“I’m not leaving.” Justin looked up at his father and yelled back at him. “And you’re not my father!”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that.” Ezra’s arm drew back.
I winced as Ezra’s hand connected with Justin’s face. Justin’s head rocked back, and Ezra stepped closer.
I stepped forward, determined to prevent any more violence in my house.
“Stop that.” I dropped Diesel’s leash, and I heard, rather than saw, Diesel run out of the room. He hated loud voices. “Don’t strike that boy again.”
Ezra whirled to face me. “This is none of your business. Keep out of it.”
Justin rubbed his face gingerly. He looked straight at me. He mouthed the word please.
“It is my business. You’re in my house.” I kept my voice and tone firm. “You will not strike anyone in this house, or I’ll call the police. Understood?” I took a step closer to him. I was taller, by about three inches, and I outweighed him by a few pounds, too. If I had to, I’d knock some sense into him.
Ezra glared at me, but his hands stayed by his sides as he turned back to his son. “Get your things. Now.”
“I’m eighteen. I don’t have to go anywhere with you.” Justin stared up at Ezra, resolve in his eyes.
Ezra’s chest heaved. He seemed to be struggling for breath.
“You should leave now.” I waited, ready to intervene if necessary.
Backing away from his son, but never losing eye contact, Ezra said, “This isn’t over. That bastard will rot in hell before he takes you away from me.”
FOUR
After that statement, Ezra stomped out of the room. Moments later, the door slammed so hard the windows in the living room rattled.
“I hate him.” Justin’s voice bore such loathing. What had Ezra done to this boy to make Justin despise him so?
“Come with me, son. We need to put some ice on your cheek. It’s swelling already.”
Justin blinked at me. I think he’d forgotten I was in the room. “Yes, sir.” He stood but didn’t move forward.
I took him gently by the arm and led him into the kitchen. After his last outburst, he appeared listless, watching me with dulled eyes.
He leaned against the sink while I got ice cubes from the dispenser and wrapped them in a dish towel.
“Here,” I said. “Hold this to your cheek. It will feel better.”
His cheek was still an angry red. He was going to have a terrific bruise there.
Justin accepted the towel and put it against his face. He winced, but he held the towel in place.
As I watched, concerned, wondering what else I could do for him, he started crying. Quietly, at first. Then harder and louder, the sobs beginning to wrack his body.
Poor kid. This was more than he should have to bear. I put an arm around his shoulder, and he hugged himself to me with his free arm.
I spoke to him, keeping my voice low and soothing, and the sobs diminished.
Feeling a cat rubbing against my leg, I looked down. Diesel had come out of hiding, and now he watched me, wanting to help.
“Justin, look. Diesel’s here. He wants to talk to you.”
Sniffling, Justin pulled away from me, gazing down at the anxious feline face. He sat down on the floor, towel still against his cheek. Diesel rubbed his head on Justin’s chin.
The cat climbed into the boy’s lap, his rumbling purr loud in the room. Head bent, Justin let Diesel lick his uncovered cheek.
Smiling, I left the kitchen, knowing that Justin was in good paws. Diesel could bring him comfort, and Justin needed it.
I used the downstairs bathroom, taking my time washing my hands. I stared at my reflection. For all my talk of minding my own business, I had walked right into a messy situation. How would Julia react when she found out what Ezra had done? She had a fiery temper as a young woman. She might light into Ezra the way he had lit into Justin. What a mess.
Finished washing my hands, I judged it okay to go back to the kitchen.
Justin now sat in a chair, Diesel in his lap. Boy and cat glanced at me. Justin seemed calmer, and Diesel no longer looked anxious. A bruise was forming on the boy’s cheek.
“How about some lunch, guys?” I went to the refrigerator. “Diesel has his crunchies if he wants them, but I need something else.”
I stared into the fridge, waiting for Justin to respond. He was probably embarrassed, poor kid. He might be eighteen in years, but he was still a boy in so many ways.
“There’s still plenty of that ham Azalea baked. I think I’ll make some sandwiches.” I turned to face the table. “How about you, Justin? I make a pretty good ham sandwich.”
Justin’s head dipped down for a moment. He rubbed Diesel’s head. “That sounds good. But I can make my own.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll slice the ham, and you can get everything else together. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” Justin said. Diesel jumped down from his lap and padded off in search of his own lunch.
Justin came to the sink and washed his hands, still avoiding looking directly at me.
I set the plated ham on the counter, found a knife, and started carving thick slices. Azalea cooked a mighty fine ham, and my mouth was already watering.
Justin retrieved mustard and mayo from the fridge, along with a jar of Azalea’s homemade pickles. He set it all on the table, along with the bread and a big bag of potato chips. Next he found plates and knives, along with napkins, and arranged them.
“Would you get me a can of Diet Coke?” I asked.
Justin went back to the refrigerator, pulling out my Diet Coke and a can of regular for him.
He sat down at the table, waiting for me to finish. I had sliced enough ham for four or five sandwiches, I figured. That should do.
I brought the ham to the table and sat down, cater-corner from Justin. He held out the loaf of bread to me, and I took four slices. “I don’t know about you, but I’m betting I can eat at least two sandwiches.”
“I’m kinda hungry too.” He seemed surprised that he had an appetite. He waited while I helped myself to the mayo and mustard before making his first sandwich.
I poured some chips onto my plate, watching as Justin carefully spread a thick layer of mayo on two slices of wheat bread.
He still wouldn’t look at me.
“I want you to know, son,” I said, “that you can talk to me, if you want to. I’ll help you any way I can, and Diesel will, too.”
Justin smiled at that and looked me in the face finally. “Thank you, Mr. Charlie. I appreciate that.” He took a bite of his sandwich and winced. When he finished chewing—slowly—he spoke again.
“I’m glad you came home when you did.” He paused for a moment. His gaze shifted away. “He would’ve beat the crap out of me if you hadn’t.”
My stomach clenched in anger. “Has he beaten you before?”
Justin nodded. “Yes, sir. He doesn’t like it when I defy him.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that my heart ached for him. “You don’t have to put up with that anymore. Don’t let him in the house when I’m not here.”
“No, sir, I won’t.” Justin ate some more of his sandwich. He touched his bruised cheek a couple of times. I was sure it was pretty sore.
Trying to appear calm, I was stewing inside. I’m not normally a violent man—far from it—but violence against children makes me furious. My father had been, like Ezra Wardlaw, a devout Evangelical. Stern, demanding, but he never once raised his hand against me. I tried his patience often enough, but his firm and loving discipline taught me what I needed to know. I felt the back of my mother’s hairbrush on my bottom a few times, but she never struck hard enough even to bruise me.
Justin cleared his throat. “Um, guess I should explain why I said he isn’t my father.” He pushed some potato chips around on his plate. “Not my biological father anyway. But Mom is really my mother.” He watched my face carefully for a reaction.