Chapter 6
Sam
WISP has a website, and the website shows drop-in hours over the weekend.
I spend Saturday trying to decide what I’m going to do.
I’m off this Saturday, which means I spend most of it the way I usually do: I work out, I read, I do part of an online training on traffic stops, and I catch up on chores.
After cleaning the bathroom and helping Gran move some boxes in the basement, I mow the lawn.
It’s a nice day, and I like the way my sweat cools in the breeze.
When I’m done, the rest of the day is mine, and since I still haven’t decided, I end up on the couch playing Stardew Valley.
It’s pretty fun. You get your own farm in Stardew Valley.
You move there from the city, and you’ve got to fix your house and get rid of all the weeds.
It’s not like real farming at all; I knew guys who grew up on farms in Iberia.
But it’s a nice idea. You get to live out there on that farm with your animals.
And nobody bothers you. You can go into town if you want, but nobody’s around, nobody’s asking about your life.
Nobody cares if you go on dates. Nobody talks about you getting married.
Mr. Somerset said not to volunteer at Detective Dulac’s nonprofit.
But Mr. Somerset and Mr. Hazard might be volunteering there.
I’m planting radishes because I try to plant one three-by-three section of each crop. I like how it looks.
And it didn’t mean anything, him calling me beefcake.
It’s just him being who he is. He runs his mouth.
Some guys are like that. Detective Dulac wouldn’t flirt with me even if I were—I mean, he could get any guy he wanted.
He’s pretty much the most handsome guy in the department.
I guess I should say Mr. Somerset is, but he doesn’t work there now.
Gran’s getting ready in her room, and she’s playing something from My Fair Lady.
She sings as she goes. She can’t hit the high notes.
Well, she can’t really hit any of the notes, but she’s having fun, and the closet door is squeaking on its hinges and she’s opening drawers and the floor creaks as she dances around the room.
Gran’s in love, and you might think, since she falls in love about three times a week, it would get old.
But it doesn’t, somehow. It’s kind of magical, actually.
Gran’s been married four times and divorced four times.
Martha Shaumberg made a crack about that—Martha’s one of her friends who’s not actually her friend, if you know what I mean—and Gran said what’s the point in living if you don’t believe in love.
Me, I’m fine playing Stardew Valley.
It’s winter when Gran comes out of her room.
In the game, when it’s winter you can’t do a whole lot on your farm except clear things up, so that’s when you have adventures.
You can go down in a haunted mine looking for treasure.
Or you can travel to the oasis. Some people say winter is when you should be in town, making friends with all the villagers.
And there is something special about the holiday festival.
You can’t see all those people with their families, with the lights and the games and everybody having fun, and not wish real life were a little more like a game sometimes.
Gran’s got a lot of different perfumes. I don’t know the name of this one, but it’s strong, and she says it’s what Princess Diana wore.
I don’t know about that, but I do know if Princess Diana wore it, everybody probably tried to stand upwind of her.
I smell her before she reaches the living room, so I’m half-ready when she runs her hand through my hair.
I pull away, but that’s mostly automatic at this point.
“I’m headed out,” Gran says.
I turn my cheek for a kiss, which is a mistake because then I’ve got Princess Diana all up in my nose. “Who is he?”
“Carl.”
“Dogfood Carl?”
“That isn’t nice,” but she sounds like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know that it’s any of your business, Samuel.”
“Course it is,” I say. “How else am I going to arrest him when he gets fresh?”
That makes her laugh. “What are you going to do tonight?”
“Rot here on your sofa playing video games.” But then I look up and say, “I’m going to help a friend with something, I guess.”
She’s got so much gold jewelry on she really does look like Mr. T; when Dad says something like that, he’s usually not wrong. She adjusts one of the necklaces. She’s trying not to look too pleased. “That sounds nice. Who’s your friend?”
“Somebody from work.”
“Is it a girl friend?”
“No, Gran.”
“Well, why not?”
“Because it’s not a date. I’m going to help him with something. It’s a charity, and they need volunteers.” I know what’s coming, so I beat her to the punch by saying, “And it’s better than sitting around the house waiting for you to come home and tell me how Dogfood Carl made you tingle.”
Jewelry clinks and rattles, and she sounds way too pleased with herself when she says, “He’s very amorous.”
“Oh my God, Gran.”
She cackles all the way out of the house.
I wait until the sound of the Cadillac fades, and then I save my game and close the laptop.
I go to my room. I’m just wearing my relaxing clothes—a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts.
They’re comfortable—and they’re expensive.
I didn’t know sweatshirts and shorts could be expensive until Mr. Somerset started telling me about the ones he liked.
Well, I had to ask him, because I could tell they were nice, but then he told me.
Anyway, they are nice, but not nice enough to go out in, so I change into jeans, and it’s cold enough for a sweater, so I put on the blue one that Gran says makes me very handsome.
That feels stupid, so I take it off and put on the sweatshirt again. With jeans, I guess it’s okay.
Wallet, phone, keys. Then I remember shoes and socks.
And then I check: wallet, phone, keys again.
There’s this electricity rising inside me like I’m forgetting something.
Or like when we did our play in third grade.
It was a kid version of The Wizard of Oz, and all I had to do was go on and tell everybody we were in Kansas now, but I was so sweaty Mrs. Johanson thought I was going to ralph inside the Tin Man’s helmet.
I catch myself standing there, and I say, You gotta go, dingus. You gotta actually leave the house.
Right after sunset, the night’s cool and textured, and it makes me think of this deep blue velvet Gran wears sometimes, but it smells like a spring day gone cold—not, thank God, like Princess Diana.
On the drive over to the college, I catch myself looking in the mirror at every light, at every stop sign.
I’m idling at a crosswalk, trying to tell how stupid my hair is, when somebody finally honks and pulls out around me.
It’s easy to find parking near the college at this time of night, so I park.
I check WISP’s website on my phone for what has to be the hundredth time that day.
I don’t know the campus super well, so I pull up a map and find the building listed in WISP’s contact information.
I can’t help it; I look in the mirror again, and I realize every single choice I’ve made that evening is stupid: the hair, the sweatshirt, driving over here.
As Dad likes to say, shit or get off the can.
I get out of the car.
There are a few college-aged kids wandering around the campus.
It’s quiet and full of shadows, and the kids are moving quickly from one patch of light to another, their steps brisk and clipping the concrete paths.
When I finally find the building where WISP is located, it doesn’t look like much—it’s brown, and it’s blocky, and it makes me think of the government buildings on Jefferson Street instead of a college.
But the doors are unlocked, so I go inside.
It looks like a government building on the inside, too—aggregate flooring, high-traffic weather mats, fluorescent lights.
As far as I can tell, it’s empty. I wander around the first floor until I find the WISP offices.
It takes me longer than it should. In part, that’s because the offices are tucked away, at the end of this short little corridor jutting off from the end of another corridor, and you can walk by it twice without even noticing it’s there—at least, you can if you’re me, anyway.
The other reason is the door’s shut, and there’s no sign, so unless you know what you’re looking for, you can’t find it.
I guess that’s smart, considering who WISP is trying to help.
But it sure makes finding it a pain in the patoot, as Gran likes to say.
Inside, I’m standing in a small room. There are two plastic waiting chairs and a plastic fern, and then a desk that has one corner broken off so you can see the particle board.
Somebody’s playing Lady Gaga, and it smells like Gran’s basement after I mop.
There’s a guy sitting behind the desk, and he’s what Gran would call pretty.
Twenty, White, male, blond hair faded on the sides and back. He’s folding what looks like pamphlets.
When he raises his head, I say, “I’m looking for WISP.”
“This is the Wahredua Intimate / Sexual Partner Violence Initiative. How can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for—” I almost say WISP again, so I change it to “—Detective Dulac.” A burst of optimism makes me add, “Or Mr. Somerset if he’s here.”
The young guy takes me in. He’s not subtle about it, working his way head to toe and then back up again. Something changes in his expression, and he says, “Gray is busy right now.”
“Oh. Okay. Can I wait?”
“He’s got a lot to do.”
“I only need to talk to him for a minute.”
According to this guy’s face, that’s the biggest inconvenience in the world, but one thing you learn if you’re police is that sometimes if you wait, people will change their minds. Finally he says, “I’ll check.”