Chapter 7
Stan knew something was wrong the moment he stepped through the front door that evening and took one look at Prissy’s face.
“Hey, baby,” he greeted her, balancing three extra-large pizza boxes as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “What’s the matter?”
Before she could respond, Montana, Magnum, Maddox and Mason stampeded past him into the house, still buzzing with excitement over the sci-fi adventure film they’d just watched.
“Hey, Ma!” they chorused, peeling off their coats. “Dad took us to the movies!”
Prissy smiled wanly. “I know. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah!” They began recapping their favorite scenes, their animated voices tumbling over one another’s until Stan interrupted with a sharp whistle that cut through the cacophony.
He glanced at each of them in turn. “I thought you boys said you were hungry?”
“We are!” Montana confirmed.
“Starving!” Magnum added.
“Then take these”— Stan handed the pizza boxes to Montana —“and go eat.”
They didn’t have to be told twice. As they took off for the kitchen, Prissy—who’d somehow wound up with an armful of coats—began hanging them neatly in the mud room, where they also stored boots and mittens, backpacks, sports gear and umbrellas.
Stan followed Prissy inside the cheery room and touched her shoulder, feeling the tension beneath her suit jacket. “What’s going on, baby? Is everything okay?”
“No.” Finished with her task, Prissy turned to look at him. Instinctively fearing the worst—that she’d somehow uncovered his secret—Stan braced himself for the confrontation he’d been dreading for months.
But then she said, “Your son was suspended from school today.”
It was the last thing Stan had expected to hear. “What?” he exclaimed, staring at her. “Suspended for what?”
“Fighting.”
“Fighting?”
Prissy nodded, looking grim. “According to the principal, Manny started the fight by throwing the first punch.”
Stan frowned. “He must have been provoked.”
“That’s no justification for what he did,” Prissy countered sharply. “Anyway, I don’t know whether he was provoked or not because he wouldn’t tell me or Principal Henderson what really happened.”
“What do you mean he wouldn’t tell you?” Stan demanded.
Prissy sighed, wearily pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “He’s being difficult. Uncooperative.”
Stan scowled. “We’ll see about that. Where is he?”
“Upstairs cleaning his room, which he was supposed to do earlier when I dropped him off at home. But when I got back from the board meeting ten minutes ago, I found him lying across his bed fast asleep. He hadn’t picked up a damn thing.”
Clenching his jaw, Stan left the mud room and strode to the bottom of the staircase. “Manny!” he called up. “Get your behind down here!”
Moments later he heard the heavy thud of footsteps moving across the second floor, and then Manning appeared at the top of the stairs. When Stan saw the shiner his son was sporting, he swore under his breath.
“Boy,” he warned, “don’t let me find out that you got your butt kicked.”
Prissy gasped. “Stanton!”
“I’m just sayin’, baby. If he started the fight, he’d damn well better had finished it.”
Prissy sucked her teeth. “He said pretty much the same thing in the principal’s office. I should have known he got that nonsense from you!”
Stan made no reply, watching as Manning descended the staircase and came toward him with the reluctant dread of a condemned prisoner being marched out to face a firing squad. When the boy reached him, Stan cupped his chin in his hand and angled his face toward the chandelier light, frowning as he examined the bruised flesh surrounding Manning’s left eye.
After a few moments, he grunted, “You’ll live.”
“Of course he will,” Prissy said tightly. “He’s not the one who wound up in the emergency room with a broken nose.”
“What!” Stan stared incredulously at his son. “You broke the kid’s nose?”
Manning dropped his gaze. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Try telling that to Rory’s parents,” Prissy snapped. “That is, if they ever decide to return my phone call.”
“Hold up. Wait a minute.” Stan divided a wary glance between his wife and son. “Rory who? Rory Kerrigan?”
Manning shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know his last name.”
“Yes,” Prissy confirmed, staring at Stan. “It’s Kerrigan. Why?”
“Aw, hell,” Stan groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Prissy asked, too alarmed to chastise him for using profanity in front of Manning.
“I work at the same firehouse as Rory Kerrigan, Senior,” Stan explained. “He’s on a different shift, but I know who he is.”
Prissy shot him a stricken look. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I was,” Stan muttered.
Prissy threw her hands up in the air. “I can’t deal with this anymore,” she fumed, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she started from the foyer. “I’m going to have a hot bath and take some aspirin and lay down before I end up killing someone.”
Stan and Manning watched her stalk off, then looked at each other.
Stan smiled narrowly. “Looks like it’s just you and me, son.”
Manning gulped hard.
Over his shoulder, Stan saw Montana, Magnum, Maddox and Mason huddled around the kitchen doorway with their mouths hanging open, eyes wide with unabashed curiosity as they watched the unfolding drama. Catching their father’s ominous glare, they wasted no time scurrying back into the kitchen.
“Let’s take this conversation downstairs,” Stan told Manning.
The boy gave a jerky nod.
They left the foyer and descended a narrow flight of stairs to reach the finished basement. The sprawling area—which Stan and the boys had affectionately dubbed the “Wolf Den”—was furnished with a black leather sofa and matching armchairs, a big-screen television, a pool table, a poker table, a pinball machine and an indoor basketball hoop with an electronic scoreboard. The wood-paneled walls were adorned with framed posters of famous black athletes from the past and present: Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, Walter Payton and Dominique Wilkins, to name just a few.
The basement was a breeding ground for testosterone, hence it was the only part of the house that Prissy rarely ventured into.
As soon as Manning sat down on the sofa, Stan barked, “Start talking.”
When Manning hesitated a second too long, Stan reached for his belt buckle.
That loosened the boy’s tongue real quick. “The reason I punched Rory is ’cause he was picking on this girl from my math class. We were walking to our lockers after precalculus, and Rory just came along and knocked Taylor’s books out of her arms. I got mad—”
“So you decided to take a swing at him.”
Manning hesitated, then nodded tightly. “I told him to apologize to her, but he wouldn’t. He started calling us names and talking trash, so…” Manning gave a helpless shrug, shaking his head at Stan. “I’m sorry, Dad, but he had it coming.”
“That may be so,” Stan growled, “but you shouldn’t have lost your cool like that. How many times have we told you and your brothers that violence never solves anything? And now look where we are. Because you couldn’t control your temper, you sent a boy to the hospital and got suspended from school, and you’ve put your mother’s reputation in jeopardy.”
Manning hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“You should be. You’re the superintendent’s son, so you know damn well that everything you do—good or bad—is a reflection of your mother. So that means you need to be mindful of your behavior and make better decisions.”
Glaring down at the floor, Manning muttered resentfully, “I didn’t ask to be the superintendent’s son.”
“But you are!” Stan roared, losing his patience. “You are the superintendent’s son, boy, and there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it!”
Manning was silent, a muscle throbbing in his clenched jaw.
Stan jabbed a finger at him. “See, what you fail to realize is that I know you, Manny. I know you even better than you know yourself. So I understand that there was more to that fight than you defending some girl from a bully. You left the house this morning just spoiling for a fight, and Rory Kerrigan gave you the perfect excuse to take out your frustrations on him.”
“That’s not true!” Manning protested vehemently. “He was being an asshole!”
“Excuse you?” Stan thundered, leaning down to get in Manning’s face. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
Manning’s eyes widened with alarm as he swallowed nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
Stan searched the boy’s face, which was so strikingly similar to his own that it was like looking into a time-warped mirror.
“What’s going on with you?” he asked, striving for calm. “Talk to me, son. Unburden yourself.”
Manning just looked up at him, nostrils flaring with suppressed emotion.
“I’m waiting.”
“I hate it here!” Manning burst out furiously.
Stan nodded slowly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I wanna go back to Atlanta!”
“You will.” At the hopeful gleam that lit Manning’s eyes, Stan calmly elaborated, “When you turn eighteen in four years, you’ll go back to Atlanta to attend Morehouse with Michael. That’s always been the plan. Of course, if you keep getting suspended from school, Morehouse won’t take you, nor will any other college or university.”
Manning frowned, as if such an outcome had never occurred to him.
Typical teenager. Act first, think later.
“You’re treading on thin ice here,” Stan continued, driving home the point. “The next time you get suspended, the punishment will be for six days. Get in trouble a third time, and you’re gonna be expelled from school. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Manning mumbled.
“Then I suggest you get your act together. Fighting at school won’t be tolerated. The next time it happens, getting suspended will be the least of your worries. Are we clear?”
Manning nodded obediently. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Stan exhaled a deep breath, then sat down beside his son.
“You hate Coronado as much as I do,” Manning grumbled.
Stan shot him a surprised glance. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I’ve heard you talking to Uncle Sterling—”
“First of all,” Stan cut him off, “you need to stop eavesdropping on my phone conversations. I’ve never told your uncle that I hate Coronado because I don’t. Yes, living here has taken some getting used to, and there are many things about Atlanta that I’ll always miss. Like hanging out with your uncle, and being able to watch Michael and Marcus grow up. I miss our Wolf Pack cookouts and birthday parties and pick-up games. I miss being able to drive down to Savannah to visit Mama Wolf on the spur of the moment. I miss our barber shop and the fellas from the old fire station, especially the ones I started my career with. I miss—” He broke off at the knowing look on Manning’s face, a look that told him he’d probably revealed too much.
He briskly cleared his throat. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re not alone in missing Atlanta. But you shouldn’t allow your homesickness to keep you from appreciating everything Coronado has to offer.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I love looking out the window every morning and seeing those beautiful mountains. Makes me feel like I’m in God’s country. And the parks and lakes are amazing—”
“You sound like a tour guide,” Manning mocked.
Stan laughed. “The point is, Coronado’s not as bad as you think. Even your brothers are starting to enjoy living here, and they hated leaving Atlanta as much as you did. Not only that, but your mother loves her job, and she’s doing good things for your school district and the community. So as much as you want us to go back to Atlanta, it’s not gonna happen. The sooner you accept that and move on, the better off you’ll be.”
Manning was silent, staring broodingly at the floor.
After several moments, Stan decided to change the subject before Manning turned the tables on him and asked about the phone conversation he’d overheard that morning.
“So,” Stan ventured, “is she pretty?”
His son gave him a blank look. “Who?”
Stan smirked. “The girl you chivalrously defended and got suspended for. Is she pretty?”
Manning shrugged. “I dunno.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t really tell if she’s pretty. I guess she could be, but she wears these big ugly glasses that practically cover her whole face. And the way she dresses…” Manning shook his head with a pained grimace.
Stan chuckled wryly. “So I take it she’s no Caitlyn.”
“No way,” Manning agreed with a rueful laugh. “Not even close.”
“But you came to her rescue anyway.”
“Of course. Taylor’s a nice girl, really smart and funny. She doesn’t deserve to get picked on by assho— jerks like Rory.”
“So if it happens again—if you see Rory or another bully picking on Taylor—what’re you gonna do?”
Manning eyed him darkly. “Please don’t ask me that question, Dad.”
Stan chuckled, reluctantly impressed by Manning’s overprotectiveness toward Taylor. Could he really fault the boy? Wasn’t he raising his sons to be gentlemen who cherished and protected women and looked out for underdogs? Under the circumstances, could he punish Manning for defending Taylor when he would have done the exact same thing?
Stan scratched his ear, unnerved by the realization that he bore partial responsibility for his son’s behavior. Damn, he hated it when that happened.
“Speaking of Caitlyn,” he said gruffly, “you need to watch out for that one.”
Manning shot him a puzzled look. “Why?”
“The girl may be beautiful, but she’s trouble with a capital T.”
“How do you know?”
Stan smiled wryly. “I’ve been around long enough to know a troublemaker when I see one, son. Take my word for it.”
Manning sniffed. “I’m not worried about Caitlyn,” he declared with a dismissive flap of his hand. “I can handle her.”
“Oh, really?” Stan challenged. “Because you’ve got all this experience with women, right?”
Manning grinned weakly. “Of course.”
Stan let out a bark of laughter. “Boy, who you trying to fool? You’re still wet behind the ears!”
“No, I’m not,” Manning protested.
“Yes, you are. I know good and damn well you’re still a virgin. And when that’s no longer the case, I’ll know just like your uncle knew when Michael lost his virginity last summer. Sooner or later, you boys will learn that you can’t get anything past us.”
Manning shook his head, a surly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Seriously though, Manny,” Stan continued. “As much as you may want to outdo Mike by losing your virginity at a younger age than he did, believe me when I tell you that you’re not ready to start having sex. You’re only fourteen years old. So you’ve got plenty of time to, ah, experience the pleasures of lovemaking. With the right girl,” he added pointedly.
“Girls,” Manning corrected.
“What?”
“You said ‘girl.’ Like there’d only be one.”
“And what would be so terrible about that?” Stan demanded. “Your mother was a virgin when we started dating in high school. I’m the only lover she’s ever had.”
“But was she the only lover you’ve ever had?” Manning challenged.
That shut Stan up.
“I didn’t think so,” Manning said with a laugh.
Stan scowled.
“Anyway,” he blurted, abruptly rising from the sofa, “we’d better head back upstairs and see if your greedy brothers left us any pizza.”
“They’d better have,” Manning muttered, pushing to his feet.
Stan snorted. “After all the trouble you’ve caused today, you’re lucky I’m not feeding you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. Tomorrow morning, after your mother has had a chance to cool down, I expect you to apologize to her for your behavior.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they approached the stairwell, Stan unbuckled and removed his leather belt. “You’re the oldest, Manny. So like it or not, your mother and I expect you to set a better example for your brothers. When you fail to do that, you have to suffer the consequences.”
A look of dread crossed Manning’s face. “But, Dad—”
“But nothing, boy!” Lips quirking with amusement, Stan pulled Manning close and murmured in his ear, “Your nosy brothers are probably eavesdropping at the door. When I hit the banister with my belt, I want you to holler so they’ll think I’m whipping you. Okay?”
Manning nodded quickly, flashing a wobbly grin of relief.
Sure enough, when they emerged from the basement a few minutes later, Montana, Magnum and Maddox scattered like rats scurrying from light. Only Mason lingered behind to point a finger at Manning and taunt gleefully, “Oooh, you got a butt whupping!”
“Shut up,” Manning grumbled, swiping at an imaginary tear for good measure.
As Mason scampered off giggling impishly, Stan and Manning traded conspiratorial grins.