Blindside (Michael Bennett 12)

“Funny, Dad.”

I thought it was.

I walked past the small TV in the kitchen with the sound off. I knew what the story was just by the image. The Reverend Franklin Caldwell was standing behind a mound of microphones. I didn’t need to turn up the sound to know he was screaming for my head.

I kissed Mary Catherine, who was straightening up the mass of dishes following the feeding frenzy known as breakfast. The kids were scattered around the apartment, getting ready for school.

I said, “I’ll go get the van. Tell the kids to meet me out front.”

“You don’t have to drive them. I can do it today.”

“What else do I have to do? Besides, I have a few errands to run later. My city car is at the office. I’m not supposed to drive it on suspension anyway.”

She caressed my face with her hand. “Have a cup of coffee and relax. Watch TV for a change.”

I looked at the silent screen displaying Reverend Caldwell and decided I wouldn’t be following her advice today. “I’ll go get the van.”

Going down in the elevator, I kept telling myself to make this a normal day. It felt right so far. I usually caught the shift change of the doormen at this time of morning. They were both army vets, regular guys doing a regular job, and I enjoyed hearing their stories. I appreciated their humor and perspectives.

They were standing together out front on the sidewalk when I came through the door. I had surprised them; otherwise one of them would have jumped to open the door. But they greeted me like an old beer buddy.

“Hey, Mike,” called the larger of the two men. He was about fifty-five and still hit the gym every day.

The other man, Lou, was a little younger and not nearly in as good shape. Lou held out his hand and said, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

I said, “Thanks,” as I shook his hand. It was always awkward after a shooting. People n

ever knew how to react.

We all chatted for a few moments. Then the taller man, Johnny, said, “Mike, what really happened yesterday?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but did you really need to shoot that kid?”

I briefly considered an answer, then just walked toward the van. What can you say to a question like that? I guess I didn’t really need to shoot RJ. I could’ve let him shoot me in the face. Then I wouldn’t have to answer stupid questions.

When I got to the van I realized I hadn’t answered any stupid questions. I had just walked away.

Son of a gun, is this what maturity felt like?

CHAPTER 15

SOMEHOW ALL THE kids were waiting out front when I pulled up in the van. Johnny, the doorman, couldn’t look me in the face when I stopped at the curb. I’d said stupid things before. I knew how he felt. I wasn’t going to make it any worse. But I wasn’t going to make it any easier, either.

The kids filed in as always: youngest in the back, leading up to the oldest in the most comfortable, forward seats. You see, when you have so many kids, you can’t leave things to chance. You buy a big-ass van, like this Ford Super Duty twelve-passenger monster, and then assign seats. It was a microcosm of the country. When you allow for too much choice, it always leads to some form of chaos.

For a change, we weren’t racing the 8:45 deadline at Holy Name. Sister Helen, who had been taking over more of the early morning duties, looked shocked to see the van pull up almost six minutes early. A new record!

She even walked over to the van and leaned in the door as the kids scooted past her. “And how are you this morning, Michael?”

“Fine, Sister Helen. And you?”

“Like everyone else around here, thanking God you’re safe.” She wandered off without another word to me. It may have been the sweetest thing anyone from a Catholic school had said to me since I was six years old.

It gave me a little jolt to get my day started.

I burned up my phone on my ride north. After I stashed the van in a parking lot in Washington Heights, I had my first meeting in a Starbucks. I hate the chain restaurants and coffeehouses. I also hate that I like Starbucks coffee. But I had to go where people were willing to talk to me, and this was where Detective Teresita Hernandez wanted to meet. The eight-year veteran was waiting for me as I stepped through the front door, sitting alone at a two-person high-top in the corner, where no one would hear us.