Chuck Logan - Homefront

“I thought we’re going to school late because of the meeting with the principal,” Kit said.

“We are, but I gotta drop off the flat tire at the garage.”

He stepped into his boots, pulled on a coat, went outside, started the Tundra, cranked up the heater, left it idling. As he walked back to the house, he stopped and scanned the misty gray tree line. The black trunks hanging like roots from the gray fog reminded him of what his dad, a veteran of the Bulge, called Hitler weather.

Then he caught the brown mass of the garbage truck parked up the road, just sitting there in its own cloud of exhaust. To get a better look, he walked down the drive.

The truck started up, then slowed and stopped in a squeal of brakes next to the garbage bin he’d wheeled down to the road last night. A hydraulic whine. The jointed mechanical arm with the pincer arched over the top of the truck descended and fastened on the bin. Then halfway up, the rack jerked and shook the bin sideways, and the cover swung open.

“Hey!” Broker yelled, breaking into a jog as a week’s garbage spewed out along the snow-covered ditch. Then the rack released the bin, and it crashed down on its side.

Gears ground as the truck accelerated, but not fast enough to deny Broker a clear glimpse of Jimmy Klumpe’s profile, eyes fixed straight ahead, in the foggy windows as the truck pulled away.

Penny-ante bullshit. This time Broker coldly controlled his anger and spent the next couple minutes swearing under his breath as he collected the soggy garbage barehanded and shoved it back in the bin. Then he walked up the drive, got in the truck, drove down, got out, lowered the tailgate, hoisted the heavy bin into the bed next to the flat tire. His conversation with the reasonable man in the bathroom mirror was nowhere in sight.

Well, two can play this silly game.

Broker stopped in town at Luchta’s Garage and told Kit not to unfasten her seat belt. Stay put. Then he got out, lifted the tire from the truck bed, and carried it in through the service door. A wiry older man in blue overalls regarded him over a short-stemmed pipe.

“Got a flat, some kind of puncture,” Broker said.

The old guy jerked his pipe at a Dodge Ram dually up on the rack. “Can’t get to it till afternoon.” Then he jabbed the pipe at the wall. “Set it down there.”

Broker left the tire and followed the guy into the small office, where the guy scrawled something unreadable on a numbered tagged, handed it to Broker.

The guy studied him. “You’re the new guy out at the Hamre place Harry Griffin bought and fixed up.”

“Yeah,” Broker said.

“Uh-huh, that’s Harry’s truck I got up on the lift. Tell him I’m still waiting on the part,” the old guy said, continuing his inspection. “Be ready this afternoon.”

Coming up on the school, Broker turned and eyed Kit in the back seat. “So you just sit up straight and say ‘Yes ma’am’ and we’ll get through this…okay?”

She stared straight ahead as they pulled into the school parking lot. Like an echo of yesterday morning, the playground was filled with kids who, undeterred by the gloomy sky, romped in the snow.

Broker half expected the garbage truck to be parked at the curb. Klumpe in the office, waiting for him. Be cool. Save it up. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

No garbage truck and no brown Ford F-150. Okay. Doing his best to look humble, Broker ushered Kit into the school. They went in the office and sat in two of the three chairs that faced the receptionist’s counter.

They were five minutes early for the meeting. No sign of the other family. The receptionist nodded, noting their arrival, got up from her chair, knocked on the principal’s office, stuck in her head, said something, then returned to her chair.

Broker watched Kit, who had fixed her eyes on the second hand sweeping around the clock on the wall. When the minute hand nudged onto the 12, Mrs. Helseth emerged from her office and summoned them with an open hand, not unkindly: “Mr. Broker, Kit.”

They entered the office and took the chairs in front of the desk. Kit sat up straight and stared at the principal. Broker was satisfied that her face was alert and not defiant.

The principal stood behind her desk for twenty seconds, silently observing. Then she said, “Kit, have you had time to think about what happened yesterday?”

“Yes, ma’am. If I get picked on again, I should use words. And, ah, no hitting.”

“Good. And that’s not a bad idea even if you don’t get picked on.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kit said.

“Fine. Now we’re going to make two changes, one temporary, one permanent. For the rest of the week you’ll be staying in during recess. And you’ll be moved to a new home base so you and Teddy are in different classes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s all, Kit. You can go into the office, and Ms. Hatch will help you get settled in. Your dad and I are going to talk a little more.”

Kit looked at Broker, who nodded. She stood up, shouldered her book bag. Helseth walked her into the office, conferred with the receptionist briefly, then came back in and closed the door. This time she sat down in the chair next to Broker, the one Kit had been in.

“We’ll forgo the usual mediation process in this case, after the scene between Jimmy Klumpe and yourself,” she said, staring down at the floor. “Frankly, I don’t think it would make any progress. We’ll take some extra precautions to minimize flash points between Teddy and Kit.” She inhaled and said, “It’s probably better to find an informal way to smooth things down outside the school. Between the families.” She raised her eyes and looked directly at Broker to see if he got the point.

“I’m not sure…”

“Keith, Sheriff Nygard, he’s good at this sort of thing. Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Mrs. Helseth, I’m missing some information here. What’s so special about this case?” Broker said directly.

“Talk to Keith. That’s my best advice.”

“Okay, I’ll sure think about it.” Then Broker thanked Trudi Helseth, shook her hand, and left the office. In the hall he encountered Susan Hatch standing by the front door. She was wearing her coat.

“Kit’s settled in to her new home base. I’ll keep an eye on her,” Susan said.

“Thanks,” Broker said. She didn’t leave, just stood waiting, so he held the door open for her. They stepped out into the cold. She turned up her collar, cocked her head to the side, and asked, “How did the readmission conference go?”

“Not what I expected. Is this what you call a special-needs situation?”

Susan pursed her lips. “Let’s walk.”

They walked around the side of the building down the shoveled walk and stopped by the Dumpsters, big brown bins with the white cursive type; “Klumpe Sanitation” coming at Broker like another poke in the eye. An aroma of fried food drifted from the school cafeteria and hovered over the more gamy smell above the bins.

Susan turned, squinted seriously, and said, “I saw you and Jimmy Klumpe yesterday, out front.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know who you are or where you’ve been, but I’d be real careful rubbing up against our local soap opera if I were you. I’d watch out for Jimmy Klumpe-he’s capable of doing something really dumb.”

“He already has,” Broker said softly.

“There you are. You’re in Minnesota Appalachia, Mr. Broker; these people are into clan feuds like the Hatfields and McCoys, except here it’s Bodines and Klumpes. You can go from two kids in a fistfight to the emergency room real fast. And this town hasn’t got an emergency room.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“People talk. They decided you’re a question mark. Like, nobody has seen your wife. Kit is an island. People say you don’t fit.”