Bygones – Chapter Eight

It took time to get through the X-rays; the emergency room doctor was thorough. And afterward he subjected Tim to a lengthy lecture which included a verbal catalog of the horrific injuries from climbing accidents he'd seen in his examining room. "You are a lucky young man. You could've ended up in a wheelchair or suffered a serious head injury and become a babbling idiot." He finished up his diatribe with a stern look and whacked his patient lightly on the head with his clipboard.

"Now, now, don't be too hard on him," Steve commented as he took hold of Tim's elbow to help him off the examining table. "He's already an idiot but fortunately he doesn't babble much." He paused then added, "It'd be sad to see him start."

Tim seemed determined, though not consciously, to prove Steve's description of him correct. The only thing he said while they collected the Sheriff from the waiting room and headed to the car was, "I'm starving."

The Sheriff raised his eyebrows in awe of the constitution of a sixteen-year-old, glanced at the clock on the dash – 10:42pm.

"Can you wait till we get home to eat?" Steve queried, a mix of sarcasm, amusement and warmth. "I don't think we should push Millie's patience any further. After all the worry you've put her through, I think the least you could do is let her feed you until she feels better."

Tim smiled, repentant. "I can wait." He shifted around in the back seat trying to get comfortable. He wanted to take off the seatbelt and lie down on his stomach but that didn't seem like a prudent thing to do in a Sheriff's car. There wasn't a position he could contort into that didn't put pressure on his bruised back and it was hurting more than his shoulder now that it was back in place and his arm snug in a sling. After a few more minutes of squirming he started feeling sorry for himself and added dejectedly, "I don't have any money to stop for food anyway." The tone was completely despondent, the misery suffocating. He finally managed to twist awkwardly, leaning against the seat on his right shoulder, his good one. He plunked his head on the seatback and sighed loudly.

Steve turned and looked past the headrest, eyed the sorrowful heap in the back. "Tim," he stated in a tone that suggested he wasn't opening a conversation, "you're moving back in with Millie and me. We were talking while you were in with the doctor. I know you'll be wanting privacy and Millie has an idea. Her brother has a trailer– she's going to ask him if he'll park it on our property, let us use it a while. You've only got a year and half left of high school anyway and then god knows what you'll be doing, but for now we'd all feel better about it." He paused and looked over at the Sheriff who nodded subtle encouragement. "We don't want you living with Frank and that's final. All that second-hand smoke – it's not good for a kid." Steve wasn't a man to sidestep the truth, preferring to speak plainly, and he felt uncomfortable offering up the lame excuse. He was surly as he finished his thoughts. "You tried it back home for a bit and it's obviously not working and I'm not going to argue with you about it. I'm getting the trailer this weekend."

He glanced back at Tim again now that he'd said what he had to say, met his eyes and caught a look of doleful resignation. "Okay."

The peevish reply made Steve angry. "Dammit Tim, enough's enough. It's not a contest here – you and Frank. There's no winners, just losers in that kind of game."

Tim wouldn't look at him this time, pretended to be interested in the dark world of unclear shapes out the window, trying to see ahead to the future maybe or more clearly into the past, both equally obscured. He couldn't shake the feeling that Frank had taken this round, that Mr. Nickell had it wrong – there was a clear winner. Tim had been forced to concede this bout, run away with his tail between his legs. Frank had his house to himself again and Tim wasn't going to be driving for two years. Stealing the beer was like a mosquito taking a drop of blood from a bear. He was barely even a nuisance to his father and it stung him to realize it.

It wasn't fair – a hard life lesson to swallow and one he wouldn't get used to if he could help it.

"I know," he acknowledged finally to Mr. Nickell, a statement of defeat more than agreement. "He won't be home tonight. Do you think we could go by and get my bed – maybe just the mattress?"

Steve nodded, satisfied. "Sure thing. That's a good idea."


Millie fussed over Tim the entire weekend and by Sunday night he was settled into the trailer and secretly quite pleased about it. He'd be the only one in his school who had his own place, sort of. He couldn't wait to show Christine. Word traveled efficiently in the small town and by the time he got to school on Monday, still limping slightly and his arm still supported in a sling to give the shoulder some time to get over itself, everyone knew about his misadventures. Each retelling had embellished the tale until it came full circle and Tim sat at lunch listening to his friends explain how he'd nearly died tumbling one hundred feet, lying wounded for days without food or water.

He looked around the table at them, leaned in, wide-eyed and conspiratorial, to add some stupidity of his own. "I had to eat my arm to survive." Pointing to the sling, he added, "It's bionic. I'm still getting used to it."

Somebody said, "Really?" and they all laughed.

The attention that came with his celebrity status was annoying after the first hour but it had its perks, too. The girls were sympathetic. Even Christine hovered then had a fight with her jealous boyfriend and they broke up. She was miserable; Tim was cheerful.

By the following Friday he was feeling better, the sling abandoned, only a few scrapes still healing and the bruises now faded to yellow and green, the shade of grass left too long under a pail. The worst of it was hidden beneath his warm fall clothing, so the drama was quickly forgotten and school life slipped back into a routine. The bell rang at the end of the day and the class scrambled for the door and the weekend on the other side of it.

"Timothy, a word please."

Miss Hall nodded at him when he turned around, hearing his name. He stepped sideways out of the crush and headed back to her desk. Christine hesitated, opening her mouth to tell Tim she'd wait outside, but she was forestalled.

"Timothy's going to be a while, Christine. You might as well head on without him."

"Okay," she replied timidly, shrugged at Tim and left, closing the door behind her.

"You missed a History quiz last week. Why don't you sit down and write it now." She didn't pose it like a question, pointed to the desk in front of hers and passed him the test. He took it, glanced outside at the clear autumn sunshine beckoning then dropped his knapsack and sat down, recognizing the punishment due for skipping so many classes. He pulled out a pen and started.

Half an hour later he dropped the pen back in his bag, stood up and set the test on her desk. "Is that all?" he asked. "Can I go now?"

"We're not finished yet," she replied evenly. "Did you learn something through all of this?"

The question caught him by surprise and he looked sideways at the door then down at the floor, wondering how to answer.

"Do you really think chipping away at your future by skipping school is a good way to get back at your father? It strikes me that you're just scoring on your own team by helping him bring you down. Next time you get a zero on the quiz. But I think you're smart enough to avoid a 'next time.'" She got up and motioned to a box on the floor. "I need some help getting these papers back to my house. Would you mind?"

Tim practically leapt over the desk to grab them.

"Careful," she scolded squashing a smile. "I don't want you breaking something."

They chatted as they walked. She asked him what type of books he liked reading and when he looked blankly at her she said sternly, "Surely you read something. I know you know how."

"Uh, mostly it's technical manuals – stuff about cars and guns." He gave her a one-sided shrug.

She pinched the bridge of nose, shut her eyes. "I'll lend you something. And you will read it."

"Okay." What else could he say?

Miss Hall rented an apartment over an insurance office. It was small and clean and filled with books. They were stacked on the few shelves she had, stacked on the floor in piles of varying heights, stacked on every surface that didn't have a dedicated purpose. There was even a stack in the bathroom. Tim looked around in awe, doing a quick calculation of the number and deciding it rivaled the school library's collection.

"Read much?" He let slip the sarcasm and she laughed good-naturedly.

"Pick something."

He started at the shelves, trailing his fingers over the spines, but had no idea what he was looking for. Eventually his eyes landed on a familiar title. He reached over and pulled it out, smoothed his hand over the cover, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Unnoticed, Miss Hall had come up behind him and he jumped when she said, "You do realize that's not a technical manual."

They exchanged an amused look. "I know," Tim replied, embarrassed, grinning at his shoes.

"But at least it's written in full sentences with capitals and periods. Take it and when you're done, bring it back for another one."

Tim made the long walk home even longer, reading as he went. He was more than halfway through the book by the time he arrived for his shift at the garage Saturday morning, but he was not at all clear what it was about. Andy was there working under a hoist and Tim made a beeline over to him and started asking questions.

"Whoa, man, slow down," Andy said, dropping his arms and turning to give Tim the attention he was demanding. "Look, the whole idea is that you don't have to explain it, in fact you can't explain it. That's what Zen is – you either know or you don't. Just read it and get what you can out of it. Let yourself think about it subconsciously."

While Tim stood trying to make sense of that, Andy wiped his hands on a rag and walked over to the shelf at the back of the garage. He came back smiling and holding out a box of ammunition for Tim's rifle.

"Happy belated Birthday, man. Is your shoulder okay to shoot?"

Tim took the box, a grin taking over his face. "Oh my god, thanks. I'm right out. That's awesome." He rolled his shoulder, testing. "Maybe I could try tomorrow?" He looked at Andy, hoping for the okay.

Andy held up his hands defensively. "Don't look at me. I am not a doctor."

It was hard being sensible with a brand new box of ammunition lying heavily in your palm, temptation calling. "I guess I should wait till next weekend," Tim finally said, stuffing the box in his jacket pocket and out of sight. "Do you want to come along?"

Andy smiled, "Maybe," and turned back to work on the car. "Ask me again next Saturday."


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