It’s hot today, mid 80s, but Wm. Hobart was dressed like a church deacon (which I’m sure he is) in a black suit amp; shoes. His kid was wearing the junior version of the same getup, amp; was snivelling. Had a pretty good bruise on one cheek, too. I’d bet my bank account his old man put it there.
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t talk, because Hobart had the whole thing scripted. “My son has something to say to you, Mrs Wyler,” he said, then looked down at the boy as if to say you’re on, don’t fuck it up. “Hugh?”
Snivelling harder than ever, Hugh said he’d given in to the Tempting Voice of Satan (I guess that’s the TVS, just like the Stalky Little Boy is the SLB) amp; stolen Seth’s toy. He talked real fast, crying harder amp; harder as he went along. The kid finished by saying, “You can go to the police and I will make a full confession. You can spank me, or my Dad will spank me.” Listening to that pan was like when you call the weather amp; the recording says, “For current conditions, press one. For the current forecast, press two. For road conditions, press three.” I guess it was a blessing I was so stunned. If I hadn’t been, I might’ve laughed, and there was nothing funny about the two of them, standing there so holy amp; ashamed. I was more scared of them-of the father, especially-than I am on most days of Seth.
Scared for them, too.
“I am very sorry,” the kid says, still rapping it out as if it was on cue-cards in front of him. “I have asked my Dad for forgiveness, I have asked Lord Jesus for forgiveness, and now I am asking you for forgiveness.”
I got my act together enough then to take the wagon from him-I was so wrought-up I almost dropped it on my toes-and told him that no spankings would be required.
“The boy also has to apologize to your son,” Mr Hobart said. He looks like Moses with a clean-shaven face and a good haircut, if you can imagine Moses in a double-vented three-piece from Sears. After the things that have been going around here for the last few months, I have no problem imagining anything. That’s part of my trouble. “If you’ll just lead us to him, Mrs Wyler-”
I’ll be damned if the self-righteous SOB didn’t start trying to push his way right in! I pushed him right back, I can tell you. (Almost dropped Dream Floater again in the process, too.) The last thing I wanted was that fat little thief standing in front of the Stalky Little Boy.
What I wanted was for them to be out of my house, and quick. Before either their voices or their emotional vibes (and tho he wasn’t crying, Hob art was at least as upset as his kid, maybe more) could wake him up.
“Seth’s not my son, he’s my nephew,” I said, “and he’s taking a nap right now.”
“Very good,” Hobart says, giving a stiff little nod. “We will come back later. Is tonight convenient? If not, I can bring Hugh back tomorrow afternoon. I can ill afford to take off a second afternoon-I work at the stamping mill in Ten Mile, you know-but God’s business must always take precedence over man’s.”
His voice kept getting louder while he was talking, the way the voices of guys like him always seem to, it’s like they can’t tell you they’ve got to take a shit without turning it into a sermon. I started to feel really scared about Seth waking up, amp; all this time, I swear it’s true, the kid’s looking around like he wants to see if there’s anything else worth hawking. I’d say the day is going to come when Hughie winds up on some shrinky-dink’s couch, except that people like the Hobarts don’t believe in shrinks, do they?
I herded them out the door amp; kept them going right down the walk, I mean I was on a roll. The kid, meanwhile, is asking, “Do you forgive me? Do you forgive me?” over amp; over again, like a broken record. By the time I got them down to the sidewalk, I realized I was furious with both of them. Not just because of the hell we’ve been through but because they both acted like I was somehow responsible for the thieving little fart’s immortal soul. Plus I kept remembering the way his eyes were going everywhere, seeing what we had in our house that he didn’t have in his.
I’m pretty sure-almost positive, actually-that a lot of Seth’s “strange powers” have a very short range, like the radio transmitters they used to have at the drive-ins, the ones that piped the movie sound directly into your car radio. So when I got them down to the street, I felt safe (relatively safe, anyway) to ask how Hugh Hobart had come to lift Seth’s Power Wagon in the first place.
Pere and fils exchanged a glance at that. It was a funny, uneasy glance, and I realized neither of them much minded the idea of a spanking or even a visit from the cops, but they didn’t like the idea of talking about the actual theft itself. Not one little bit. No wonder the fundamentalists hate the Catholics so much. The idea of going to confession must make their balls shrivel.
Still, I had “em in a corner, amp; finally it came out. William did most of the talking; by then the kid had decided he didn’t like me. His eyes had gotten narrow, and they’d quit leaking, too.
Most of it I could’ve figured out myself. The Hobarts belong to the Zion’s Covenant Baptist Church, and one of the things they do as good church members is to “spread the Gospel”. This means leaving tracts like the one Herb found sticking out of our milkbox, the one about a million years in hell amp; not one drink of water. William and Hugh do this together, a father-and-son type of thing, I guess, a holy substitute for Little League or touch football. They stick mostly to houses that look temporarily empty, wanting “to spread the word amp; plant the seed, not engage in debate” (William Hobart’s words), or they put their little love-notes under the windshields of cars on the street.
They must’ve hit our place right after we left for Milly’s. Hugh ran up the driveway and stuck the tract under the milkbox, and of course he saw Dream Floater wherever Seth put it down. Later, after his father had declared him off-duty for the rest of the day but before we got back from the mall, Hugh wandered back up the street… amp; gave in to the ever-popular TVS (Tempting Voice of Satan). His mother found the PW yesterday, Monday, while Hugh was at school amp;she was cleaning in his room. Last night they had a “family conference” about it, then called their minister for his advice, had a little over-the-phone prayer, and now here they were.
Once the story was out, the kid started in on “Do you forgive me” again. The second time through, I said, “Quit saying that.”
He looked like I’d slapped him and his father’s face got all stiff. I didn’t give a crap. I squatted down so I could look directly into Hugh’s piggy little eyes. It wasn’t all that easy to see them, either, because of the dandruff flakes and grease-smears on his glasses.
“Forgiveness is between you and your God,” I said. “As for me, I’m going to keep quiet about what you did, and I’d advise the Hobarts to do the same.” They will, I’m pretty sure. I only had to look at the bruise on Hugh’s cheek, really, to know that. I don’t know about the creep’s mother, but what he did is absolutely killing his father.
Hugh backed a step away from me, and I could see in his face that this wasn’t going the way it was supposed to, amp; he hated me for it. That’s okay. I hate him a little, too. Not surprising, is it, after the weekend we put in because of his light fingers’?
“We’ll leave you now, Mrs Wyler, if you’re finished,” Hobart said. “Hugh has got a lot of meditation to do. In his room. On his knees.”
“But I’m not finished,” I said. “Not quite.” I didn’t look at him. It was the boy I looked at. I think I was trying to look past the hate amp; shame amp; self-righteousness, to see if there was a real boy left inside anywhere. And did I see one? I truly don’t know.
“Hugh,” I said, “you know that people only have to ask forgiveness if they do something wrong, don’t you?”
He nodded cautiously… like he was testifying in a trial amp; thought one of the lawyers was laying a trap.