F. Wilson - Secret Circles

Put it in the machine, Jack thought. Just. Put. It. In.

Finally he shrugged and did just that.

“Okay! Electric Lady —here we go!”

A few scattered claps amid the chatter and then he stepped to the side and watched. Jack couldn‟t see the screen, only Mr. Bainbridge‟s face. But soon enough, if Jack‟s copy had been successful, that face would tell the story.

He studied his expression. The smiling anticipation changed to a puzzled frown. But that didn‟t mean much—if Jack‟s tape was blank, that was how he‟d react.

Jack watched the frown deepen as the squinty eyes widened and the cigar slipped from loose lips and fell to the floor.

Jack tightened his fists. He could think of only one thing that would cause that sort of reaction.

The video had transferred.

And then he heard the voice from the TV‟s speakers.

“I’m sick of it , god dammit! Sick of it!”

Mr. Bainbridge gaped. “What the … ?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to—”

“Stop-it-stop-it-stop-it! Stop-it, Daddy!”

He wasn‟t the only one noticing something wrong. A couple of the men who were seated up front lost their grins as the reaction began to spread through the room like ripples from a stone dropped in a still pond.

“Sally!”

One of the card players noticed and nudged the guys on either side. A player with his back to the screen turned. And then farther into the room people stopped talking and stared at the screen.

Gradually the room became a silent sea of stunned faces.

“Don’t you ever hit me!”

Only Mr. Vivino and Mr. Bishop, against the back wall, continued talking. Eventually they must have realized something was wrong because they clammed up and looked around.

“Wha—?God dammit, someone’s at the window!”

Jack focused on Mr. Vivino‟s face … watched the blood drain from it as his eyes bulged and his jaw dropped.

“What the hell is that ?” he shouted.

“Well, if I didn‟t know better,” one of the card players said, “I‟d say that was you beating the crap out of Cathy.”

Mr. Vivino let out a cry like an enraged animal and charged the TV with his arms extended before him, fingers curved into claws.

“Gimme that tape! Gimme that tape!”

But he never reached the set. Hands grabbed him and stopped him. He fought, he twisted, but a grim-faced pair of his fellow vets held him back from the machine.

“Who did this?” he shouted. “Who‟s the Peeping Tom son of a bitch who did this?”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” said Mr. Bishop, pushing to the front. “I only caught the end there. What‟s this all about?”

“Rewind it, Kurt,” someone said. “I missed it too.”

Mr. Bainbridge bent and reached forward. “I could do with another look myself. Not sure I believe what I saw the first time.”

“Don‟t!” Mr. Vivino cried, trying again to struggle free. “It‟s a lie! It‟s a fake!”

When Mr. Bainbridge straightened, he had his cigar again. He stepped back to join the rest of the vets who‟d crowded forward in a tight, three-deep semicircle before the TV, their eyes fixed on the screen.

Jack didn‟t need to see. The scene was burned onto his brain. The voices conjured the visuals.

Mrs. Vin the painful arm lock…slammed against the wall…

The vets‟ faces became grimmer.

Sally rushing up…getting knocked down.

Gasps from some of the vets.

Aldo Vivino kicking his wife.

The hardened vets wincing.

Finally the angry shout about seeing someone at the window … end of video, end of story.

Dead silence in the room as all turned shocked gazes toward Mr. Vivino.

Finally Mr. Bainbridge spoke: “Al … Al, my God, you kicked Cathy? Kicked her? What the hell‟s wrong with you?”

Mr. Vivino wrenched free and lunged toward the TV, screaming, “Gimme that tape! Gimme that goddamn tape!”

Mr. Bainbridge swung a fist that caught him in the gut. Jack winced as the man doubled over and sank to one knee.

“I don‟t think so,” Mr. Bainbridge said.

After catching his breath, Mr. Vivino rose to his feet. He was pale and sweaty and looked somehow smaller as he licked his lips and darted quick looks left and right.

“Hey, guys, it‟s not what it looks like.”

“I think it‟s exactly what it looks like,” Mr. Bainbridge said in a voice dripping with scorn.

“We‟re soldiers, Al. Women and children are noncombatants.”

This brought a chorus of agreement from the other vets.

Jack realized that they had started off the evening as comrades in arms, good-buddy veterans of foreign wars. That had changed. They were now husbands and fathers, and they were sickened and angry.

“And you know what?” Mr. Bainbridge said, getting in Vivino‟s face. “You‟re not going home to night. „Cause if you do, you‟ll probably take it out on Cathy. So Evelyn and I are going over, and we‟ll stay there all night if we have to.”

Mr. Bishop stepped forward. “I cannot believe this, Al. I can not believe it!”

“Hey, you know how it is.”

Mr. Bishop reddened. “I know no such thing. I‟m going to help Cathy get a restraining order against you. And as for that tape, I‟m delivering it to dye-fuss first thing tomorrow.”

Dye-fuss ? Jack thought.

Then he got it: DYFS—Division of Youth and Family Services. They dealt with cases of child abuse.

“No!” Mr. Vivino wailed. “You can‟t do this!”

Jack had heard enough. He rose, brushed off his knees, then his hands.

What was that expression? My work here is done.

He felt strange. He hadn‟t known if his plan would work, but he‟d expected to feel happy and satisfied if it had.

Well, it had worked out perfectly: Mr. Vivino‟s abuse had been exposed and his name was mud.

He wouldn‟t be beating on Sally and her mom anymore.

So why didn‟t he feel great?

7

Jack‟s mind was elsewhere as he pulled his bike out from beside USED. He was just

starting up Quakerton Road when he was startled by a screech of tires. He looked up and saw the grille of a Bentley inches from his front wheel.

The window rolled down and a familiar voice spoke from within. “You almost dented my car.”

Jack walked his bike to the window. “Sorry, Mister Drexler.”

His sharp-featured face floated into view. “Even worse, if you‟d broken a leg I‟d

have to find a new groundskeeper.”

Groundskeeper … was that what he was?

“Wouldn‟t want to put you to extra trouble.”

“Speaking of grounds keeping, I‟m awaiting an invoice for your services.” “Invoice … is that like a bill?”

The thin lips curved ever so slightly upward. “Very much like a bill. In fact,

exactly like a bill.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Jack had never billed anyone in his life, but he was sure his father would know

what to do.

The window rose and the car glided away.

As Jack watched it go he realized the Lodge was empty now—or at least would

be for a while.

And it had no alarm system.

And the pyramid was probably back in its spot on the mantel.

And his luck had been running high today.

Still, he hesitated. A big step. Sneaking into the Lodge meant breaking the law,

risking arrest. But he and Weezy had as much right to that pyramid as anyone—maybe

more. And maybe getting it back would take Weezy off the emotional roller coaster she was riding. If nothing else, she‟d stop talking about it. That would be a relief.

Do it, he thought.