Contingency covenant of.., p.17
Contingency (Covenant of Trust), page 17
“I don’t have any details except that he started it.”
“That doesn’t sound like Brad. Do you think he’d talk to me if I went to the school?”
“Whether he talks to you or not, you need to go. This is about you.”
“Me? Why is it about me?”
“Brad’s never been in trouble. What else could it be?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Chuck sighed.
“I’ll call Phil and cancel us, then meet you there, but you need to be the one to handle this.”
*******
Brad sunk a little lower in his chair outside the principal’s office as he imagined facing his mother. She’d never yell at him in public. She’d look at him and then drop her eyes in disappointment. Hearing footsteps, he raised his head, and was shocked to see his dad.
“You okay?” His dad sat down in the chair beside his.
Brad nodded. Shame smothered his anger toward his dad. He was grateful for the company. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’ll be here. What happened?”
“I ... uh ... punched a guy in the locker room.” He tensed, waiting for the explosion of his father’s temper. It never came.
“Just horseplay?”
“No. He mouthed off.”
“That’s not like you.”
“I know,” Brad said, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know what got into me. It was like being a different person.”
“I know what you mean,” his father said. “Son, you’re at a crossroad. Your first option is to acknowledge that you’ve done something wrong, accept responsibility and the consequences, renounce it, and then work to make up for it.”
His father looked him in the eye, and for the first time in weeks, Brad didn’t look away.
“Or, you harden your heart, put the blame on someone else, and believe that what you did was justified. Then you lash out at anyone who says otherwise. The second fight will be much easier to start, and the third one, easier still. Before you know what’s happened, you’ve lost control of your life.”
“You’ve tried both options?”
His father nodded. “The first choice is hard, really hard, but you don’t want to go where the second one takes you. Trust me on this.”
Just then, the principal’s door opened. “Mr. Molinsky?” he asked, looking to Chuck. Chuck patted Brad’s knee, then stood up to shake hands. “Brad, we’ll call you in shortly. I just need to talk to your dad first.”
Watching his dad disappear into the principal’s office, Brad thought back to that confrontation in their kitchen, to his own words, ‘I’ll never forgive you! I’m ashamed to admit you’re my dad!’ What if his dad had echoed his words, and matched his anger just now? Instead, his dad showed him compassion and respect and treated him like an equal.
Brad leaned his head back against the wall and strained to hear the discussion inside the Mr. McMillen’s office, but it was no use. At least they weren’t yelling.
*******
Mr. McMillen motioned Chuck toward a chair and closed the door behind him. “Mr. Molinsky, thanks for coming. You’ve met Tim Matson, our football coach, correct?”
“Yes,” Chuck said, shaking hands with the coach.
“Have a seat, please,” The principal said, sitting at his desk. “First off, Brad’s one of the last kids I would expect to see in here, and I figure I’ll never see him again under these circumstances.”
“Thank you,” Chuck interrupted.
“In my experience, when kids, good kids, explode like this, they’re carrying some kind of emotional load. Are you aware of anything in Brad’s life, any atypical behavior that might be a sign he’s having trouble dealing with something?”
Chuck sighed. “His mother and I are working through some things in our marriage. We’re in counseling, but we’re living apart and it’s been a strain on Brad, on all of us, really. Everything was my fault and he’s carrying a lot of anger at me because of it.”
“The thing is, Mr. Molinsky,” Mr. McMillen continued, “we can’t deal with things on a case by case basis anymore. We have a policy and we have to stick with that for everybody, regardless of extenuating circumstances.”
“Meaning?”
“Brad will get a three-day suspension and miss the next football game.”
“I understand,” Chuck said.
Bill McMillen looked at Coach Matson, then back at Chuck. “Let’s get Brad in here, then, and get this over with.” He opened the door and motioned for Brad, just as Bobbi arrived. “Mrs. Molinsky, thanks for coming. Brad, come on in.”
Bobbi gave Brad a quick smile, but he didn’t return it. She followed him into the principal’s office. Chuck winked at her and stood up to give her his chair. The principal made quick introductions, then led everyone to sit down. “Brad, do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, sir. I hit another student.” His voice didn’t waver as he looked squarely at his principal.
“Do you want to give your side of the story?”
“There’s nothing to tell. No matter what Owen said or did, I shouldn’t have hit him. I want to apologize to you, to Coach Matson, and to you, Mom and Dad.” Brad glanced around the room as he spoke. “And Coach, I want to apologize to the team on Tuesday when I’m back at school.” Coach Matson nodded. “What I did was wrong and I can’t excuse or explain it.”
“So, you understand you have three-day suspension coming up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that includes Friday’s game?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see,” Mr. McMillen said, checking the schedule on his desk. “Canfield West. They haven’t won a game in years. You won’t miss anything but a chance to pad your stats.” Brad tried to smile. Chuck knew that missing an unimportant game did little to soften the blow.
“Brad, Mr. and Mrs. Molinsky, I have to say that in all the years I’ve dealt with discipline issues, Brad’s the first ‘guilty’ student I’ve ever had in here. No excuses, no finger-pointing. I’m very impressed. You show a great deal of character, Brad.”
“I learned it from my dad, sir.”
“Mrs. Walcott will have some paperwork for us to sign if you wouldn’t care to wait for a few more moments.” Mr. McMillen stood and motioned to Coach Matson. “Tim, you want to come with me.”
As they left the room, Brad turned to his mother, “Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing, what I was thinking.”
“It sounds like you’ve been thinking quite a bit,” she said. “Did you mean what you said?”
“Yeah, I did.” He looked up as Chuck wiped his eyes. “Dad, I’ve been a total jerk. I’m sorry.” Brad’s voice broke, and tears began to form. Chuck reached across the chair and pulled him into a hug.
A moment later, the office door opened again. “Folks,” Mr. McMillen began, but he backtracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay,” Chuck said. “We’re okay.”
“We just need a couple of signatures and then you folks can get out of here,” Mr. McMillen said. Chuck followed Bobbi and Brad out to Mrs. Walcott’s desk, where the principal handed Brad a disciplinary report. “All right, read through this and see if it’s accurate, especially the details of the incident.”
Brad scanned the form. “It’s okay.”
“Then you need to sign it here, and one of your parents needs to sign it right below that,” Mr. McMillen said, pointing to the signature lines at the bottom. With the signatures finished, he took the form, tore off the top copy, and handed it to Chuck. “This one belongs to you and your wife, Mr. Molinsky.” He took the second copy for himself. “This last copy is for your file, Brad.”
Mrs. Walcott winked at him, and nodded toward Mr. McMillen, still standing by her desk, discipline form in hand. Brad looked up, then watched in astonishment as the principal tore the sheet in half, then in half again. “You’ll still serve your punishment, but I don’t think we need a record of this. Don’t you agree, Coach?”
“Absolutely. I have to get back out on the field. See you Tuesday, Brad.” Coach Matson shook hands with Bobbi and Chuck a final time, and left the office with a wave.
“I’ll be right out,” Chuck said quietly to Bobbi. Once his wife and son were beyond the office door, out of earshot, Chuck shook hands with Mr. McMillen once again. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you cutting Brad some slack.”
“Cheryl, I don’t know what he’s talking about, do you?” Mr. McMillen asked, with a sly smile.
“No idea,” she answered.
“Thank you anyway,” Chuck said, as he walked out, hoping to catch Bobbi and Brad before they left. He made it outside as Bobbi eased her car in behind his, and Brad rolled down his window. “Dad, want some company Friday night in the parking lot?”“You bet!” Chuck answered, with a smile and a wave. He watched Bobbi’s car until she drove out of sight, then he got in his car and sat for a moment. In the afternoon autumn sun, the bright, warm car interior matched his mood. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the seat. God, that was incredible. Thank You for giving me my son back.
Finally, they had the breakthrough they needed. He and Bobbi had reached an impasse. For weeks now, she remained polite, but never made eye contact with him, and until she called today, she never spoke first. Even though he hadn’t told her he answered Tracy’s allegations and filed the countersuit, he could tell she knew. This afternoon, though, she softened up around Brad. The door opened. Tomorrow night, he wouldn’t let Bobbi change the subject or walk away. He’d make her talk to him.
Chapter 14
Empathy
“Mom, you’re late,” Joel lectured, his arms crossed across his chest. “Is your phone broken?”
“Something came up.” Bobbi swung the front door open wide enough to get around him. She dropped her book bag in the study and began flipping through the mail, while Brad dumped his backpack and football gear at the bottom of the stairs.
“Something came up ... Let me guess.” Joel raised his index fingers to his temples, and closed his eyes. “Brad got in a fight and is suspended for three days.”
“Joel, how could you know that? We just left the school!” Brad smacked his brother in the shoulder.
“Brad, Brad, Brad,” Joel said, laying a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “When are you going to learn? I’m always right, and I know everything.” Brad glared at him. “Okay, Nathan Schoenberger. Somebody texted Jeremy. Nathan heard Jeremy talking about it and he sent me a message.”
“Great, that didn’t take long,” Brad mumbled. “Wonder how many other messages are flying around?”
“Did you get three days? Nathan wasn’t sure.”
“Tell Nathan, yes, including Friday’s game,” Brad said, wandering into the kitchen for a Coke.
“Guys, how about tacos?” Bobbi followed them to the kitchen, and pulled a pound of hamburger from the refrigerator.
“Tacos would be great!” Joel said. “I’m starved!” Then turning to his brother, he asked, “So who’d you hit?”
“Joel, that’s not important,” Bobbi said. “It was wrong. Brad admitted that, and he’s taking the punishment.”
“And Mom forgave you?” Joel asked.
“Yeah, so?” Brad finished off the can of Coke.
“Boy, it would be a lot tougher if you were in trouble here and at school. It’s a good thing your family accepted your apology and forgave you.”
“I’ve learned my lesson, Joel. You can shut up now.”
“So you think forgiveness is the way to go?” Joel asked with a sly grin.
“Yes, Joel. You were right about that, too, okay?” Brad said, rolling his eyes. “I told Dad I’ve been a jerk. We’re cool.” He turned and headed up the back stairs, but poked his head back around the corner. “Owen Burcham,” he said, and disappeared.
“No way!” Joel scrambled up the steps behind him.
Bobbi shook her head and smiled at the boys. Brad seemed in curiously high spirits for a kid facing a three-day suspension. Of course, she found it difficult to muster any parental anger or even disapproval at him. Who could fault him for reacting to pressures Chuck had brought on all of them?
The hamburger sizzled as it browned in the skillet. I can’t blame everything on Chuck. That’s a cop-out. Brad had the responsibility to walk away from that fight. He knew it was wrong. Just like Chuck.
Dear God, they’re the same. They both knew that what they were doing was wrong and they did it anyway. Why can I give Brad a free pass then, and not Chuck?
*******
Thursday, October 13
Bobbi left school by three-thirty and took the long way home so she could stop by the coffee shop, Dear Joe, to pick up a bag of fresh roast. Today hadn’t been an especially bad day, but after Brad’s suspension yesterday, dinner with Chuck tonight, and parent conferences coming up, she needed a dependable supply of therapy.
She found a parking place close to the door for a change. In the morning, the place was packed, full of professional types, calling out orders, and carrying out gallons of coffee, one cup at a time.
Through the afternoon and evening, though, Dear Joe became more of a coffee house, where college students and an occasional professor would drift in and out for a super espresso. This afternoon, three kids huddled in booths as far away from each other as possible. Each had a stack of books, notebooks, a twenty-four ounce Joe for stamina, and an mp3 player to block out the world. If only it were that simple. If only a midterm was the most stressful thing she had to face.
The owner of the shop, Clay Bartel, looked up from wiping down a counter when she walked in, and flashed his patented million-dollar smile. “I was about to put out a missing persons bulletin on you,” he said, tossing the towel to the counter behind him without turning around to look.
“Call off the search party, then. I’m here.”
“Hey, my regulars are like family. Are things okay?”
“Fine.” She looked in his eyes and knew that somehow news about the affair had made it to the coffee shop. “Just busy.”
“Yeah, how’s that roomful of monkeys treating you? What are they, second-graders?” A few years younger than Bobbi, full of charm, and with an easy-going manner, she often wondered why he wasn’t running a Fortune 500 company instead of a string of coffee shops.
“They are wonderful. Best thing going on these days.”
He didn’t comment, but his eyes lingered on hers a moment too long. She looked away and he moved on to business. “What can I get for you this afternoon?”
“I just need some fresh roast to take home,” Bobbi said, although the richness of the brewing coffee tempted her to have a cup to go as well.
“All of our Europeans are on sale this month, and the Moroccan is our feature.”
“I’ll take the Bella Florentina, then,” Bobbi said. “Can’t beat a sale.”
“One pound or three?”
“Just one. I’m the only one who drinks it.”
“Chuck still hasn’t come around?”
“Chuck will never come around.” Not just on the coffee. Bobbi reached in her purse for her billfold. “Oh, and here’s my card, too.”
“Chuck doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He looked in her eyes again, then punched a hole in her card. “All right, your total is ten seventeen, and with that filled-up card, you’ll get a free pound next time. I also put in a sample of the Moroccan, too, so you can try it.”
“Thanks,” Bobbi said, taking the bag and dropping her billfold back in her purse. Was Clay Bartel flirting with her, or just being friendly? Had it been so long since she’d received any attention that she no longer knew how to respond?
Forget Clay. Focus on dinner, Bobbi. You gotta figure out something. Chicken ... That’ll work, right? Head down, thoughts a million miles away, Bobbi almost collided with a woman just outside the door. “I am so sorry,” she began apologizing, when she recognized Lorraine Kinney.
“No harm done,” Lorraine said. “It was a near miss.”
“You come here often? I didn’t know you were a gourmet coffee fan.”
“I didn’t either. I stopped on an impulse. Do you have time for a cup?”
Bobbi hesitated and looked at her watch. She didn’t want to stay. Making pleasant casual conversation would take energy she needed for dinner with Chuck. Lorraine, of all people, would understand if she opted out.
Then again, running into her, literally, couldn’t be just a chance meeting. Lorraine could identify with the pain Bobbi lived with day in and day out. “Sure. Let me put my bag in the car.”
Once back inside Dear Joe, Lorraine asked her, “So, what do you recommend?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What do you like?”
“I have no idea.”
“Try the Gazebo blend,” Bobbi said. “Minnie or Molly.”
“A Molly what?”
Bobbi smiled. “Those are the sizes. Minnie is small, a normal-sized cup of coffee, then Molly, Bill, and Joe.”
“You came back!” Clay said. “Made my day.” His blue eyes twinkled and Bobbi almost believed him. “It’s the brew, isn’t it? Had to have it, right?”
“As a matter of fact, give me a brew and a Gazebo, both Minnies.”
“That’s the Moroccan. You will love it. A strong Turkish base, spiced to perfection.”
“You should do commercials,” Bobbi said.
“That doesn’t sound like Brad. Do you think he’d talk to me if I went to the school?”
“Whether he talks to you or not, you need to go. This is about you.”
“Me? Why is it about me?”
“Brad’s never been in trouble. What else could it be?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Chuck sighed.
“I’ll call Phil and cancel us, then meet you there, but you need to be the one to handle this.”
*******
Brad sunk a little lower in his chair outside the principal’s office as he imagined facing his mother. She’d never yell at him in public. She’d look at him and then drop her eyes in disappointment. Hearing footsteps, he raised his head, and was shocked to see his dad.
“You okay?” His dad sat down in the chair beside his.
Brad nodded. Shame smothered his anger toward his dad. He was grateful for the company. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’ll be here. What happened?”
“I ... uh ... punched a guy in the locker room.” He tensed, waiting for the explosion of his father’s temper. It never came.
“Just horseplay?”
“No. He mouthed off.”
“That’s not like you.”
“I know,” Brad said, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know what got into me. It was like being a different person.”
“I know what you mean,” his father said. “Son, you’re at a crossroad. Your first option is to acknowledge that you’ve done something wrong, accept responsibility and the consequences, renounce it, and then work to make up for it.”
His father looked him in the eye, and for the first time in weeks, Brad didn’t look away.
“Or, you harden your heart, put the blame on someone else, and believe that what you did was justified. Then you lash out at anyone who says otherwise. The second fight will be much easier to start, and the third one, easier still. Before you know what’s happened, you’ve lost control of your life.”
“You’ve tried both options?”
His father nodded. “The first choice is hard, really hard, but you don’t want to go where the second one takes you. Trust me on this.”
Just then, the principal’s door opened. “Mr. Molinsky?” he asked, looking to Chuck. Chuck patted Brad’s knee, then stood up to shake hands. “Brad, we’ll call you in shortly. I just need to talk to your dad first.”
Watching his dad disappear into the principal’s office, Brad thought back to that confrontation in their kitchen, to his own words, ‘I’ll never forgive you! I’m ashamed to admit you’re my dad!’ What if his dad had echoed his words, and matched his anger just now? Instead, his dad showed him compassion and respect and treated him like an equal.
Brad leaned his head back against the wall and strained to hear the discussion inside the Mr. McMillen’s office, but it was no use. At least they weren’t yelling.
*******
Mr. McMillen motioned Chuck toward a chair and closed the door behind him. “Mr. Molinsky, thanks for coming. You’ve met Tim Matson, our football coach, correct?”
“Yes,” Chuck said, shaking hands with the coach.
“Have a seat, please,” The principal said, sitting at his desk. “First off, Brad’s one of the last kids I would expect to see in here, and I figure I’ll never see him again under these circumstances.”
“Thank you,” Chuck interrupted.
“In my experience, when kids, good kids, explode like this, they’re carrying some kind of emotional load. Are you aware of anything in Brad’s life, any atypical behavior that might be a sign he’s having trouble dealing with something?”
Chuck sighed. “His mother and I are working through some things in our marriage. We’re in counseling, but we’re living apart and it’s been a strain on Brad, on all of us, really. Everything was my fault and he’s carrying a lot of anger at me because of it.”
“The thing is, Mr. Molinsky,” Mr. McMillen continued, “we can’t deal with things on a case by case basis anymore. We have a policy and we have to stick with that for everybody, regardless of extenuating circumstances.”
“Meaning?”
“Brad will get a three-day suspension and miss the next football game.”
“I understand,” Chuck said.
Bill McMillen looked at Coach Matson, then back at Chuck. “Let’s get Brad in here, then, and get this over with.” He opened the door and motioned for Brad, just as Bobbi arrived. “Mrs. Molinsky, thanks for coming. Brad, come on in.”
Bobbi gave Brad a quick smile, but he didn’t return it. She followed him into the principal’s office. Chuck winked at her and stood up to give her his chair. The principal made quick introductions, then led everyone to sit down. “Brad, do you know why you’re here?”
“Yes, sir. I hit another student.” His voice didn’t waver as he looked squarely at his principal.
“Do you want to give your side of the story?”
“There’s nothing to tell. No matter what Owen said or did, I shouldn’t have hit him. I want to apologize to you, to Coach Matson, and to you, Mom and Dad.” Brad glanced around the room as he spoke. “And Coach, I want to apologize to the team on Tuesday when I’m back at school.” Coach Matson nodded. “What I did was wrong and I can’t excuse or explain it.”
“So, you understand you have three-day suspension coming up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that includes Friday’s game?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see,” Mr. McMillen said, checking the schedule on his desk. “Canfield West. They haven’t won a game in years. You won’t miss anything but a chance to pad your stats.” Brad tried to smile. Chuck knew that missing an unimportant game did little to soften the blow.
“Brad, Mr. and Mrs. Molinsky, I have to say that in all the years I’ve dealt with discipline issues, Brad’s the first ‘guilty’ student I’ve ever had in here. No excuses, no finger-pointing. I’m very impressed. You show a great deal of character, Brad.”
“I learned it from my dad, sir.”
“Mrs. Walcott will have some paperwork for us to sign if you wouldn’t care to wait for a few more moments.” Mr. McMillen stood and motioned to Coach Matson. “Tim, you want to come with me.”
As they left the room, Brad turned to his mother, “Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing, what I was thinking.”
“It sounds like you’ve been thinking quite a bit,” she said. “Did you mean what you said?”
“Yeah, I did.” He looked up as Chuck wiped his eyes. “Dad, I’ve been a total jerk. I’m sorry.” Brad’s voice broke, and tears began to form. Chuck reached across the chair and pulled him into a hug.
A moment later, the office door opened again. “Folks,” Mr. McMillen began, but he backtracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay,” Chuck said. “We’re okay.”
“We just need a couple of signatures and then you folks can get out of here,” Mr. McMillen said. Chuck followed Bobbi and Brad out to Mrs. Walcott’s desk, where the principal handed Brad a disciplinary report. “All right, read through this and see if it’s accurate, especially the details of the incident.”
Brad scanned the form. “It’s okay.”
“Then you need to sign it here, and one of your parents needs to sign it right below that,” Mr. McMillen said, pointing to the signature lines at the bottom. With the signatures finished, he took the form, tore off the top copy, and handed it to Chuck. “This one belongs to you and your wife, Mr. Molinsky.” He took the second copy for himself. “This last copy is for your file, Brad.”
Mrs. Walcott winked at him, and nodded toward Mr. McMillen, still standing by her desk, discipline form in hand. Brad looked up, then watched in astonishment as the principal tore the sheet in half, then in half again. “You’ll still serve your punishment, but I don’t think we need a record of this. Don’t you agree, Coach?”
“Absolutely. I have to get back out on the field. See you Tuesday, Brad.” Coach Matson shook hands with Bobbi and Chuck a final time, and left the office with a wave.
“I’ll be right out,” Chuck said quietly to Bobbi. Once his wife and son were beyond the office door, out of earshot, Chuck shook hands with Mr. McMillen once again. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you cutting Brad some slack.”
“Cheryl, I don’t know what he’s talking about, do you?” Mr. McMillen asked, with a sly smile.
“No idea,” she answered.
“Thank you anyway,” Chuck said, as he walked out, hoping to catch Bobbi and Brad before they left. He made it outside as Bobbi eased her car in behind his, and Brad rolled down his window. “Dad, want some company Friday night in the parking lot?”“You bet!” Chuck answered, with a smile and a wave. He watched Bobbi’s car until she drove out of sight, then he got in his car and sat for a moment. In the afternoon autumn sun, the bright, warm car interior matched his mood. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the seat. God, that was incredible. Thank You for giving me my son back.
Finally, they had the breakthrough they needed. He and Bobbi had reached an impasse. For weeks now, she remained polite, but never made eye contact with him, and until she called today, she never spoke first. Even though he hadn’t told her he answered Tracy’s allegations and filed the countersuit, he could tell she knew. This afternoon, though, she softened up around Brad. The door opened. Tomorrow night, he wouldn’t let Bobbi change the subject or walk away. He’d make her talk to him.
Chapter 14
Empathy
“Mom, you’re late,” Joel lectured, his arms crossed across his chest. “Is your phone broken?”
“Something came up.” Bobbi swung the front door open wide enough to get around him. She dropped her book bag in the study and began flipping through the mail, while Brad dumped his backpack and football gear at the bottom of the stairs.
“Something came up ... Let me guess.” Joel raised his index fingers to his temples, and closed his eyes. “Brad got in a fight and is suspended for three days.”
“Joel, how could you know that? We just left the school!” Brad smacked his brother in the shoulder.
“Brad, Brad, Brad,” Joel said, laying a hand on Brad’s shoulder. “When are you going to learn? I’m always right, and I know everything.” Brad glared at him. “Okay, Nathan Schoenberger. Somebody texted Jeremy. Nathan heard Jeremy talking about it and he sent me a message.”
“Great, that didn’t take long,” Brad mumbled. “Wonder how many other messages are flying around?”
“Did you get three days? Nathan wasn’t sure.”
“Tell Nathan, yes, including Friday’s game,” Brad said, wandering into the kitchen for a Coke.
“Guys, how about tacos?” Bobbi followed them to the kitchen, and pulled a pound of hamburger from the refrigerator.
“Tacos would be great!” Joel said. “I’m starved!” Then turning to his brother, he asked, “So who’d you hit?”
“Joel, that’s not important,” Bobbi said. “It was wrong. Brad admitted that, and he’s taking the punishment.”
“And Mom forgave you?” Joel asked.
“Yeah, so?” Brad finished off the can of Coke.
“Boy, it would be a lot tougher if you were in trouble here and at school. It’s a good thing your family accepted your apology and forgave you.”
“I’ve learned my lesson, Joel. You can shut up now.”
“So you think forgiveness is the way to go?” Joel asked with a sly grin.
“Yes, Joel. You were right about that, too, okay?” Brad said, rolling his eyes. “I told Dad I’ve been a jerk. We’re cool.” He turned and headed up the back stairs, but poked his head back around the corner. “Owen Burcham,” he said, and disappeared.
“No way!” Joel scrambled up the steps behind him.
Bobbi shook her head and smiled at the boys. Brad seemed in curiously high spirits for a kid facing a three-day suspension. Of course, she found it difficult to muster any parental anger or even disapproval at him. Who could fault him for reacting to pressures Chuck had brought on all of them?
The hamburger sizzled as it browned in the skillet. I can’t blame everything on Chuck. That’s a cop-out. Brad had the responsibility to walk away from that fight. He knew it was wrong. Just like Chuck.
Dear God, they’re the same. They both knew that what they were doing was wrong and they did it anyway. Why can I give Brad a free pass then, and not Chuck?
*******
Thursday, October 13
Bobbi left school by three-thirty and took the long way home so she could stop by the coffee shop, Dear Joe, to pick up a bag of fresh roast. Today hadn’t been an especially bad day, but after Brad’s suspension yesterday, dinner with Chuck tonight, and parent conferences coming up, she needed a dependable supply of therapy.
She found a parking place close to the door for a change. In the morning, the place was packed, full of professional types, calling out orders, and carrying out gallons of coffee, one cup at a time.
Through the afternoon and evening, though, Dear Joe became more of a coffee house, where college students and an occasional professor would drift in and out for a super espresso. This afternoon, three kids huddled in booths as far away from each other as possible. Each had a stack of books, notebooks, a twenty-four ounce Joe for stamina, and an mp3 player to block out the world. If only it were that simple. If only a midterm was the most stressful thing she had to face.
The owner of the shop, Clay Bartel, looked up from wiping down a counter when she walked in, and flashed his patented million-dollar smile. “I was about to put out a missing persons bulletin on you,” he said, tossing the towel to the counter behind him without turning around to look.
“Call off the search party, then. I’m here.”
“Hey, my regulars are like family. Are things okay?”
“Fine.” She looked in his eyes and knew that somehow news about the affair had made it to the coffee shop. “Just busy.”
“Yeah, how’s that roomful of monkeys treating you? What are they, second-graders?” A few years younger than Bobbi, full of charm, and with an easy-going manner, she often wondered why he wasn’t running a Fortune 500 company instead of a string of coffee shops.
“They are wonderful. Best thing going on these days.”
He didn’t comment, but his eyes lingered on hers a moment too long. She looked away and he moved on to business. “What can I get for you this afternoon?”
“I just need some fresh roast to take home,” Bobbi said, although the richness of the brewing coffee tempted her to have a cup to go as well.
“All of our Europeans are on sale this month, and the Moroccan is our feature.”
“I’ll take the Bella Florentina, then,” Bobbi said. “Can’t beat a sale.”
“One pound or three?”
“Just one. I’m the only one who drinks it.”
“Chuck still hasn’t come around?”
“Chuck will never come around.” Not just on the coffee. Bobbi reached in her purse for her billfold. “Oh, and here’s my card, too.”
“Chuck doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He looked in her eyes again, then punched a hole in her card. “All right, your total is ten seventeen, and with that filled-up card, you’ll get a free pound next time. I also put in a sample of the Moroccan, too, so you can try it.”
“Thanks,” Bobbi said, taking the bag and dropping her billfold back in her purse. Was Clay Bartel flirting with her, or just being friendly? Had it been so long since she’d received any attention that she no longer knew how to respond?
Forget Clay. Focus on dinner, Bobbi. You gotta figure out something. Chicken ... That’ll work, right? Head down, thoughts a million miles away, Bobbi almost collided with a woman just outside the door. “I am so sorry,” she began apologizing, when she recognized Lorraine Kinney.
“No harm done,” Lorraine said. “It was a near miss.”
“You come here often? I didn’t know you were a gourmet coffee fan.”
“I didn’t either. I stopped on an impulse. Do you have time for a cup?”
Bobbi hesitated and looked at her watch. She didn’t want to stay. Making pleasant casual conversation would take energy she needed for dinner with Chuck. Lorraine, of all people, would understand if she opted out.
Then again, running into her, literally, couldn’t be just a chance meeting. Lorraine could identify with the pain Bobbi lived with day in and day out. “Sure. Let me put my bag in the car.”
Once back inside Dear Joe, Lorraine asked her, “So, what do you recommend?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What do you like?”
“I have no idea.”
“Try the Gazebo blend,” Bobbi said. “Minnie or Molly.”
“A Molly what?”
Bobbi smiled. “Those are the sizes. Minnie is small, a normal-sized cup of coffee, then Molly, Bill, and Joe.”
“You came back!” Clay said. “Made my day.” His blue eyes twinkled and Bobbi almost believed him. “It’s the brew, isn’t it? Had to have it, right?”
“As a matter of fact, give me a brew and a Gazebo, both Minnies.”
“That’s the Moroccan. You will love it. A strong Turkish base, spiced to perfection.”
“You should do commercials,” Bobbi said.
