Page 78 of The Evening Wolves

John-Henry lay there and considered that. In spite of the night’s sleep, he felt wrung out. Scratch that, he was exhausted. He thought about trying to prop himself up. Then he decided to ask the most important thing first. “Emery?”

“Fine, of course.” His father shut the paper with a snap. His cheeks were red. His eyes were bloodshot. “It seems one of your charming new friends borrowed a can of pepper spray from his wife. From what I can piece together, Emery was out before he was in.” He was quiet for a long time. When he spoke again, all he managed was a strangled few words: “You, on the other hand.”

“I feel fine, Father. Thanks for asking.”

“Don’t be smart.” The sound of paper rubbing against paper came, and then John-Henry realized his father was trembling. “I know you’re fine. No concussion, thank God. Some bruised ribs. I imagine you’ll be eating soft foods for a while, but you’ve even kept all your teeth. Don’t you feel lucky, son of mine?”

Somewhere nearby, a machine was beeping steadily. Rubber soles squeaked in the hallway. Something brushed the door, and it rattled softly in the frame.

“Do you have any idea,” his father said, “how stupid you’ve been?”

John-Henry wanted to close his eyes. He was five years old again. Or ten. Or fifteen. Or twenty, telling them he’d changed his major. Maybe it had been the fight. Maybe it had been everything from the last few days. He listened to that steady beeping. It was weirdly soothing. And then he said, “You know what, Father? I honestly cannot give two fucks.”

His father watched him for several empty seconds. Then he tossed the paper onto the bed next to John-Henry. The headline of the Wahredua Courier said, CALLS FOR RESIGNATION MOUNT, and it featured John-Henry’s official photograph as chief of police.

“Allow me to disillusion you,” his father said, “of whatever fantasy you may be under. Naomi sees this vulnerability as an opportunity, and she has been running around since the minute you got arrested, talking to anyone who would listen to her, trying to convince them that regardless of how the trial turns out, a suspension simply isn’t enough. Even if you’re found innocent, she says, no one will really believe it. You’ll have gotten off because you’re the chief of police. Or because you’re my son. Or because for a time, this town thought you’d hung the moon. It would be to your benefit—” Amusement scorched his voice. “—for you to resign before the trial begins. And, if you won’t resign, I should remove you. So that the trial will appear fair and impartial. And, of course, because the town needs strong law enforcement leadership during this crisis. So, tell me, John-Henry: can you give two fucks now?”

John-Henry picked up the paper. He tried to read the article, but the words swam together. He put it face down on the bed.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” And John-Henry could hear, in his father’s voice, the years and years of these kinds of conversations. The resigned practicality. The hint of weariness at, over and over again, bailing his only son out of trouble. And always, the frank reality that John-Henry was not a participant in the conversation. He was simply there to hear what was going to be done. “We’ll start by having you call a press conference. You’re injured, which will garner some sympathy, or at the very least will assure people you’re paying the price for your poor decisions. You’ll give a public apology for brawling behind a steakhouse like a white trash drunk. You’ll explain that you’re enrolling in an anger management course and beginning therapy. Then you’ll start making the rounds: city councilors, community leaders, the Lions Club. Pastor Saunders has been particularly vocal; let’s keep him on the short list of people you’ll need to visit.”

“He’s been vocal because he hates gay people. He’s probably telling everyone this is proof of what half his congregation already believes, that gay people are—” He heard the word in Redgie’s voice as memory flashed: groomers. “—recruiting kids or pedophiles or whatever the hell bullshit they think.”

“And he’s got not one but two of the city councilors in that congregation, John-Henry, and so you will meet with him, and you will tell him whatever he wants to hear. If he wants to hear that you’ve been reborn and will be baptized and have forsaken your sinning ways, you’ll ask if you can go down to the Grand Rivere and do it right then.”

John-Henry ran his hands down the bedding. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but his body ached, and he ended up gripping the sheet, his knuckles blanching as he tightened his hand around the fabric.

“In a few weeks, we’ll make sure you get spotted quietly doing some charitable work during your suspension. Nothing gay. And nothing with children, of course.”

It was the way he said it, the coolly disinterested reality of it. The beep of that nearby machine grew louder and louder until it felt like it was right next to his ear.

“No,” John-Henry said.

His father looked at him. He seemed to be refocusing his gaze, as though he’d forgotten John-Henry was there. “What did you say?”

“No. I’m not doing any of that.” In spite of protesting muscles, John-Henry managed to get himself upright, and a wave of dizziness rolled over him. He tried to hold his father in his gaze as the world rocked around him. “I’m done with that.”

“If by that you mean your career, then yes, John-Henry, that may be correct. I am not going to let you—”

“Father, you’re under some kind of—what did you call it? Some kind of fantasy here.” A grin corkscrewed at the corner of John-Henry’s mouth. “Allow me to disillusion you. I am not a child anymore. And what I do—or don’t do—is not something you can control. I spent my entire life getting away with shit I did because of you and Mother. And I have to live with that, with the fact that I did those things, that I’m the person capable of doing those things, and nobody—” Nobody loved me enough to stop me, he almost said. But he managed to change it to “—stopped me, or made me pay for them. And that does something to you, Father. When you don’t get to pay for what you did wrong. Because then you carry it around forever. That’s the best-case scenario. Or after a while, you stop carrying anything around, and you think that’s how the world’s supposed to be.”

“Good God, John-Henry. You weren’t always this naïve.”

“Is that what you call it? I’d call it tired, Father. I feel very tired.” He was clutching the bedding again. Out in the hallway, a woman laughed. He released the thin cotton, smoothed it out with one hand, his fingers throbbing from how tightly he’d been holding it. “If Drew wants to press charges, that’s fine. I imagine he’ll have a hard time making a case out of it, since he and his buddies beat the shit out of me. But that’s why we have internal investigations. And if they find I did something wrong, I’ll deal with it.”

“And I suppose you’ll ‘deal with it’—” His father laid scorn on the words. “—when you’re found guilty of possession of child pornography.”

“I won’t be found guilty. I’m innocent.”

“There it is again, that charming naivete. Tell me, is he responsible for this newfound worldview? Emery has very few redeeming qualities, but I considered him practical, if nothing else.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Father. And I am not going to go back to being that person I was, the one who let you cover things up and make things go away. It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.”

“You have an affinity for that phrase, it seems. Tell, me, John-Henry, how will you ‘deal with it?’”

John-Henry looked out the window. The sun was out, and what he could see of Wahredua glittered under a cap of frost, glass and brick and the glittering teeth of ice along the shores of the Grand Rivere. Like braces, he thought and smiled. Like Katie’s adult braces.

“You’re facing a felony charge, John-Henry. And from where I’m sitting, I think it’s even odds that you’ll be convicted. Tell me, how will this position of moral superiority help you in prison? How will it help you when you find yourself eventually released on parole and trying to find work? How will it help you when you’re forced to identify yourself as a sex offender?”

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