Tara Quinn - For the Children

Abraham Billings didn’t wait for his mother’s kiss on the cheek. And she drove off before he’d even shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders. Kirk frowned. The woman always waited to watch her son walk into the school.

She always brought him right before the first bell, too. This morning there wasn’t another kid in sight.

Head down, the boy, in his customary freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt, ambled to the corner. Kirk held up his sign, although there was no traffic. Abraham didn’t seem to notice.

“You got something to do before school?” Kirk asked as Abraham stood there.

“No.”

Abraham was looking down the street in the direction his mother had gone, his features drawn into a sullen mask. Still, he made no move to cross the street.

“What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

Eyes narrowed, Kirk nodded. There was a job for him to do here; he knew it. He just had to figure out what it was.

And he would.

“Practice is at three today.”

Abraham’s head swung toward Kirk. “So?” The word was almost thrown at him.

Was that liquor he smelled on the boy’s breath? Or something else? Abraham could have gotten into his father’s cologne. This was the age for potentially embarrassing experiments.

“I want you there.”

The boy’s chin tightened. “I didn’t try out. I’m not on the team. I can’t play.”

Three sentences, Kirk mused. He was getting somewhere.

“Come, anyway.”

“What for?”

“I left a spot open. Today’s practice can be considered your tryout.”

Abraham didn’t respond. Just stared down the street where he’d last seen his mother.

“You think your mom would mind if you came?”

“No.”

“We could go to the office and call her at lunch, just to be sure.”

“She won’t be there.”

“She at work?”

Abraham’s body signals were telling Kirk to shut up and leave him alone, but he wasn’t going to. Not while the boy was finally talking to him.

“No.”

“I see her drop you off here in the mornings. Is it usually on her way to work?”

“No.”

Kirk nodded. He had a stay-at-home mom. That was good. Unusual. But good.

“How about your dad? What does he do?”

“I don’t know.”

Had Alicia known what her daddy did?

“I don’t know who my dad is.”

With the worst possible timing, a couple of kids came up the street. One on a skateboard, one on in-line skates. Bobby Sanderson and Scott Williams.

Seeing them, Abraham stepped off the curb. He should have called the boy back, warned him to wait until he’d raised the stop sign.

Kirk watched him go instead, hoping the kid showed up at practice that afternoon.

“Hi, guys,” he said, signaling that Bobby and Scott should cross the street. But his mind wasn’t on the loud and rambunctious seventh-graders.

If Abraham Billings didn’t have a father, that probably hadn’t been his dad’s cologne Kirk had smelled.

Fifteen minutes later, Valerie Simms’s Mercedes stopped across the street, farther down than usual.

“Katie, Cassandra, you have orchestra today, I see.” Kirk smiled at the two Japanese-American friends who were standing with him, each toting a violin case.

Looking at each other, they giggled, nodded and, as he signaled, ran across the street, their violin cases banging against their knees.

“Hi, Coach.”

He turned, smiled at the twins, took a quick look at Brian.

“Hi, guys. Sore from practice?”

“I sure am.” Blake grinned, wrinkling his freckle-covered nose.

“Yeah, he’s a lot worse off than I am, Coach,” Brian said, elbowing his twin. “Our legs hurt, but his arms hurt, too.”

“That’s good!” Kirk stepped out into the street. “Your bodies are getting conditioned.”

The boys nodded enthusiastically. “See you this afternoon,” he called.

And then he wondered if he should have. If the twins’ mother had told them they couldn’t be associated with the team, he had to abide by that.

Even if he disagreed with her completely.

But perhaps she’d changed her mind. The boys hadn’t given any indication that they weren’t allowed to play.

“Hi.”

Turning, surprised, Kirk saw the subject of his thoughts. Her presence on his corner explained why she’d stopped the car farther down. She’d actually parked it.

“Good morning,” he said. It was the first morning since the beginning of the school year that he didn’t smile at her. He had a pretty good hunch this wasn’t a smiling moment.

If she was going to capitulate—let the boys play—he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

Like giving any hint of gloating….

Standing there, watching the kids as they walked up, waited and then crossed when he signaled, the boys’ mother appeared the epitome of patience. He admired that.

“Brian didn’t eat last night.”

The kids were gone. And so, apparently, was her composure.

“And you’re going to blame that on me.”

“No, of course not.” He wondered how she could make him feel as though he’d been reprimanded without ever changing the tone of her voice. Must be the judge thing.

He’d been surprised when the boys had told them their mother was a judge.

In juvenile court.

Kirk knew more about that whole scene than he cared to remember.

“Brian’s problem existed long before basketball tryouts came along,” she continued after another group of kids had passed. “But I’m absolutely sure that being on the team would help him more than anything else. I’m begging you to reconsider your position on this, Mr. Chandler. Give Brian that open spot.”

Begging. Strong word.

“Please,” she said when Kirk played the negotiation technique that almost always won—remaining silent. “It’s a junior-high team. It’s not like their ranking is going to matter.”

“Tell that to the boys who spend every afternoon in the gym working their butts off.”

Kirk was watching the kids coming up the street, but he caught the slight movement of her high heels beneath the calf-length navy dress as she shifted on the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, then sighed loudly, showing a definite lack of patience as another group of youngsters came to the corner.

As always, Kirk called them by name. Joked with them. Remembered something about them so they’d know he paid attention. And cared.

“I can’t let Brian on the team,” he said as soon as they had the corner to themselves again. “For the reasons I’ve already given you.”

“Mr. Chandler—”

“Ms. Simms,” Kirk interrupted. “I just saw your boys. They were both smiling, eager. Brian was bragging about being less sore than his brother. And they were both looking forward to practice this afternoon.” He met her gaze—and ignored the thread of something personal that seemed to pass between them. “They didn’t seem to be aware that they were quitting basketball.”

“I didn’t tell them you’d refused to have Brian on the team.”

“He was at practice yesterday. He knew.”

“We didn’t discuss basketball last night.”

“Could it be that the boys want to continue with Blake on the team and Brian practicing but are afraid to tell you so?”

She shook her head, breaking eye contact with him, sending an uncharacteristic bolt of compassion straight through him.

He didn’t allow himself to feel when he went after what he knew was right. He just went.

“My boys always expect me to do what I say I’m going to do. I’m sure they’re certain I’ll get Brian on the team.”

“You won’t.”

Another group of kids approached. She looked at her watch. He wondered if court still started at eight-thirty. If so, she’d need to hurry.