The Ninth Commandment: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.
Grant Ward Age Nine
Christian Ward showed a lot of promise. That's what all of his teachers said. He got straight A's, but he wasn't so smart as to stick out from the crowd. He played sports well enough to not embarrass himself, but he wasn't so invested that he couldn't shake hands and be a good loser. He got along well with his classmates. He had plenty of friends and no enemies.
Christian new how to take care of problems without getting his hands dirty. When he was a fourth grader, he attracted the attention of a bully. He didn't fight back. He didn't tell the teacher. He simply got an answer sheet for an upcoming test and partially hid it in the bully's desk. The older boy got in trouble for cheating and Christian stayed out of his own fight. No mess.
Christian wore clean shirts and pressed pants. Christian didn't waste his time with Super Mario or Sonic the Hedgehog. Christian practiced his viola for exactly thirty minutes every day.
He had tried a marijuana cigarette just once and had regretted it ever since.
When he was very young, before he knew how the world worked, Christian wanted to be a plumber. He liked to watch their handyman, Manuel, at work. Manuel, in turn, seemed to enjoy explaining his job to the boy. Manuel fixed a valve on their boiler. He said, "You know when you fill up a water balloon at the faucet?"
Christian had not done so personally – water fights were dirty and pointless – but he understood the general principle. He nodded.
"If you put in too much water, the balloon pops. Not a big problem when it's a balloon, but when it's this whole boiler, it's a much bigger deal. So I put this valve in. When there's too much steam or too much water, a little bit comes out. It never gets too full, so it never pops."
Christian had decided right then, at the age of five, that he wanted to be just like a boiler. He could be full of hot water and steam but he would let it out in just the right way at just the right time and he would never pop. A few years later, Christian had tried to explain this plan to Grant, who just turned the page in his comic book and said, "You're definitely full of something." That didn't matter. Grant was the safety valve, the outlet that allowed Christian to function perfectly, to seem smooth and strong and straight. The plan didn't require his agreement.
As a young teenager, Christian had no trouble finding a girlfriend. He had dated casually, as 14-year-olds do, in relationships that lasted a week or a month at most. But then he met Melissa. She was his senior by two years, she could drive, and she'd let him get to second base. They spent hours upon hours on the phone and had seemingly endless dates (that were never long enough) just driving around in Melissa's car. He was smitten.
Billy Joel is playing in the living room.
Christian doesn't know why he dreads it, but he does. He walks down the stairs slowly, quietly. He isn't as good as Grant is at sneaking around, but he knows which floorboards creak. He doesn't open the door all the way, just a crack, because somehow he feels like he knows what he's going to see.
Billy Joel is playing in the living room.
Father is dancing. Christian can see Father dancing to the music.
Father is dancing with Melissa.
There's too much steam in the boiler. Christian can see it, fogging up his vision. He can hear it, whistling like a tea-kettle. He can feel himself bend and break as he backs away from the door. Even though he's turned away from living room door, Christian can still see exactly what's happening. He can see Father's put one hand on the small of her back, edging downward as they sway, and use other hand to brush back her hair or stroke her cheek to make her feel special. He can hear her soft laugh – the laugh that should be for him, not Father!
Christian is in the wine cellar. He can still hear the steam whistling in his ears and he uncorks a bottle without bothering to check what it is. He's had wine before, but only small sips. Now he takes a gulp and another and another. He feels warm and for a moment he thinks that's the steam, but he knows that it's just his blood vessels dilating as a result of the alcohol. He drinks more, straight from the bottle, but he doesn't feel any better.
This is how Mother deals with Father's infidelity. Why isn't it working for Christian? Oh, that's right. She uses something else too. Those pills. Xanax and Ativan. Christian stumbles up the stairs, the effects of the alcohol beginning to spread, and finds Mother's purse. That's where the pills are. Wards are champions at managing their feelings with chemicals and Christian is ready to take up the tradition. He unzips the purse and rummages through it, clasping the plastic pharmacy bottle, when a hand clasps his shoulder. It's Mother.
"What on earth are you doing?"
"I'm-" Christian hiccoughs.
"Are you drunk?"
Christian can't help it. He echoes, "Are you drunk?" in a stupid voice.
Mother grabs him by the ear and drags him into the study. The door shuts. Nothing can be heard from the outside. After seventeen minutes, Mother leaves the study. Three minutes later, Christian leaves as well, looking small and humiliated and empty. He goes right to his room where he remains for four days.
On the fourth day, Christian emerges from his room looking for all the world as though nothing were wrong, as though his Father hadn't stolen his girlfriend, as though his Mother hadn't subjected him to some kind of unknown and unspeakable punishment. He is wearing a light jacket over his shirt.
"Come on," Christian says to Grant and Thomas. "Let's go play down by the well."
The Tenth Commandment: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods.
Age Fourteen
Wanting was apparently a major concern of the Israelites because there were three whole commandments about it – four, if you counted the one about stealing. Grant never seemed to want much of anything. He viewed life as something that happened to him, rather than something that he did.
Unfortunately, he was doing some very unacceptable things.
There had been another "incident", another fight between Grant and his younger brother. The term 'fight' made it sound like the boys were equals, brawling back and forth, but that was patently untrue. Even Grant admitted that his younger brother was too small to have any chance in a fight against him. So the incident wasn't a fight, not really. It was a beating.
"Grant, I'd like to talk with you about adulthood," said Dr. Wolk.
"Is this going to be a puberty thing?" asked Grant, playing the role of the sarcastic teenager.
"I'd like to talk with you about what kind of adult you're going to be. You're growing quickly. In a few years, you'll get to run your own life. You're tough, you're clever, you could be a hero to someone. You can also do very cruel things. You could also be a villain." She paused and looked at her patient. He appeared to be considering her words. "You can decide which you'd rather be, but it's not just a matter of preference. You have to learn, you have to train yourself to make it happen."
"You mean like Batman?"
She shook her head. "I mean like someone who can solve problems without resorting to violence. I mean like someone who can build and maintain interpersonal relationships. I mean like someone who can make his own choices."
"Isn't that the stuff I'm supposed to be learning from you?"
"Yes, and you are learning. You've made progress."
"Just not enough progress," guessed Grant.
That was the truth, but it sounded too harsh, so Dr. Wolk neither confirmed nor denied. "I believe you can learn these things best away from your family," she said. "I'm not suggesting this as a punishment. I think you want to be the good guy. I think you want to be the hero. I want you to have the tools to become the man you want to be."
"What about Thomas?" asked Grant.
Wolk knew that Grant saw himself as his younger brother's protector. Unfortunately, the evidence suggested otherwise. "Grant, I know this is hard for you to hear, but based on the information I've been given, I have to conclude that the person who hurts Thomas the most-"
"Is me."
Dr. Wolk nodded.
"Away from my family," said Grant, echoing her earlier words. "You mean like a hospital?"
"No, a school. It's a facility in Georgia called Blue Mountain Ranch. The boys there go to classes in the morning and work on the ranch in the afternoon. There are group therapy sessions. You won't get to watch much TV, but you will get to take care of the animals."
"What kind of animals?"
"I knew you'd ask that, so I called and found out. They always have horses, chickens, and dogs. They serve as a shelter for animal control, so they sometimes have other animals as well."
"And they boys there, are they like me?"
"Actually, most of them have drug and alcohol problems. I know that's not a problem for you, but of all the schools I considered, this one seemed to be the best fit."
Grant looked like he wanted to argue, but he looked away instead. "Will it help me?" he asked softly.
"I think so," said Dr. Wolk. "I really do."
For the first time in many years, Grant Ward wanted something. He wanted to attend Blue Mountain Ranch. His parents readily agreed.
"You know, I went to boarding school, too," said Father. "I think it was good for me." Of course, Father's boarding school was Phillips Exeter, not a few glorified barns in the middle of nowhere.
Mother said she'd miss him terribly and she'd write often.
Christian put a hand on Grant's shoulder and told him that he was proud of his little brother for finally taking some responsibility for himself.
Thomas wanted Grant to mail him pictures of the chickens.
So it was a Saturday when Grant Ward boarded a plane with his father, his belongings stowed in a footlocker. Grant was nervous. Even though Dr. Wolk had described the program to him, he still didn't really know what it would be like. And in a certain way, going off to a residential treatment program made him feel like he had failed at something. But above all, Grant wanted this. He wanted this program. Yes, he wanted to be free from his family, but he also wanted to feed chickens and learn how to become somebody's hero.
Father didn't say much during the flight. They rented a car and set off on the three-hour drive from the airport to the ranch.
"Are we going west?" asked Grant, looking at the sun. "The ranch is south."
"I have the directions. It just looks that way because of the roads," said Father vaguely.
Grant turned on the radio. There was static, a baseball game, someone praising Jesus, and more static. He turned it back off.
"Grant," said Father, "I want you to know that I'm proud of you for taking this leap."
A very faint smile made its way to Grant's face. He was almost there, almost to his Hogwarts, almost to the Blue Mountain Ranch. And if Father was going to pretend like they were a normal, happy family, then Grant could play along. "Thanks, Dad."
Father made a left turn. The surrounding land didn't look like pasture. It was neatly mown. Grant squinted at the buildings in the distance. They didn't look like barns. They looked like…red brick.
The car rolled on and they passed the sign welcoming them to Hayes Military Academy.
"No," breathed Grant, "no." This wasn't what he wanted and he had wanted something, had wanted it so much he hadn't even imagined that it might be snatched away. "No, I'm supposed to go to the ranch with-"
"Your mother and I discussed the matter and we simply think this is a better fit for you. That other program barely had a proper school – you wouldn't be able to get into a good college. And it was an end-of-the-line sort of thing, for druggies and criminals. You don't need to be in that crowd. This place will teach you-"
"I was supposed to go to Blue Mountain Ranch," repeated Grant, as if saying it again would make it so.
"Grant, this is not up for debate, you are enrolling at Hayes and that's-"
"I hate you," whispered Grant. He felt like he should be yelling, but all he could do was whisper. "I know it won't change your mind, but I want you to know that I hate you and I hate Mother and I hate Christian and I hate this whole family."
"Are you finished?" asked Father, as the car rolled into a parking space.
Grant said nothing. There was nothing else to say.