Trauma Plan (23 page)

“No fair. You’re pulling the kid card.”

“You betcha. Is it working?”

Riley sighed. “Yes.” She glanced around the kitchen. “Anything else you need from here?”

“Only my red foam nose. I have extras if you—”

“Don’t push your luck.”

* * *

“‘We’re all in our places with sunshiny faces,’” Jack sang as he strummed, glad that at least eight of those preschool-age faces were indeed smiling. And focused on Hobo. The little dog was outfitted in a polka-dot hat, ruffled collar, and glittery toenails—Bandy had painted them. In comparison, Jack’s red-painted nose, plastic glasses, and star-sprinkled cowboy vest over a denim shirt were practically Dallas-banker conservative. He was almost as grateful for that shred of dignity as he’d been for body armor in Afghanistan. Now if only Bandy would get here.

He nodded as a staff leader, also dressed for clown day, stepped close and added her voice to his. His chest tightened. If things had worked out the way they should have . . .
Abby would be here.

She’d volunteered at the Sunshine Center all through high school and was still here on weekends right up to a few days before she died. . . . No. Before she was murdered. The dark and unfair irony hit him again: Abby spent countless hours helping these young victims of crime and then became one herself. Her dreams, her future . . . ended.

“‘And this is the way to start a new day,’” he continued.

Jack stretched his fingers for the chords as the teacher walked Hobo slowly around the circle. The dog’s tail thumped against his cart, decorated with Fiesta stickers by the children. If Jack believed it was possible, he’d even swear Hobo’s mouth had quirked into a smile. The truth was that the little dog—half of his body rolling uselessly behind him—was much better suited for offering up emotional support than Jack was. And Bandy was a star at it. Jack smiled, thinking of him whipping up cream cheese frosting in that ridiculous blue wig. A tough and crusty bull rider who never seemed to feel sidelined by his current humble circumstances. It was unfathomable to Jack.

And though it had been Jack’s idea to volunteer here at the Sunshine Center, Bandy and Hobo had the real heart for it. Jack was . . . extraneous. He knew that. Not to say that if some lowlife walked in and dared to touch one of these kids again, he wouldn’t slam him up against a wall and make him wish he’d never been born.

“‘Our day is beginning—there’s so much to do,’” he sang in a rush, realizing he’d almost missed the line. Hobo yipped, let out a warbling howl. The children burst into laughter, completely delighted.

Jack smiled. Once again, Hobo had rescued the moment. Bandy would save the morning. They’d have cupcakes with sprinkles, and Jack would try to convince himself that his being here had in some way helped. Not the way Riley could, but—

“‘Good morning, good morning, good morning to you!’” he sang, ending the musical selection that began each day at the Sunshine Center.

Sunshine.
Jack thought of Riley’s face in the afternoon light at the Alamo. And the rainbow ribbons in her hair as the sun set over River Walk. He remembered the way she listened as he talked, words that tore the scabs from the wounds of Abby’s murder. There was empathy in her beautiful blue eyes, selfless compassion from the heart of someone who’d suffered such horrific hurt herself. He thought of the pain in Riley’s voice even yesterday, after she’d done her best to support the family of Stacy Paulson. She was an amazing woman. And as impossible as it was—despite differences that couldn’t be breached—Riley had offered Jack a glimpse of soul-warming sunshine that he never knew existed.

I want to know you better. Understand your hope. I need that sunshine in my life.

“Do you think we can sing one more round of the ‘Good Morning’ song?” the staffer asked, arriving at Jack’s side.

“Sure.”

Some things were possible. Some weren’t. His fingers found the chords.

* * *

“Is it true that Hobo sleeps outside?” Riley asked as the old truck bumped over asphalt made uneven by the San Antonio Street construction. A small wooden cross, strung from the rearview mirror, swayed with the movement. “Jack made it sound like he sleeps under this truck.”

“It’s true. He was born under a stock trailer; his mama was a rodeo dog too.” Bandy smiled. “Hobo didn’t take to civilization like I did. He’s more comfortable outside, though he doesn’t argue with the fleece cushion I put down for him. Eats in the house, works all day, then goes out to his bed when I’m ready to make up the sofa sleeper. He’s got himself a routine.”

Riley caught Bandy’s Bible as it slid across the dash from the momentum of a turn. She tucked several handwritten slips of Scripture back inside and held the well-worn book in her lap. “And he’s a watchdog.”

“Yep. Don’t let that cart fool you. The boy’s got plenty of bark—and bite if need be.” Bandy’s painted lips stretched downward in clownish melancholy. “I wish we’d been there to help when that fellow tried to snatch your purse. I’m real sorry that happened to you, Riley.”

She nodded, said nothing for a few moments. “Do you think there’s truth in what the action committee is saying? That the way Jack runs the clinic invites problems?”

Bandy gave a wry smile. “If you mean does he invite a variety of folks—poor, addicted, troubled and in trouble, homeless . . . hopeless?” He shrugged. “Then, yes ma’am, he’s opening the door to ‘problems.’ But then, I think you’ll agree that the book you’re holdin’ shows a fine example of service to others. No matter how messy it gets.”

Riley thought of Jesus among the lepers and wondered what Jack would think of that comparison.

“But,” Bandy continued, “if you mean does our Doc Travis go out of his way to rile up those committee members . . . or could he learn a thing or two about compromise, turning the other cheek, loving his neighbor as himself?” He clucked his tongue. “Then yes again. I think he’s inviting ‘problems’ there too. It’s sort of like . . . You remember that wall of photos above his desk?”

Riley nodded. Jack with the bulls, skydiving, in camouflage and holding a weapon . . . “You call it his buckle wall.”

“Right. Ever notice that every one of those pictures is just him alone? There’s the trouble. Thinking you can do it all alone. That you were blessed with broad shoulders so you could carry the world on ’em. When a man does that, pretty soon it all becomes
about
him. That’s a lot more dangerous than running with bulls. It’s the way your soul gets gored.”

A gored soul.
Riley watched the weathered cross sway with the motion of the truck, speechless at the unexpected words of wisdom from a bighearted man in greasepaint. Did Jack have any idea how fortunate he was to have Bandy?

“We’re here,” Bandy said, pulling into the tree-lined parking lot of a small stone building. “If you’ll grab those cupcakes, I’ll take a minute to pull on my big ol’ purple shoes. And . . .” He switched off the ignition, fished around in his pocket, found what he was looking for. “Ah, here you go. Fourteen little faces, all painted up as clowns . . . lookin’ for a splash of sunshine?”

Riley took the red sponge nose.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re wearing that nose,” Jack teased, leaning his guitar against the wall.
And that you’re here.

“And I can’t believe—” Riley raised her voice above childish laughter in the distance—“you’re
not
wearing one. Your building manager is a persuasive man.”

“We compromised on this nose paint—after I got one of those sponge ones stuck in a cupcake. You’ll see.”

“Great.” She wrinkled her nose and the red sponge dipped like a fishing bobber signaling a bite. “So . . .” Riley turned to look at the circle of children gathered around Bandy. “It looks like the age range is from maybe four to six?”

“Pretty much. The boy with the Spider-Man cap, José, is seven.” Jack grimaced. “Spent two days hiding under a bed with his mother’s body on the floor beside it. Drug-related murder. He saw it happen.” He nodded toward the other end of the circle. “Kara’s four; her father’s in prison. Mother’s in a coma. Eddie had both legs fractured before he was two, and . . .” Jack sighed. “I’m not sure cupcakes are strong enough medicine.” He caught Bandy’s signal. “It’s time for the skit.”

“Skit?”

“Part of the play therapy,” Jack explained. “A different theme each time. Today we’re doing something about being afraid. And heads up: plastic scorpions are involved.”

Riley’s red nose bobbed again. “I’ll try not to panic.”

* * *

Riley sat cross-legged on the rug beside Jack—and across from Bandy and Hobo—while the young teacher read from
The Berenstain Bears in the Dark
. A story Riley had almost forgotten: Brother Bear trying to scare his sister with a spooky story. Then teasing her about her childish night-light, when all along he was the one who needed it most.

Bandy rose to his feet—stumbling comically over the flapping purple shoes—and took his place in the center of the circle. Hobo, cart squeaking, joined him. Followed, somewhat reluctantly, by Jack.

“Well, that was a mighty nice story,” Bandy boomed, hands on his hips as he surveyed the children’s faces. “You think so, Jack?”

“Nah.” Jack shook his head and his plastic glasses slid down his nose. “Sissy stuff—I don’t need a night-light.”

Riley looked around at the children—some nodding in agreement—and then pushed aside a ridiculous, intruding memory of Wilma’s remark about her blinding row of security lights.
“You could land a 747 here.”

“Nope,” Jack said, pointing his thumbs at his chest. “Not me.” He swaggered around the circle before returning to Bandy’s side. “Not afraid of nothin’.”

“Oh yeah?” Bandy made a show of reaching into a small sack attached to the waist of his baggy pants. “That right?”

“Right as rain. Nothin’ scares this cowboy, except—yipes! Scorpions!”

“Gotcha!” Bandy dangled the huge plastic scorpion in front of Jack’s face. Hobo barked, and the children howled with laughter.

“And snakes!” Jack wailed as Bandy mercilessly added a three-foot rubber rattler to his taunt. “Okay, okay. You got me. I’m not always brave. And sometimes I worry about things too.”

“Worry?” Bandy lowered the plastic creatures. “You mean like when you’re all alone and you start thinking about things? And you’re not sure everything will be all right?” He nodded dramatically, then reached up to pat Jack’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Jack. Me too.”

“Really? Thanks. Now I don’t feel so alone.”

Jack’s eyes found Riley’s. She swallowed, completely touched that he was doing this.
So much more than cupcakes . . . Can’t you see that?

In moments Bandy and Jack returned to their places in the circle, and the teacher offered up her childhood fear of bees. She asked the others if they would like to share.

“Armadillos,” Bandy volunteered. “Lately I worry they’re gonna dig out every last stalk of corn in my garden. Then set their beady eyes on my peanut butter jar.”

“Dogs,” Eddie admitted, his tentative smile revealing a first lost tooth. “But not so much after knowing Hobo.”

“Lightning,” Kara offered.

“Nuh-uh, thunder’s worser. ’Cuz it sounds like guns,” a boy with a solemn face added. “You never know . . . it could be guns. For reals.”

Monsters. Shots. Getting lost. . . . The little voices continued around the circle until Riley felt Jack fidget beside her. After the next child, José, it would only be the two of them left. What would Jack say he was afraid of? What would
she
say? Riley was embarrassed by the increase in her pulse rate. She didn’t have to tell the truth.
But what is the truth? What scares me most?

“Sometimes . . . ,” José began. His dark eyes widened and Riley remembered what Jack had said about this boy.

Bandy gave a discreet nod, and Hobo creaked forward and stopped in front of José.

“Well . . .” The boy stroked one of Hobo’s ears, took a halting breath. “Sometimes I’m afraid that . . . I’ll always feel scared.” He looked up at the teacher, his little shoulders beginning to shake. “Will I?”

Riley’s throat squeezed tight. She needed that answer too.

* * *

“There you go,” Jack said, lifting Hobo into the passenger seat of Bandy’s truck. He clucked his tongue. “Not that there’s any room for your dog in here. You could host a garage sale of Bible bric-a-brac.” He smiled at Bandy. “Tupperware is in the back—José finished off that last cupcake. So you’re all set.”

“Going to Starbucks?”

“Not sure.” Jack had been surprised when Riley agreed to ride back with him. “Maybe that little place with Mexican coffee. And pecan pralines.”

A grin spread across Bandy’s face. “Word of advice?”

Jack groaned inwardly, certain he was about to get dating advice from a rodeo clown—and because he knew how badly he needed it. “And that would be . . . ?”