The Real Father

Strangely mesmerized, Molly watched the two of them, still unable to come to grips with what she saw. Jackson and Annie were so comfortable together, so clearly partners in the awesome task of rearing this bright, handsome, willful little boy. Their communication was relaxed, largely nonverbal, and yet amazingly complete.

Molly had to pinch off a trickle of envy. It would have been nice to have someone like that, someone to bring your troubles to, someone who would help you sort out the mountains from the molehills. Molly had always been alone with her worries, sometimes struggling from bedtime until dawn to find the simple perspective Jackson had been able to offer Annie in a matter of minutes.

She felt a small hand creep up toward hers, and she looked down with a smile to find Liza standing close, her expression wistful. Molly’s heart ached, recognizing that wordless longing. Never mind that the threesome in front of them weren’t really a family, the couple not man and wife, the boy’s background murky.

In every way that mattered, they felt like a family.

Molly and Liza were like children pressing their faces against the candy store window. She didn’t know what to say to take that look from her daughter’s eyes.

“I love you, honey,” she said, for want of anything more inspired.

“I know,” Liza answered softly, but she didn’t take her eyes from Jackson even long enough to blink.

CHAPTER THREE

TOMMY SAT NEXT TO Jackson on a big iron bench that overlooked the river. Though they’d been sitting there at least five minutes, Tommy hadn’t said a word. He knew why he’d been brought here. Jackson was going to give him a lecture about how you shouldn’t fight with people at school.

Well, he could just lecture away. Tommy didn’t care. Grown-ups didn’t know about Junior Caldwell, about what a creep he was. He deserved to have his nose broken.

Besides, Jackson didn’t have any business giving Tommy a lecture. He wasn’t his dad. He wasn’t his uncle, or his brother, or even the principal. He wasn’t anybody. He was just a guy who hung around with his mom. Lots of guys did that.

And they all wanted to impress her by trying to play daddy. Lots of big, fake smiles and head patting. And all that “How’s my little man?” crap. Oh, yeah, everybody wanted to be Tommy’s dad.

Everybody, that is, except his real dad. Wherever he was.

Whoever he was.

If he ever met his real dad, Tommy decided, he’d break his nose, too.

Tommy impatiently kicked at the small rocks that decorated the little picnic area where they sat. It was getting hot out here. Jackson had pretended he needed Tommy’s help moving a bunch of boxes around for that old Miss Forrest. It had been hard work, and it made Tommy mad because he knew it was just an excuse to get him out here and bawl him out.

He stole a look at the man sitting next to him on the bench. So where was the lecture?

Almost as if he had forgotten Tommy was even there, Jackson leaned down and picked up one of the flat white pebbles at their feet. He eyed it carefully, tested its shape and weight, and then tossed it with a perfect flick of his wrist toward the river. It skipped three, four, five whole times before it finally sank.

“Awesome,” Tommy said in spite of his determination not to speak first. He picked up a stone himself and tossed it. Two measly bounces, and it sank with a hollow plop.

Jackson sorted through the stones, picked up two and handed them to Tommy. “Flat is better,” he said matter-of-factly. “And use more wrist.”

By the third stone, Tommy had made it up to four skips, and he was feeling a little less grumpy. Maybe he’d been wrong about the lecture.

“So,” Jackson said as he demonstrated the wrist motion one more time. “This Junior Caldwell kid. He’s pretty big?”

Tommy made a rude noise and tossed his pebble. Four skips. He was finally getting the hang of it. “Heck, no. He looks like a girl. He cried when I hit him. He cried so hard snot was dripping out of his nose.”

Jackson paused midtoss and arched one eyebrow blandly at Tommy. “You hit a kid who looks like a girl?”

Tommy flushed, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “Yeah, well, he’s a major creep. He was really asking for it.”

“Yeah?” Jackson shook a couple of pebbles in his palm thoughtfully. They made a noise like Monopoly dice. “Well, I guess you had to, then.”

“I guess I did.” It was so darn hot—how could a winter afternoon be so hot? His mother shouldn’t have made him wear this jacket. His face felt red.

Tommy heaved four pebbles, fast and hard, into the river, which was sparkling now under the high, yellow afternoon sun. They all sank immediately. “Darn right I had to.”

Jackson handed him another stone. “Take your time,” he advised. “Don’t try to bully it. You can’t intimidate a rock.” He demonstrated the sideways wrist flick one more time. “It’s subtle. But remember you’re always smarter than the rock, if you’ll just take the time to finesse it.”

Tommy took a deep breath, twitched his wrist a couple of times in practice, and then let the pebble glide easily through his fingers. Five skips! As much as Jackson’s best.

Finesse. He liked that word. And he liked the way it worked.

Too bad you couldn’t finesse a jerk like Junior Caldwell.

“You know what he said?” Tommy cast a quick glance toward Jackson, then looked away. “You know what that moron said?”

Jackson seemed entirely focused on finding the perfect pebble. “No. What?”

Timothy frowned, fighting back the sudden stupid feeling that he might cry. He hated even remembering what Junior had said.

“Somebody at lunch said they saw Coach Riser buying nails in the hardware store where my mom works. So Junior said that was because he’s nailing my mom. And everybody laughed.” He gritted his teeth and drew in a big breath, which hurt, as if his lungs were too tight. He made a fist around his pebble. “You know what that means, Jackson? Nailing somebody?”

“Yeah, I know.” Jackson’s face looked hard.

“Mostly it means your friend Junior Caldwell is a stupid little punk.”

“He’s not my friend,” Tommy said roughly. “I hate him. He’s a spoiled sissy. I spent the night with him one time, and you know what? He’s got twenty-five video games. He’s got his own TV in his room. He sleeps with a stuffed puppy named Bitsy, and he doesn’t even try to hide it.”

“Bitsy?” Jackson’s slow chuckle was appreciative. “Man. That’s really embarrassing.”

“And it gets even worse,” Tommy said, remembering that night at the Caldwell mansion with a sharp, uncomfortable clarity. The whole thing had made him feel rotten somehow, even though it hadn’t been so bad, really. Mr. Caldwell had been kind of nice, even if he did spoil Junior something awful. He played ball with the boys, and he had even watched them play video games for a while. He had particularly admired Tommy’s skill at the Vampire Blaster game.

“Get this. Junior can’t get to sleep unless his dad comes in and reads a bunch of football stats to him like a bedtime story. It’s just plain pathetic.”

Jackson’s eyes were thoughtful, and Tommy wondered for a moment whether he had sounded jealous. He wasn’t jealous, not one bit. Junior Caldwell was a nerd. It was just that Mr. Caldwell’s voice had been really nice, and it felt kind of safe to have a strong man there, reading numbers and names in that comforting voice—especially after that weird vampire video game.

But still, it was sissy stuff. No guy should need a bedtime story to get to sleep.

When Jackson finally spoke, his voice was normal. He didn’t sound as if he felt sorry for Tommy at all, thank goodness. Tommy couldn’t stand for people to feel sorry for him.

“Absolutely pathetic,” he agreed. “The kid is a zero. So what do you say, Tommy? You think you could give your mom a break and maybe tell this zero kid you’re sorry?”

Surprisingly, Tommy suddenly felt as if he maybe could. Though he wasn’t sure why, it had helped to talk about it. The worst of his anger was gone, like when you twist the top off a cola and all the fizz shoots out.

“Oh, okay,” he muttered, skimming his last pebble expertly across the silver sparkles of the river.

“If it’ll make everyone chill about it.”

They stood side by side, counting the skips together. Four, five, six! They high-fived each other, grinning.