Disgrace

“Your father,” I muttered, my brows lowering. “You’re close to him?”

“Yes. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”

I hadn’t a word to say to her comment. “Let me pay you back,” I said, almost aggressively.

“You guys are already working on my car. That’s payback enough.”

“No. Alex is fixing your car, not me.”

“Really, Jackson, I—”

“Please,” I begged—yes, I pleaded. I begged her to allow me to do something, anything, so I wouldn’t feel in debt to that woman and her family. I took a deep breath and shut my eyes. “Please let me do something for you.”

“It’s hard for you, isn’t it?” she asked me. “Believing that people are good.”

I didn’t reply, though I doubted she expected an answer. I’d seen enough bad to believe that the world wasn’t filled with goodness.

“Well,” she started. “What do you want to do for me?”

I grimaced.

I didn’t know.

I just knew that a handout from her couldn’t be floating over my head.

“Or,” she started, apparently aware that I didn’t know how to pay her back. “We’ll figure that out when the time comes. How about that? Deal?” she asked, holding her hand out toward me. I took her hand into mine and shook.

“Deal.”

* * *

Jackson

Nine Years Old

“What happened to you?” Dad asked me as I walked into the auto shop, grumbling with my head down. I didn’t look up. His voice grew sterner. “Jackson Paul, look at me.”

My head rose, and he cringed when he saw me, dropping the tool in his hand. “Jesus,” he muttered, walking over to me.

“It’s fine,” I huffed.

“You have a black eye!” he barked, anger building inside him. Dad hardly ever got angry, but whenever I was bullied, his temper grew. “Who did this to you?” he asked, lightly touching my face.

“Just those stupid kids at school. They pushed me into a locker, and my face hit the metal.”

He grimaced and took my hand into his. “Come on.”

We marched out to the open field where Ma was painting.

Dad huffed and puffed. “Hannah, look.” He gestured toward my face. “Look what they did to his face.”

Ma gasped, standing from her chair.

I looked down at the ground.

She placed her fingers against my cheeks. “Jackson, honey, who did this?”

“Just some kids at school,” I explained. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Dad barked. He turned toward Ma. “Talking to the school board isn’t doing anything. It’s time to teach him to defend himself.”

Ma shook her head. “So he can be just like them? No. Fighting isn’t the answer.”

“Oh, and ignoring the kids is? Those monsters had the nerve to put their hands on my kid as the teachers stood around and did nothing. He’s taking self-defense classes.”

“Mike—” Ma started, and he spoke over her. Then she spoke over him. Then they both just yelled at one another in the open field.

My stomach hurt.

“Are you guys fighting?” I asked, my voice shaky. I hated how it made me feel, seeing them argue over one another. I’d never seen them angry with each other, and now they were angry because of me. I didn’t want to make them sad. They were the only friends I had, and watching them fight made me sad.

They both stopped talking, and they looked over at me.

Dad took a deep inhale. “No, son. I’m sorry. I just…” He ran his hands through his hair. “It just upsets me when people hurt you.” He held his hand out to Ma, and she took it. He pulled her close. “It upsets us both.”

“But why are you yelling at one another?”

“We were just speaking loudly,” Ma smiled. “We want to figure out the best way to help you, and sometimes those conversations get heated. I’m sorry, love.”

“We both are,” Dad agreed.

I took a breath, still feeling uneasy.

Lately, it seemed every time someone bullied me, Ma and Dad took it out on one another.

“Listen, I’m going to clean up this mess out here, and then I’ll head inside to cook us some dinner, okay?” Ma said. “How about you two go read another chapter from Harry Potter and relax a bit?”

When I wasn’t painting with Ma, I was reading young adult books with Dad. Ma taught me how to love art, and Dad taught me how to love words.

There wasn’t a night that passed when he didn’t sit in my bedroom at night, reading books to me.

Those were some of my favorite times.

He was my best friend.

He and I headed into the house, and we sat on the couch to read. As he began, I listened closely, and every now and then, he’d look up at my eye, frown, and then he’d pulled me in for a side hug.

“Do you and Ma hate each other?” I asked, worry still filling me.

He arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“You were fighting and yelling.”

“Sometimes people argue. It doesn’t mean they hate one another.”