The Isaac Project (3 page)

“Mean, median, mode, and range,” I read aloud.

Marty chewed his bottom lip and pulled at the grass by his feet.

Boy, did I have my work cut out for me. I searched my brain for a way to explain the challenging math concepts so a sixth grader could understand.

The ball under the hoop snagged my attention. Brilliant.

I pushed the textbook aside and stretched out on the lawn, resting my weight on the palms of my hands behind me and crossing my legs in front of me. “So who won your basketball game last night?”

At the unexpected question, Marty’s head snapped to attention. The glazed-over look in his eyes faded away, replaced by an enthusiastic grin. “Mr. Luke, it was such a great game. We won forty-three to twenty-seven, and I scored eight points!”

“Way to go, squirt.” We high-fived.

I nodded toward the notebook on the other side of Marty. When the boy handed me a piece of paper, I jotted down the number eight.

“Who else scored?” I asked, pencil poised to write down the numbers.

His face scrunched in concentration. “Matt had a couple of good lay-ups and some free throws so I guess he scored six of the points. Billy made two lay-ups. Pedro had an awesome three pointer. You should have seen it. No one thought it was going to make it in.”

Marty continued to give me a play-by-play of the game, and I wrote down the points scored by each player.

“Okay, Marty, you know how all the NBA players have different stats, right? I bet you could even tell me what Kobe Bryant’s average points per game are.”

He gave me a knowing smile.

“Well, statistics like those are figured out using things like mean, medium, mode, and range.”

I glanced at Marty.

His face scrunched up. Still didn’t get it.

I took the paper and placed it in front of him. “If we take all the numbers and add them up, then divide that number by how many numbers there are on this list, we get the mean. To find the median, take this list of numbers and then write them in order from smallest to greatest. The median is the middle number. The mode is the number repeated the most, and to find the range you subtract the smallest number from the largest. Get it?”

His mouth formed a silent
O
as he snatched the paper out of my hand and grabbed his textbook. Stretching out on his stomach, he spent the next fifteen minutes figuring out the problems in his book that were assigned for homework.

A feminine voice cut the relaxed air. “Oh, Luke, can I have a word with you for a minute?”

Turning, I lifted my hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare. I cringed.

Marty’s mom stood in the doorway dressed a little too scantily for even the warmth of late August. Her miniskirt showed the smooth length of her legs, and the deep V-neck cut to her blouse revealed the soft curves of full cleavage. She must’ve had Marty at a young age, because she didn’t look old enough to have an eleven-year-old son.

Do I have to?
“Sure thing, Ms. Stabler.”

Her eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction. She insisted I call her Colleen. I insisted on calling her Ms. Stabler. I wanted as much of a professional line between us as I could build. More than a line, really. The Great Wall of China would be better. As I walked up to the house, the lyrics of “Maneater” ran through my head.

“Now, Luke,” she purred as I stepped through the door, “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for my Marty.”

“It’s my pleasure ma’am. He’s a good boy. Bright, too.” Maybe if I stood right by the door, I could make a quick escape should this conversation take a turn for the worse.

Slender fingers, tipped with hot-pink nails, curled around my forearm and directed me farther into the house. If the talons of an eagle had seen a manicurist, there would probably be a resemblance.

The woman indicated a chair in the living room.

Great. My mother’s voice echoed in my head. “Be polite, Luke.” Did Mom ever have this scenario in mind? My shoulders drooped, but I sat anyway. The moment my backside hit the cushion of the teal wingback chair, the walls closed in and drew the man-eater closer as the space shrunk.

She stalked toward me, her hips swaying dramatically like the models on a catwalk. Her head tipped down and to the side, and she looked at me through long dark lashes. Placing one polished finger on my shoulder, she pivoted until she stood behind me. Every muscle in my body tensed as she cupped my shoulders and then gently stroked my biceps.

An involuntary shiver swept up my spine. And not the good kind. My knuckles were starting to turn white from the grip I had on the armrest.

“Ms. Stabler—”

She leaned down behind me. Peppermint filled my nostrils as her warm breath caressed my ear.

“Colleen,” she breathed as her hands slid around my shoulders and down to my chest.

Whoa. That was enough. I shot out of the chair faster than water out of a fire hose. Mama might have taught me manners, but she also taught me not to get burned, and this woman was pure fire.

Her eyes flashed. I knew I’d insulted her, but what could I do? If I thought I’d done something wrong, I would’ve apologized. Shoot, if I thought it would make any difference at all, I would’ve apologized, whether I was at fault or not. But it was her problem. She kept crossing the line. I groaned. I guess it was my problem too. The only reason I’d stayed with the job was because of Marty. The kid didn’t have a father figure in his life, and I thought I could make a difference for him. Not to mention, he was finally starting to catch on with his school work.

I’d made it clear in the past where I stood with this woman, but it looked like I needed to say it again.

“Ms. Stabler,” I ground out. My voice was firm, but she needed to know I was serious. “I am here for Marty and only for Marty. Got it?”

Her bottom lip pushed out in a well-formed pout. She took a step toward me, the lioness stalking her prey. I stepped back. This woman needed to keep her distance, and if she wouldn’t, then I would.

“If not,” I continued, “then you can find another tutor for your son.”

She crossed her arms, and a scowl contorted her face. Her pouty lips closed to form a tight, thin line, and her once-fluid body became stiff and rigid
.
A storm was brewing, and I was about to bear the brunt of it.

“How dare you,” she seethed, her voice growing louder with each word. “How dare you talk to me that way. How dare you give me an ultimatum. Get. Out. Now. Get out of my house this minute. And don’t you dare come near Marty again, you hear me?”

She continued her tirade as I exited the house. Marty was staring at me, his lips pulled down, and his chin trembling.

“So I guess I won’t be seeing you anymore, huh?”

“Guess not, squirt.” I squatted down so I could be eye level with him. Ripping off a piece of his paper, I took his pencil and jotted down my phone number. “If you ever need anything, call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

I tousled his hair before turning and then hopping into my truck. A crank of the ignition fired the engine, and I drove away.
Don’t look back.
I was really going to miss that kid. I prayed God would send another man who could make a difference in Marty’s life. Kids, boys especially, needed male role models in their lives. Dads preferably, but I understood that couldn’t always be the case.

Anger boiled in my veins for the way things had turned out. I needed to blow off some steam before I exploded. Flicking on my blinker, I turned down Bartlett Avenue and headed to the Bunker.

After I parked in the front of the old red brick warehouse-turned-boxing gym, I grabbed my green gym bag from behind the passenger’s seat and went inside. The smell of stale air and sweat greeted me as soon as I opened the door. The tense muscles in my shoulders eased. Safer in the ring than in that house.

I snagged a pair of hand wraps from my bag and wound them around my wrists and knuckles. Typically, I used boxing gloves on the punching bag, but today the wraps would do. The look of disappointment on Marty’s face ate at me, and if my hands ended up stinging a little, then that was punishment I deserved.

Walking over to one of the available bags, I bent my knees and clenched my fists in front of my face in a boxing stance. Pivoting on my front foot and throwing all my weight behind my punch, I jabbed at the bag.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

A few hooks and uppercuts added variety to the routine. Salty sweat beaded on my forehead and ran down my face, stinging my eyes. Not taking the time to wipe it away, I continued to strike at the stuffed leather cylinder.

“Hey, hey, hey—what is up my friends?”

Rolling my eyes, I glanced over my shoulder. Yep. Angelo Moretti with his long slicked-back black hair and signature wifebeater shirt. I thought he wore them because he didn’t want to hide the twin tattoos on his deltoids. He thought they gave him street cred, or some such nonsense. Not that he needed any in the Midwest, except for perhaps Chicago. Maybe someone needed to give him a map, because Niles, Michigan, wasn’t Chicago.

I swung my arm wide in a cross and connected with the bag with more force than before. My knuckles throbbed from the impact. Instead of shaking it off, I went into double-time jabs.

The scent of garlic permeated the air. My nose wrinkled, whether from the acrid scent or the man it came from, I couldn’t tell. With the amount of hair gel Angelo used he should reek of it, but even those chemicals were no match for Mrs. Moretti’s famous bruschetta. And from the smell of Angelo, he’d enjoyed a bit too much of his mama’s cooking.

“Masterson.” He smacked his gum as he came up beside me, thumbs hooked in belt loops on a pair of pants a few sizes too big. “How about you and me go a few rounds in the ring?”

“No thanks, Angelo.”

“C’mon.” He winked and nudged me with his elbow. “I’ll go easy on you.”

I stopped punching and grabbed the bag so it would stop swinging. I gave him what I hoped was a withering glare before turning my back and walking to a bench, unwinding my wraps as I went.

“What? Afraid I’d whip you, pretty boy?” He taunted as if I were a child. Although this was Angelo, and I guess he figured if such tactics would work on him, they might on me as well.

“Drop it,” I snapped.

“What’s up with you today, man?” He faked a one-two at my arm. “Some skirt turn you down or somethin’?”

I glared, but he continued heedlessly.

“What’d she do? Throw a beer in your face when you tried to smack her—”

“Enough!”

“What?” He shrugged. “Happened to me once.”

“Well, that’s not what happened to me. In fact, it was the other way around.”

The words no sooner left my tongue than I regretted them. The whole situation was not one I’d been planning on sharing, especially with someone like Angelo. By the gleam in his eye, he’d already taken to it the way a bug was attracted to a bright light.

“Wait, let me get this straight. A woman came on to you, and you said no?” His voice rose an octave on the last word.

I neither affirmed nor denied the accusation, for that was what it was. Not a question or a statement, but an all-out accusation. It seemed I didn’t need to respond, however, because Angelo rushed on.

“You must be insane or gay or somethin’.” Angelo stopped and stepped back. “Wait, you’re not gay, are you?”

“No, Angelo, I’m not gay.” I put his homophobic fears to rest.

“So who’s the broad anyway? I mean, if she wanted to jump your bones, imagine what she’d do if she saw me.” He raked his fingers through his gelled hair, his head bobbing and hips dipping in a standing swagger.

“A little respect, Angelo.” I fixed a glare on him. My patience, which had been a little thin after the events of the day, was ready to snap. The tension I’d released on the bag was beginning to build between my shoulder blades again.

“I only want to—”

“Enough. Instead of calling women ‘broads’ and ‘skirts,’ how about showing them some respect and treating them like ladies. They’re human beings, not pieces of meat to ogle and crave. When you can treat a woman right, maybe then you’ll be worthy enough to have one. Oh, and one more piece of advice,” I said as I lifted the strap of my gym bag onto my shoulder. “Lay off your mama’s bruschetta. You reek of garlic.” 

3

Rebekah

LISA AND I headed through town toward Grandview. I glanced at my reflection in the review mirror. Ugh. Maybe Lisa had some makeup in her purse. I hardly wore the stuff, but my puffy eyes and red nose were in need of some if I was going to successfully mask the unwanted events of the day from Poppy’s discerning eyes and focus on celebrating him and his life.

We pulled up to the one-story ranch-style house that had been converted into a nursing home. The wraparound porch and rocking chairs gave the place an inviting feel. Southern charm way out west. The window boxes overflowing with wave petunias of every color brought life to a place that housed those near the end of their own. If Poppy had to be in a facility, at least we’d been able to find a nice homey-feeling one. Not one that resembled a sterile hospital.
      I pulled bags of decorations from the back of the truck, and Lisa carried in the cake and a few balloons. I wish I could say I bounded up the steps with the excitement I had felt at the beginning of the day back in full force, but that would have been a lie. Mechanically my legs moved and carried me up those steps. With sheer will I pushed my lips up in a smile and shoved back any threatening tears. No more waterworks. Period.
      “Oh, good afternoon, Rita.” I greeted the petite CNA helping Mrs. Peter’s into her wheelchair on the other side of the porch. Rita was a shy girl about my age, although with her short height and smooth skin, she looked more like a teenager. Poppy had told me that even though she did the hardest, dirtiest work at Grandview, she never complained. She returned my greeting with a small wave of her hand.

“I’ll take the cake in to the kitchen. Why don’t you go ahead and start decorating the dining hall.” Lisa nodded to a pair of double doors.