waddled.
“We’ve never had a violent episode in our community before. Not one. I don’t need to tell you how upset the female staff was to see two grown men rolling around on the floor like boys. The security guard who separated them has a black eye. A. Black. Eye.”
Will heard it just fine the first time.
“According to witnesses, your father entered into some silly game of my-grandson’s-better-than-yours with one of our new residents.”
“Bernie down the hall?”
“Mr. Fields, yes. I have already spoken with his family. They have generously agreed not to press charges.”
“Oh, come on. They wanted to prosecute an eighty-year-old granddad for bragging?”
“Mr. Shepard. I cannot allow your father to stay here if he’s going to incite violence. Your father is an alcoholic. He has psychotic breaks with reality. He has problems with anger management.”
Really, the guy didn’t have to speak at half-speed. Will got it, totally got it.
“These are serious issues,” the director said. “I need you to treat them as such.”
“I do, honestly. And I’m not questioning your experience.” Will picked up a glass paperweight and put it back in the same place. “But have you considered that he’s still mourning my mother? Could we bring in a grief counselor?”
The door that Will had deliberately left ajar crashed open, and a woman carrying a Kit Kat and wearing jeans that clung in all the right places marched into the room. Oranges, she smelled of oranges. And chocolate chip cookies.
The director’s face turned puce. “Poppy, I’m in a meeting with—”
“You cannot be serious about kicking Jacob Shepard to the curb,” she said. “Where will he go?”
My point exactly. Then Will couldn’t help himself, he looked at her butt, which was hard to miss, since it was rather large and she was now bending over the cherry desk. How many hours had he wasted staring at women’s asses and where had it led? Back to the one thing he’d spent his life running from: craziness. Will cleared his throat and focused on the bookshelf, empty except for a set of Agent Dodds novels in hardback—signed and donated on moving-in day.
“Mr. Shepard.” The director’s voice was tight like a slingshot. “I don’t believe you’ve met our temporary art teacher, Poppy Breen. She’s filling in for a few weeks.”
“Jacob’s a sweet, lonely guy.” Poppy spoke to the director and ignored Will.
Sweet might be taking it a bit too far. Stubborn, ornery...
“Short-term memory in the shitter,” she continued. “But he just needs a buddy. When I took him to Walmart to buy his map, he chatted away like a kid. Told me about his days in a bluegrass band with his baby brother.”
Really? His dad had talked about Uncle Darren? The old man hadn’t mentioned another family member in decades. There’d been some falling-out when Will was little. He didn’t remember the details but the cause was the same as always: his mom.
“What about music therapy?” Poppy said.
“I’m in a private meeting, Poppy. With Jacob’s son.”
“Excellent.” She hurled herself into the chair next to Will. “Then I arrived just in time.”
“Poppy, I’d like you to—”
“Stay.” Will turned to his new ally. “I’d like you to stay.”
She looked at him for the first time and her eyes—not quite amber, not quite green, not quite brown—slowly appraised his face. Will waited for her to finish. It wasn’t that he was some egomaniacal dick, but women often looked at him and liked what they saw, which proved you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Fantastic, exhaustion was dragging him down the primrose path to overused clichés.
Will sighed. “We were talking about grief counseling for my dad. I think he’s still grieving for my mom.”
“Yup. Agreed.”
“If you’re going to stay, Poppy—” the director’s eyes, which were too small for his face, flicked sideways in an oddly reptilian gesture “—at least close the door.”
Will tugged on the neck of his T-shirt. Closed doors, trapped in a confrontation with two other people. Not good. So much of his life wasted hoping his mom would be incarcerated, and yet shove him in a room and shut the door, and he could blow. Claustrophobia—yet another legacy of his childhood, and the one thing he could blame on his dad. He used to beg—please, Daddy, don’t lock me in my room—but his dad always had the same response, “It’s for your own good, son. I need to deal with your mama.” What was that supposed to mean? That Will could look after himself even as a tyke?
Will stood and grabbed the back of the chair. He had an appalling desire to shove the director and make a run for it.
The director’s index finger tapped the open folder on his desk. “It says here your mother died four years ago.”
“You think there’s an expiration on grief?” Will glanced at the now-shut door. His mouth was dry; the words tasted stale. Palpitations, definitely had heart palpitations. “You want my dad to be complacent, easier to handle, right?” Firing dumb questions again. Stupid. Might as well be tumbling off a rock face in an uncontrolled fall.
The art teacher with the cute butt gave a smug laugh.
“Mr. Shepard, this meeting is over.” The director closed the folder. “You have two options: you take your father to a geriatric psychiatrist and get medication, or you find alternative accommodation for him.”
Reason snapped. Will would not be cornered like a dog. He was done listening; he was done following other people’s ultimatums. Cass’s voice seemed to trill in his head—He’s my son, William, and you will see him when I say. This small-minded stranger had no understanding of a private family matter and no right, none, to make decisions about the old man’s mental health.
“You know what? Forget it. He’s leaving today.”
Relief—the relief in the room was palpable. But was it his or the director’s? Didn’t know, didn’t care. Needed out.
Will tugged his books free from the bookshelf—a self-destructive act that deleted a fan from his Facebook page. Team Shepard would not be happy.
“I donated these to the library,” Will said, “not to you personally.”
“We don’t have a library, Mr. Shepard.”
“Exactly. Which makes this place hell.”
* * *
Will tossed open the door and slammed into his father’s chest.
“Aren’t you a little beyond listening at keyholes, Dad?”
The old man’s shirt was untucked on one side, and he was carrying an armload of empty cardboard boxes. He was smiling, too—his grin as fat as Freddie’s had been after he’d unwrapped the two huge Playmobil sets on his fifth birthday. Will had been unable to decide which castle to buy, so he’d settled on both. Plus the catapult. And the battering ram. And the dragon.
“Where you been, son? Got some boxes off Poppy.”
“Boxes?” Will bit his lip.
“For packin’, son. For packin’. Ol’ possum face kick me out, did he? And look!” His dad held up a cardboard mailing tube. “Look what Poppy found me. I said I reckon it’s the perfect thing to protect our Freddie’s map.”
Behind him, Poppy shouted, “You can’t fire me, asshole, I’m a volunteer.”
“Hi, Poppy,” his dad said. “Have you met my son? Poppy’s a firecracker.