The Reckoning (8 page)

Royce rolled out of bed at six-thirty Saturday morning with a dreadful, full feeling in his stomach. He had something to do that—at the very least—was going to be very unpleasant.

His wife stirred. “Honey, are you all right?”

“Just going to get my car. Go back to sleep.”

“You need a ride?”

“No, Tony is going to help me.”

She smiled. “Good.”

“Now go back to sleep. I’ll be back in plenty of time to take you shopping.”

Les rolled over back to sleep. He quickly showered, shaved and dressed. In the kitchen he called for a cab and started the coffee. He then picked up the
Sun
from the front porch. Here he was again, painfully anticipating his presence in the paper.

But for what? He hadn’t committed any crime. It wasn’t a crime to sleep with another woman, to cheat on your wife. Decent guys he knew did it all the time.

But to wreck a woman’s breast? Surely that was a crime. No, he told himself he had done nothing wrong. Something in the tea made him hallucinate that part.

He quickly looked through the pages of the Metro section, scanned the police blotter and was relieved to not find his name or any mention of a woman reporting a damaged bazoom.

Okay, onto more mundane things. His stomach flip-flopped. If his car keys weren’t at Monica’s shop, he was screwed. He didn’t have a spare set for the Cavalier.

On the cab ride over to South Gaylord he trembled uncontrollably, sort of a “guilt hangover,” he reasoned. Royce told the cab to wait while he went to Naughty’s door and buzzed. Since the shop didn’t open until ten, he knew he’d be lucky (or maybe
unlucky
) to find someone there.

No answer. He buzzed again. The little business district was asleep. He felt sort of sleazy, like a back alley Lothario returning to the scene of a virgin’s deflowering.

A lock turned; the door opened a crack.

“Allison?” If it were the same young woman, her alabaster face was puffy, splotched with what he took for bruises. Her tiny mouth looked chocolate-stained.

“Ms. Pleshette is unavailable,” she said lethargically, eyes stoned.

“No, that’s okay,” he was quick to reply. “I just came by for my car keys. I think they might have fallen out on the love seat last night.”

“Oh. Do you want to come in, Mr. McCulloch?”

Jeez, she remembered his name. Not a good sign.

“No, that’s okay. If you’ll be so kind as to look for me, I’ll just wait out here. I know it’s early.”

The door closed. Anxious minutes passed. Finally she returned with the keys.

“I’ll tell Ms. Pleshette you stopped by.”

Just don’t wake her
, he wanted to say. Instead: “Uh, how is Monica doing? She mentioned yesterday, during our business meeting, that she was feeling a little under the weather. Maybe a chest cold. How is her chest?”

Allison rolled listless eyes. “Oh, she’s fine. After you left yesterday evening, she had a late night showing, then we sort of partied.”

“Great,” he said, putting a tone of concern into it. Thank God. He assumed Monica’s left breast had to have been in good working order to accommodate a showing. “Well, thank you. Have a good weekend, Allison. Bye.”

During the cab ride back home Royce realized, jocularly, that he should have asked for his sock back as well.

Late Saturday morning the McCullochs (
sans
Craig, not a McCulloch) braved the crowds at the Towson Town Center mall. Royce had agreed to the outing only with the mushily agreed-on proviso that Les only look, not buy.

Though it was nearly a week before the day after Thanksgiving—the traditional start of the Christmas shopping season—it took them nearly a half-hour to find a space in covered parking.

Leslie oohed and aahed at the world-class retail experience, and Royce contributed his own chortles of awe, though unbeknownst to his wife, he had seen and shopped as good or better.

He let his wife forage ahead in glamland while he held back and did his level best to generate some holiday spirit. Last night’s encounter (if it happened at all) with Monica Pleshette aside, he usually loathed the holidays.

As a “menopause baby” whose parents had both passed away by his freshman year in college, Royce had few Christmas memories of the toasty-warm variety to draw upon. Leslie’s parents, on the other hand, were both living and at the cherished center of a large, closely knit family. He envied his wife, her sense of family. At the same time, he’d long ago discovered personal entanglements could make life miserably complicated.

Like his little fling with Monica. That had to end, the professional as well as the personal relationship. He’d messenger her a letter Monday morning with a refund of her first month’s retainer. The letter would explain that Royce’s knowledge of the women’s apparel industry was just too limited for him to adequately meet her requirements.

Or, if the letter approach was much too impersonal, he would have Brenda call her. Brenda, after all, did seem to be chomping at the bit to broaden her influence, what with the way she practically ordered him to not do business with the woman in the first place.

As for the rather bizarre circumstances of last night, his memory cells were at this very instant erasing the nastiness from his mind.

“What do you think? For Jules.”

Les interrupted his musing, blue sweater in hand.

“How much?”

She flipped the price tag, made a sour face. “One-seventy-nine.”

“Uh, I don’t know.” He felt so cheap for saying it.

“Too much,” she decided for herself and put it back on the rack. She returned to him and asked, “Do you think Craig is okay?”

“Of course he is. The McDonalds won’t let him get away with anything.”

Craig had gone to his friend Steve McDonald’s house for Steve’s ninth birthday party.

“So you don’t think I need to call?”

He shook his head. “Let the boys have their fun.”

Royce in tow, Leslie navigated through the press of shoppers to reach Nordstrum’s Rack. There she managed to find a blue Calvin Klein sweater on sale for forty-nine dollars.

“Great,” Royce enthused when she showed him the price tag. Les bought the sweater, and they traipsed over to stand in the long gift-wrap line. His wife hated to wrap presents, saying she just didn’t have the time or patience to give the process the attention it deserved.

“You sure I shouldn’t call?” she pressed. “You could save our place in line.”

“Les, I know Craig is just fine.”

Another half-hour was consumed in getting the sweater gift-wrapped. Shortly after two, they managed to reach their car and join the gridlock taking place in the Towson mall area.

Inching the Cavalier east along York Road, Royce thought he spotted someone he knew on the sidewalk.

Dread filled him as he recognized the skinhead noggin, the dark glasses, the cocky swagger of the top-heavy body. Is that all he had to wear? The leather vest? The boots? Oh shit, he made eye contact with Royce.

“Royce! Watch out!”

He snapped his head to the left, smashed his right foot down on the brake pedal. He and Les catapulted forward, their foreheads close to kissing the windshield glass. The seat belts yanked them back.

“Fuck!” Royce spat.

“Royce!” his wife said.

He’d almost creamed a grandmother-granddaughter combo in the crosswalk.

They hadn’t been home five minutes when the phone rang and Les answered it.

“Yes, Mrs. McDonald.”

Royce saw worry darken his wife’s face, then rage.

“He did what! No, I think I know where he is. I’m sorry he did that, Mrs. McDonald. You don’t deserve that. Yes, well thank you for your concern. Bye.”

She hung up and marched resolutely towards Craig’s room.

“What he’d do now?” Royce called to her.

“Oh, nothing much, just called Mrs. McDonald an ‘old bitch’ is all.”

Royce firmly grasped the Formica kitchen countertop with his hands, bracing himself. He winced when the loud words came from Craig’s bedroom.

“Young man! I want you out of that closet—now!”

During halftime, Royce and Tony stepped outside on the back porch so Tony could have a cigarette. By his own choice, Tony never smoked inside his own home. In the kitchen, Carmen and Leslie put the finishing touches on a Mexican banquet.

“Hey, maybe those Ravens aren’t so bad after all,” Tony said. “That Ray Lewis isn’t half bad.”

Royce laughed. “What about your undying love for the Colts?”

Tony grinned, Zippoed his cigarette. “How’s biz?”

“Fair to middlin’.” He nervously shifted his feet. “Say, you have a chance to talk to anyone at the DA’s office yet?”

“Yeah.” The attorney spit tobacco off his tongue. “Looks like the stripper is going to press charges.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Look, Royce. It won’t be that bad. I talked to an assistant DA I went to law school with, a stand-up kind of guy. We’re talking about assault and battery—”

“Christ!” Royce ignited. “That sounds bad.”

“Let me finish. It’s not so bad. Your very first offense. I’m betting on a deferred sentence, maybe a five-hundred-dollar fine, max.”

Royce shook his head. “I guess I really screwed the pooch. Guess I better tell Les.”

There was an awkward silence between the two friends. Tony snubbed his cigarette out on the porch railing.

“Maybe you should get yourself a hotshot criminal lawyer if you’re that worried. I’d understand. I can give you some names. There’s even a couple Mexicans, if you want to be politically correct about it. Just as slimy as the others.”

That raised a grin from Royce. Tony was one lawyer who loved lawyer jokes.

“No,” he said. “What’s the next step?”

“An arraignment. February 6th.”

“You mean I have to live with this thing that long? This ax hanging over my head?”

“Blame it on our overcrowded legal system.”

“You be with me, Tony?”

“Always, bud.”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

Tony raised his right hand and for maybe the twentieth time he taught his friend how to do a soul shake.

6

Blue Monday

Mr. Chalmers, the vice principal of Craig’s school, was doing his guarded, professional best to paint a picture of gloom and doom.

“The behavioral disorder is called hypoactivity,” he told Leslie.

Wide-eyed, Leslie said, “I’ve only heard about hyperactivity.”

“Yes, of course. Hypoactivity doesn’t get the press it should, I’m afraid, though it can have far more serious consequences. In this case, the emotionally disturbed child is withdrawn, uncommunicative, passive. Sometimes it is physiologically based, as in instances of brain damage, or psychological, as in instances of child abuse.”

Royce cringed and saw his wife did not like that last part either. Why did he feel he was on trial here? He had to speak up.

“Maybe it’s the school,” he blurted. “I’ve heard a lot about violence in Baltimore’s schools these days.”

“I can assure you that we run a safe school here,” Mr. Chalmers retorted. “Yes, we do have our discipline problems. But let me assure you—”

“Perhaps we have unduly alarmed the McCullochs,” Sarah Burns, Craig’s teacher, chimed in. “Perhaps the situation isn’t as serious as all that.” She looked to Royce. “School nowadays is far more intimidating, more frightening than in our day. Your son must cope with what has become a very stressful environment.”

Royce liked Sarah, a plain-faced but sweet girl, preppily dressed in dusty rose-colored wool skirt and sweater, who couldn’t have been more than two years out of college. At least she included him in the conversation and didn’t look at him with the condemning eyes that Chalmers did.

Sarah passed a self-deprecating smile onto her boss before proceeding:

“The culprit here might be a learning disorder, such as poor eyesight or hearing, dyslexia even. All can be easily diagnosed and, in most cases, successfully compensated for.” She had made this point by grasping the long, slender forefinger of her left hand with her right.

Finger number two went up. “It could be that Craig is frustrated because he is not performing at his grade level. I enjoy having your son in my classroom.” (Here she made a point of giving him and Les a reassuring smile). “He is a bright boy and until recently he socialized well with his classmates. Again, perhaps he feels he is being left behind. Some remedial education may be necessary.”

“Special Ed,” boomed Chalmers. Royce recalled how it had been in his school days, when the Special Eds were kept in the basement near the boiler room, where they drank warm milk and did crafts projects.

“Perhaps,” Sarah said, leaning forward in her chair to make another point, the soft folds of her sweater nicely filling with swelling bra. Royce also noticed her legs weren’t hard on the eyes either. You’re a bad-ass, he told himself. A real bad-ass.

“I was thinking more of a tutor,” Sarah continued. Her third finger (ringless) went up. She grasped the finger but paused to select her words carefully.

“It could also be something in the home,” she said haltingly. “I’m not implying any irresponsibility on your part as the child’s parents,” she was quick to add. “But often it can stem from small things that go unnoticed—lack of attention, for instance. In this day and age, with both parents working, children do all kinds of things to get additional attention. I know it can be difficult, what with work schedules.”

Leslie nodded. “Royce and I have been rather busy lately. And I know it’s no secret here that Craig’s father and I are divorced. Frankly, I don’t think Craig has adjusted well.”

Chalmers glowered at Royce, saying, “Yes, the arrival of a stepfather into the situation can certainly change things.”

“Yes, but divorces do happen and children do learn to cope,” Sarah said, earning a disapproving look from Chalmers.

Hurray for Sarah, Royce thought. He wanted to give her a polished apple, give her a kiss, give her…
Hold it right there, buddy, you’re out of line
. He looked at his watch: 9:53. Would this meeting never end? He had to be at work, drafting that all-important kiss-off letter to Monica. How would he word it? “
My dearest Ms. Pleshette
.
Due to the gargantuan size of your tits, I find that I can no longer adequately service your account.
”

Shoot, he was a pervert, that’s what he was. No, worse. A child molester, a pedophile. I confess, Mr. Chalmers. It was me who caused this behavioral disorder. I snuck into the boy’s room at night, played with the child’s peewee and made him…

“That’s all well and good,” Chalmers said, regaining control of the meeting. “Mrs. McCulloch, I highly recommend the child be tested by a district child psychologist; initially a Wisc test to determine his learning ability—IQ for the want of an adequate layman’s term. Parental approval is necessary, of course.”

Leslie gave her husband a questioning look. He nodded an affirmative back.

“All right,” Leslie told Chalmers. “Let’s go ahead.”

“It’s really a benign test,” Sarah told the McCullochs. “The child matches different shapes, even does some game playing. Craig will probably enjoy it.”

“Certainly,” Chalmers snapped at Sarah, then turned his attention to Leslie, saying, “It is my understanding that you have full custody of the child and your husband has not legally adopted him.”

“Yes, yes that’s true,” Leslie said.

Chalmers gloated. “Then your husband’s signature will not be necessary.”