Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (65 page)

I should sleep on it. Not that I have a choice. It’s chilly in the cell, but my undercoat is already coming in. So I lie down on the blankets rather than under them, fold my arms behind my head, and close my eyes. Rubbing absently at my ears, I wait for tomorrow.

The voicemail from Lee is so bland, so reassuring, that I worry immediately. I don’t register why until I play it back. Then I hear, or at least I imagine, the strain in his voice. Forced cheerfulness. I want to make Gerrard listen to it so he can confirm it, but I realize that’s silly. Nobody else knows Lee well enough to read his moods.

What’s more worrying is that there’s nothing I can do. He tells me to focus on football, as he always does. I pace back and forth in the locker room until Charm grabs me to go out to dinner.

It isn’t until we’re at dinner that I think of the one thing I can do. I excuse myself and take out the cell phone, pull up the home number, and stare at it. If Lee was trying to protect me...if things did go bad...then do I really want to talk to Dad two days before the game? I’m already dialing. I have to know.

It rings four times, and then goes to voice mail. I listen to my father’s recorded message, and hang up without saying anything.

I pull up Lee’s number next. He probably won’t answer, but at least I can try that one. Lee knows how to reassure me, even if there is something wrong.

Sure enough, that one goes to voice mail too. I leave him a quick message saying, “Hope it’s all going well. I’ll talk to you soon.” I pause and then say, “Love you.”

At least, I think as I pocket the phone and head back to the dinner, Dad didn’t call me afterwards. Lee must have calmed him down somehow. I guess that’s a good sign. I pocket the phone and go back to dinner, but even though logic tells me everything’s okay, I can’t shake a feeling of unease.

This whole idea of Lee’s has confused the hell out of me, frankly.
I know how hard it is for Lee to admit that he’s the one who gets fucked. But I don’t think Dad knows how hard it is, and I don’t think he cares. He just wants me to respect him and respect the family, and somehow that means getting rid of Lee. I thought he’d respect me for standing up for myself, at the restaurant, but he wanted more than that. It’s kind of like how he didn’t want me playing football at first, and then I found out after I’d been accepted to Forester that he wanted me to go to a top football school to play.

But Lion Christ, if anyone can make crazy ideas work, Lee can. He got me invited to the football scouting combine, got me drafted by the Dragons, talked himself into a scouting job there with no football experience. Dad’s capable of violence, but really, it’s not like he’s ever bashed anyone’s head in. And Lee called me afterwards. I get a cartoony image of a trembling Lee making the call while Dad holds a gun to his head.

It makes me laugh. Things like that happen in the movies. Lee was fine. What probably happened was that he had a conversation with Dad, it didn’t go great, and he’s hoping to have another talk. He doesn’t want me to worry about him until he’s tried all the tricks in his arsenal.

And how wonderful would it be if he actually succeeded? I lie back in bed and have a nice little fantasy about going back to my family’s house for Thanksgiving, with Lee beside me. He meets my brother and puts him in his place so skilfully that Gregory doesn’t notice. He charms my mother and talks football with my father, now thawed. Just like he did at Gerrard’s that afternoon.

That’s what Lee sees, what my father doesn’t: that Lee’s part of my family now, maybe not by blood, but just as important to me. Family grows; we added Marta when Gregory married her. They added Alexi, and they’ll add another cub soon. Dad’s friend Ivan has been his mechanic for years; he’s like family. Hell, Charm is basically family to me and I haven’t known him more than a year.

And family is family. It’s not like the team—I mean, sure, when we’re winning it feels great, and everyone’s happy. But I’ve been on bad teams, too. On the Dragons, we almost never went out after games. Everyone went back to his hotel room or apartment. The coaches barely talked to us except to tell us what we were doing wrong. Guys were cut or traded mid-week, and replacements showed up without warning as the management tried desperately to find a combination that could win. I was a rook then, so maybe it was different. I know with the Firebirds, I see new practice squad guys every week or so. So maybe it’s not so different. But it felt different.

I stretch my paws back behind my head and rub my ears, resting my head on my folded arms. Best not to get my hopes up. But at least, if nothing else, I can make it through Thanksgiving. I’ll be okay. It’ll be tough, but I’ve gotten through tough things before—with Lee’s help. I think about dinner without me, just to test my resolve. It hurts, but not as much as it used to. The anger at my father helps. I think I’d end up throwing cranberry sauce at him.

Breathe out, breathe in. Close my eyes. Head in the game.

That’s when my cell phone rings.

I’m up before the station opens. It’s dim, pre-dawn, though I can see the clock on the wall that reads five ’til six just fine. The light didn’t wake me; it’s the yelling of the guy next to me, who finally woke up. “I’m hungry!” he yells. “Gemme food!”

Sounds like a smaller guy: pine marten, or weasel. Also sounds like he doesn’t have many teeth left. I don’t want to engage with him at first, but the night duty officer doesn’t say anything when she looks in to check on us. So after half an hour of monotonous yelling, I yell back. “They’re not gonna come in for another hour and a half.”

The jail goes quiet. Then he starts again. “I’m hungry! Gemme food!”

“
Shut up!” I yell back, but it has just as little effect. I fold my ears down and close my eyes, but I can’t get back to sleep.

It takes him another forty-five minutes to get tired of that, at which point he starts an off-pitch chorus of “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaye ain’t got nobody...nobody cares for me...nobody...nobody...nobody...” Sadly, those are all the words he knows, so he goes back to the beginning again every time, after just enough of a pause to make me hope he’s burst a blood vessel in his brain.

No such luck. The rattle of keys in the lock half an hour later is like the sweet ringing of bells. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, to see Chaz carrying two paper bags in. I smell eggs and hashbrowns, but he doesn’t slide them through the bars, just sets them on the table. “Shut up, Johnny,” he says mildly, and gets nothing more in response than another loud chorus from the marten, or whatever he is.

I crack a grin. “I hope you can teach him something else. Or at least sing harmony.”

He waves a hand, on his way to grab a key ring from the desk drawer. I jump up from the bench, tail wagging though it feels like it’s creaking as it does. “Johnny knows a jukebox worth’a songs, but he only sings one a day. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

“
You get me my Egg Muffin With Cheese?” the marten says.

“
Didn’t know you’d be upright, Johnny. You can have the one I got Mister Farrel here, in a second.” Chaz comes to my cell and unlocks it. “Your dad’s here, with a lawyer. Chief says you gotta come with us to the hospital until Mickey makes a statement.”

“
I wanted to go there anyway.” Stepping out of the cell feels spine-tingling, liberating, exciting. I want to run across the small room, jump up and down, wag my tail. I restrain myself to the latter, smoothing down my clothes and following Chaz. Before I leave, I sneak a peek and see Johnny, an ermine poking his narrow muzzle between the bars.

He raises a paw. “I’s great t’have a father,” he says, his bloodshot eyes mournful. “I ’ad one once. I ’ad three once. Then I got thrown out of the church. Oh, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaye...ain’t got no...body...”

“
I’ll bring yer breakfast in a tick, Johnny,” Chaz says, closing the door behind me. We walk out to the front, and there’s my father, with a tall, muscular wolf packed into a business suit. The wolf is arguing with the chief, staying easily calm while the shorter wolverine is clearly trying not to get agitated. My father’s ears pop straight up when he sees me, and he comes over to hug me.

I hug back and inhale his scent, my nose against his cheekruff. “Phew,” he says. “Smells like you slept in those clothes.”

“
I didn’t want Chaz to have any surprises when he came in,” I say. I squint at his name tag. “Sorry. Officer Hartley.”

He rubs his antlers. “Ah, I seen worse,” he says. “Johnny don’t always keep his pants on.”

Father’s looking wary, probably because the chief and lawyer are still arguing behind him. So I say, “He was really nice. He got me Burger King. And Diet Sprite.”

My father’s expression softens. “Well, I appreciate it.” He extends a paw. “Brenly Farrel.”

“
Chaz Hartley. Aw, y’know, the kid didn’t mean nothin’. It’s just S.O.P., that’s all.”

“
Funny kind of ‘standard’ you have up here,” Father says, but I jerk my head toward the chief, and Father gets the hint. We turn and cup our ears to listen.

The chief’s not quite yelling at the lawyer yet, but he’s close. “Hospital visitin’ hours ain’t ’til ten!”

“
Then I guess we’re going to get some breakfast.” The wolf taps a paper on the desk. “We’ve agreed to appear at the hospital, even though it’s an unduly restrictive condition of release.”

“
He’s a suspect...”

“
He’s a participant in a minor altercation who has already declined to press charges.
If
Mister Miski chooses to press charges,
and
you decide to effect an arrest,
then
we will discuss further the necessary procedures. Hello, Wiley,” he says, cutting off the chief’s protest and turning to me. “I hope you haven’t said anything to these officers yet.”

My father keeps an arm around my shoulders. “I don’t know about that,” I say. “I told them what happened.”

“
All right. We’ll talk over breakfast. I’m sure you’re fairly hungry.” He straightens his tie and perks his ears in Chaz’s direction. “Where’s a good breakfast place around here?”

The chief stalks off to his office. Chaz points us to a place called Terrie’s, three blocks over, not too far from the hospital. “Good luck,” he tells me, and then whispers, as my father and the lawyer are leaving, “Anyone who rips his shirt sleeve to help a guy he just decked is okay in my book.”

Startled, I look back. He just grins and puts a finger to his lips. I flick my ears forward and return the grin. “Thanks,” I say. “Anyone who gets me Diet Sprite is more than okay in mine.”

We shake. “I gotta go feed Johnny,” he says. So I wave good-bye to him, feeling less alone in Lake Handerson.

Terrie’s is a diner, good for butter-soaked breakfasts, which is what we all get. After a night in jail, I figure I deserve it. I love the smell of grease and the cloudy morning light coming in through the windows over the plastic tabletops. I love the straw dispenser for soda pops at lunch and dinner and the old-school jukebox in the corner. I love the porcupine waitress in the gingham apron who comes to take our order. It’s amazing how little time in jail it takes for you to develop a whole new appreciation for life and the little things in it. I keep grinning even though the wolf, sitting across from me, looks dead serious the whole time.

He introduces himself as Geoff Vogt, Esquire. Just like that, with the “esquire.” After he gets my version of events in the first ten minutes, he spends the next hour telling me I’ll be fine, that I didn’t do anything wrong, and asking my father to consider a suit against the police for harassment. “I hate these small-town cops who just have to leverage every miniscule scrap of power they have. They ignore the law, unless it helps them resolve their little petty grievances, or makes them look like big puffed-up important bigwigs. I can’t tell you the number of abuse of law cases I’ve seen come out of small towns just like this one. But they’re like any bully. You stand up to them and they back right down.” He points a fork at me. “You remember that. Both you foxes remember that.”

While he takes a break to eat, my father gives me a look and a half-smile. “Mr. Vogt was recommended by Uncle Roger.”

“
Went to school with a friend of his.” Vogt wipes egg from his muzzle. “Anyway, I’ll come with you to the hospital, and then if you need my help, I’ll be there. They won’t mess with you.”

“
Thanks,” my father says, though when Vogt goes to the bathroom, he says, “He’s a little overbearing. If you don’t want him in the hospital...”

I shrug. “I don’t mind more protection. I don’t really know what’s going to happen.”

“
You think he’ll press charges?”

“
He might. I hope not.”

“
Have you told your tiger?”

I shake my head. “Waiting ’til after the game. I don’t want to distract him.”

“
You don’t think the family will call him?”

That’s part of what I’ve been trying not to worry about. “Maybe. But I told him I’d call him after the game, so hopefully...”

He scoops up some hashbrowns—the real kind, not the McShredded Potatoes. “I guess you know him.”

“
Yeah.” I’ve already devoured my food. I watch him eat. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

“
Ah, well, I had to.”

Vogt emerges from the bathroom, so I finish what I have to say quickly. “You didn’t, really. But I appreciate it. It means a lot. I mean, I’d be sitting in jail if not for you and Mister Vogt here.”