Fireside (7 page)

“So what happens to kids whose parents don’t bring them along?”

“They go to relatives if there are any, or into foster care if there aren’t. Some of them—too many of them—fall through the cracks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They…the system loses track of them. They’ve been found living in cars or on the street, sometimes in abandoned apartments.”

“And how often do the parents get to come back for their kids?” Bo had asked her.

There was a long hesitation, so long he thought he’d lost her. “Mrs. Jackson?”

“I’ve never seen it.”

Bo didn’t think AJ needed to hear any of that. He put the phone away, saying, “Try not to worry. We’ll figure out how to fix this thing with your mother.”

The kid didn’t say anything, but Bo was sure he could feel doubt radiating from AJ’s every pore.

“It’ll be all right.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about me.”

“True, but right at this moment, I’m all you’ve got.” Bo watched the boy’s face change. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I intend to help you, AJ. That’s all I mean. I’m real sorry your mother never told you anything good about me.”

“She never told me
anything
about you,” the boy said.

Bo was stunned. “She didn’t explain where the monthly checks came from? The stuff I sent for your birthday and every Christmas?”

The kid shook his head. “I never knew about any checks. The gifts…we didn’t talk about those, either. She just handed them over.”

Bo tamped back a fresh burn of anger at Yolanda. There were lots of times when writing that check meant skipping meals or dodging the rent, but he never let her down. He figured it was the least he could do, since she was raising their child. It never occurred to him that Yolanda wouldn’t explain where the gifts came from. He gritted his teeth against saying what he really thought. “Maybe she didn’t tell you more because she wanted you to feel like you belonged to Bruno.”

“I belong to my mom. Not to Bruno
or
you.”

“When did you find out…about me?” Bo asked.

“When my dad—when Bruno left. I thought we’d handle it like other families, you know? You get to visit the parent who left. But Bruno, he didn’t want it that way. He said I couldn’t visit because I don’t belong to him.”

What a jackass,
thought Bo.

And AJ had been left to deal with the reality that his father came in the form of a monthly obligation instead of a flesh-and-blood guy. Bo wondered if the boy would ever regard him as someone who cared, who would keep him safe and dedicate himself to helping Yolanda. And, yeah, there was probably some pride involved. He wasn’t the jerk Yolanda had painted, and now he had a chance to show his boy the truth.

“Tell you what. You’ve got a home with me for as long as you need it. And I’m going to help your mom. The smartest lawyer in the world just happens to be married to my best friend, Noah,” Bo explained. “Swear to God, I’m not exaggerating. Sophie’s an expert in international law.”

“My mom needs an immigration lawyer,” AJ said, the term sounding disconcertingly adult as it rolled off his tongue. “Is your friend an immigration lawyer?”

“Sophie’s the best possible person to help,” Bo replied. “I told her what happened, and she’s already working with lawyers she knows in Texas, trying to figure out what’s going on down there.”

Sophie had warned him the situation might get complicated. She said this “temporary” detention might last for a while.

Bo didn’t see how the government could keep a hardworking single mother away from her own kid. It didn’t just feel wrong, but inhuman.

They reached the baggage-claim area, and Bo found the carousel that corresponded to AJ’s flight. The conveyor belt was already disgorging pieces of luggage, the occasional box bound with bailing wire, a car seat, a set of snow skis.

“Let me know when you see your bag,” Bo said.

The boy watched the conveyer belt, then glanced at the duct-taped suitcase he toted behind him. “It’s right here,” he said.

Bo frowned. “You mean you don’t have any luggage?”

“Only this.” He indicated the carry-on bag and his backpack.

“Then what are we standing around here for?”

AJ just looked at him.

Damn. There was something that drew him to this kid. This solemn, very unkidlike kid. And it wasn’t just DNA.

“Is this the first time you’ve ever flown in an airplane?” Bo asked.

“First time I’ve ever flown in anything.”

At last, a glimmer of humor. “Well, hell. This is where the checked luggage comes out. And since you don’t have any, we’re done here.” Bo grabbed the carry-on and led the way to the parking lot. As they stepped through the automatic doors, the outside air assaulted them with bone-cutting January cold. The cindery reek of jet fuel and diesel exhaust bloomed in thick puffs from the shuttle buses.

AJ seemed dazed. He hunched up his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Bo stopped walking and lifted the suitcase. “Hey, you got an extra coat in here?”

The kid shook his head, plucking the nylon fabric of the Yankees Windbreaker. It flapped thinly against his skinny arms and shoulders. “This is all I got.”

Great.

“It was hot in Houston,” AJ added.

Now that, Bo could understand. Once in a blue moon, a cold spell might hit the Gulf Coast in a fistlike front known as a Blue Norther. Usually, it was plenty warm down there, and often muggy. Growing up, Bo hadn’t owned a coat, either, except for his varsity letterman’s jacket, purchased by someone from the high-school booster club; no way could he have afforded it himself. Now, that thing had been a work of art—smooth black boiled wool, sleeves of butter-soft cream-colored leather.

He peeled off his olive-drab parka, handed it to AJ. “Put this on.”

“I don’t need your coat.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need you catching cold on top of everything else, so put it on.” A knifelike gust of wind sliced across the multilevel lot.

“People don’t catch cold from being cold,” AJ objected. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”

“Just put on the damned coat. It’s a long walk to the car.”

The boy hesitated, but then put on the parka. Bo couldn’t quite conceal his relief. He didn’t know what he would have done if the kid had defied him. Bo was a bartender. A ballplayer. Not a dad.

He got his key out of his pocket. The key fob still felt strange in his hand. He pressed the smooth, round button and the low-slung BMW Z4 roadster winked a greeting at him. He pressed another button and the trunk released. Carlisle, the sports agent who popped up at exactly the right time, had put the precontract deal together. Bo remembered standing in the cold November rain, just staring at the thing. A BMW Z4.
Convertible.

Never in a million years did he think he’d own such a car. But life was funny like that. Everything could change on the turn of a dime. In a heartbeat. In the time it takes to pick up the phone. Just as he was getting his shot, he found himself in charge of a kid.

“Here’s our ride,” he said, inviting AJ to put his stuff in the trunk.

The kid complied without comment, though Bo could tell he was checking out the car.

It had been one of the first things he’d bought when, last November, a single phone call had rocked his world. Years after Bo Crutcher had hung up his dreams of a major-league baseball career, he’d gone—same as he did every year—to tryouts. The difference this time was that the Yankees finally wanted to do business. Bo knew he was well past the age most players started in the major leagues. He knew he was a long shot. But at last, against all odds, he was getting a shot. Sure, they only wanted to acquire him for a midseason trade; it was a strategy move on the part of the Yankees, but he intended to make the most of whatever time he had with the club. It would be a hell of a thing to earn his spot on the forty-man roster and on the pitching staff. His competition was a hell of a lot younger, but none of them wanted this more.

He had planned to spend the entire winter getting ready for his big break. Life, however, seemed to be making other plans for him.

“All set?” he asked the boy.

“Smells like smoke,” he said.

“I’ve been known to enjoy the occasional cigar,” Bo said. “In the off-season.”

“Carcinogens don’t take any time off.”

Bo felt like telling the kid he was being a pain in the ass, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew why AJ was being a pain in the ass. He was acting this way because he was scared shitless, uncertain of his future and worried about the only person in his life who meant anything to him—his mother. And he was pissed, no doubt, about being sent to a dad he’d never met.

There was a shitload of things to talk about, but Bo figured he’d hold off, let the kid adjust to this bizarre and unexpected situation. Only yesterday, AJ had gone to school as if it was any other day. He had no idea that when school let out, his mother would be gone and he would be bundled aboard a plane bound for a place he’d never been, to a person he’d never met before.

The engine sprang to life with a growl. Bo navigated his way out of the parking lot, paid the booth attendant, then headed for the airport exit.

The last of the cold night lingered, and heavy clouds held back the dawn. AJ didn’t say anything, just shifted in his seat and glared straight ahead, his profile clean and angry in the yellow glow of the freeway lights.

“Look, I’m sorry this is happening,” Bo said. “I’m doing my best to fix it as quick as I can.”

“I don’t see why I can’t just go where my mom is,” AJ said.

“Because she wants what’s best for you, and going to a—” He broke off, not liking the sound of
detention center.
“Going where she is won’t help her, or you. I didn’t ask her to call me, AJ, but…I’m glad she did.” Bo couldn’t figure out if he was lying or not. Sure, he’d always wanted to meet AJ. But he wasn’t certain of his own motivation—curiosity? Ego trip? Or did he really care about this boy?

AJ shifted in his seat. Before long, the shifting became a squirm.

“Something the matter?” asked Bo.

“I gotta take a leak.” The kid sounded sheepish.

And you couldn’t have taken care of this back at the airport?
Bo clenched his jaw. He stopped himself from asking it aloud.

“I’ll find a place to stop.” Within a few miles, he spotted a Friendly’s sign poking up into the gray day. The place was open, surrounded by a few semis and travel trailers. They got out, and discovered the air was even colder here, outside the city. Bo hated the cold. He usually tried to spend winters training in Texas or Florida, someplace warm. If the Yankees deal worked out, he’d be headed to Tampa soon enough for training and exhibition games.

The restaurant smelled like pure heaven—frying oil and fresh coffee. Bo waited in the foyer while AJ went to the men’s room. Behind the hostess stand, a young woman checked him out. Bo acted as if he didn’t notice, but he stood up a little straighter. The fleeting moment reminded him that he hadn’t had a girlfriend in a long time. It was easy enough to get dates, but harder to keep them.

AJ returned, sniffing the air like a coonhound on the scent. His eyes shone with a stark, naked hunger, and his face looked pale and drawn.

“You all right?” Bo asked.

“Fine.” AJ’s hair gleamed at the temples, as if he’d slicked it back with water.

For some reason, Bo was touched by the hasty attempt at grooming. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

A shrug.

“Did they feed you on the plane?”

“Yeah.”

Bo had his hand on the door. Something made him hesitate, and he turned back. “What?” he asked. “What did you eat on the plane?”

“A snack.”

“You mean like a little packet of peanuts and a Coke?”

“Yeah, only I had a Sprite.”

“This way,” Bo said, heading to the hostess stand. He offered the hostess another smile. “You got a table for two, darlin’?”

“I sure do.” She took two glossy, oversized menus from beneath the podium. “This way. Your server will be right with you.”

Despite the undercurrent of flirting with the waitress, Bo was irritated. “You should’ve told me you were hungry,” he said. “I’m not a mind reader.”

AJ regarded him solemnly across the table. “I don’t know what you are. I don’t know you at all.”

“I’m your father, that’s what I am. And it’s not my fault you don’t know me. It’s not your fault, either.”

“Sure, let’s blame Mom for everything,” AJ said.

All right, so this was going to be an emotional minefield. Bo was bad at blindly feeling out someone’s vulnerable areas, particularly with a boy who was a stranger. An angry, resentful stranger.

“I’m not looking to blame anybody,” he said, trying for a kindly, reasonable tone. Wasn’t that how you talked to a kid? With kindness? “Your mother isn’t to blame for anything, AJ. She made the best choices she knew how to make under the circumstances. I respect her for that.”

The boy stared at the menu, his face expressionless.

“Sorry I sounded pissed. I’m mad at myself, okay?” Bo continued. “Not at you. I’m new to this—to being in charge of a kid. I should have asked if you were hungry, or if you needed the restroom, but it didn’t occur to me. I’m not a subtle guy, AJ, and I’m not real smart about a lot of things. Sometimes you’re going to have to speak up, spell out for me what you need. Can you do that?”

“I guess.”

“Good.” He picked up the carafe the hostess had left at the table. “Coffee?”

“I’m a kid. I don’t drink coffee.”

What Bo knew about kids would not fill the stoneware mug in front of him. “Well then, take a look at the menu and order anything you want.”

The waitress came, and AJ asked for a blueberry muffin and a glass of milk.

“Oh, you gotta do better than that,” Bo said. “I mean it, AJ. Anything.”

The kid packed away food as if he was hollow inside. A stack of pancakes, steak and eggs, a ham sandwich, a vanilla milkshake. Watching him eat, Bo felt oddly gratified. He didn’t know why. There was something primal about feeding the boy, watching him fill himself up like a tanker taking on fuel. If he ate like this all the time, maybe he’d grow.