Kit Ehrman - At Risk

As I'd been ignoring Foxdale's policy of non-fraternization with the boarders, a policy no one paid attention to anyway, I said, "I know you get up early, but would you like to go to dinner and the movies"… and bed… "Thursday evening?"

She looked at my face, her dark eyes serious. "Sure."

I kissed her on the lips and thought the evening couldn't get any better.

We walked back outside to the party, or what was left of it. The caterer's wagon had been locked up tight, and many of the guests had gone home. As we crossed the grass, I heard someone shouting above the music. His back was toward us, his muscles rigid with tension, and he was flailing his arms. I groaned when I saw his target.

Of all people, he had to be arguing with Mr. Sanders, who was so anxious to get away from the guy, he was practically squirming. His face was red from embarrassment or anger. I couldn't tell which. It hadn't taken him long to replace Steel, though I imagined the twenty-thousand dollar insurance claim had helped considerably. A week after the theft, he'd purchased a large blood-bay hunter with an ugly head and surly disposition. The new horse didn't take well to mistakes or roughness from his rider and was teaching Sanders a thing or two about finesse and tact, having bucked him off whenever Sander's aids weren't precise.

I asked Rachel to stay where she was, then walked down the alleyway between the barn and canopy. The troublemaker was waving a beer bottle in the air and shouting increasingly vulgar obscenities. Sanders backed up, reminding me of a horse ready to bolt.

I stepped closer. "Excuse me."

The troublemaker wheeled around and lurched sideways. "What the fuck do you want?"

I was surprised because I knew him. He drove Harrison's hay truck more often than not, and he hadn't been invited to the party. I thought about the bale he'd slammed into my back and wondered what his problem was.

"You'll have to leave," I said.

In a low, menacing voice, he said, "Make me, you little boot-licking, cock-sucking, creepy bastard."

Conscious of the attention we were attracting, I stood very still, knowing full well that my lack of reaction was pissing him off.

I should have seen it coming… stupid, really, that I didn't. I had started to turn, to make sure Rachel hadn't followed, when he punched me in the face. I crashed backward against the barn siding. I was still scrambling to get my footing when he swung the beer bottle at my head.

I ducked it… just. The bottle exploded against the ridged metal siding, inches above my head.

He now held in his hand a jagged, lethal-looking piece of glass which he held close to my face.

I didn't move… didn't dare.

He couldn't be stupid enough to use it in front of all these people, could he? But he was drunk. "Drunk and disorderly" came to mind as I looked in his eyes. Nothing reassuring there. Nothing at all.

I couldn't think of a way out. I was afraid to move. Was sure he'd use it if I did.

"Hey!" a loud voice boomed. Marty.

The driver looked at Marty. I didn't. When his gaze was off me, I hit his arm hard. The glass flew out of his hand and bounced across the grass.

He spun back around. His eyes had the glazed-over look of the truly inebriated and were wild with hate. An ugly vein that ran across his temple had become distended and throbbed visibly. I rammed my fist into his ear with a fierceness that surprised me. He yelped and cupped his hand over his ear.

I tackled him, and we crashed into a picnic table. He hit the wooden edge hard. The momentum carried us across the top, scattering paper plates and half-filled cups.

When we landed on the grass, I got to my knees fast and rolled him onto his back. I straddled him and slammed my fist into his face. My knuckles connected solidly with his nose, and I felt the cartilage give. I got in two more swings before he got his arms up and covered his face. I punched him in the solar plexus, then swung my arm back for another go.

Someone grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. I whirled around.

"Jesus Christ," Marty yelled. "What's the matter with you?" He glanced down at the driver, who was rolling over onto his hands and knees, and pulled me across the grass. "What'n the hell do you think you're doin'?"

"Get off me." I yanked my arm free and spun around. The driver was staggering between a table and half-empty tub of soda on his way to the parking lot. I started after him.

Marty latched onto my arm. "Give it a rest for crying out loud."

"Let go!" I pulled against him, but his grip was like steel. "Let go of me, Marty."

"Forget him."

"Fuck you." I slammed my hands into Marty's chest and pushed him backward, but he held on like a leech. I looked after the driver and saw that he'd already disappeared around the corner of the indoor.

Marty moved around in front of me and blocked my view. "Steve, you're making a mistake."

"No, Marty." I glared at him and said through clenched teeth, "You're making a mistake if you don't fucking turn me loose."

I looked down at his fingers wrapped around my arm, at my hands clenched into fists, at the blood smeared across my jacket.

"Okay, Steve." He released my arm. "It's your call." His voice was so calm, it took me by surprise. "Just don't be stupid."

I glanced around. The remaining guests were clustered in little groups, whispering to each other with sidelong glances, trying not to be too obvious. I sat down at a nearby picnic table, braced my hands on my knees, and watched blood drip from my nose and splatter onto the grass between my feet. I closed my eyes and felt dizzy.

"Come on, Steve." Marty slipped his hand under my arm. "Let's go into the lounge. Okay, buddy?"

I yanked my arm free. "I can stand up, dammit,"

It wasn't until I was on my feet that I noticed Rachel. She was hovering behind Marty with her arms wrapped around herself, looking like she didn't know what to do.

She walked over to me. "Are you all right?"

I nodded.

It took forever for my nose to stop bleeding. We had gone into the lounge, which thankfully was deserted. Once I'd successfully squelched the flow, I tossed the wad of paper towels in the trash and took off my jacket. Shards of brown glass cascaded to the ground.

Marty reached down and picked up a fragment. "What the hell?"

"It's from the beer bottle." I ran my fingers through my hair and rubbed the back of my neck. "My hair's wet, too."

"What beer bottle?"

I grabbed hold of my shirt collar and peeled the wet fabric off my back. I smelled like a brewery, but at least the glass hadn't worked its way into my shirt. "The bottle Harrison's driver had."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's what he had in his hand when you yelled at him."

"It didn't look like a beer bottle."

"Guess not. Not after he'd tried to smash my head in with it, it didn't. He missed and broke it on the side of the barn. Then, I suppose he figured he might as well redecorate my face while he was at it."

"Son of a bitch. If I'd known, I'd've laid into him, too." Marty walked across the room and dropped the piece of glass into the trash. He opened the freezer door. "Son of a bitch," he said again, more to himself than anyone else.

I sat down and wondered how many other people had only seen the tail end of the fight and thought I had gone stark-raving mad. Marty returned and unceremoniously plopped some ice, wrapped in a towel, on my face.

"Thanks." I held the bundle on the bridge of my nose and tilted my head so I could look at him. "And, Marty… I owe you an apology."

"Damn right you do," he said. "Pull that shit again, and I'll.. I'll have your job."

I grinned at him. "I thought you didn't want my job?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot." He crossed his arms over his chest. "So, what started the whole fucking thing?" When I finished telling him, he chuckled. "Shit, Steve, you should of given him a medal for bothering Mr. Hotshot Sanders. That asshole sure could use some puttin' in his place."