Fire Solves All Problems Perfectly pt 47

I know who your daddy is, Margaret Bacon says, still refusing to let go. Her eyes latch onto you. And don’t think I won’t call yours, neither. Her voice is rising; she wants people to hear. You’ve never been so embarrassed, the white hot creep of it spreading up your neck and face – the Bacons are trash, everybody says so, and they thrive on messy public fights; you know she’ll call your father, and then she’ll put your picture up in the window and write THIEF under it so that everybody knows.

Your father is never going to hear about this, though. You’re going to make sure of that.

You eat out of the garbage, you say to her, scared, your bladder close to letting go.

Margaret blanches as if slapped, drawing back. What did you say? What did you say?!

You eat out of the garbage, you repeat. You do it all the time, everybody knows, you got caught last week and they almost fired you.

Her face is pale; her hands are shaking with rage. You’re a thief, she tries, I’m calling –

Your boyfriend dumped you because you’re too fat! you yell at her, and she squeals and slaps your face; Jason is in a pile on the floor, looking at you both with terror.

Someone is behind Margaret, peeking around her: it’s Mr. Joe, dressed today in a bright pink sweatshirt that reads ST LOUIS ARCH 1977. He’s short and thin, his motions prim and careful, his gray hair cut close to his head. Margaret screams at him to mind his own business but Mr. Joe merely advances by her as if he didn’t hear. What is problem? he asks, his words also very neat, and nothing like the impression Dan Bell does of him.

I’m calling the cops on these little thieves, Margaret says, eyes blazing.

Mr. Joe smiles warmly and holds up a hand, making a negative gesture. No, he says, chuckling. Not thieves. Of course not! He indicates the wrecked packing at their feet. Is for me, of course. They get for me.

Margaret gapes. They most certainly did not!

But of course, Mr. Joe says. He pulls Jason to his feet, and when Margaret tries to grab him again Mr. Joe steps in her way. Simply mistake, he says. I pay, of course.

The cashiers are coming to see what’s going on, and with all of the watching eyes Margaret is helpless. You son of a bitch, she says to Mr. Joe and and turns and stomps out of sight; moments later they hear an unseen door slamming shut.

Mr. Joe says nothing to the boys, turning instead to the chirping employees; you take this as your escape and run, from Sparrow’s and then the mall, outside into the cushion of far-too-early stagnant heat that hangs over the town, back to the thin scrum of woods along the creek where your bikes are secreted.

She’s going to call my dad, you say; you want to throw up, and think you just might.

Let her, Jason says. Your old man isn’t gonna give a shit.

He gets the bikes, dragging them upright and rolling your to you. You know what she’d do if her house caught or her dumb cat got stuck in the sewer? She’s be on her knees for your old man in two shakes. So who cares what the cow says about things?

Your uncles talk like this; you’ve never heard a kid do it. For a second you wonder if Jason is like a suit that something a lot older put on.