Greg Rucka - Alpha

Bell raises his head to see Athena and Amy and a man who must be Howe leading a pack of five other teenagers toward the faux-wrought-iron gates of the VIP entrance. He can almost recognize Athena’s classmates-some of them, at least-young men and women with whom his daughter has grown up and who probably know her far better than he ever will. But the sight of her here and now, the distinctive sound of her laughter, her fingers flicking and flying in silent banter with her friends, banishes the guilt and the regret and, at least for the moment, the paranoia. Despite everything, Jad Bell is glad to see his daughter.

Amy spots him first, says something to Howe, takes a stutter step forward, picking up speed. Athena reacts, follows her mother’s line of motion toward Bell, and the smile on her face flashes into a scowl. No face reveals emotion like a teenager’s, and the anger is still there in hers, but it fades as Shoshana Nuri unlatches the gate. Then his daughter is racing forward, eager, passing Amy and straight toward him, and Bell catches her. In that moment, in the early sunshine, in her hug, everything is forgiven. She squeezes him tightly, like she’s six and not sixteen, lets him go, looks up at him. Brushes strawberry-blond hair from her eyes, gleeful.

“Hi, Dad.” Athena speaks the words aloud, eager and atonal.

“Hello, Gray Eyes,” Bell says.

She reads his lips, hugs him again, even more tightly than before, and then remembers that she’s sixteen and that her friends are watching. Her hands slip away from him and she steps back, casting her eyes down in a moment of embarrassment. Bell sees this for what it is, turns to his ex-wife in an attempt to spare his daughter, leaning forward and giving Amy a kiss on the cheek. She accepts it with a smirk.

“Jad.”

“You look good, Amy.”

Her laugh is self-effacing, dismissive of the compliment as insincere, though he means it as anything but. A year younger than he, fit and healthy, she’s more lovely than ever, Bell thinks. It’s with some heartache that he recognizes that maturity has given her a confidence that was lacking in their youth. She’s carrying a backpack over one shoulder, adjusts it as she gestures to the man who, presumably, is Howe.

“I don’t think you two have actually met,” Amy says. “Martin Howe, Jad Bell. Jad, this is Marty.”

Howe offers his hand. He’s two inches shorter than Bell, and slender, wearing khaki shorts just below his knees and an open blue oxford over a white T-shirt with the Hollyoakes school seal printed in navy at its center. Black hair that’s a little too long, stubble that’s almost verging to beard, black with touches of copper to it. When they shake hands, he squeezes a little harder than necessary, smiling, eager.

“Nice to meet you, Jad. Very nice to meet you at last.”

Bell returns the pleasantry, frees his hand. Like Amy, Howe has a backpack of his own, similarly slung. Past them, Athena’s classmates shuffle impatiently back and forth, silent conversations coming to a halt one after another as they await entry to WilsonVille. There are three boys, two more girls, most of them in jeans, a couple in shorts. All wear the Hollyoakes shirts.

“If you want to come over here?” Nuri says. She’s speaking to Howe. “And have everyone line up?”

Howe nods, turns to the class, relaying the instruction in sign. The students fall into line, Athena giggling as she and one of the boys shoulder one another for position. The boy in question is African American, a hand taller than she, hearing aids visible in both ears. Athena glances to him, sees her father looking, looks away, and Bell is wondering just who this boy is when Amy puts a hand on his arm.

“I did everything I could,” she says quietly. “But we couldn’t just up and cancel without a good reason, Jad. It wouldn’t be fair to the class.”

Bell feels the tension return as if pouring from a pitcher into his breast. He forces a smile on Amy, puts his hand on her back, steering her a half dozen steps away from the group. She allows it, puzzled, then looks past him to where Nuri is speaking with Howe, and through him, to the class. Going through backpacks quickly, handing out the CELEBRATION! buttons for everyone to wear.

“So who’s she?” Amy asks.

“Shoshana? She works with me. Listen.” Bell faces her, head bent, and Amy looks up at him, and if it were twenty years ago, the next thing he would say would be “I love you” and then he’d be kissing her. But it’s not, it’s Saturday morning, closing on the end of summer, and there’s been nothing from Ruiz, and Chain still hasn’t found whatever the hell it was that got Vesques killed, and, for that matter, neither has Bell.

“Listen,” he says again. “Stay together today. Don’t let anyone wander off. Pay attention when you’re on the rides, know where the exits are.”

“We always do.” Amy searches his expression, frowns. “Is this your normal paranoia or something else?”

“It’s me asking you to do this thing, that’s all it is.”

“I’m thirty-nine, Jad, I think I know what I’m doing. I know it better than you do, in fact. This is no different than running a classroom or taking them on any other field trip.”

“I’m not questioning your abilities, Amy.”

“Sure sounds like it.” She stares at him, the frown gone, mouth turning to a hard line. Bitterness and the memory of countless fights are swirling up between them, they can both feel it, and Bell can’t even remember what the fights were about, but the sense of deja vu is profound, and saddening.

“We all set?” It’s Howe, coming up on Bell’s periphery, his head inclined ever so slightly forward, almost solicitous. “Everything good?”

Amy, still glaring up at Bell, says, “Everything’s fine, Marty.”

“Good, great!” He stops beside them. “They’re acting like colts in a stable, we should get moving.”

Another moment’s pause, awkward, and Bell knows that Athena and her class are watching them now-Nuri, too, most likely. He drops his head, breaking the stare with his ex, sighs before straightening up again, turning to look at Howe. “It’s going to get busy today. If I were you guys, I’d hit the near attractions first, the Wild World stuff. The animal shows are best in the morning, before they get tired. Then maybe loop around the park counterclockwise. You make it up to Lion’s Safari by ten or so you’ll have a lead on the rest of the crowds, at least until around noon.”

Bell gestures, pointing to one of the pathways that snakes away from where they’re standing, to the northeast, skirting around Wild World Live! Howe follows the direction of his arm, nods, then checks the map in his hand. The standard park visitor’s map. Nuri probably handed them out with the badges, Bell thinks.

“I’m not seeing anything here designated for the deaf, no services,” Howe says. “When we planned the trip, the website said there were services.”

“The website’s correct. Just check in when you come off the line wherever you are, and as you enter, there’ll be a Friend there. Let him or her know what you need.”

“Multimedia on a lot of these rides.” Howe taps the map. “If they’re not captioned, I’d like an interpreter.”

“The park utilizes reflective, handheld, and even open captioning, depending on the attraction. Just let the Friends there know, they’ll take care of you.”

Howe looks up from the map once more. “I was under the impression we’d have an escort, actually. An ASL interpreter.”

Bell takes a second, thinking about this man, wondering if he’s pushing because he thinks he can or because he thinks he must. If this man, Howe, is a sincere advocate for his students, trying to secure for them the best WilsonVille experience that he can. Bell thinks that if he’d spent the last ten years as a father and not a soldier, he would know the answer.