The Spite House(12)
“Sorry for what,” the father said. “You better say it how I told you.”
The boy took two hitching breaths to compose himself. It seemed like he wanted to cry but had already done too much of it earlier, and didn’t have any tears or energy left for it. “I’m sorry for being mean and hurting you today,” he said softly.
His father looked at Pa-Pa Fred and for a moment his eyes bulged. He swallowed. Whatever he saw in Pa-Pa Fred’s face made him forget to breathe for a second. Dess almost looked back at her great-grandfather, but her insides got watery at the thought of it. She didn’t want to see him the way this other man was seeing him. For some reason she didn’t think he would look stern or angry. She thought he would be smiling.
The father smacked the boy again, harder this time, knocking his son off-balance. The sound of it shocked Dess and made her want to cover her ears, but she didn’t dare move. She knew her great-grandfather would disapprove of any show of sympathy.
“Speak up and say it like you mean it, damn it,” the father said, his voice cracking and his lip quivering for half a second. For an instant he looked even more distraught than his son.
“I’m sorry that I was mean to you,” the boy almost shouted. “I’m really sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.”
The father looked again at Pa-Pa Fred, a grimace on his face, pleading in his eyes.
Pa-Pa Fred said, “Well, what do you say, baby girl? Do you accept his apology?”
Dess nodded quickly, and the father hustled his boy away from the house and to their car parked at the curb.
When they got back in the house, Dess could tell that her parents, Grandpa, and Ma-Ma Nelle had heard everything and were upset, but none of them challenged Pa-Pa Fred about it. Grandpa looked like he might say something when Pa-Pa Fred said he was going to teach her to fight, but Pa-Pa Fred cut him off. “Not gonna let my great-granddaughter get shoved around by anybody. I won’t always be there to deal with things like this, and it doesn’t look like any of y’all want to take care of it.”
Mom asked if she could join the lesson and Pa-Pa Fred said, “Sure.” Later, Mom said it was actually good for Dess to learn how to defend herself. It was practical. Even then, though, Dess knew Dad’s feelings were hurt by the suggestion that he couldn’t care for his child.
Now, Dess couldn’t help but be somewhat grateful for that early training, even if the memory of what prompted it made her feel like she was floating, and not in a good way, but like she was a stiff breeze away from never touching the ground again. She didn’t want to think of herself as capable of doing what Pa-Pa Fred did to that boy and his father. She hoped she’d never have to employ his lessons about fighting, either. But if it really came to it, she knew she had at least a little bit of the old man in her. She had, after all, effectively adapted his little philosophy. “You either let things happen, or you make them happen.” The former was how you ended up a victim, according to Pa-Pa Fred. The latter was how you stayed ahead of a world that was out to get you. Sitting back while Dad struggled to find work, hoping the money wouldn’t dry up, that was letting things happen. Getting out there and finding an alternate means of income was making something happen.
When a group of teenagers showed up her second night of running at the field, she eyed them carefully for a while. They were loud and a little obnoxious, but there were more girls than boys in the group, and they were a mixed bunch—black and white and one Asian girl, and one kid who mixed a few Spanish words in when he spoke. All of which made her feel a little safer. One of the boys carried a skateboard with him in a way that made Dess think all he ever did was carry it. They were like a small-town version of the group of kids smiling at the camera on a college brochure. Instead of gathering for a study group, they had snuck out to drink and smoke. Except, Dess overheard, the one in charge of bringing the weed only brought enough for himself, and none of them wanted to walk back to buy more from the boy’s older brother.
“Hey, I’ll do it for you,” Dess said before she could talk herself out of it.
They looked at her like she was one of their teachers who’d just used some slang incorrectly. I’m barely a year older than any of you, at most, she thought. But the last year had probably aged her in ways that she couldn’t sense the way they could.
“You’ll do what?” the kid with the skateboard said.
“Run back and buy you your smokes.”
After a brief back-and-forth during which they first expressed skepticism over Dess’s seriousness, then half-heartedly accused her of wanting to run off with their money, they finally agreed to pay her if she’d make the literal run for them. That was when Dess discovered she could make an extra forty bucks or more just for running.
She wondered if such opportunities would exist in Degener. Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary if Dad’s deal was legit. She’d believe that when they actually got paid. Until then, she had to think ahead, consider the next move, weigh the pros and cons. It was dangerous to be out at night running petty-criminal errands, especially in some of these small towns where “Teenage Stranger Caught with Weed” might be the biggest story of the week behind the score of the recent high school football game. But was it that much more dangerous than sitting back and doing nothing until they ran out of money?
After four rounds of ABC’s in the car, three of which Stacy won, with Dess winning one to make sure Stacy didn’t suspect that they were letting her win, Stacy said, “Me and Miss Happy are going to color some.” She got out her book and crayons, and Dad turned the radio up after finding the local NPR affiliate.