The Poe Consequence Page 8

  “This is Kevin,” he said.

  “Hello, Mr. Palmer. This is Eleanor Lee, principal of your nephew’s school.”

  “Principal Lee,” he blurted, “Seth’s been going to grief counseling sessions for a few weeks now. He’s in a program that helps children deal with anger management. He just needs some more time, okay?” A little more time and I’m sure…”

  She cut him off in mid-sentence. “Mr. Palmer, something happened to Seth today.”

  “What do you mean, ‘something happened’?” Kevin asked. “Is he okay?”

  “A little shaken up, but he’s fine.” she answered. “He’s in my waiting room right now.” Kevin closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his free hand. “So what happened?”

  “Seth was threatened today by a few Latino students. I don’t know if you remember the name, but Lorenzo Gonzalez was one of them. Seth had a confrontation with him a while ago. They surrounded him on the playground and started taunting him.”

  “Damn it,” Kevin muttered.

  “I’m just grateful it didn’t escalate into something worse,” she said.

  Kevin closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How’s he doing?”

  “Well, like I said, he’s shaken up,” she replied. “The taunting seems to have affected him more than that fight did.”

  Kevin pictured the ugly scene unfolding. The scenario gave him an overwhelming feeling of sadness. Sure, he felt anger toward those other boys, but he wasn’t surprised. It was only a matter of time before one of those kids that Seth attacked decided to strike back. He’s just lucky the confrontation wasn’t physical. This time. “I had a feeling something like this might happen,” he said.

  “Once this type of situation starts, it’s hard to stop,” she replied. “I’m not excusing the bullying that occurred, but confrontations lead to grudges and grudges often lead to consequences.”

  Kevin knew she hit the nail on the head. “What’s going to happen to those boys?” he asked.

  “Detention for a week and a one day suspension for all of them. I’ve already talked with their parents to make sure we all understand each other.”

  “Well, do they understand you?”

  After a few seconds of silence, her response sounded weary and laced with doubt. “I hope so,” she said, “but we can’t be sure, can we? When Seth attacked Lorenzo a few weeks ago, he made no secret of the fact he didn’t like him because of his Mexican heritage. Lorenzo wasn’t the only Mexican-American kid here to take offense at that.”

  “Can’t say I blame them,” he answered, too dispirited to offer a defense. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you.”

  Kevin stood on the patio for a couple of minutes, staring at the cascading water of a nearby fountain and listening to the calming gurgle. How he wished he could stay here and immerse himself in the tranquility of his surroundings. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the principal’s words, how “grudges often lead to consequences.” Wasn’t that the same theme he heard over and over during his discussions with gang members? Anger, hostility, resentment, persecution—a poisoned baton of hate passed on to the next generation of gang members? Grudges. Consequences. How right you are, Principal Lee.

  Kevin walked toward a corner of the building where he knew he couldn’t be spotted. He reached inside the pocket of his pants and extracted a small flask of scotch that he’d begun carrying around each day. He glanced in different directions before guzzling a few large gulps. He then removed a small box of breath mints from his other pocket. He placed two of them inside his mouth, repeating the same routine he’d been executing at work.

  Kevin stood at the door and watched his mother dancing to a Barbara Streisand song with Mack. He waited for the song to finish before approaching her. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I have to leave. Seth isn’t feeling well and wants to come home.”

  “Oh, poor thing,” she said. “But can I see him soon, please? I miss my grandson!”

  On the way to the parking lot his mother placed her arm around his waist. “You look tired, Kevin. Thinner, too. Are you all right?”

  Kevin laughed; a cynical, self-pitying laugh. “That’s a good one, Mom. You’re the one we should all be concerned about. But look at you. You’re laughing with your friends, dancing with Mack. What’s your secret? How were you able to move on like this?”

  His mother stood there in silence, staring at her son with a rigid jaw and troubled eyes that made him feel childish and uneasy. He felt ashamed for asking the question. His mother reached out toward him as her eyes misted over with a sadness Kevin didn’t mean to summon. “You know better than that, Kevin.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”

  She held her hand up, indicating she had more to say. “I’ll never be able to move on from what happened,” she said. “Never. No parent can ever get over the pain of losing a child.”

  “Of course not. I only meant…”

  “When your father died of cancer, at least we all had time to prepare for the inevitable. But this? Here and then gone at the snap of a finger?”

  She covered her face with her hands as her shoulders trembled. Kevin felt a cold blade twist in the pit of his stomach. Warren had been sent to his death because of his brother’s own stupidity. He wanted to scream, to beg her forgiveness, and to explain everything. But he couldn’t. And wouldn’t. It would just make things worse for the both of them.

  “I’m just trying to make it through each day” she said. “You and Seth are what I live for now. But don’t fool yourself. I often cry myself to sleep.”

  Kevin smiled at his mother. “You’ve always been my rock, you know that?”

  “You lost your brother and now you’re taking care of Seth,” she said. “On top of that you work hard at your job. What you need is a woman in your life.”

  Kevin opened the car door and sat behind the wheel. “I promise you, you’ll be the first to know when my dream girl comes calling.”

  “We aren’t meant to live alone in this world, Kevin. Remember the words to that Streisand song, about people needing people being the luckiest people in the world? There’s someone out there for everybody, including you. Just give yourself a chance to find her.”

  Kevin glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  As he drove off, he shook his head at his mother’s apple pie bullshit and ridiculed her Streisand remark. “Yeah, I need someone Mom,” he said, “and his name is Warren Palmer. So don’t tell me I’m one of the luckiest people in the world.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kevin allowed Seth a day away from school to help him regain his composure, but he made sure his nephew returned the second day after the taunting incident. Seth’s grades had spiraled downward to “C’s” and “D’s,” and television privileges were now curtailed. Kevin had hoped that by enrolling him in a grief counseling program with other children who had lost a parent, Seth might realize he wasn’t alone in this kind of situation. But his grades continued their descent and his anger the evident cause. Kevin wanted some advice, so he placed a call that morning to the man who ran the program, Dr. Stephen Hobart.

  Dr. Hobart had been kind enough to attend Warren’s funeral, introducing himself afterward as the man in charge of the grief counseling sessions Warren attended after Michelle died. Through Kevin’s urging that his brother seek help, Warren discovered Dr. Hobart’s “Share and Care” group, where adults who had lost a spouse could find solace through the support of others in similar positions. Warren spoke well of him, and when Kevin learned that children also had such a service available, he approached Seth with the idea. After a couple of heated arguments, (and a purchase of a new video game), Seth relented and started attending the weekly meetings.

  Dr. Hobart returned Kevin’s call late that afternoon.

  “Before I explain my main reason for calling,” Kevin said, lowering his scotch glass to the table, “I want to ask you if you’ve noticed any pro
gress these first four weeks because, frankly, I haven’t.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t already know,” Hobart said. “Seth’s anger is unhealthy and misguided. We have a couple of Latino kids in “Share and Care,” so I have to monitor that situation carefully. At this point in time, their own personal tragedies don’t seem to have softened his feelings.”

  “Maybe it’s just wishful thinking,” Kevin replied, “but I keep hoping he’s going to come around.”

  “Perhaps he’s still in the observing and listening stage, Kevin. He doesn’t volunteer much right now. Four weeks isn’t enough time for certain kids to open up, and Seth’s story is unique. To be terrorized by that gang would have been bad enough, but to witness your father’s murder, well, that’s pretty rough. He’s dealing with an ordeal that would bring an adult to his knees, let alone a young boy.”

  Kevin lifted his glass and gulped more of his drink before responding. “I can’t believe that I used to feel pity for some of those guys,” he said. “Now I hope they all walk a paper bridge to hell.”

  A brief silence followed. “What was the other reason for your call?”

  “Seth’s grades are slipping quite a bit. I’ve gotten notes from some of his teachers but I write my articles at night so I don’t have much time to help him with his homework. Have you had other parents with the same problems?”

  “Too many, unfortunately,” Hobart said. “In Seth’s case, he’s a bright kid who’s having a hard time focusing right now. Have you considered a tutor?”

  “Not until you just mentioned it,” Kevin replied, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass.

  “There’s a young woman who runs our childcare center at the hospital. She’s accredited and tutors some of the kids after work. I let her use one of our offices to provide a quiet atmosphere.”

  Kevin guzzled the last of his drink as he pictured the scenario. He’d drop Seth off with the tutor and find a local bar while he waited. “You really think she’ll be able to handle Seth?” he asked.

  “Well, certainly he has to do his part,” Hobart told him. “But she’s quite bright. A degree in Child Day Care Management as well as a teaching credential. She’s tutored kids in everything from Math to English to Science.” Hobart chuckled. “And, of course, Spanish.”

  “Why were you laughing?”

  “At the irony, Kevin,” Hobart said. “She’s a Mexican-American.”

  Speechless at first, Kevin found it difficult responding to a suggestion of Seth receiving help from a woman whose nationality symbolized the fundamental problem. As he pondered the idea, however, he realized that a Latina tutor made a lot of sense. Seth’s traumatic experience had been with Mexican men, so maybe she wouldn’t present any of the familiar fears. In time, who knows? His views toward all Latinos might soften.

  “I don’t know how Seth’s going to react, but I’m all for it,” Kevin said.

  “Based on the reaction of grateful parents I’ve talked with, if he’ll give her a chance, I think his grades will improve,” Hobart replied. “Just call our office and ask to speak to Veronica.”

  When the conversation ended, Kevin stood and stretched, proud of himself for doing the right thing. This called for another drink.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The rising sun reappeared without a trace of mercy, inflaming the smothering air that lingered from the night, and signaling the return of summer’s fiery yellow dictator. King sat propped up on the pillows of the sofa bed, sweating freely as he lit another cigarette. With puffy, bloodshot eyes serving as a reminder of heavy partying and too little sleep, he watched cartoons and flipped open the pop-top of another Budweiser. His caffeine-stained teeth exposed themselves in a self-satisfied smile as he relived the struggle, and eventual conquest, of the hot pussy, la puta caliente, from the night before. “Bitch kept sayin’ ‘no,’ but I fucked her good. Just like she really wanted,” he said to himself, smiling at his praiseworthy accomplishment. He put the remaining matches on the nearby table, inhaled and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of his reawakening erection. King recalled the lesson Viper taught him when it came to bitches: if they brought you far enough, “no” means “yes.” Always.

  Under normal circumstances after the night he had, King continued sleeping into the afternoon. But the past few months had been anything but normal. Too many comrades, camaradas, had died and he didn’t know why. Heart attacks? For so many? No fuckin’ way. The Diablos had to be behind these deaths. Who else could it be?

  King hadn’t slept much but he had no trouble recalling his weird, disturbing dream. Flash card images of his dead homies appeared and vanished over and over like zombies under a strobe light. They reached out for him, calling his name as he ran down a darkened alleyway into a deserted street. He awoke feeling drained, his throat sore and parched, his proud warrior’s heart battering his chest as if in a frenzied need to escape.

  King experienced nightmares as a kid, as little Miguel, but his parents gave him enough beer to help him sleep. He refused to admit he’d had a nightmare again because that kind of shit didn’t happen to a tough motherfucker, a chingon, like him. When he stumbled into the apartment sometime in the early a.m., he kicked off his shoes and put his head down, figuring he’d sleep for hours. But as the moaning of dead Lobos echoed in his head, he sat up with a jolt from the sledgehammer of his dream. He raced for the refrigerator, guzzled down most of a can of beer, and lit his first cigarette of the day.

  When Fred and Barney broke for a commercial, King returned to the refrigerator to retrieve another beer. Hearing the sound of someone’s key in the lock, he cursed himself for leaving his gun under the mattress. But it was too late. The handle turned and the door opened. Appearing before him, disheveled and red-eyed, stood his mother.

  “Shit, Mama!” King snapped. “Where the fuck you been? I thought you was here.”

  “No me chingues, Miguel,” she said bitterly, telling him not to fuck with her. “It’s too damn early for your shit.” She tossed her purse on the table by the door. “I gotta get ready for work. If I’m late again I’ll be fired.”

  “You been out fuckin’ Ernesto again?” King asked with disgust, sitting back on the bed. “Pinchi cabrón. What about Luis? Remember him? My little brother? You left him alone?”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that,” she protested. “I got me a life, too, baby, you understand? You think your pinchi father don’t know what he’s missin’? That puta bitch ain’t got what I got, honey.” She opened the refrigerator. “Damn it, Miguel,” she shouted, slamming the door, “you been drinkin’ all the beer again?” Approaching him, she sat on his bed.

  “There’s one more can in there and it’s for me, you understand? Me! I’ll drink it when I get home from work.” She pointed to the two cans King opened earlier. “Anything left?”

  “Yeah, some.”

  His mother grabbed the empty can first and threw it back on the bed before gulping down what remained of the other one. She walked into the kitchen, selected a dirty cup from an array of unwashed dishes in the sink, and prepared some instant coffee. “Luis told me he was going to a friend’s house to watch a movie and not to wait up for him,” she explained. “He said he’d be back in time to get some sleep before school. When he left, I was alone. I didn’t feel like bein’ alone, okay? I left him a note on his bed with Ernesto’s phone number if he needed me. He never called. Everything’s fine.”

  She sat on the bed for several minutes, watching the cartoon and sipping her coffee. “Here,” she said, standing up and placing the coffee cup on the table, “finish the rest. I gotta shower and get ready.” As she disappeared around the corner, she called out from her bedroom. “Do me a favor, baby. Wake Luis. Tell him to hurry up. I don’t want his school callin’ here again askin’ me where he’s at.” When King pushed himself off the bed, he heard his mother’s voice again. “And tell him to eat somethin’. We got some corn flakes, I think.”

 
The moment King opened his brother’s door, a cold stream of panic surged through his gut. The bed hadn’t been used and his mother’s untouched note still lay on the pillow. He didn’t know what to think. Was he overreacting? All he knew was Lobos were dying and his little thirteen-year-old brother didn’t come home.

  The dark ravine of King’s concern deepened as he visualized the possibility of Luis lying dead somewhere. If anything happened to him there would be hell to pay like no one had ever seen. “Pinchi Diablos!” he growled to himself. The recent insanity had him believing the worst, and he forced himself to calm down in order to think straight. He knew he couldn’t tell his mother the truth, preferring to make up a story in order to buy some time. He didn’t need her going crazy right now. After she left, he’d get Slice and they’d find him.

  The urgency he felt rammed an elbow of clarity to his foggy head, and as he heard his mother turn off the shower, he darted into Luis’ room, stuffed the note into his pocket, and yanked back the sheets. In the kitchen, he took a cereal bowl and a spoon and threw them in the sink, filling the bowl to the top with water. King kept a close eye in the direction of his mother’s bedroom as he quietly opened the front door before slamming it closed. After a few moments his mother charged from the bedroom fumbling with her robe and looking upset. “What the hell are you doing?” she griped. “Why you slammin’ doors?”

  “That wasn’t me, it was Luis,” he said, standing rigid by the door. “He ate fast and ran out of here. Said there’s a ride waitin’ down the block.”

  “With who?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” King snarled, hoping to change the subject. “What are you standin’ there for? I thought you was in a hurry.”