Page 18 of Mistletoe Dreams
"Hey, Roland, what's up?" he asked easily, having known Roland since they were young but hadn't really fallen back into friendship since he'd come back to Mistletoe Meadows.
"Not a whole lot. I was wondering if you and your son might be interested in splitting some wood for a good cause?"
Roland had asked him to do things before, explaining that there was a secret network of people who, especially around the holidays, helped out their neighbors in need.
Ben didn't ask any questions, but he did pass along info to Roland when he got it. He didn't know if Roland spearheaded it or was just in charge of the outreach. He didn't ask questions.
"We'd love to. Where and when?"
"Tonight. It's a truckload of logs. It's been felled, but it needs split. It's sitting at the wide spot a mile outside of town."
"All right. We'll be on it," Ben said. "When does it need to be done by?"
"We have a week."
"All right."
He would try to get it done tonight, but it was always good toknow exactly what his deadline was. He felt the thrill of excitement, plus that warm, satisfied feeling that came from knowing that he was doing something that would help someone else and be a blessing to them. It was too bad he couldn't get his son to feel that feeling. It really drove him to be better and to help more. But he supposed if his son didn't have it, there really wasn't a whole lot he could do other than pray that at some point it appeared.
He said a few more words to Roland and then swiped his phone off and shoved it back in his pocket.
"Hurry up with your homework, 'cause we've got some wood to split tonight." He turned back to the sink and started washing the dishes again. Unfortunately, his mother had never installed a dishwasher. Maybe that's something that he could take care of while he was living with her. Although if he had to guess, he'd say she probably would never use it. She didn't like the newfangled stuff.
"I'm not going."
"I didn't ask you. I told you." Sometimes he was trying to be both mother and father to his son, but he wasn't meant to be a woman. And while he believed there was a time and place to hold a child's heart, there was also a time and place for a dad to be a commander, the one in charge. To be masculine and to teach his son to be the same.
"And I told you?—"
His hands stilled in the dishwater. This was a blatant disrespect that he couldn't allow to pass.
He turned around, praying that he would have wisdom to handle this situation correctly. His son was out of hand, and he didn't have any idea what he needed to do in order to get him back in hand.
"You know what you said was disrespectful, and I can't tolerate that in this house. You will respect your elders, especially your parents, your grandparent, and any other adult who walks through that door. That's just the way it is." He didn't allow any room for argument in his tone.
He didn't walk closer, but kept his eyes on his son while he spoke.
At first, Mason just sat there, and then he shoved away from the kitchen table, jumped to his feet, turned around, and punched the kitchen wall, putting his fist right through the drywall and screaming something unintelligible at the same time.
Ben was used to dealing with criminals and unexpected situations. Still, he blinked before he moved, striding across the kitchen and grabbing a hold of his son's free arm. His other hand was stuck in the drywall.
"That was uncalled for," Ben said low. Because just as quickly as the anger had burned in his son, it seemed to have deflated, and he just stood there, his hand stuck.
"There's a lot of things in life that are uncalled for, aren't there?" His son turned a hateful gaze toward him, and Ben's heart sank. His son hated him. It was obvious from the look on his face.
He met his eyes for a moment and then looked at his hand. The drywall had started to turn red.
"Let me get your hand out of there," he said. One emergency at a time. It looked like there was a good bit of blood coming out, and indeed, once he got his hand out of the drywall, he saw that there was a big gash on his wrist.
"We're going to the clinic.” Was it still open? “This is going to need stitches." It was deep and already dripping blood on the floor. He grabbed some paper towels, folded them to make a small pad, and then held it to his son's wrist.
"Squeeze this."
Mason did as he was told. Maybe it was because of the sight of the blood, or maybe it was because he couldn't believe he had punched the wall. Ben wasn't sure, but whatever it was, Mason now followed him docilely out the door and got into the truck when Ben opened the door.
He would have sent a text to his mom to let her know that they wouldn't be there when she got home, but she didn't text, so hemade a mental note to call her later. Feeling like a failure, he walked around the front of the truck, got in, turned the key, and pulled out of the drive, heading toward the clinic. He had no idea what to do with his son. And honestly, from his experience in law enforcement, he wasn't sure there was anything that could be done. Short of a miracle, he hadn't seen any kid who was as angry and bent on destruction as Mason was turn around and pull themselves out of the pit they'd dug. Most of the time, they went from juvenile offender to adult felon.
The thought made his blood run cold.
