Rick Mofina - Six Seconds

Number 27. Alto. Age nine.

“Logan Russell?”

“Yes.”

“You were out of time. You threw off the entire group, Mr. Russell.”

“I don’t care.”

Steel-blue eyes peered over bifocals at Logan and held him for an icy moment.

Someone coughed. A snicker was stifled. “Logan Russell, you will see me after practice.” The spinster Sobil Mounce-Bazley was a legendary music director, having led children’s choirs in London and New York until she retired to her brother’s ranch near Cold Butte. When word spread of the historic papal visit, she accepted the school’s invitation to form and lead the choir that would sing for the Holy Father.

Music had been her life, perfection her standard. But things weren’t going well today. Number 27, the lovely alto, was straining her patience.

“You want to tell me what your problem is, Mr. Russell?” she asked Logan after everyone had left.

He didn’t answer.

“I’m sure you’ve heard it said ad nauseam that to sing for the pope is a once-in-a-lifetime oppportunity.”

“I miss my mom.”

“Where is she?”

“In California. My mom and dad kinda split up and I moved here with my dad and his new girlfriend.”

“That might be tough, but it’s no excuse for rude ness.”

During her time in London and New York, Sobil had directed children who’d had parents murdered, baby brothers or sisters who’d been sold by crack-addicted relatives. Acting out over a divorce was not high on her sympathy scale.

“I won’t pry. I’ll cut you some slack. Mind your manners. Memorize the songs, practice the tempo. If you don’t improve by the end of the week, you’re off the team. Is that understood, Mr. Russell?”

It was.

On the school bus home, Logan leaned his forehead against the window and watched as cloud shadows floated over the eternal empty grassland.

He’d never felt so alone. Tears filled his eyes.

Mr. Russell.

Russell was a lie. His name was Logan Conlin.

He didn’t even know who he was anymore.

He didn’t understand anything, anymore. Ever since his dad went off to Iraq, nothing seemed right. His dad wouldn’t talk about what had happened to him over there. But when he came back, he was weird. Different. He had headaches, lost his temper all the time, argued with Mom all the time. Logan’s friend Robbie said that’s how it was with his parents before they got divorced.

Logan didn’t want his parents to get divorced.

He needed both of them. Together.

Then came the worst moment ever, on the soccer field with Logan’s coach, Mr. Ullman. It scared Logan the way Dad wanted to fight him. The look on Mr. Ullman’s face-like his dad was a psycho. At night he heard Mom crying in her room. A couple of months later, things seemed better, but Logan still feared his parents were getting a divorce.

Then it happened.

Not with lawyers and courts and papers like Robbie said.

Dad just surprised Logan at school. Just showed up in his rig.

“We’ve got to go, son.”

Dad wouldn’t say where they were going, or why. At first it was like the coolest adventure. They just drove and drove. But as they left the city behind, his dad’s face got all serious and Logan got scared.

“This will be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to face, son. It won’t make any sense to you. It doesn’t make sense to me. Your mom’s in love with another man and wants to have a life with him.”

“That’s a lie!”

“I wish it was. I’m sorry. I know this is hard, but please listen. There’s no other way to say it. Your mom and I are splitting up and you’re going to live with me.”

“Turn around.”

“I can’t. There are complicated court orders. Laws, rules we have to follow. A lot of changes I’ll tell you about later. But the bottom line is we can never go home again.”

Never go home again.

“No! You take me home right now!”

“We can’t. There are rules and the law.”

“Then let me call her. I want to talk to Mom!”

“Logan, we can’t.”

He tried to punch his dad but only hit air. Something inside Logan broke in two. Pain shot everywhere. It hurt so bad he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t bleeding.

Then he felt nothing.

When they pulled into a truck stop near Barstow, Logan snuck to a pay phone on the wall just outside the washroom and tried to call his mom. He couldn’t remember her work number, had trouble making a longdistance call. Just as the operator came on, the line died.

His father had disconnected the call, replaced the handset then hauled Logan back to the truck.

“Son, I told you we can’t ever call her. We have to stick to the rules, the laws and the court orders. I’m sorry but that’s just how it is.”

Logan cried for several hundred miles as the Cali fornia desert rolled by and he fought to understand what no nine-year-old boy could ever understand.

All he knew was that something he loved had just died.

That something he needed was gone.

And all he could do was cry.

As they reached the outskirts of Las Vegas, his dad told him they were going to meet someone. Then Dad made a call on his new cell phone and they went to a restaurant at one of the big hotels where some woman waved to them.

“Son, this is Samara. Samara, this is my son, Logan.” “Hello, Logan.” She had a foreign accent and her hand was cold when he shook it. “Your father’s told me so much about you.”

Logan didn’t give a shit.

Just like he didn’t give a shit for the banana split his dad had ordered for him. Like that would make every thing okay.

“Son, I never told anyone this but Samara helped me during some pretty horrible times in Iraq. She saved my life. She’s a nurse from England and now she’s working here in the States-in a part of Montana where they’re short of nurses. That’s where we’re going to live, son. In Montana with Samara.”

“No, we’re not! We’re going home!”

“Son, I know this is a lot to handle and it’s compli cated.”

“I hate you, you fucker!”

The banana split sailed from their table, landing in an explosion of ice cream and glass near the feet of the startled waitress.

Gears clanked and rattled, brakes creaked. The school bus stopped and the doors opened to Logan’s place.

He tensed at the postbox with the name Russell. Sticking out like the lie it was. Dad said they had to change their names, something about court-ordered property law and complex rules.

Logan hated it here.

Dad was on the road driving most of the time, leaving him with Samara. She worked for the county and came to the school more and more for meetings about the big visit. At the start, when they got here, the other kids thought she was Logan’s mom.

It made him angry and sometimes he corrected them with his fists.

He got sent to the principal’s office a lot when they first got here. His dad and Samara thought putting him in the choir would help him settle down.

Samara kept saying that she thought he had a nice voice.

She never bothered Logan much. She made sure he did his homework and she took care of most of the house stuff. She made him what he liked to eat, like chili.

It was never as good as his mom’s.

Besides, she was always busy taking these nursing courses and studying all the time. Always typing on her laptop and talking to friends on her cell phone at all hours. She had a strict rule that Logan was never to touch her phone or laptop, something about patient confiden tiality.

He didn’t want to touch her stuff. He didn’t really like her.

Sometimes, late at night, he heard her talking on the phone in a strange language. From the action movies he’d watched, he guessed it was Arabic, or something. She was from Iraq. He told his dad who explained to him that Samara had friends around the world who worked with relief groups, like the Red Cross. These people did good things and she was just talking to her friends.