s gonna protect him?”
“Maybe Thomas should tell someone who can help him. Like an adult.”
“They’ll take him away from his father and put him in foster care.”
From the dull repetitive thumps on the roof, it sounds like someone’s pacing. Even without seeing them, I can imagine Dad’s forehead, hard red ridges across it from worrying about whether Mom’s still mad, whether the chemo is going to mess me up, whether Nick’s rod will go flying into the river at the first bite because he won’t stay close enough to guard it. Dad’s footsteps continue back and forth above my head. It can’t be easy to have all of us to worry about and then Nick’s friends, too.
Nick’s on a tear. “It’s not fair to punish Thomas for something his father does. And if they take Thomas away, he’ll only worry more that his dad will do something really crazy. Overdose, maybe.”
“One thing’s for sure. You can’t solve Thomas’s problem or his father’s. They both need help.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“He needs more than that, Nick.”
“Friends are useless, then?”
“Not at all. Thomas is lucky to have such a good friend.”
“Dad. That’s garbage. Worthless garbage if he’s dead tomorrow.”
“Then he needs to tell an adult who can help him. A trained adult, a professional.”
“Oh, right, so now you’re promoting professionals? Then why don’t you and Mom let Daniel do what the doctors say? They’re the professionals, aren’t they?”
To tune them out, I reread the end of the chapter where Holden thinks about jumping out the window. I read it again. There he is all alone in the city, he’s passed up sex with a strange girl, and he’s getting ready to go out and see another girl he knows but doesn’t really like. He’s thinking about ending it, just like that. Sure, jumping out a window may seem like a quick and easy end to your problems. But what about Phoebe? And old Mr. Spencer? And his parents? Holden’s more concerned about the rubberneckers. Something’s wrong with that picture.
Holden, buddy, you don’t see how good you’ve got it. At seventeen, you have your whole life ahead of you. There’s plenty of time for Jane or Sally and dancing and making new friends at a new school. You don’t have a father who’s beating up on you. You don’t have to worry about money. You don’t have The Disease.
To keep from losing it over the waste of the whole asinine world, I get up and jump in the river. Only thing is, if I did lose it, I’m not sure who I’d be crying for.
We moor for the night in Urbanna harbor. Turns out the houseboat doesn’t move very fast. Dad puts away the charts for his dream family cruise. We’ll have to go back upriver on Sunday for Nick to be at school on time Monday morning. In the narrow harbor the sailboats on moorings jut out every which way like spilled toothpicks. No breeze at all. You can smell the Italian food from the restaurant on the pier. Nick doesn’t ask for pizza, which surprises the heck out of me. He’s taken the family cruise idea more seriously than I thought. After dinner he pulls out the Scrabble board. Yikes. I spoke too soon.
Just because I like reading and books doesn’t mean I have to like Scrabble. Some games are so random. If you get the right letters, you look like a genius. But if you get the tough ones, you can be snuffed out in a couple of rounds. Anyone with one good six-or seven-letter word on a Double Word space and you can’t catch up with the Q in your hand, even if you’re brilliant.
“I’ll just watch,” I say.
Nick flips the board up and letter tiles fly everywhere.
Mom’s knuckles turn white on the handle of her mug. “That was totally uncalled for, Nick. Go to your room.”
Dad starts picking up tiles.
But Nick’s had a tough afternoon, and he’s not ready to give it up. “That’s just great, Mom. Ignore the spoiled brat and punish me. What did I do wrong?”
Dad takes over, the ultimate diplomat, a dyed-in-the-wool UN peacekeeper. “Sit down, both of you. Daniel’s just afraid of losing to his little brother. He’ll play one round. Won’t you, buddy?”
That strategy, trying to make me feel competitive, is truly juvenile. But Mom’s swiping at tears and anyone can see Nick’s only letting off steam about Thomas, so I give in and pick seven tiles. Of course, I make party and quirk and feel like a real louse when I have the high score.
Bright and early Monday morning the sheriff’s back at the creek. Nick’s already left for school. We have just picked the mooring back up after Daily Devotions at June Parker Marina. When we first moved to the boat, we had to get used to the timing, when to fill the water tank and empty the sewage tank and get fuel for the stove and the motor. Mom nicknamed the whole process Daily Devotions. It was almost every day then, because we had no idea how things worked. The joke was so perfect since my parents honor Mother Nature above all else, and these were basic functions of nature, at least for houseboat dwellers. Daily Devotions is not that funny anymore, just what we call it.
Sheriff Jessup glides into the creek in the game warden’s borrowed Whaler. He isn’t taking any chances on cooperation.
Dad takes the line and loops it around the railing, but he doesn’t move closer to shake hands. “The order said noon.”
“I know. I’ll be back to get him then.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Dad’s voice is steel. “I think we can manage to deliver our own son to the hospital.”
“It’s in the court order. The county has to transport him. You can follow the cruiser. And afterwards you can bring him home.”
“Fine. If it has to be that way, fine.”
“I’m sorry, Stieg. I know this seems endless and personal.”
“It is personal.”
“The county people are just doing their job.”
“Let them find a cure for Daniel, then.”
In the long silence that follows the sheriff fumbles with the clipboard to free a bunch of papers while I’m watching through the louvered window slats and thinking disloyal thoughts, that Dad has it right without meaning to, that finding a cure is exactly what the county is trying to do. After Sheriff Jessup makes a notation on his clipboard, he hands Dad the papers, all different colors, stapled together and creased permanently where they’ve been trapped in the clipboard for who knows how long.
Dad reads in silence, exchanging each page for the next without raising his head. He doesn’t even look up when the sheriff unties the line, points the Whaler away from the houseboat and heads back up the creek to the boat landing. As soon as the sheriff’s gone, Mom grabs the papers out of Dad’s hand.
“There’s nothing in here about the chemotherapy,” she says.
“Nothing,” Dad says.
“This is a criminal order, a totally different statute number. They’ve convicted us of neglect. Criminal neglect.”
“Yes,” Dad says in the same dull tone.
The county has won. Round one and round two. Another court order and my parents are suddenly criminals. They stand outside the main cabin in shock where I pretend to watch the morning talk shows. When a bunch of high school kids from Oklahoma wave to the cameras outside Rockefeller Center, I have a flash. We could do that, take our case to the media and wave signs that say SAVE DANIEL or FREE THE LANDONS. But this is probably not the right time for that argument so I file it away for later.