Peter Leonard - Quiver

Delayna said, “The doctor gave me the physical, then he brought this floor lamp over so he could shine it down there and check out my goody-goody.”

Luke wouldn’t eat dinner last night or breakfast this morning. He walked out the door without saying a word. He got in his car and Kate watched him pull out of the driveway. Even though he was failing every course, she was glad he was still in school-out of his room-in the company of his friends for part of the day.

Delayna said, “He put the lamp between my legs and turned it on and the bulb was burned out. God was he embarrassed. I’m lying there naked while he takes the old bulb out and puts a new one in. After the exam, I heard him tell the nurse he hadn’t used the lamp in six months.” Delayna laughed. “Can you believe it?”

Kate didn’t say anything. She had to get out of there.

Delayna said, “Are you okay?” She’d styled Kate’s hair for years, knew her well and could sense something was wrong.

Kate sat up and said, “I’ve got to go.”

“I haven’t cut your hair yet,” Delayna said.

Kate said, “I’m not feeling well,” stood up and pulled off the burgundy smock and put it on the chair.

Delayna was concerned, didn’t know what to do. She said, “Did I say something?”

Kate was conscious of people looking at her, customers and hairdressers, as she crossed the floor of the salon, hair dripping wet, and went through the waiting room out to her car.

On the way home she doubted herself. She couldn’t explain what she was feeling, just like she couldn’t the last time. Her blouse was soaked now from her wet hair. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Was she cracking up, losing her mind?

She parked in the driveway and opened the kitchen door and saw the message light on the phone flashing. There were two calls. She pushed play. The first one was from Helen Parks at Luke’s school, saying he didn’t show up for class and they would appreciate a phone call or Luke would receive a detention. The second message was from a Detective Simoff with the Bloomfield Hills Police, saying that Luke had been arrested and he needed to speak to Mr. or Mrs. McCall ASAP.

She drove to the station and bailed Luke out and brought him home. He was a mess-still drunk from the vodka he’d had hours before. She took him upstairs and put him in bed and let him sleep it off. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. At five she woke him up and told him to take a shower and come down.

They sat in the small paneled den, Kate on the leather couch and Luke, a few feet away in a leather chair, staring at the antique Heriz rug, telling her he’d had half a dozen vodka and lemonades, run a stop sign on his way to Tower Records and hit a seventy-eight-year-old woman broadside. He said he tried to get away, but his car wouldn’t start, the hood of his Volkswagen Jetta buckled, steam hissing out of the radiator.

“You hit a woman and hurt her and you were just going to leave?” Kate shook her head. This was hard to understand.

Luke didn’t say anything, he just stared at the rug.

“Look at me,” Kate said raising her voice.

He lifted his head, met her gaze. No expression.

“Say something.”

He glanced down at the floor again.

Detective Simoff told her a police officer had arrived a couple of minutes after the accident. So did an EMS unit. The woman, Mrs. Decker, was taken to Royal Oak Beaumont Hospital. Luke, after he was breathalyzed and handcuffed, was taken to the police station, everybody wanting to know what a sixteen-year-old kid was doing on the road in broad daylight with a blood alcohol level that was almost twice the legal limit.

Kate did, too. She said, “What’d you do, wake up and decide to get smashed?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re on a hell of a roll. Do me a favor, will you? Tell me what you’re going to do next, so I can be ready.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” Luke said.

He had his hand over his face like he was trying to hide.

She said, “You better not. You’re in enough trouble as it is.” She told him he had been charged with an MIP, minor in possession of alcohol. He’d be given a court date and would be on probation for a year. He’d have to do community service and attend alcohol awareness classes.

She told him his driver’s license was restricted and he would have to submit to random alcohol testing. She told him he would have to report to a probation officer once a month and that he might have to spend time in the Oakland County Jail.

He looked stunned.

She got up and went over and put her arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” Luke said.

He had tears in his eyes.

“I’ll help you,” Kate said. “We’ll get through this. Just promise me you won’t do anything else.”

“I won’t,” Luke said in a voice that was barely audible.

He dried his eyes on his shirtsleeve.

She hoped not.

DeJuan was in the woods behind the house when he saw the Land Rover fly in, screech to a stop. Somebody in a hurry. Rich lady got out, ran in the side door. Not two minutes later she ran back out. Fired up the Rover, blew down the driveway.

He parked Scarface at Covington School, went across an athletic field, hopped a fence, walked through yards from there to McCall’s, no one give him a second look. DeJuan in his dark blue DTE Energy uniform, carrying his meter reader.

His first instinct was to go stealth-under the radar. But when he went to check out the ’hood, saw a DTE truck and a sister, woman of color, walking through yards, reading meters, and a bulb went on in his head.

Now he was in the backyard of their French provincial manor home designed by some dude name Wallace Frost in 1926. Googled it. House had a slate roof. Leaded glass windows. Had a pool out back-still covered in late May. Tennis court. Gardens. It was some spread. Kind of crib DeJuan hoped to have someday.

He was on the side of the house in plain view when Mrs. McCall drove in again, got out with the kid. Something going on. Could feel the tension between them. DeJuan wondering what the little man done to upset his moms. Thinking of a statistic he read. Something like: every ten seconds in America, some kid was fucking with his parents.

Rich lady glanced over at him on her way in the house. He waved, said, “How you all doing today?”

Kate went to see Luke’s psychiatrist. She paced back and forth in front of Dr. Fabick’s maroon leather couch, stopping over without an appointment, telling the receptionist she had to see him.

Fabick was wearing jeans, running shoes, and a white shirt and tie, sitting behind his desk, solemn eyes fixed on Kate, thumbs and fingertips pressed together, giving her his concerned psychiatrist look.

“Mrs. McCall, what Luke tells me in these sessions is confidential. It’s how we build trust-”

Kate cut in. “He’s in trouble. He needs help.”

“Mrs. McCall, if you’d let me finish,” Fabick said. “I also told Luke if he tries to harm himself that confidentiality would be compromised. Please sit down.”

Kate sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Tell me why he’s drinking.”

“Luke is trying to escape, withdraw. What he experienced was traumatic. His destructive behavior is a way of lashing out. He’s angry. He’s carrying this tremendous guilt, and doing what he did today is his way of punishing himself. He’s reliving what happened over and over.”

“How is he going to get better?”

“Therapy. I wouldn’t discount the likelihood of long-term psychological effects. It could take years for Luke to resolve his feelings.”

“Tell me something positive,” Kate said. “Will you?”

“In our last session,” Fabick said, “I was encouraged. I thought Luke was making progress. But it’s not unusual in this kind of a situation for the patient to take a step forward and then take two steps back. That’s exactly what I think has happened.”