Right Behind You Read online

  He looked older and tougher than the group of us, but I had seen too many of his kind come and go and I had been in a bad mood for two years now.

  “Sing that song at another table,” I said.

  “Think about who you’re mouthin’ off to, little man. I set my sister’s cat on fire and made her watch. You think I can’t make you give me a few pills?”

  Six boys sat there and I’m not sure any one of them were breathing. Finally, Klepto, a kid that couldn’t seem to stop stealing cars, two of which had been state troopers’ vehicles, pointed at me and said, “Dude, this guy set fire to a kid when he was like in first grade or something.”

  I was done. I put down my milk and picked up my tray. The newbie looked across the table and I swear he smiled like he won the lottery.

  “Serious? You torched a kid? What’d that feel like? Was it the sweetest thing ever?”

  I don’t think I knew I had come across the table at him until I had him on the ground. He probably had twenty pounds on me, but I had rage. It took two orderlies to drag me off.

  “Your eye is looking better,” The Frown said. “The other guy looks much worse.”

  “It’s not funny.” I said. I wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired.

  “What makes you feel so bad about it?”

  I slumped down but locked in on The Frown. “That kid, the one who torched that cat? He wanted to know how it felt. Burning a person.”

  “I heard.”

  “So how’s that make him different from you? From the lawyers, the judge, or even my dad? They all want to know how I felt.”

  “Kip. You know the difference.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m losing my way here.” I stood up and headed for the door.

  Antidepressants appeared on my med charts that night. I had just swerved from anger to depression with no turn signal and my tires screeching. First it was just not giving a shit, not showering or washing my hair. Then black moods, inability to sleep, or sleeping too much, lack of appetite, listlessness, and finally finding myself crying for no good reason.

  “You’re getting institutionalized. I don’t want that.” The Frown leaned on his desk, kind of toward me, trying to get through my don’t-give-a-shit haze. “You don’t want that.”

  “Why not? I can stay here. Not hurt anybody else.”

  “You still have time to be a kid. Go to school. A real one. Meet normal people. Kip, you haven’t even hit puberty yet. You have a life ahead of you.”

  I sagged down further in the chair and rolled my eyes. “Right. A life full of fluffy kittens in cute baskets, blue skies, and a perfect jump shot?”

  “Probably not, but I’m getting a vision of a fairly normal life as a smart-ass,” The Frown said.

  I shrugged.

  The Frown started tapping his pen.

  “Don’t ever play poker,” I said. “You’ll be in debt up to your butt.”

  The Frown frowned.

  “You have something you want to say and you’re looking for the angle,” I said, parroting words I’d learned from The Frown himself.

  “I’m that easy?”

  “The only person I’ve known longer than you is my dad.”

  “He’s the subject of this chat,” The Frown said.

  I sat up. “Dad? Is something wrong?”

  “Your dad is fine. We’re going to have a group session. You, me, him, and someone he wants you to meet.”

  This time The Frown watched me frown. Then all the ducks quit quacking and got in a row.

  “Whoa, Dad’s got a girlfriend. A serious one.”

  “He wants to discuss . . .”

  “Don’t shimmy-shammy with me. Is he coming to tell me he’s getting married?”

  More tapping.

  I started sorting the candies. “You’re not even going to ask me how I’d feel about that?”

  The Frown laughed. “If I did it would be admitting something.”

  I stopped sorting and tossed a red candy at him. “Has she been to see you yet? Did she ask if I’m going to set the house on fire while they’re sleeping?”

  “You know I can’t tell her anything about you. Not without your consent. And I haven’t met her.”

  “If she exists, you mean.”

  “Correct.”

  “I’ll say this much. I don’t care if she hates my guts and I hate hers.”

  And then my eyes welled up. Couldn’t control it. “If she’s good to Dad, well . . . you know, he’s always been here. He keeps coming back. Dad deserves whatever little bit of good he can grab, you know?”

  “Are you kissing my ass trying to get extra dessert or something?”

  “Oh, yeah, that pudding is worth an ass-kissing. In fact, they probably taste a lot alike.”

  “You’re a gross little fart. Go away and come back tomorrow.”

  Her name was Carrie, and she didn’t seem nervous. Dad was nervous enough for everyone in the room and a small village in Taiwan, and he never let go of her hand. We made some chit and some chat, then Carrie said, “Can I be blunt with you, Kip?”

  “Go for it,” I said.

  “Kip, I’ve been seeing your father for a while. He told me about you when he thought our situation was looking serious. I’ll tell you now that the fact that this man is your father says good things for you. But I won’t make a judgment call about a child based on what his parent has to say. You get that, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll also tell you that if it came to a choice between us, you father would choose you without hesitation. That’s also a mark in your favor.”

  Carrie turned then and smiled at Dad. And when he smiled at her I knew something. Dad never relaxed or lit up from inside when Mom smiled at him. They were stretched tight and they darkened in each other’s presence. But there was something else I could see in Dad’s smile. Carrie had saved his life.

  “I’m going to ask you to allow me to have all the information I need before I get further into this,” Carrie said. “If I marry your father, for all intentions, I take you into my life and I’ll be part of your support system. When you come out of here, there’s going to be a shit storm, and I want to be sure I believe in you as completely as I need to.”

  “You don’t pull any punches, do you, Carrie?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  I turned to The Frown. “Do I just tell you she can see my files or do I sign something?”

  “You and your father have to sign.” He pushed some papers toward me. I signed without reading.

  “What’s this about a shit storm?” I asked.

  Dad rubbed his hand over his mouth. “There have been a few . . . problems that your doctor and I thought would be better addressed when you were getting closer to release.” Dad seemed uncomfortable.

  “How bad? Just give me a clue. I can get details later.”

  Dad sighed. “Our name got leaked. The paper can’t print it, but people talk. Kip, you know how that goes. The whole, um, incident was in the papers. It even made national news, TV, the whole ball of wax. I’ve had to move once and my boss even had to ask me to leave my job because . . . Anyway, I don’t use our last name anymore. I use Mom’s maiden name. I don’t even live in Anchorage now.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “Talkeetna.”

  “You drive all that way every week to see me?”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “In the winter. On ice?”

  Dad shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Kip.”

  But it did matter. I’d been hurting him for all these years in ways I hadn’t even known. How much more was there?

  Chapter 8

  BITING THE GORILLA

  I had my worst nightmare ever that night.

  It was like those vampire movies. Long lines of people moving down the street with torches. They’re screaming, “Bring him out. Let him feel what it’s like.” They swarm the house, the cabin, where I lived before. My dad goes to the
door. I’m standing behind him. He goes out onto the porch and the whole screaming mob throws their torches at him. Dad goes up in flames as I watch, paralyzed because I see that the flaming things weren’t torches. They’re baseball gloves. Gloves of fire.

  “Kip, hey, kiddo, wake up.”

  I jolted out of sleep to see one of the Ward Nazis leaning over me.

  “You’re okay. Settle down. Kiddo, you must have really bit the gorilla.”

  I was dripping sweat, my head was pounding and . . .

  “What?”

  “Bit the gorilla. Had a bad nightmare. You were scream-ing so loud it sounded like somebody bit a gorilla in here.”

  “It was more like the gorilla bit me.”

  She kind of squatted so she could look me in the eyes. “You okay? Want me to call the doc?”

  “Nah, I think I can handle it.”

  “I can give you something to calm you down. You might not realize it, but you’re twitching like a fly-bit horse.”

  I almost smiled at that one. “You think these things up to use when we go whacked-out on you? Bit the gorilla? Fly-bit horse?” I pointed my index finger at her. “I think you need to talk to Doc about this biting fixation.”

  “Don’t give me your fifty-cent psychology. Do you want serious pharmaceuticals to get back to sleep or do you want me to whip your skinny butt at chess?”

  “Can I have hot chocolate?”

  “Sure.”

  “I gotta warn you, I’m the best chess player on the ward.”

  “Honey, most of the people on this ward call the rook a horse and then bite its head off.”

  “And there you go again with the biting fixation.” I couldn’t play chess for shit. But I’d rather lose all night long than sleep and take another chance at that dream.

  “Hey, um, I don’t know your name,” I said. “I’m usually asleep when you’re on duty.”

  “You don’t call me Ward Nazi like you do all the other ward nurses?”

  Busted.

  She laughed out loud. “That’s okay, kiddo, it’s the nurses that started calling you guys the Loon Platoon.”

  She must have noted my expression. “Hey, kid, even in a place like this, what goes around comes around.”

  That’s pretty much what I was afraid of.

  “I hear Belinda taught you to play chess,” The Frown said.

  “I knew how to play already.”

  “Not according to Belinda.”

  I grinned. “She might be right after all.”

  “A nightmare that bad — I think we need to talk about it.”

  “I’d rather talk about the shit storm Carrie mentioned. I want to know why Dad had to change his name.”

  “I figured as much,” The Frown said. He dropped a thick folder on the desk and slid it toward me. “I have some videos too. News clips and a documentary about children killing children. They couldn’t use your name, but it leads with your case. The Clarkes are interviewed. Your cabin is shown.” He pulled three videos out of a drawer and stacked them on the desk.

  “I’ve got paperwork to do. I suggest you read first. Ask me anything you want. Say anything you like. You’re free to vent. When you’re through reading we can watch the videos together. Then we’ll talk. I’ve blocked the whole afternoon for you.”

  “A whole afternoon? You think I’m at a big turning point?”

  “You turn often enough, you end up straight ahead again. Let’s just say it’s gonna be a rough day.”

  “Then I’m heading for the couch.” I gathered up the file and stretched out on the couch, wadding a pillow under my neck.

  My name was never printed. But my home was pictured as the scene of the crime. The first reports were unclear. Two juveniles were involved and both were hospitalized. One for burns. As soon as it became clear that one juvenile was responsible for the fatal burning of the other, “the crime” became “the heinous crime.”

  I read ranting letters to the editor about criminals hiding from prosecution behind their age, furious letters about protecting the community from its “bad seeds.” One woman’s letter quoted the Bible’s teaching that seven was the age of reason and so the nine-year-old devil child needed to go to hell and learn what burning was all about.

  “Is seven really the age of reason?” I asked.

  “You reading those letters to the editor?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s fear talking. Something happened that people don’t understand. Something that was out of anyone’s con-trol. So the easiest thing is to throw you away. Put you out of sight so you won’t scare them anymore. They pick the easy side to be on — the side of the most obvious victim.”

  “What do you mean? Bobby was the only victim.”

  The Frown took off his glasses and rubbed the little red marks on each side of the bridge of his nose. He replaced his glasses and adjusted them carefully before he looked at me. “We got victims here to stack up. Bobby is the dead one.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “The Clarkes are victims, but they don’t have to feel guilt like you do.”

  “I’m a victim?”

  “You and your dad. Absolutely. Your lives are changed in every way. Will be affected every day. You’ll never shed the burden of guilt. Your dad feels the guilt of leaving you out there with the gas and the lighter. And now that you’re learning all this . . .” — he gestured toward the file — “‘stuff,’ shame’s going to ride your shoulder like a vulture on a branch.”

  “Devil child,” I said, looking back at the clipping.

  “That’s what your neighbors believe.”

  I had spent all my time here dealing with my guilt, my issues. My circle only broadened to include Dad, Bobby, and Mom, but I was still the center. How had I never considered what other people thought of what I’d done? I knew what the Loon Platoon thought.

  “How did the rest of the world disappear for me? Why didn’t it occur to me that so many people would . . .” I didn’t know how to finish. I dropped the article back into the pile.

  “That’s what I meant about being institutionalized. You were young, just out of a coma. And I didn’t want you to stress about the outside world yet. Now, it’s time to consider the ramifications.”

  I gave a half nod and picked up another clipping. It dealt with the hospitalization of the “juvenile offender,” his inability to stand trial, and the probability of a plea agreement.

  The next page stunned me. A picture of the blackened, smoking remains of our cabin.

  I held up the picture.

  The Frown nodded. “Your dad was here in Anchorage with you. You lost everything except for a few clothes he had with him and the framed picture of your mother he brought down here for you. All the photographs of you as a child, of your mom, all of it is gone.”

  He took the picture from me and put it back in the folder.

  “You can’t go home again, Kip.”

  I nodded, numb.

  “That’s something your father wants me to speak with you about.”

  I looked up, still unable to speak.

  “He and Carrie want to move to the lower forty-eight when you leave here, and he wants you to consider changing your name.”

  “Sure. He said he uses Mom’s name. That’s fine.”

  “A little more than that. Kip is a noticeable name. Kip from Alaska. Somebody, somewhere, sometime is going to put things together.”

  “Change my first name, too?”

  “I know it’s a lot.”

  “Let’s see — no mother, house, home, past, last name, first name? I won’t know who I am.”

  “It might feel that way at first.”

  It would feel like erasing myself. Well, maybe Kip McFarland shouldn’t be around anymore. Bobby Clarke wasn’t. Could I shed Kip’s guilt along with his name?

  I looked down at the photo of the burned cabin again. Dad had built the cabin himself.

  “I’ll do whatever Dad wants.”
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  Chapter 9

  LEARNING TO WADE

  As the day came nearer for my release, as I talked with lawyers and another shrink and a judge and then waited for all of the eggs to be put into my basket, I got scared.

  “Why can’t I stay here? Carrie and Dad can get married and live happily ever after. I know how to live here. How am I supposed to go to school? How do I make friends? The opening line here is ‘What are you in for?’”

  “You’re scared. That’s normal. You’re whining. That’s not like you.”

  “I’m not whining.”

  “See, you’re doing it again.”

  I reached for the candy bowl. The Frown snatched it away.

  “Give me a break, Kip. You’re past that behavior. If you don’t know what to do, then make a plan. I’ll help you start. What’s your new name?”

  “Pissant.”

  “It fits, but it won’t look good on the teacher’s roll. Try again.”

  That no-nonsense tone from The Frown. I sighed and drummed my fingers on the arms of the chair.

  After a few minutes my eye lit on the back of one of The Frown’s sailing mags.

  “Wade.”

  The Frown said “Wade” like he was testing it. “Good. Got a reason or do you just like the sound?”

  I pointed to the mag. A young man was wading out to a sailboat pulled close to a beach. “When you wade, you’re kind of bogged down. You can’t walk, or run; you’re not swimming; you’re kind of fighting the water all the time.”

  “But you’re still moving forward when you wade.”

  “Optimists can be such downers,” I said.

  The Frown stood up and put out his hand. “Okay, now, let’s try this. ‘Hello, Wade, I’m Don Schofield.’”

  Well, now The Frown and I both had new names.

  “Glad to meet you, Dr. Schofield.” We shook hands.

  “And I’m kicking your ass out of here in three weeks.” He sat back down.

  “That’s too soon.”

  “Tough. I’m tired of you. You’re too sane to be interesting now.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “You’ll be ready. Trust me,” Dr. Schofield said. He turned his chair in a complete circle then stopped. “There’s something I want you to do. When you get some computer time in the dayroom, I want you to look up a phrase. It’s ‘feeding the hungry ghost.’ See what it says. Think about it. Make sure you don’t do it.”