One Summer (8 page)

Jack’s annoyance turned to anger. “You didn’t learn all that from my doctor. That really is an invasion of privacy.”

“Please don’t be upset, Mr. Armstrong. I’m a reporter; it’s my job to find out these things. And I’m probably not explaining myself very well.” She drew a deep breath while Jack stared at her, his hands clenching into fists with his anxiety. “It’s strictly a feel-good piece. One man’s triumph against the odds, a family reunited. These are hard times for folks, especially around here. All we hear is bad news. War, crime, people losing their jobs and their homes. I write about that stuff all the time, and while it is news, it’s also very, very depressing. But this is different. This is a great story that will make people smile. That’s all I’m shooting for. To make people feel good, for once.”

His anger quickly disappearing, Jack looked around while he considered her request. He saw Sammy up on another ladder watching him intently. He waved to show him things were okay. Jack turned back to the woman.

“So what exactly do I have to do?”

“Just sit down with me and tell your story. I’ll take notes, do a draft, get back to you, polish it, and then it’ll be published in the paper and on our Web site.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s all. I really believe it will be positive for lots of people. There are many folks out there with what seem like insurmountable obstacles in front of them. Reading about how you overcame yours could do a lot of good. It really could.”

“I think I just got lucky.”

“Maybe, but maybe not. From the research I’ve done on
your condition, the odds were zero that you would recover. No one else ever has.”

“Well, I’m just happy I was the first. How about tomorrow after dinner?”

“Great. About eight?”

Jack gave her his address. She glanced at his exposed upper right arm and then his scarred calves. “I understand you were in the military. Is that where you got those?” She indicated the ragged bullet wound on his arm and the network of scars on his legs.

“Arm in Afghanistan and legs in Iraq.”

“Two Purples then?”

“Yeah. Were you in the military?”

“My son just got back from the Middle East in one piece, thank God.”

“I guess we both have a lot to be thankful for.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The story ran, and a few days later Janice Kaplan called.

“The AP picked up my article, Jack.”

Jack had just finished cleaning up after dinner.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“AP. Associated Press. That means my story about you and your family is running in newspapers across the country. My editor still can’t believe it.”

“Congratulations, Janice.”

“No, thank
you
. It wasn’t the writing; it was the story. And it was a great picture of you and the kids. And I think lots of families will be inspired by your struggle and triumph. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up. You’re famous now. So be prepared.”

Janice Kaplan’s words proved prophetic. Letters came pouring in, including offers to appear on TV and to tell his story to major magazines; one publisher even wanted Jack to write a book. Overwhelmed by the blitzkrieg and wanting a normal life with his kids, he declined them all. He figured with the passage of time other stories would emerge and take the focus away from him. His fifteen minutes of fame couldn’t be over soon enough for him. He was no miracle man, he knew, but simply a guy who got lucky.

A week after Kaplan’s call, Jack was lying in bed when he heard voices downstairs. He slipped on his pants and crept down to the main level.

“Stop it, Chris!”

Jack took the last three steps in one bound. Mikki was at the door, and a teenage boy had his hands all over her as she struggled against him. It took only two seconds for Jack to lift the young man off his feet and slam him against the wall. Jack
said, “What part of
no
don’t you get, jerk?” He looked over at Mikki. “What the hell is going on?”

“We… he just came over to work on some… Dad, just let him down.”

Jack snapped, “Get upstairs.”

“Dad!”

“Now.”

“I can handle this. I’m not a child.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Upstairs.”

She stalked up to her room. Jack turned back to the young man.

“I ever catch you with one finger on her again, they won’t be able to find all the pieces to put you back together, got it?”

The terrified teen merely nodded.

Jack threw him outside and slammed the door. He stood there, letting his anger cool. Then he marched up the stairs and knocked on his daughter’s door.

“Leave me alone.”

Instead he threw open the door and went in. Mikki was sitting on the floor, her guitar across her lap.

“We need to get a few rules straight around here,” Jack said.

She stared up at him icily. “Which rules? The ones where you’re ruining my life?”

“What was I supposed to do, let that little creep paw you?”

“I told you I could handle it.”

“You can’t handle everything. That’s why there are people called parents.”

“Oh, is that what you’re pretending to be?”

Jack looked stunned. “Pretend? I brought all of you back
home so we could be together. Do you think I did that just for the hell of it?”

“I don’t have a clue why you did it. And you didn’t even ask me if I wanted to come back. You just told me to pack, like I was a child.”

“I thought you hated it out there. You told me that a dozen times.”

“Well, I hate it here too.”

“What do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can.”

“You were gone a long time.”

“I explained that. Remember? I told you that story about being in the army? About taking your time and being prepared for every eventuality.”

“That’s crap!”

“What?”

“In case you hadn’t figured it out, this isn’t the army, Dad. This is about family.”

“I did all that to make sure we
could
be a family,” he shot back.

“A family? You don’t have a clue what to do with us. Admit it. You’re not Mom.”

“I know I’m not, believe me. But you two were always arguing.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t appreciate what she did for us. Now I do most of the cooking and cleaning and the laundry, and looking after Jackie. And your grocery-shopping skills are a joke.”

Jack felt his anger continue to rise. “Look, I know I’m not in your mom’s league, but I’m trying to make this work. I love you guys.”

“Really? Well, Cory’s being bullied at school. Did you
know that? His grades are going down even though he’s a really smart kid. The teachers have sent home tons of notes in his bag, but you never check that, do you? And Jackie’s birthday is in two weeks. Have you planned anything? Bought him a present? Planned a party for his friends or even thought about a cake?”

Jack’s face grew pale. “Two weeks?”

“Two weeks,
Dad
. So you might want to try harder.”

“Mik, I—”

“Can you please just leave me alone?”

When he left her room, Cory was standing in the hall in his underwear.

Jack looked embarrassed. “Cor,
are
you being bullied at school?”

Cory closed the door, leaving his dad alone in the hall.

Jack and Sammy were unloading Jack’s truck in his driveway after a long day at work. Jack nearly dropped a sledgehammer on his foot. Sammy looked over at him.

“You okay? Haven’t been yourself the last couple of days.”

Jack slowly picked up the tool and threw it back in the truck bed. “What do you think Jackie would like for his birthday? It’s just around the corner, and I wanted to get him something nice.”

Sammy shrugged. “Uh, toy gun?”

Jack looked doubtful. “I don’t think Lizzie liked to encourage that. And where can I get a cake and some birthday things? You know like hats and… stuff?”

“The grocery store up the street has a bakery.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s right across from the beer aisle.”

Jack drove to the store and got some items for Jackie’s birthday. He was standing at the checkout aisle when he saw
it. He had never been more stunned in his life. He was looking at
his
photo on the cover of one of the tabloid magazines that were kept as impulse buys at the checkout. He slowly reached out his hand and picked up a copy.

The headline ran, “Miracle Man Muddied.”

What the hell?

Jack turned to the next page and read the story. With each word he read, his anger increased. Now he could understand the headline. The writer had twisted everything. He’d made it seem that Jack had forced Lizzie to go out on an icy, treacherous night to get his pain meds. And then, even worse, the writer had suggested that Jack thought his wife was having an affair with a neighbor. An obviously distraught Lizzie had run a red light and been killed. None of it was true, but now probably millions of people thought he was some kind of monster.

He left his items on the conveyor belt and rushed home.

On the drive there, it didn’t take him long to figure out what had happened.

Bonnie had been the writer’s source. But how could she have known? Then it struck him. Lizzie must’ve called her on the drive over to the pharmacy and told her what she was doing. Maybe she mentioned something about Bill Miller, and Bonnie had misconstrued what Jack’s reaction had been, although it would have been pretty difficult to do that. More likely, Bonnie might’ve just altered what Lizzie had told her to suit her own purposes.

Jack could imagine Bonnie seething. Here he was getting all this notoriety, adulation, and sympathy, and Lizzie was in a grave because of him. At least Bonnie probably believed that. A part of Jack couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. But now
she had opened a Pandora’s box that Jack would find difficult to close. And what worried him the most was what would happen when his kids found out. He wanted to be the first to talk to them about it, especially Mikki. He gunned the truck.

Unfortunately, he was too late.

Mikki was waiting for him on the front porch with a copy of another gossip paper with a similar headline. She was trembling and attacked him as soon as he got out of the truck. “This is all over school. How could you make Mom go out that night? And how could you even think that she would cheat on you?”

Jack exploded, “That story is full of lies. I never accused your mom of anything. I saw her slap Bill Miller. She and I had a laugh about it because he was drunk. And I didn’t insist she go out that night. In fact, I told her not to.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Mikki, it’s the truth. I swear. Tabloids make stuff up all the time. You know that.”

“This never would have happened if you hadn’t agreed to do that stupid Miracle Man story in the first place. That
was
your fault.”

“Okay, you’re right about that. I wish I hadn’t but—”

“So now everybody thinks Mom was a slut and you’re a
jerk. And I’ll spend the rest of the school year having people talking behind my back.”

“Will you just listen to me for a sec—”

Before he could finish, she’d fled inside, slamming the door behind her. When he started to go in the house after her, he heard the lock click. Staring through the side window at him was Cory. He gave his father a furious scowl and ran off.

Jack ended up taking Cory and Jackie to Chuck E. Cheese’s for Jackie’s third birthday. Jack wore a ball cap and glasses so people wouldn’t recognize him during his fifteen minutes of “infamy.” On the table in front of him were a half-eaten cheese pizza and a mass-produced birthday cake. While Jackie jumped into mounds of balls along with a zillion other kids, Cory sat slumped in a corner looking like he would rather be attacked by sharks than be here. Jack didn’t even know where Mikki was. The only moment in his life worse than this was when the cop told him Lizzie was dead.

Later, after they returned home, Jackie played with the monster truck that Jack had rushed out to buy him the night before. Cory had escaped into the backyard.

“You like the truck?” Jack asked quietly.

Jackie made guttural truck noises and rolled it across his dad’s shoulder.

At least I’ve still got one kid who doesn’t hate me.

Carrying his youngest son, Jack walked up the stairs and peered inside Mikki’s bedroom. It was small, lighted by a single overhead fixture that gave out meager illumination, and her clothes were all over the floor. A half-empty jar of Nutella sat on a storage box. Her guitar and keyboard were in one corner. A device to mix musical tracks was on the floor. Sheet
music was stacked everywhere. There was an old beat-up microphone on a metal fold-up table that she used as a desk.

Jack put his son down and then walked over and picked up some of the music. It was actually blank sheets with pencil notes written in, obviously by his daughter. Jack couldn’t read music and didn’t know what the markings represented, but they looked complicated. She could create this but couldn’t even manage a B in math or science? Then again, he hadn’t been a great student either, except in the subjects that interested him.

He took Jackie’s hand and walked into the bedroom the boys shared. It was far more cluttered than Mikki’s because it was smaller and housed two people instead of one. The beds were nearly touching. There was a small built-in shelf crammed with toys, books, and junk that boys tended to collect. Cory had stacked his clothes neatly in the small bureau Jack had gotten thirdhand. Jackie’s clothes were on top of the bureau.

Jack noticed a box crammed with papers on the floor next to Cory’s bed. He looked inside. When he saw the top page, he started going through the rest. It was printed information about his disease. He saw, in Cory’s handwriting, notes on the pages.

“He thought maybe he could find a cure.”

Jack spun around to see Mikki standing there.

She came forward. “He wanted to save you. Dumb, huh? He’s only a kid. But he meant well.”

Jack slowly rose. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, to be fair, you were pretty out of it at the time.” She sat down on one of the beds, while Jackie rushed toward her and held out his truck for her to see. “That’s really cool, Jackie.” She hugged her brother and said, “Happy birthday, big guy.”