Chapter 12
“Grandpa said he’s going to buy me a shotgun when I turn fifteen,” says Braedon.
“I have to check the law of the land,” says Clay, “but I think I have some say in the matter.”
“Oh, come on, Dad. It’s my own shotgun!”
They’re in the kitchen of Clay’s shoebox.
That’s what he and Braedon call the modern rectangular house perched on three acres a few miles out of town.
It was designed by a professor of architecture who taught at Carleton College up in Northfield.
It’s been featured in several magazines, although it always looks better in the magazines than it does in person.
The shoebox is sided in copper and limestone cut from local bluffs.
It has an open floor plan with big windows that flood the place with light.
It’s not a gigantic home, square-footage-wise.
Three bedrooms and two and a half baths.
A walkout basement that’s half finished and half unfinished.
The unfinished side is where Clay ties flies, not unlike the space where Judd reloads shotgun shells.
Having a place like that where they can make things they could otherwise buy is one of Clay and Judd’s similarities.
Clay hasn’t touched the place since moving in except for having an alarm system installed and every dead bolt replaced with a Medeco 4. Is that too much security for Riverwood? Probably. But probably isn’t definitely. And Clay doesn’t take unnecessary chances.
“We’ll see how you’ve matured when you’re fifteen,” says Clay. “No sense getting worked up about a shotgun now.”
Clay butterflies a whole chicken, using kitchen shears to cut down the bird’s spine.
“What does that mean?” says Braedon. “How I’ve matured?”
“It means we’ll see how you’re doing in school. We’ll see if you’re keeping yourself out of trouble. And we’ll see how you do shooting clay pigeons.” He flattens the bird on a cutting board and takes a pinch of kosher salt from the salt pig.
“Why do they make pigeons out of clay and why do people want to shoot them?”
“They’re not really pigeons,” says Clay. “That’s the name for clay disks that get launched in the air like Frisbees. It’s how you practice shooting a flying target. Grandpa didn’t tell you about shooting clay pigeons?”
“No,” says Braedon. “He said something about skeet and trap shooting. But I’m not sure what that is.”
“Skeet and trap mean shooting clay pigeons.”
“Then why don’t they just call it shooting clay disks?”
“I don’t know, Brae. Someone named it that long before I was born. And long before Grandpa Judd was born. Could you please grind some pepper onto the chicken so I don’t have to wash my hands before I flip the bird?”
“Ha,” says Braedon with exaggerated flatness. “Never heard that one before.”
“It’s a classic.”
“According to you.” Braedon grabs the pepper mill and grinds away.
“What else did you and Grandpa talk about today?” says Clay.
“Well,” says Braedon, “Grandpa Judd asked if I was going to play soccer at Dorset-Cornwall like you did.”
“And what’d you say?”
“I told him I didn’t know. I’m not as good at soccer as you are. I told him I might play American football instead. He said that would be great and I should also try hockey.”
Clay flips the butterflied chicken and indicates that Braedon should hit it with the pepper grinder again. “Do you want to try hockey?”
Braedon shakes his head. “Everyone who grew up here learned to skate when they were two. I could never catch up.”
“Did you say that to Grandpa?”
“Yeah,” says Braedon, grinding a new layer of pepper.
“But he said I could learn if I went to a hockey camp. And he said it would be good for me because hockey players never complain about injuries. Sometimes they have broken bones and don’t even tell their coaches so they can keep playing.
And…” Braedon makes eye contact with Clay, then hesitates.
“And what?” says Clay.
“Nothing…”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
“Well,” says Braedon, “Grandpa said soccer players are the opposite. They’re total babies.
That they fake getting hurt all the time so the referee will call a foul.
They scream and roll around on the ground and they’re not even hurt.
He said it’s embarrassing. And he’d never want me to do anything like that. ”
“Grandpa Judd is right.”
“Really?”
“Partly,” says Clay. He washes his hands in the sink.
“Soccer players do fake getting hurt sometimes so the other team gets a foul. And it is kind of embarrassing. The refs are starting to crack down on it. On the other hand, unlike American football players or hockey players, soccer players wear no pads or helmets. They collide into each other going full speed and jump to head the ball when another player is jumping to head the ball. You have to be really tough to play soccer. Tough and brave.”
Braedon nods. This he understands. “I still can’t get used to calling football soccer, and American football regular football. Because American football shouldn’t even be called football. The ball hardly ever gets kicked. It should be called tackleball or something like that.”
Clay salts the flipped-up side of the chicken. “That’s a good idea, Brae. How about you and me just start calling it tackleball. See if we can get it to catch on. We’ll say tackleball and clay disks. See if we can make some changes around here.”
Braedon nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
The doorbell rings, and Braedon goes to answer it.
Clay actually hopes it’s someone selling magazine subscriptions or asking them to make a political donation instead of someone they know.
He doesn’t want the interruption. Clay cherishes his one-on-one time with Braedon.
He can’t imagine life without his son. How empty it would be.
But every time he feels the overwhelming gratitude and love for Braedon, he can’t ignore the dark juxtaposition to his relationship with his own father.
Judd had the same opportunity Clay has now.
To be the sole parent. To be a guide and a friend.
A disciplinarian and playmate. To be present for his child’s new discoveries, thoughts, and feelings.
But Judd seemed unwilling to be that parent.
Or maybe he was simply incapable. Or maybe he does blame Clay for Pam’s illness and death.
Not that pregnancy can cause breast cancer, but it can, in rare instances, make it more difficult to detect.
Clay knows. He’s looked it up a hundred times to see if there’s any new research shedding light on how he may have contributed to his mother’s death.
Clay knows it’s not his fault. He didn’t ask to be brought into this world. He had nothing to do with it. But still. It’s an unsettling feeling knowing that both he and cancer grew inside Pam at the same time.
“Hey, Dad,” says Braedon, walking into the kitchen and jolting Clay from his thoughts. “Can Daniel stay for dinner?”
Clay looks over to see Daniel standing next to Braedon.
Daniel is one of those twelve-year-olds who hasn’t had even the faintest growth spurt.
Braedon, who isn’t particularly tall for his age, stands a full head higher than Daniel.
The kid looks more like he’s nine or ten.
Maybe to make up for his literal shortcoming, Daniel exudes a cockiness.
He’s not a bad kid, thinks Clay. He’s just trying to find his place in the hierarchy of Riverwood’s twelve-year-old boys.
Besides, Daniel is a neighbor kid who goes to the local middle school.
Braedon will meet plenty of other kids and influences at Dorset-Cornwall when school starts, but it’s nice that Braedon has a friend until then.
“Of course,” says Clay. He supposes getting to know Daniel a bit better has its own value. “We have plenty of food. Daniel, do you like chicken and french fries and salad?”
“I like chicken and french fries,” says Daniel.
“That’s good enough,” says Clay. “Make sure to let your parents know, okay?”
“Already did,” says Daniel.
Clay laughs.
“Dad, is it okay if we ride Daniel’s new mountain bike out back?”
“Sure,” says Clay. “Just wear a helmet. When did you get a new mountain bike, Daniel?”
“Today,” says Daniel. “Some guys gave it to me.”
“Some guys?” says Clay. He sees worry in Braedon’s eyes. And fidgety hands.
“Some older boys,” says Daniel. “They seem nice. Just walked up to me pushing the bike and said I could have it and that maybe I could ride with them sometime.”
“What else did they say?” says Clay.
“I don’t know…” says Daniel, his confidence waning. “They said something like now I owe them.”
“Owe them money?”
“No. I asked if I owe them money. They said maybe a favor sometime. They didn’t say when.”
“Is it okay if I see your new bike?”
The mountain bike is on the front porch, leaning against the limestone facade. It’s flat black, painted recently, and Clay spots a few drips from the shoddy spray job. “Nice bike,” says Clay.
“Thanks,” says Daniel.
Clay lifts the bike. “Light.”
“Yeah,” says Daniel. “I think it’s a good one.”
“Cool if I flip it over?”
“I guess,” says Daniel.
Braedon watches his father flip the bike in his hands so the handlebars and seat are near the ground. “Why are you doing that?”
Clay doesn’t answer. He’s reading the serial number on the underside of the bottom bracket. When he’s pretty sure he’s committed it to memory, he says, “Do you mind, Daniel, if I rub a fingernail on this bottom part?”
Daniel shrugs. “I guess it’s fine.”
Clay draws his fingernail along the bottom bracket. After a few passes, a line of lime green emerges. He flips the bike right side up and presents it to Daniel. “You guys have fun. Dinner will be ready in about forty-five minutes.”
“Hey, new friend,” says Clay into his phone. The chicken is in the oven, a sheet of frozen french fries getting unfrozen on the rack below it. The kitchen smells like heaven. That is if you like chicken and french fries.
“Why, hello, new friend,” says Chief of Police Zoey Jensen. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Aren’t you supposed to play it cool? Not contact me for a few days? Maybe a week? You’re coming off as kind of desperate.”
Clay laughs. He doesn’t want to laugh, but he can’t help it. “Have any bikes been reported stolen recently?”