The house was tidy-looking, no different from any of the others on the block. An Oldsmobile Cutlass was parked in the driveway; behind it, the low, black cigar of a Firebird Trans Am. On the Firebird’s rear bumper was a sticker with the call letters of a heavy-metal radio station and another that said LIFE IS A BEACH.
The front door smelled of fresh paint. The bell chimed out the first seven notes of “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” A worried looking, heavyset woman in her fifties opened the door on the fifth note. She had on moss-green slacks and a white blouse and was barefoot. Her round face was pale under a crown of baby-blue hair rollers. Her jawline had lost the battle with gravity.
Linda said, “I’m Dr. Overstreet.”
The woman trembled and said, “I’m… They’re… Won’t you come in. Please.”
We stepped into a living room identical in size and trim and layout to the one in the Burden house. This one was painted buttercup-yellow with contrasting white moldings and furnished with a skirted floral chintz sofa and matching chairs, a brown corduroy recliner, golden-maple end tables, and shiny white ceramic lamps. Prints of plein-air landscapes and still lifes favoring fruit and fish hung on the walls, along with a bronze Zodiac wheel and an old Christmas wreath. The fireplace had been bricked up and painted white. A model schooner fashioned of rough-edged copper sheeting and brass wire sat on the hearth.
A dark-complected man with sharp features sat on the recliner, but he wasn’t relaxed. He had thinning black hair, whitening at the temples, a drawn lantern-jawed face that sagged- orienting downward as surely as a dowsing rod. He wore a T-shirt and gray slacks under a plaid Pendleton robe, terry-cloth slippers on white, blue-veined feet. His arms rested on the sides of the recliner, the hands clenching and unclenching.
Milo stood across from him, to the left of the sofa. A boy of around sixteen or seventeen sat right below him. The boy was big, in a soft, bulky way, with thick, formless white arms extending from the rolled sleeves of a pea-green patch-pocketed T-shirt. Around his pudgy wrists were nailhead-studded leather bands. His black jeans were tucked into chain-heeled Wellington boots. A massive stainless-steel death’s-head ring dominated his left hand. His right hand shielded his face. What little I could see of his countenance was puffy, not yet fully formed, under dark hair cut close to the scalp. Fuzzy approximations of sideburns ran down cheeks speckled with pimples, and dipped an inch below his earlobes. He didn’t look up at our entrance, just continued to do what he’d obviously been doing for a while: crying.
Milo said, “Evening, Dr. Overstreet and Dr. Delaware. These are the Buchanans, Mr. and Mrs.”
The man and woman gave miserable nods.
“And this is Matthew. He did the artwork on your car.”
The boy cried louder.
His father said, “Cut that the hell out. At least face up to it and don’t be a coward, goddammit.”
The boy continued to cry.
Buchanan shot up and walked to the couch, a big, soft man. He took hold of the boy’s wrists and yanked them away. The boy bent low, tried to bury his face between his knees. His father reached under and forced his head upward, gripping him by the jaw.
“You look at them, goddammit! Face up to it, or it’ll be even worse for you, I promise.”
The boy’s face was pasty and snot-smeared, his mouth lopsided and grotesque in his father’s grasp. He clenched his eyes shut. Buchanan swore.
Mrs. Buchanan took a step toward her son. Her husband’s eyes warned her off. His hand tightened. The boy yelped in pain.
“Easy,” said Milo. He touched Buchanan’s arm. The man stared at him furiously, then backed off.
“Sit down, sir,” said Milo gently.
Buchanan returned to the recliner, drawing his robe around him and looking away from the rest of us.
Milo said, “Matt, this is Dr. Overstreet. Principal of the Hale school, but you probably know that, don’t you?”
The boy stared at Linda, terrified, then clamped his eyes shut.
Linda said, “Hello, Matthew.”
The boy buried his face again.
His father whipped around and said, “Say it!”
The boy mumbled something.
Buchanan was up in a flash. His right arm shot out and the boy’s head snapped back.
Mrs. Buchanan cried out.
Milo said, “That’s enough! Sit down!”
Buchanan put his hands on his hips and stared at Milo. “I want him to say it.”
“Pete,” said his wife.
Her husband pointed a finger at her. “You keep the hell out of this!”
“Mr. Buchanan,” said Milo, “let’s not make things worse than they are. Why don’t you just sit down?”
“I’da been listened to in the first place,” Buchanan said, “there’da been no trouble. He did it. He’s got to face up to it- no more coddling.” He tried to stare down Milo, gave up and glowered at his wife.
Milo said, “You’re absolutely right, sir. Face up is exactly what he needs to do. So let’s give him a chance to do that.”
Buchanan looked at his son. “Say it!”
The boy choked out a “sorry” between sobs.
“Sorry, ma’am!” barked his father.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“He really is,” said Mrs. Buchanan, looking at Linda. “He’s never done anything like this before and never will again. We’re all so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, for God’s sake,” said her husband. “What in hell do we have to apologize for? Except maybe for your coddling him, giving him everything he whines for so he’s never had to take any goddam responsibility for himself.”
“Pete, please.”
“Don’t Pete please me!” said Buchanan. “Just stop getting in the way and let me handle this the way it should have been handled a long time ago.” He extended a pair of big white hairy fists.
His wife bit her lip and turned away. The boy had stopped crying long enough to follow the parental skirmish.
Buchanan Senior turned his back on him and approached Linda. His lip was quivering and I noticed that one eye drooped lower than the other. “Ma’am, I’ve got a President’s last name. I believe in this country. A deep belief. We’ve got soldiers in our family going way back, generations. I did my time in Korea, active duty, got the papers to prove it. So we sure don’t encourage any Nazi talk around here. He musta picked it up on that crap he plays all the time- rock videos. Which is long gone from this house, that’s for sure.”
An angry look over his shoulder.
The boy covered his face again.
“Don’t you dare when I’m talking to you!” shouted his father. “Face up, goddammit!”
He turned and moved toward his son. Milo got between them. “I’m going to have to insist that you sit, sir. Now.”
Buchanan tightened, then let out breath.
Milo’s face was a police mask.
Buchanan muttered, then returned to the recliner, picked up the previous day’s newspaper from an end table, and pretended to be interested in the sports section.
His wife’s heavy face was ripe with humiliation.
Milo said, “Dr. Overstreet, if you want to press charges, I’ll have Matt arrested and taken in.”
The boy started crying again. His mother followed suit.
Mr. Buchanan looked at both of them with revulsion.
Linda walked over to the sofa and studied the boy. He tried to avoid her gaze, sniffled, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
She said, “Why, Matt?”
Fidget. Shrug.
“That’s important for me to know. Before I decide what to do. Why’d you do it?”
The boy mumbled something.
Linda said, “What’s that?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t know why you demolished my car?”
Shrug.
“What’d you use?”
“Crowbar.”
“Did you know it was my car?”
Silence.