Chapter THREE
Police came to the pizza place. They called an ambulance and took Carl to the hospital, where it was found that the skin around his eyes was severely bruised, as were his ribs and his stomach. Though it was not really necessary they kept him in the hospital overnight for observation, which made his condition seem much more severe than it was.
The police handcuffed Brian and put him in the backseat of the car while they interviewed witnesses. Susan came to the car but the police pulled her away.
‘‘No talking,’’ they told her. ‘‘No talking to the boy.’’
‘‘But he didn’t do anything wrong. Carl attacked him. Brian was just—’’
‘‘No talking to the boy.’’
In a short time the police came back and removed the handcuffs but they wouldn’t let Brian go. Instead they drove him home and he had the unpleasant experience of having police with him when his mother opened the door. She was thin, and dressed for work in her real-estate blazer.
‘‘Brian? What...’’
‘‘There was a fight at Mackey’s Pizza. Your boy was beating up on another boy.’’
‘‘Brian? Is that true?’’
Brian said nothing.
‘‘Brian, is that true?’’ she repeated. ‘‘Were you fighting?’’
He looked at his mother. He thought briefly of trying to tell her the truth: that it hadn’t been the Brian she knew but a different one, a totally different person; that it hadn’t been a fight but an automatic reaction. It hadn’t happened because it hadn’t been him—it had been some kind of animal. A boy animal. No, an animal-boy. I am animal-boy, he thought, and tried not to smile.
‘‘It is most definitely not funny.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘I know. I didn’t mean it’s funny. I don’t know exactly what happened . . .’’
‘‘Did you fight? Like the policeman says?’’
He thought a moment. ‘‘I was . . . reacting. Protecting myself.’’
‘‘The boy was beaten senseless,’’ the policeman said. ‘‘He didn’t know his name.’’
‘‘He attacked me.’’
‘‘We were told several versions,’’ the policeman said to Brian’s mother. ‘‘Apparently they were fighting over a girl.’’
‘‘A girl?’’ She looked at Brian. ‘‘You have a girl?’’
Brian shook his head. ‘‘No—it wasn’t that way at all. I was coming in the door and he slammed the door open and Susan was knocked down and he hit me and I . . .’’
But they didn’t hear him. Even if they had listened they wouldn’t have heard him, not really. They would never understand him.
So he shrugged and played dumb and let them think what they wanted. It didn’t matter because he was starting to understand it now, was starting to see what had to happen, what he needed to do.
I know someone, a counselor,’’ the policeman said. ‘‘He’s a retired cop and works with boys. I’ll give you his name.’’ The policeman took out a notebook and wrote a name and number on a page, tore it out and gave it to Brian’s mother. ‘‘Here. Call him and he can talk to your boy . . .’’
Animal-boy, thought Brian. Not boy, animal-boy. But he didn’t smile.
‘‘. . . maybe he can straighten him out.’’
Not unless he can see into my heart, Brian thought.