Jack had always hated bedtime.
His days were a blur of activity: learning tricks on his bike, playing sports with the neighbor kids, whizzing around town to get something for Mom from the grocery store or the pharmacy, getting in fights on the school playground.
But at night, it all stopped. There was no movement, nothing to see or hear except the wall clock in his room, ticking away second after second with nothing to fill the time. It was just him, in the dark — him and the thoughts that he'd been running from all day.
Mom looked a little frazzled today after dinner. Is she feeling sick? Was it something I said?
I'm pretty sure Charlie Bennett's been stealing cigarettes from his dad. Should I tell someone? Should I talk to him myself?
Dad's going to kill me when he finds out what happened at school today…
And then there were the days when both his parents were home, filling the silence with their whispered arguments. He would strain to make out what they were saying — anything to cut through the quiet — but he could only piece together one or two words here and there. The one word he always managed to catch, the one whose every appearance he counted like strikes at a baseball game, was his name. Jack this, Jack that, what are we going to do about Jack? They never seemed to argue about Graem.
But then, one day a few months ago, his dad had accidentally dropped his wedding ring under the chest of drawers in Jack's room. He'd used a small penlight to find it and get it out — and then he'd forgotten all about the light, leaving it on the floor where he'd been using it.
Jack still remembered the moment he'd stepped on it, just as he was about to climb into bed. He'd taken it with him as he crawled under the covers, pulling them over his head. Then, with a flick of his thumb, it had been like like morning again. He'd blinked his dark-adjusted eyes and allowed the light to wrap around him, warmer and softer than any blanket he'd ever had. Sitting with the sheets over his head like a tent, all he could see was the argyle pattern on his bedclothes. He'd traced it with his finger. The dark was gone.
But then, after a few moments, the novelty had begun to wear off. Sure, he could see; but he was still just as restless as before. He'd clicked the light on and off, on and off, just for something to do, but his mind, unfocused, was starting to wander again.
Finally, he'd peeked the beam of the flashlight cautiously out from under the covers, sweeping it around the room, searching for his next move. The first thing the small ray of light had landed on had been the ice cube tray his mother used to organize her pills. It would have been the perfect excuse to go check in on her, had she forgotten to take something, but today it was empty, and he could hear her deep, even breathing in the next room. There was nothing he could do to help now.
Nothing he could do. He'd quickly jerked the light away, before his mind could make any uncomfortable generalizations.
The next contender? The little handheld puzzles Dad had given him and Graem that morning, telling them that whoever was the first to roll the miniature metal ball to the end of the maze would get to ride in the front seat of the car for a week. No. The puzzle had seemed too restrictive, with its impregnable walls and tiny openings, designed to force the ball down a specific, predefined path. It had been too quiet. Too slow. He'd needed something faster, something that would get his heart pounding so loudly that his thoughts faded into the background, like the siren of an ambulance as it drove away into the distance. Great, now I'm thinking about ambulances again.
Next option. The surfboard, tucked in the corner of his room, that some of the older kids in Graem's grade were teaching him to ride. Not a chance, of course, unless… his light flicked over to the window. The street below was dark, no cars, no sound. He could sneak out. He could get on his bike, feel the wind in his face, the pounding in his chest as he pedaled to the beach as fast as his legs would allow him. But his room was on the second floor, and besides, his dad would hear him. He'd know. And if he got caught out there… he jolted, flicking the flashlight off in a reflex as he imagined the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.
He'd finally settled on the bookshelf next to his bed. He wasn't a habitual reader, but there had been one particular book, one his daycare teacher, Marina Pavlovna, had given to him on his last day, telling him he could read it when he got a little older. It had been a Russian book — something about the Napoleonic Wars, but the subject hadn't mattered so much to Jack. What had been important was that it had words, and the words were in Russian, and it was impossible to think in two languages at once. The idea had appealed to him: the thought of slipping out of the language of parents' arguments and doctors' warnings and into the language of nursery rhymes, phonics lessons, and wild games of kazaki-razbojniki.
He'd been a little rusty, and at first it had been hard to blend the foreign sounds into words so distant and yet so familiar. But to his surprise, the book had drawn him in, pulling him into a world of honor, chaos, and danger: the battle of Borodino. It had turned his mattress into the back of a charging horse, his pajamas into an overcoat and breeches, his father's small penlight into a nineteenth-century light cavalry saber. When he'd been too exhausted to read anymore, and his eyes had drifted closed with the flashlight still shining next to him, he'd dreamed not of being chased by flying monsters through a lake of molasses, but of courage and determination, and the unshakable unity of men at war.
He'd read every day, after that, about history — mostly American, since he didn't own any other books in Russian. He'd learned about the Revolutionary War, how the brave colonists had stood up to the largest military in the world, outnumbered, outgunned, outfunded, outtrained — and won. He'd studied the Civil War, how the abolitionists of the north had fought their own countrymen in order to protect the rights of others, and how many of the enslaved had risen up and fought back against their oppressors.
Recently, though, he'd found himself drawn to the war in Vietnam. He'd seen the protests in the streets, the way the soldiers coming back from the war were spat on, pelted with red paint, labeled 'baby killers.' It made him think of something his mother had told him once, when he'd been suspended from school for getting into a fight (never mind that he'd only stepped in to protect a friend). The biggest heroes, she'd said, are the ones who do the right thing even when they're punished for it.
With the final fall of Saigon still fresh on the news, there weren't yet any books about the conflict — at least not the kind of books Jack liked, the kind that walked you through the war from start to finish with lots of pictures and color-coded maps. So he'd taken to piecing together the details from old newspapers his dad had hoarded in his study. It wasn't easy — the LA Times international news division didn't exactly cater to an audience of nine-year-olds — but Jack knew he could do it, and nothing could convince him otherwise.
Today, he was thumbing through a slightly weathered two-year-old copy of the paper when he caught a glimpse of a photo: a serious-looking man in a camouflage shirt and a dark-colored beret. The caption read:
Sgt. 1st Class James Hawke
July 23, 1939 — January 10, 1973
Jack's flashlight lingered for a second over the date of birth: July 23, 1939. The same day as Phillip Bauer had been born. Something tightened in Jack's stomach. He imagined two newborns side-by-side in a hospital nursery — one destined to make it big as an oil tycoon, the other to sacrifice his life for the citizens of the country, including the rest of the babies in the ward.
He read on:
A decorated soldier born and raised in greater Los Angeles has been killed in action in Vietnam, the Department of Defense confirmed Sunday.
Sgt. 1st Class James Hawke, of the 1st Squadron, 4th U.S. Cavalry, 1st Infantry Division, died on Wednesday from injuries sustained when his unit was ambushed outside Da Nang.
Hawke, 33, entered the army through the 1960 draft. But he quickly decided to stay long past the two years required of him, says his sister, Mary Hawke, of Pasadena.
Jack paused for a moment, doing a double take. Through the draft? But if this man had been born the same day as Jack's father… He furrowed his brow, the gears churning in his mind as the puzzle pieces came together. Draftees, he remembered, were chosen by date of birth. Could it be that his father had served? But he'd never mentioned spending time in the military…
Jack remembered the time he'd gone with his church youth group to visit the veterans at a nearby VA hospital. The lady who'd met them in the lobby had said not to bring up the war unless the patients mentioned it first. Some of them didn't like to talk about it, she'd explained; they didn't like to be reminded of such a difficult time in their lives.
Suddenly, Jack had an idea — a plan for how he could find out the truth without talking to his father directly. It was risky, but he couldn't pass up the chance to uncover this part of his father's past. He just had to make sure he didn't get caught.
He held his breath for a second, listening to the sounds of the night. The soft snores coming from his mother's room meant the coast was clear. His father wouldn't come home tonight; he was off trying to buy another oil rig in the San Joaquin Valley. Graem was a snitch, but he wasn't sneaky enough to be able to catch Jack in the act.
Flashlight in hand, he eased himself gingerly out of bed, doing his best to avoid any creaks. He nudged his door open and crept on the balls of his feet down the hall, then down the wooden stairs and into his father's study.
After a moment's deliberation, he decided to close the door behind him. Flicking on his flashlight, he knelt in the shadow of the filing cabinet: a six-foot-tall monolith of unforgiving black steel. He slid open the bottom drawer and peeked at the chronological labels, finding the yellow tab labeled 1960.
There were only a few documents from that year: a copy of his father's resume, which claimed he had graduated college in December 1959 and made no mention of military service; a 1040 tax return form; some credit card statements. Jack was already reaching to put the documents back when he saw something at the bottom of the pile, so small he'd almost missed it.
Actually, there were two somethings — small cards, each the size of an index card. The first one contained some basic information about his father: his name, address, and physical description. At the bottom was printed SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM REGISTRATION CARD. Jack's heart began to pound in his chest.
The second card read SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM: NOTICE OF CLASSIFICATION. This one was more difficult to read, a huge chart of numbers and names that meant nothing to Jack. But as he combed through the sea of gibberish and sloppy handwriting, he hit upon something useful, something even he could understand, in the 'remarks' section: "medical exemption (asthma)."
Asthma? That was what Graem had. Maybe that was where he'd gotten it from. But then, the way Dad talked about Graem's asthma, Jack never would have guessed he had it too. And he'd never seen his dad out of breath the way Graem got when he had an attack. Was asthma something you could grow out of?
Jack's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the lock turning in the front door.
Instinct took over. He shoved the documents into the cabinet and eased it shut as quickly as he could without making noise. He grabbed for the curtain to open the window — his one escape route, since the door to the study was visible from the entryway.
But he was already too late. He could hear the door to the study opening, and he flicked off his flashlight and tried to wrap himself in the curtain he was holding, but only ended up getting it tangled in the dark. He blinked as the overhead light flooded the room, and he found himself staring up at his father.
He held himself tighter against the wall, expecting the worst: to be hit, yelled at, grounded for the rest of his life. Instead, there was silence. His father just stood there, looking at him like a sailor at a barnacle, for what felt like an hour. Finally, he broke the silence, hissing "go back to bed. Now."
Jack did as he was told, shuffling out of the room. On his way out, he nearly slipped on a piece of paper — and his heart jumped even further into his throat when he realized what it was. One of Dad's draft cards. Apparently he'd dropped it in his haste to escape.
He wouldn't be sleeping tonight.
Jack watched the Los Angeles traffic go by through the half-open window, rubbing his right palm with the thumb of his left hand. He could practically hear the tension buzzing in his ears, drowning out the noise of the engine, though his father hadn't said anything to him since that initial, matter-of-fact "get in the car" — the first word he'd spoken to Jack in three days.
He could see Graem stealing glances at him, trying to look solemn but unable to fully erase the traces of an arrogant grin that subtly contoured his features. Jack had the feeling Graem knew where they were going, making Jack the only one not in on the secret — not that he would ever give his brother the satisfaction of asking.
Jack didn't stay in the dark for much longer. Soon, he recognized the sprawling facade of the corporate park where his father worked. The knowledge didn't do anything to ease the butterflies in Jack's stomach. The place was all boxy concrete and tinted windows; it reminded him of a prison. And the fact that it was Saturday made the whole thing even stranger.
Phillip parked the car and got out, Jack and Graem following instinctively behind. He responded politely, if a little coldly, to the security guard's greeting.
Phillip's office was on the eleventh floor, but Jack cringed at the thought of standing in the lobby waiting for the elevator to come. "I'll take the stairs, Dad," he said in what he hoped was a casual tone, still not meeting his father's eyes.
He was stopped with a hand on his shoulder. "Did I say you could take the stairs?" His father's tone took on the same sing-song quality that Jack had sometimes heard him use when admonishing a low-level employee — right before he told them to pack up their things and take their so-called talents somewhere else.
Jack craned his neck to look up at his father's expectant face. He was tired of hiding. "Why does it matter to you?" he snapped. "I'll still end up in the same place either way."
"Oh? I'm sorry, did I mishear you?" At this, Jack shoved his hands into his pockets, balling them into fists to contain the flash of heat that shot up from his stomach at his father's tart sarcasm.
"I thought I heard you talking back to me?" Phillip probed, raising his eyebrows to indicate that he was waiting for a reaction.
Jack swallowed hard, trying to stop himself from saying something he'd regret — and then the ding of the arriving elevator pulled him out of his thoughts. He scuttled inside, still staring intently at the floor.
But his father wouldn't let things go that easily. "Were you talking back to me, Jack?" he repeated as the doors closed and the elevator started to ascend.
Jack drew himself up to his full height, but thought better of resisting; there was nothing to be gained from it now. "No, sir," he muttered through gritted teeth, but he made sure his flashing eyes told a different story. "I'm sorry," he added, offering a truce — he knew it wouldn't last, but this was no longer a battle worth fighting.
"Good. And get your hands out of your pockets. You're not a hoodlum." Jack felt more heat rush to his face, making a mental note to find out what happened to soldiers who took a cheap shot at a man carrying a white flag. He shot a nasty glare at Graem, who was (badly) pretending to hide his snicker with the palm of his hand.
As soon as the elevator doors began to slide apart, Jack bolted for them — only to be stopped by the familiar weight on his shoulder, pinning him down. "Patience. It's rude to cut in front of someone. Wait your turn." Jack didn't bother to point out that it wasn't "cutting" if you'd been standing in front of the other person for the entire elevator ride. He waved his father past, then trailed behind.
It was unbelievable, to Jack, how a man whose legs were almost as long as Jack's entire body could move so slowly. This was starting to feel like one of those dreams again, the ones where he wanted, needed, to move forward but there was something stopping him, holding or dragging him back.
But this wasn't a dream. He knew because, eventually, his father did stop— in front of a boxy black behemoth of a filing cabinet, just like the one in his office at home. Jack felt the lump in his throat slide down to his stomach, like he'd swallowed a stone.
"Graem!"
Jack saw his brother flinch, his face draining of color.
Phillip opened the filing cabinet and began pulling out sheafs of paper, tossing them onto the floor like yesterday's trash. "Mix these up," he tossed over his shoulder at Graem.
"What… what do you mean, dad?" Graem shot an uncertain glance over his shoulder at Jack. Not so tough now, Jack thought a little spitefully.
"What do you think I mean?" Still throwing papers out of the cabinet, Phillip looked exasperatedly over his shoulder at Graem. "Mix them up. So they're all out of order."
Graem shrugged his shoulders and buried his arms in the pile of papers, all the way up to his polo-clad elbows. Jack shifted from foot to foot, looking out the window at the movement eleven floors below. The cars streamed steadily past, moving towards their various destinations. Then the stoplight turned red, and the traffic slowed gradually to a halt. Jack averted his eyes.
Dropping the last of the papers from the filing cabinet on the floor next to Graem, Phillip collapsed into the nearest office chair, crossing one leg over the other. Jack, fixing his eyes on the hands of the nearest clock, began to pace.
"Sit down, Jack."
"I'm okay standing."
"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you." Phillip stood from the chair, rising up to his full height. "Sit down."
Jack crossed his arms over his chest. "I want to stand."
"Listen to yourself, Jack. Nine years old and you still sound like a toddler. I want this, I want that. You have got to be smart here." He stepped toward Jack, his voice rising and lowering at the same time, ending up as a kind of stage whisper. "You're already in the doghouse with me. Now you're making it worse for yourself just because you want to dig your heels in and have your way. You want to stand? Then stand. But you're making things a hell of a lot harder on yourself, and when the consequences come back to bite you, you'd better not come crying to me."
Jack glared back, no longer pacing but still standing tall. He wasn't about to let himself be pushed around. Give me liberty or give me death, he remembered from one of his books.
Graem was the one to cut through the silence. "Is this enough, Dad?"
"No," Phillip snapped, without taking his eyes off Jack. "Mix them up more." Then he sat back in his chair, crossing his legs as he had before.
It was dark outside by the time Phillip finally deemed the papers sufficiently mixed. Jack, who had resorted to doing squats and lunges to pass the time, snapped instantly to attention. The wait was over. In many ways, he was relieved.
"Now, Jack." Phillip leaned back in his chair, the picture of nonchalance. "Since you seem to struggle with putting things back the way you found them, we'll have to teach you that lesson, won't we, Graem?" Graem nodded solemnly. Always the brown-noser.
"Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to give you the name of a document in that pile, and you'll have ten seconds to hand it to me. When you successfully accomplish that task, we can all pack up our things and go home. Does that sound simple enough?"
"Yeah." Jack studied his father, still trying to understand what his angle was here.
"All right, find me the corporate tax return from 1968."
Sifting through the papers was like trying to pick out a particular word in a room full of people whispering in a foreign language. Just looking at one of the documents, figuring out which kind of form it was and from which year, took nearly half of Jack's precious ten-second budget. By the time he'd skimmed three papers, it was over. "Time's up."
This was impossible — impossible, at least, with all the papers in random order like this. He had to undo what Graem had done, to reorganize the papers into some kind of logical system, or else he would be here forever. So this whole thing is because I messed up the order of Dad's filing cabinet at home? That made some kind of sense — but there had to be more to come, didn't there? He has to be madder at me for looking through his papers than for mixing up the order…
Jack dropped to his knees, letting the full weight of the task settle over him. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to do this. Most of all, he didn't want to listen to his father, constantly in his ear, distracting him, rushing him. He imagined he was a World War I radio operator, scrambling to find the right message to transmit under enemy fire. Focus on the next document. Worry about the rest later.
By the time he'd made any visible progress, the papers were starting to blur together, a jumble of numbers and headings that made his head spin. He could barely see the titles anymore, everything swimming like he was looking through a fog. Each document felt like it had become heavier, like it was intentionally defying him. He pushed on. One paper at a time.
He didn't even know how much time had passed when he finally dropped the last document into its proper pile. It could have been ten minutes, or an hour. What was the difference? All that mattered was that he was still here, in the thick of it, trying to make sense of the chaos his father had created.
Even now, when it was sorted and organized, the paperwork coated the floor like a range of snowy mountains. The ten-second timeline felt deliberately aggressive; Jack's next five searches were cut short by the high-pitched beeping of his father's Rolex, each one setting his nerves more and more on edge.
"Q3 earnings report, 1973." Jack could hear the boredom, the hints of frustration, creeping into father's voice at the repetitiveness of this all. He had a feeling that if he didn't win this round, the rules of the game might change — whether for better or for worse, he didn't know.
Earnings report. Jack remembered what those looked like. He found the right pile almost instantly and started at the back. 1975, 1974, 1973… Q4 and… there it is, Q3! Snatching the thin packet with his hands trembling with adrenaline, he thrust it across the creases his father's freshly ironed corduroys. Two ticks of the clock hanging on the wall behind him, and then he flinched, reflexively covering his ears at the beep, beep, beep that reminded him of how close he'd come to another defeat. He spun around to face the window, glad that this phase was over. If he had to do much as look at another piece of paper, he might puke. He couldn't wait to feel fresh air on his face, to get rid of the sickly blue light and the stale-coffee scent that made it impossible to forget he was in his father's kingdom.
"This is wrong, Jack."
Jack couldn't help it; he cupped his palm and smacked it against the thick glass of the window, the only thing separating him from the breezy night air that he craved.
Jack knew the document was right. It had to be. Grabbing the paper from his dad's extended hand, he scanned the date again, his muscles tightening with vindication as he confirmed what he'd already known. "It says right here," he said, underlining the date with his finger. "Q3 earnings report, 1973."
"Oh, but I didn't ask for 1973." His father's voice was calm, patient even — the same voice he always used when Jack was getting worked up.
"You did too," Jack blurted. "1973, the year Nixon took the soldiers out of Vietnam!"
"I said 1972. Graem, didn't I say 1972?"
Graem, who was busy spinning in circles in the nearest office chair, tossed over his shoulder, "that's what I heard."
"See? You need to listen better." Phillip crossed his arms over his chest and pointed at the papers on the floor. "Get me the City National bank statement. April 1970."
Jack was too flustered to even come close to finding his assigned document before another series of beeps rained down on him. He bit down on his lower lip, pushing down his frustration, his anger, everything that was spilling out of him and making him lose focus. He had to do this, and soon. Before the blood pounding in his ears got so loud that he wouldn't even hear which document his father had decided would hold the keys to his freedom.
"Corporate tax return, 1968."
Jack remembered that one — his father had asked for it first, back when the papers were still the disorganized, disheveled mess that he'd so painstakingly stacked and sorted into something more workable. He rummaged through the tax return pile, wincing as the edge of a misaligned form sliced the skin on his finger. The 1968 return hit his father's lap less than a second before the first skull-crushing beep.
"Wrong again."
"What?" Jack leaned over his father's shoulder, sanity checking himself. "Corporate tax return, 1968. That's what you asked for, isn't it?"
"It is."
"Then what's wrong?" Jack's voice rose in pitch as he tried not to scream.
"You figure it out." Phillip held out the tax form, pointing back at the pile with his other hand. "You want to get this right? Start paying attention."
Jack huffed in air through his nose, his airways starting to constrict. "I don't know what you want from me," he admitted. Every word came out louder, shakier than the one before.
Phillip looked at him coldly. "What, are you going to cry?"
Jack blinked fiercely, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Stop whining. Get me the letter to shareholders, 1974."
Jack strained against the tightness in his chest and throat. His lungs were starved for air, but he refused to let himself breathe in anything more than shallow catches, for fear they might turn into sobs. The stinging in the backs of his eyes made it hard to make sense of the typeface that swam, blurred and distorted, in front of his face.
There was no pile for shareholder letters. He knew that, knew it as firmly as he knew that there was nothing wrong with the 1968 tax return he'd found, and that his father had never asked for the 1972 earnings report. Had he misclassified the letters somehow, mixed them in with some other document because the kaleidoscope of fancy words and nearly-identical formatting had made him so dizzy his brain had turned to mush? Or was there some kind of trick to this, something his father was dangling in front of him that he was too frustrated to see?
Again the Rolex beeped, sending another wave of raw heat and bitter smoke through Jack's throat, eyes, and nose. "Where is it?" his father asked, and it was all Jack could do not to start picking up papers and tearing them to shreds.
"All right, clearly we're getting nowhere." Phillip stood from his chair, dusting himself off. "I'm taking Graem home. You stay and find me that shareholder letter. Don't call home until you find it. Then I'll come pick you up. Come on, Graem. Let's go."
Jack turned to the window again, leaning his forehead against the glass and screwing his eyes shut while he listened to the steady one-two of his dad's wing tips and the uncertain shuffle of Graem's thick-soled oxfords, fading away.
Only when he heard the elevator door slide shut did he turn around and kick the base of the chair in which his father had been sitting. It was metal, and even through the tough leather of his shoes he knew he'd probably bruised something.
He let himself cry, just for a minute or two, long enough that the weight lifted off his lungs, but not so long that his temples ached and his eyes got dry and crusted over with salt. His foot still hurt, but it wasn't the pain that was wearing him down; it was the suffocating, overwhelming sense that he was never going to find this letter, no matter how hard he looked.
He went through each pile, one by one. Paper after paper, each one a reminder that he didn't belong here, that he was out of his depth. His hands were clammy, slick against the paper as he sifted through it, but it didn't matter. He was on autopilot now. Focus. Just focus. Find the letter.
The fluorescent lights hummed above him, their buzz the only sound besides the rustling of paper, and even that felt muffled in his ears, as if he were underwater. He tried to focus on the shapes in front of him, but his eyes kept blurring. It was all just paper. All just forms. Forms that didn't matter.
His fingers grazed the edges of another pile. Nothing. He picked up the next stack, flipped through it. Nothing. There had to be a letter somewhere. Where is it?
It's a test. It has to be. He had to remind himself. He had to keep going. His father was setting him up. This was about more than just the shareholder letter. This was about him failing. This is about making me fail.
Last pile. It had to be here. Please. But no. There was nothing. It was a mess—an incomprehensible mess. A mix of letters, reports, forms. None of them had anything to do with shareholders.
He lay down on his back on the floor, wanting to scream, wanting to throw the papers against the wall or, better, out the window. It was getting close to his bedtime. He wanted to go home, give his mother a hug, and curl up in bed with a book about Paul Revere.
But Paul Revere wouldn't give up. He would find a way out of this. Jack paused for a second, sitting up. The shareholder letter had to be somewhere in this office, didn't it? But there was nothing to say it had to be in the specific filing cabinet his father had raided. That was it; he was sure of it. His father was trying to trick him, trying to see if he'd be able to figure it out.
He looked around him. There must have been dozens of filing cabinets, and that was only on this floor. He'd be here all week if he looked through every one.
He wiped the residual wetness from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Think, Jack. You can do this. What was a shareholder letter, anyway? It was something his dad had written, he was pretty sure. He remembered Phillip reading something like that to him, Graem, and his mother at dinner one night, something he was pretty sure had started with "dear shareholders," although when the business-speak began, he'd tuned out and started balancing his fork on the rim of his soup bowl.
Well, if his dad had written it, then it would be in his dad's office, wouldn't it? But he wasn't sure he was allowed to go in there. After all, the whole reason he was being punished was because he'd looked at his father's files without permission. But then, if his father had asked him for the letter, and the letter was in his office, then that counted as permission, didn't it?
Too tired for more mind games, Jack jogged across the floor to the glass doors of his father's office. There, behind the heavy oak desk, he saw the familiar black steel of another filing cabinet.
It has to be in there. It has to.
He opened the top drawer and, after only a little combing, there it was — the big bold B of the letterhead, and the words he'd been waiting for: "dear shareholders." It almost felt too easy, almost like a trap. But then, what else could he do? He wasn't about to face his father empty-handed, and his head was so blurry now that the idea of reading through more documents was starting to remind him of pulling teeth or drawing blood. No, he'd had enough; it was time to call home.
He used the phone in his father's office, thinking it might drive home his message. Phillip picked up only on the last ring. "Hi, Dad. It's Jack."
"Do you have it?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I'm coming to get you."
"Okay. See you, Dad."
His father hung up.
Jack made his way back out of the office and, while he waited, collected the piles of paper that were scattered across the floor, tucking them back into the filing cabinet. He never wanted to see another piece of paperwork again. Ever.
Jack didn't waste any time when the elevator doors slid open, revealing the familiar lanky frame. He strode across the floor with forced confidence, holding out the letter for his father's inspection.
Phillip's focused eyes danced over the letter, stretching the moment long enough for discomfort to start setting in. Finally, he broke the silence: "where did you get this, Jack?"
"From one of the filing cabinets."
"The filing cabinets where?"
"In your office."
Phillip folded the shareholder letter in half, sharpening the crease with his thumb and forefinger, then handed it back to Jack.
"So you've learned nothing, then."
"What do you mean?"
Phillip heaved a dramatic sigh. "I gave you the chance to learn from your mistake. But instead, you went digging through my personal items without my permission. Again."
Jack raked his fingers through his hair, locking both hands around the back of his head to stop himself from doing something more destructive. "But you told me to find the letter! And it wasn't there in the papers you gave me!"
"That doesn't mean you have permission to go rummaging through whichever of my things you decide you want a look at." Phillip yanked the shareholder letter back out of Jack's hands and gestured at the elevator. "This conversation is over. Let's go."
The journey home passed in absolute silence. Jack wanted to defend himself but knew it would only make things worse. Even after all the time he'd just spent appeasing his father's whims, he felt like he was no closer to the end of all this than he had been when he was first standing, wide-eyed and red-handed, in his father's office with his flashlight tucked behind his back.
As soon as his father's key turned in the lock on the house door, Jack sprung — quietly, in case his mother was sleeping — up the stairs to his room. But when he got there, he stopped in his tracks.
The doorframe that he'd come to know as the gateway to his room — to the one space in the house that was his, that he had control over — was missing its door.
The hinges were there, but the space between the frame and the wall was unnaturally empty, exposed. There was nothing, anymore, for him to hide behind when he was up past his bedtime reading about war; nothing for him to put between himself and the rest of the world when all he wanted was to be alone. This wasn't even his room anymore, really, not when there was nothing to seal it off from the rest of the house.
He was standing just beyond the threshold, his head spinning, when his father's large hands pressed down on his shoulders, spinning him around.
"Just until you learn the meaning of privacy." His father tapped him gently on both shoulders, as if to make sure he was paying attention — or to remind him who was in charge. As he began to walk away, Phillip turned around, adding in a hiss:
"And by the way: not that it's any of your business, but my father volunteered for the war after Pearl Harbor was bombed. On his way to basic training, he was involved in a horrific car wreck. He died instantly." He paused, letting the words sink in. "The army didn't consider his death to be service-related. So if you think I owe them, or the Selective Service, a goddamned thing" — he poked Jack lightly in the chest, his words dripping with resentment — "I don't. Good night." He turned on his heel and stormed off.
Jack looked around his room, the missing door making him feel like some kind of insect at the zoo. Reflexively, he switched on his flashlight, but right away he turned it off again. He wouldn't be using it anymore.
Today, he was glad for the dark. It let him pretend he was alone.