“Mom, somebody’s got to teach that asshole he can’t be doing that. He gets some bullshit in his head and takes it out on some girl maybe half his size? What kind of ignorant shit is that?”
“Just that,” she says. “Ignorant shit.”
“Yeah, well, he needs a lesson.”
“And you’re going to teach it?”
“Damn right. If I’d have found him tonight it would be in the record books.”
“If you had found him tonight, there’s a good chance your dad would be down at the county jail right now, bailing you out. Jail, T. J., not juvy; because you’re that close to eighteen, just like the officer told you. And then who would pay your brand-new giant-sized car insurance premium?”
“You think the law wouldn’t give me a flyer on this one? He hit a girl so hard her shoulder is going to be black. What about that? Isn’t that evidence?”
She pushes her chair back from the desk, closes the folder, and sighs, which means I’m about to get hit with lawyer shit. “Yes, T. J., it is evidence. It’s evidence against Mike Barbour for an assault he’ll never be charged with, because the person he hit will say it was accidental after he apologizes and swears never to do it again, which”-and she glances at her watch-“he probably has already done, and she won’t go through with it because it will prove to her, in some perverse way, that she isn’t good enough to keep him.” She leans forward to make her point. “It won’t even come up in your assault trial.”
“So I just let it happen?”
“No. Kristen Sweetwater lets it happen.”
“What the hell is she supposed to do? She weighs maybe a hundred-ten pounds.”
“What would Carly do?”
“She’d kick his ass.”
“No, she’d stay away from him.”
I slam my fist into my open hand so hard it almost goes numb. “Something’s got to be done, and if no one else will do it, I will.” I start to walk out of the den, but Mom’s firm hand grips my shoulder and guides me back to the chair. She says, “Sit.”
I sit.
“As long as we’re going down this road, let’s go all the way. What is it you think you’re going to teach Mike Barbour by beating him up?”
“To pick on somebody his own size.”
“It seems to me that if you beat him up you’ll be teaching him not to pick on somebody his own size.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you think you mean.”
“Are you going to do this lawyer thing with me?”
“This lawyer thing is common sense. How do you think Mike Barbour got like he is? Or Rich Marshall for that matter?” It sounds like Mom has been talking to Dad.
“I don’t care how they got that way. I’m just tired of them thinking they’re big men because they can beat up on girls and little kids.”
“Do you really believe they think they’re big men because they do that?”
“Why else would they do it?”
She places a hand on my knee. “You’re not going to like this, but for the same reason you break things in your room sometimes, or punch your hand so hard it sounds like you broke your fingers. Because when rage takes you over, you do what the rage tells you.”
“Hey, I might break stuff, but I sure don’t hit women and kids.”
“And don’t think I’m not grateful,” she says, only half kidding. I know she’s right about my rage, but I’m not giving that asshole Barbour even an inch.
“What do you think Mike Barbour does when he goes home after doing something like he did tonight? Do you really think he goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror and flexes his biceps and says, ‘Well, I really kicked her ass’?”
“I don’t know what he does.”
“So I’ll tell you. He feels out of control. He promises himself he won’t do it again, worries what will happen to him. He worries somebody will find out and humiliate him. He wishes he knew why he doesn’t stop himself, why he didn’t see it coming. None of that lasts long, because he has to find some way to justify it, so he starts telling himself what a bitch Kristen is, that it’s her job to keep him from getting mad. And I’ll tell you what, I don’t even know Kristen Sweetwater, but I’ll bet you the price of that ticket that she was brought up by a father who believes exactly what Mike Barbour believes.”
This is probably why my mother is such a hell of a lawyer; she actually makes me stop and think, when all I wanted a few minutes ago was blood.
“You don’t remember, T. J., but if you don’t believe this, ask Georgia: When you came to us, you were inconsolable. Your mother had left you alone for days. You had diaper rash so bad your butt looked like a crater. And thrush, my God. You’d been left unattended for hours on end, sometimes days. You ate when your mother felt hungry, which was the only time she was reminded that you might be hungry, too, and she was eating darn little, because she was launched on meth.
“Your dad and I fed you and cleaned you up and held you and walked the floor till we were both blind with exhaustion, and nothing quieted you. The day your mother came to say good-bye, she walked through the door, and you stopped crying the instant you saw her. She held you and cried, and you didn’t utter a peep. Not a peep. Within seconds of her leaving, you cranked up again.”
“The point being-” I’d heard that story before.
“That you didn’t respond to what was good for you, you responded to what you knew, what was familiar. That’s what Mike Barbour does, and Rich. That’s what Kristen Sweetwater does. And if you think you’re going to teach anyone a lesson, get ready to learn one yourself.
“Georgia came and let you rage; let you play out every trauma. One day you’d be the helpless, thumb-sucking victim, the next you’d kick the hell out of anything that got in your way. Over and over and over you played out your life, until finally you had done it all enough to feel at some primitive level like you had it under control. I’m not kidding, T. J.; it went on for nine months. That’s how you learned. You played it out and played it out. If we hadn’t had Georgia, I wouldn’t have known what to do. But I know this: I’d have decided enough was enough long before it was enough for you, and I would have put a stop to it. And according to Georgia, that would have set the fear and rage so deep in you it might not ever have come out.”
I’m drifting off in my room, maybe a half hour later, visions of punching Mike Barbour’s chest so hard his heart stops dancing in my head, when the light comes on.
“Hey, big boy.” It’s Dad.
I squint into the light. “Is there a fire?”
He laughs. “No fire. I’ve been talking with your mom.”
“So you know about Barbour.”
“Guess we shouldn’t be surprised,” he says, “as much as he hangs out with Rich Marshall.”
“Yeah, they’ve got a real mentoring system going there.”
“Your mom says you were so mad you were getting ready to commit a crime.”
“I was just going to kick his ass.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant.”
“I do not get what is such a big deal about a fight,” I tell him. “I mean, if someone were threatening Mom, you’d do whatever you had to do to stop him.”
“You’re right. And if you had been there when Rich was hurting that girl, I’d have expected you to do whatever you had to do to stop it.”
“Ah, so this is about timing.”
“This is about ‘what’s done is done.’ Look, the Mike Barbours and Rich Marshalls of the world have just as much right to exist as you do. They have just as much purpose. You think it’s your job to teach them a lesson, but they’re not going to learn any lesson you’re going to teach, so I have a feeling it’s the other way around. You kick Mike Barbour’s ass, and it just cranks him up to be more like he already is. He’ll immediately turn it racial and respond by hurting somebody else. He and Marshall both have that amazing capacity to believe that other people make us do things.”