She understood she wasn’t going to talk me out of it. She lowered her head and gave me the address. “Crispin lives in the big house on School Street. Red roof.”
“That’s where they hang out. He’s got a basement where they do business.” I nodded, got up, poured her a glass of water, and helped her drink.
Then I said, “Lie down. I’ll clean up later. Right now I need to step out.” “Where?”
“To take a look around.” I walked out of the house and shut the door behind me. Stood on the porch a moment and took in a breath.
Warm summer air, cut grass, river smell. Beautiful day. And inside that house my mother was broken, beaten, afraid to step outside.
I walked toward the red-roofed house at an easy pace. Hands in my pockets, face calm. But inside, the decision had already been made.
I wasn’t going to the sheriff’s office. I wasn’t filing a report and waiting for some deputy—probably already in these men’s pocket—to pretend to do his job. I was going to handle it myself.
The Army taught me a lot. Including how to break bones the right way. And how to make sure a man remembers exactly what he’s done.
I stopped across the street from Crispin’s house. Solid two-story place, newly built. Money all over it. Stolen money, extorted money, fear money.
A shiny car sat in the driveway. Loud music coming through the windows, so somebody was home. I took note of everything: the gate, the windows, the back way out through the yard.
Then I turned around and headed back. Too soon. First I needed to prepare, learn more.
Then I’d pay them a visit one at a time. And I’d explain to each of them what happens when you put your hands on somebody’s mother. That evening I sat in the kitchen with Mom.
I’d straightened the place up, set the furniture back, swept up the broken glass. Boiled potatoes and made her eat a little. She chewed slowly, carefully—her jaw was probably hurt too.
She stayed quiet, and so did I, waiting for her to speak first. Finally she set down her spoon and looked at me. “Alex, please don’t do anything.”
“You’ll leave again sooner or later, and I’ll still be here. If they think you did something, they’ll come back, and it’ll be worse.”
I poured tea for both of us, sat down across from her, and said softly, “Mom, tell me everything from the beginning. When did this start? How?”
She sighed and wrapped both hands—one whole, one damaged—around the mug. Stared into the tea like she was looking down a well. “Three months ago. Maybe four.”
“I got behind on the mortgage and utilities. Social Security wasn’t enough, you know that. They shut the power off for a week.”
“I went to the town office and asked for more time. The clerk said there was nothing they could do. Then Wade Crispin showed up.”
She stopped, drank some tea, and I waited. “He said he could help. Said he’d cover what I owed and I could pay him back later. No pressure, neighbor to neighbor.”
“I said yes. Fool that I was, I said yes. He paid three hundred dollars, got the lights turned back on, and for a little while everything looked fine.”
“I thought I’d pay him back little by little out of my check. But a month later he came back. Said I owed six hundred. I told him, ‘How can it be six? You only paid three.’”
“He laughed. Said interest had piled up—one hundred percent a month. I told him I didn’t have that kind of money.”
Her voice shook, and I clenched my fists under the table. “Then what?”
