A Spark of Light(47)
Hugh noticed the familiar colors of an Ole Miss T-shirt peeking from behind the boy’s half-zipped windbreaker. “Ole Miss, huh?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because if you were a fan of Mississippi State I might have had to push you off.”
A laugh burst out of the kid’s throat, surprising him. “If I was a fan of Mississippi State I would have jumped.”
Hugh leaned back a little, like he had all the time in the world, and started talking about who was going to replace the quarterback after he graduated. It went on from there, like they were just two guys shooting the breeze.
After a couple of hours had passed, Alex said, “You ever wonder why they call them stories? The floors of a building?”
“No.”
“I mean, then why isn’t a building called a book?”
Hugh laughed. “You’re pretty smart,” he said.
“If I had a dime for every time I heard that,” Alex said, “I’d have a dime.”
“I find that hard to believe. Come on. You’re funny, and intelligent, and you clearly root for the right football team. There’s got to be someone out there who’s worried about you.”
“Nope,” Alex said, his voice catching. “Not a single one.”
“Wrong. There’s me.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“I know I was off the clock an hour ago,” Hugh said.
“So go.”
“I’d rather stay here. Because your life, it’s important,” Hugh said. “I can’t pretend that I know what’s going on with you, Alex. And I won’t disrespect you by claiming I do. But I do know that my own shittiest days were usually followed by better days.”
“Well, tomorrow, I’m not gonna be any less gay. It took me fifteen years to figure it out and another two to get the nerve to tell my parents.” Alex picked at a thread on his jeans. “They threw me out of the house.”
“If you need a place to stay, I can help you figure that out. If you need someone to talk to, we’ll get you someone to talk to.”
Alex looked into his lap. “I wish my dad was like you,” he said softly.
“That’s nice of you to say,” Hugh replied. “Especially since my dad was the biggest asshole on this planet.”
The kid’s head snapped up. “What did he do to you?”
“I’m not real comfortable talking about it … but I think you’d get it. I’ll just say that no kid deserves to be hit all the time. And no parent should be drunk all the time.”
“How did you … do you still talk to him?”
“Nope,” Hugh said. “Once I told people what was going on, they were willing to help me. I took their good advice, and their support.” He looked at Alex. “The world turned out to be a whole lot bigger than my dad.”
For the first time in over two hours, Hugh reached out his hand. Alex looked down at it, and then grabbed on. Hugh pulled the kid away from the edge, and into his embrace.
It wasn’t until a week later that Chief Monroe called Hugh into his office and said he was recommending him as a candidate for hostage negotiation school. “You’re a natural,” he said. “What you did on the roof with that kid …” He gestured at the transcript from Hugh’s digital recorder, the conversation between him and Alex. As Hugh started to leave, the chief’s voice called him back. “I didn’t know about your dad. I’m sorry.”
Hugh paused in the doorway. “My dad was the greatest guy. He never touched a drop of alcohol in his life, Chief.” He inclined his head. “I was just selling hope.”
—
BETH WATCHED THE STRANGER WHO was supposedly going to be able to keep her out of jail. And based on what had just happened in front of the judge, it didn’t look promising.
The woman was short, maybe five-three, African American. She had her hair chemically straightened or maybe it was a weave; Beth couldn’t tell. She was wearing a navy suit that didn’t flatter her curves. And she was still about five feet away from the bed. Beth didn’t know if this was supposed to be for the lawyer’s safety, or her own.
The stenographer packed up her machine and left with the security guards. The male lawyer—the one who wasn’t on her side—sauntered up to Beth’s public defender. “Always a pleasure, Mandy.”
“For you, maybe.”
He laughed. “See you in court.”
The door hadn’t closed behind him before Miz DuVille turned to the cop who was stationed in her room, like some kind of creepy-ass stalker. He didn’t even leave when the nurses came in to check her down there. “Nathan,” her lawyer said, “I must talk to my client.”
“Nope.”
“It’ll take two minutes, tops.”
“What word didn’t you understand?”
“You can stay here. I’ll whisper into her ear so you can’t hear me.”
“N,” the cop spelled out, “O.”
She took a step closer, refusing to give an inch. “If you do not allow me a private conversation with my client I will tell everyone at the station that you shit your pants during your fitness test run because you had bad Chinese for lunch.”