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Russell Rowland's first novel In Open Spaces  © Perennial made the San Francisco Chronicle's bestseller list and was named to the Salt Lake City Tribune's Best of the West 2002 list. Rowland teaches for the Gotham Writing Workshops, and was recently chosen for a MacDowell Fellowship. He splits his time between San Francisco and his home state of Montana. Ed Got a Job
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| * |
The first night on the job, Ed sat stiffly in his chair, holding the club in his right hand and tapping the end into his other palm. He was pleased to find that it felt good to be working again.
He had brought along a Louis L'Amour novel, which sat on the table next to him. He hadn't opened it yet, although he'd been on watch for about five hours. Every time he thought about picking it up and reading, he decided he'd better wait just a little longer, until it was late enough that people would be asleep. A thermos of coffee sat between his feet, about half full now.
From where his chair was situated, Ed could see most of the parking lot. The big windows spread before him like steel panels, grey and shiny, but the lot was well lit. Ed could clearly see the rows of yellow lines marking the individual spaces on the blacktop, which looked wet in the light. The only part of the lot he couldn't see was a corner that wrapped around the east side of the building, where the dumpsters were located.
So at the top of every hour, Ed walked around to that part of the lot and made sure there weren't any undesirables. He checked behind the dumpsters and even around the corner of the building to assure himself nobody was hiding back there.
It was four o'clock in the morning, just as he was getting ready to check again, when he noticed some kids-teenagers-walking in the far corner of the parking lot. Ed stood looking out the window at the group as they made their way toward the building. There were six of them, all boys, all wearing baseball caps at various angles. They strutted with the confidence of a pack, their knees bending with every other step. Most of them appeared to be carrying bottles, or cans.
Ed thought about what he should do and, after taking a gulp from the plastic mug of coffee, he strode out the front door, tapping his hand with the club.
Outside, the fall air chilled his face and lungs for a moment, until he took a deep breath and his body adjusted. He could hear streams of nervous breath rushing from his nose as he crossed the parking lot. His steel-toed boots clunked against the asphalt with each step. He was about ten steps into the lot when the boys stopped walking. They all turned toward the tallest one and Ed could hear a word or phrase here and there: 'cop,' 'since when?' and 'should we go ahead?', all peppered with swearing.
Ed stood quietly, the club working against his palm, his feet planted firmly, shoulder width.
The boys were far enough away that Ed couldn't see their faces, but the tallest kid was facing him, and Ed could tell that he wasn't saying anything. Just standing there looking at Ed while the others chattered and swore. Finally, after several minutes, the tall kid turned and walked away from the others, back in the direction they'd come from. The rest of the boys looked at each other, and some looked over at Ed, as if they had no idea what to do without being told. They turned to watch the tall kid, and one of them started trotting after him. Then another. And eventually, they all jogged away, catching up to their leader and disappearing into the darkness.
Ed stood watching them, feeling slightly proud, and realized his knees were jittery.
| * |
Two weeks went by without another visit from the teenagers, but Ed did notice during this period that every night at the same time-2:00 AM-three cats would come and raid the dumpsters. They climbed inside, pulling whatever meat they could find onto the ground, where they would chomp away until they'd had their fill. Then they'd leave the rest.
The first few times Ed saw the cats, he tried to shoo them away. But the cats stayed close by, waiting until he left to finish their raid. Ed would yell, waving his arms until they were tired, then stand a few yards from the dumpsters, where he could see the cats hiding in the bushes, their eyes shining yellow in the dark.
He hid behind a corner and watched them slink back to the dumpsters. He tried throwing rocks, banging the dumpsters with his stick, and sitting on the curb for almost an hour, but they always came back. Ed eventually realized that nothing he did would keep the cats from finishing their feeding, a thought he found unacceptable.
| * |
"Honey?" Ed picked up his smallest scissors and trimmed the excess yellow feathers on a yellowjacket fly.
"What?" Adele answered into the air, lying back in her recliner.
"You know anything about cats?"
"Cats?"
"Yeah, cats."
Adele turned from the TV, annoyance twisting her mouth. "What do you mean?"
"I mean do you know anything about cats, like how to get rid of them?"
"Ed, we never had cats."
"Yeah, I know." Ed used a needlenose pliers to hold the fly as he loosened the vice. He lifted the fly up to his face and decided it needed more black.
"Well, why do you think I'd know any more than you?" Adele lifted her back off the recliner and tucked a hand behind her. She rubbed the small of her back, cringing. Her legs were propped up onto the footrest, and her bad knee looking like something packed for shipping in its white brace and straps.
"I just thought you might. I thought you might have heard something sometime. Or seen something on TV."
"Why do you want to know about cats anyway? You aren't getting no cat." She pointed at him with the two fingers that held a cigarette. The smoke drifted between them, obscuring her scowl.
"No, don't worry about that," Ed said. "I hate cats. I already said I want to know about getting rid of them."
"Well, you better not get no cat."
Ed tightened the fly back into the vice and dug through the black in his plastic case of colored feathers. "I'm not getting a cat."
| * |
That Friday Ed saw the kids again, then again Saturday, and Sunday. Each time, they passed through the parking lot, just skirting the edge. Except for the tall kid, they talked loudly among themselves and pointed at Ed as he stood with his nightstick. One kid started calling him 'Lardass,' blurting out the name as they passed through and laughing uproariously each time he said it. The others laughed along with him, but never as loudly or for as long as he did. Ed couldn't believe the kid got so much pleasure out of saying the same thing time after time.
On Monday night, the tall kid stopped when the kids were halfway across the parking lot. Ed's left hand tightened around the end of his nightstick. He squeezed the stick, feeling the cold wood against his palm. His hand started to feel stiff.
The tall kid stood facing Ed, and the rest of the kids gathered around him, looking up at him, then at Ed, then back at the tall kid, obviously wondering what was going on.
"Hey Lardass, is that stick loaded?" the loud kid yelled.
The tall kid leaned over and said something to the loud one, and the loud one stopped laughing, turning his back to Ed. The tall kid looked back at Ed, took his cap off and adjusted it back on his head at exactly the same angle it was before. Then he turned and continued in the direction they always went.
Ed breathed in, filling his lungs until they hurt, then letting the air out slowly. It whistled between his pursed lips.
He walked over near the dumpsters and watched the cats pulling meat onto the ground. They glanced at him, but only briefly, then went back to eating. As he usually did, Ed waited until they finished eating, then cleaned up the mess they had left behind. Each night that he had to clean up after the cats, he became more determined to figure out some way to stop their raids. The cats were affecting his job. The time that he had to spend each night taking care of their mess was taking away from what he was supposed to be doing, and he didn't feel right about that. He decided he had to find a solution.
| * |
"Cats?"
Ed studied the man before him. His hair was long-too long, Ed thought.
"Yes, cats." Ed hooked his thumbs into his belt. He had worn his uniform to look more official.
The man ran his hand through his hair, brushing it back behind his ear. He looked at Ed a little sideways. "I never had anyone ask me about cats before."
"Yes, well there's some cats that are spreading garbage around where I work." Ed sighed deeply, to show what a strain this had been on him. "They get into the garbage, the dumpsters, and spread the meat around on the ground."
"What did you say your name was?"
"Turnberry, Ed Turnberry." Ed pointed to the name above his pocket.
"Well, Mr. Turnberry, I don't really know for sure, but I think killing cats is illegal. We really aren't used to this kind of request. We just kill bugs, you know." The man held his hand out behind him, where posters of cockroaches, ants, and termites lined the wall. "We also get calls to exterminate rats, but like I said, it's mostly bugs. I don't think it's legal to kill cats."
Ed nodded, pursing his lips, annoyed with this man's unwillingness to help him. "Thank you very much," he said.
| * |
The next Thursday Ed went in to pick up his paycheck. Steve, who was taking inventory, spotted Ed and motioned for him. Ed panicked a little, wondering whether he'd done something wrong, or whether Steve had noticed some of the mess that the cats had been leaving. He liked his job.
"Hey, Ed," Steve smiled. "How's it going?"
Ed nodded, skeptical about Steve's genial mood. It occurred to him that Steve might be trying to prime him, before he lowered the boom. "I'm all right."
Ed spread his feet apart and tucked his hands into the small of his back, parade rest style.
"Well, I just wanted to let you know you're doing a good job." Steve tapped his pen against his clipboard. "We haven't had any problems at all with vandals since you started. We're very happy about that."
Ed pushed his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out again, returning them to the small of his back. He knew that this compliment would be followed by whatever Steve really wanted to talk to him about. So he waited, preparing himself to take the criticism like a man.
Steve looked at him like he wasn't sure whether Ed had heard him. "Is there anything you're having problems with? Anything you need?"
A small sound tickled Ed's throat, as he nearly mentioned something about the cats. He stopped himself, looking down at his boots.
"What is it, Ed?" Steve stopped stacking boxes and turned to face Ed, brushing his hands together.
Ed cleared his throat. "Well, sir, there's some cats."
"What?" A slight smiled crossed Steve's lips, which annoyed Ed.
"Some cats've been getting into the dumpsters, spreading meat around in the parking lot."
Steve studied Ed, and his lips tightened up, squeezing together until the fleshy part didn't show any more. "Cats, huh?"
"Yeah, three of 'em."
"Hmm." Steve nodded slowly. "Well Ed, I don't think that's a big problem. I wouldn't worry about that too much."
Steve looked Ed over, waiting for a reply. Ed didn't say anything. So Steve continued. "Maybe they aren't getting enough to eat at home." Steve smiled.
Ed didn't. He was getting more and more annoyed.
He watched as Steve thought some more, his shoulders dropping. "Did you have an idea of what we could do about it?" Steve asked.
"No, sir," Ed said. "I haven't."
Steve breathed slow and deep in through his nose, looking to one side, then back at Ed. "Well then, I suggest you just try not to worry about it. That's not part of your job. We've got people to take care of keeping the parking lot clean, and the cats aren't hurting anyone." Steve nodded once, an attempt to reassure Ed. "Just relax, Ed. Don't sweat it."
Ed didn't respond, or move. He hated being told to relax, but he knew that it would be in bad form to say that. So he just waited, still expecting more-still waiting for Steve to tell him what he was doing wrong. He held his chin high. Steve looked at him, puzzled. "Maybe I'll see you again next Thursday?" Steve finally said.
Ed raised his brow. "Oh? Okay. Thank you, sir."
| * |
"Ed, I need something to drink." Adele yelled from the living room, but Ed didn't answer right away, hoping she would think he didn't hear her. He rubbed sandpaper gently across the armrest of a pine rocking chair.
"Ed!"
He sighed and laid the sandpaper down on the seat of the chair and walked with small, slow steps into the living room.
"I need something to drink, Ed." Adele dipped into her bowl of popcorn and scooped a handful to her mouth. A pair of Ed's pants was draped over the arm of Adele's chair. Ed had asked Adele a week ago to sew a seam that had split in the waistband. A spaghetti stain colored the leg of the pants, but other than that, they didn't appear to have been touched.
"What do you want?" Ed asked. "Beer? Soda?"
"Beer. With a glass."
"I know." Ed shuffled into the kitchen.
"Not too much foam," Adele yelled.
"I know," Ed said to himself.
| * |
For three nights in a row, Ed tried to follow Steve's advice. He tried not to think about the cats. But at two o'clock in the morning each of those nights, he knew the cats were out there, rummaging through the dumpsters, flinging meat around the parking lot, then munching on it. The more he thought about them, the more it felt as if they were munching on his elbow or the fatty part of his calf. He could practically feel their teeth. On the fourth night, he couldn't stand it any longer.
At 1:45, he marched out into the parking lot, limping slightly from a varicose vein that had been acting up in the back of his leg. He slipped the club from his belt, swinging it fiercely at his side as he made his way toward the dumpster. The cats weren't there yet, so he backed into the shadows at the side of the building, fidgeting with his club and flexing his sore knee.
Ed leaned against the building and felt the cool brick against his arms. He kept his eyes on the bushes, scanning their length for the fluorescent yellow spots.
He imagined himself taking a mighty swing at one of the cats as it perched on the dumpster. He could picture the fractured torso flying through the air, sprawled and yowling, never to raid Ed's territory again. A tapping noise broke the fantasy, and he realized he was knocking his club against the brick. He held the club with both hands to prevent himself from lapsing into this nervous tic again.
Twenty minutes passed, then a half-hour, and forty-five, and Ed got impatient, irritated. The back of his leg ached, and his hand began to cramp from gripping the club so tightly. He kept forgetting to hold the club in both hands, and found himself tapping the wall several more times. Each time he gripped the club a little harder, hoping it would help him remember.
Finally he heard a soft rustling, a crunch of leaves. A shadow leapt up onto a dumpster, landing without a sound. Two more shadows quickly followed, one of them flashing white in what little moonlight glowed in the night sky.
Ed crept forward, lifting his shoes a foot off the ground so he wouldn't scrape any gravel along the pavement. When he got close, he lunged forward, drawing back his club, then ran four labored steps to the dumpster. He swung at the white cat, which was gone before he even began his swing. He bashed his knuckles against the dumpster and swore before flailing blindly toward where the other cats had been. These cats were also long gone, and Ed's club pounded the side of the dumpster with a hollow 'clung' that rang in his ears for a minute after.
He swore again, leaning his forearms against the dumpster, his head against his hands, and breathing deep, rasping breaths. The knuckles of his right hand felt rough against his forehead, and he knew he'd scraped some hide off. He lifted his head to study them, and saw that the scrapes weren't serious, bleeding only slightly. But it hurt. He rested his head again, still short of breath.
"Damn cats," he muttered. "Goddamn cats."
"Nice try, Lardass."
The shout from behind gripped Ed's heart, and he wheeled around to see the kids running away, looking back and laughing. He held his chest, closed his eyes, and breathed deep, trying to calm himself. "Damn kids."
| * |
"Would you change the channel?" Adele adjusted the pillow behind her head, reaching for her cigarettes with her other hand.
"Where's the remote?" Ed asked.
"It's busted," Adele answered.
Ed groaned as he climbed stiffly from his recliner. "What channel?"
"Five," Adele said. "'Love Boat.'" She lit a cigarette. "What's the matter with you anyway? You're moving like you fell off a truck. And all you've done is sleep the past two days. What did you do to your hand?"
Ed changed the channel, then turned back toward his chair. "You want anything while I'm up?"
Adele blew a smoke cloud above her head. "I'm all right," she said. "What'd you do to your hand?"
"Scraped it," Ed said, settling back into his chair. "Scraped the knuckles."
Adele sighed, shaking her head with disgusted impatience. "I can see that. How?"
"Working on a chair," Ed said. "With a wood file."
"You ought to get a tetanus shot. Rusty metal and all." Adele nodded at him. "Right?"
"It's not that bad," he said. "It's all right."
Adele shook her head again, puffing on her cigarette. "Hey, this isn't 'Love Boat.' Is this channel five?"
| * |
"Barter? Sure, we barter. What is it you're looking for?" The pawnbroker's cologne was too strong, and Ed held a finger under his nose, in a thoughtful pose. He studied the guns in the glass case. He pointed.
"That's a .45 there, isn't it?"
"Sure is." The broker unlocked the sliding door in back of the case, slid it open, and pulled the gun out, setting it lightly on the counter in front of Ed. "Standard issue. Just like I used on Navy watches."
"Navy, huh?" Ed picked up the gun, flipping it in his hands. He hadn't held a gun since he retired, and even when he was in the Army, he rarely stood watches. So he didn't know much about guns. "I'm retired Army myself."
"Yeah?" The broker nodded and smiled, a salesman's smile. "Well, you should know that thing in your sleep then, right?" He laughed.
Ed smiled, still looking down at the gun. "Oh, yeah, I know these babies. Too well."
The broker laughed again. "So..." he said, rubbing his hands together. He had a big turquoise ring on his pinky finger, which Ed thought looked stupid. "What you got for me?"
Ed dug in the big pocket of his jacket and pulled out a jeweler's case. He flipped it open on the counter, revealing a colorful display of fishing flies, twenty of them, all different. Ed smiled to himself.
"Hmmmm." The broker bent down close to the flies, his cologne drifting up Ed's nose. Ed stepped to the side a little. The broker picked up the case and held it in front of his face, cradling it in both hands.
"So we got us a fly-tier here. Mm hmm." He tilted the case one way, then the other, studying the flies from different angles.
"These are real nice, real nice." He dragged out the second 'real.' "Good work. But..." He set the case down and shrugged one shoulder. "I'm afraid you're gonna need about twenty-five more of these to make an even trade. These don't come close to covering the cost of that piece." He tilted his head toward the gun. "And to be honest with you, we wouldn't have no use for another twenty-five flies. We already got a bunch of them."
Ed thought, studying the broker's hair, which was pulled back tight from his forehead, tied in a ponytail. It was greasy, or covered with hair oil. "How much for the difference?" Ed asked.
"Hundred bucks," the broker said flatly.
Ed pictured the four twenties he had tucked in his wallet. He thought about going back home to get a rocking chair, but he wanted to get the deal over with. And he didn't want to have to explain to Adele why he was taking a chair. He shook his head. "Can't do that," he said. "Seventy's as high as I can go."
The broker shook his head and laughed to himself and rocked from one foot to another. "Seventy, huh?" He shook his head again. "Well, I could go down to ninety, but that's as low as I'll take it."
Ed felt the disappointment beginning to grow. "I need bullets, too," he said. "Three of them. I can't go any higher than seventy."
The broker stopped rocking. "Three bullets?"
Ed nodded.
"Well, we only sell ammo by the box."
Ed's disappointment grew a little more. "How much?"
"For .45's, you're looking at ten bucks." The broker held his arms straight out at his sides, resting his hands on the counter, leaning into them.
"Oh no," Ed said firmly. "I only need three. I'll give you seventy-five for the gun and three bullets."
"What do you got, three in-laws?" The broker looked hard at Ed, grinning, waiting for a laugh.
Ed didn't think the joke was funny, but he forced a smile. "I ain't gonna kill no one," he said, still smiling.
The broker studied him, chuckling softly. "All right, you got yourself a deal," he said. "Course, I'll have to get you to fill out this registration." He pulled a form from a drawer and laid it on the counter. "You've never been to prison or nothing, have you?" He smiled.
Ed bit the inside of his mouth, insulted, but he forced another grin.
| * |
Ed took his gun to work that same night. He rode the bus, carrying the gun in the plastic bag he always used for his lunch. He had wrapped it in a rag so it wouldn't make a gun-shaped bulge. He felt the cartridge, which had the three bullets in it, in the front pocket of the pants Adele had finally mended.
Ed studied the sky on his walk to the store. There was the slightest sliver of moon, and a smattering of clouds, and Ed thought to himself that the inky darkness would work to his advantage. The hours crawled toward two o'clock. Ed took the gun from its bag time after time, slipping the cartridge in, locking one shell into the chamber and out again, practicing the motion over and over with slightly improved awkwardness. He ate his lunch at one o'clock, two hours earlier than usual.
And finally, he grew tired of checking his watch and, at 1:45, walked with breathless strides to the dumpsters. He tried several vantage points, aiming the gun at the top of the dumpster from each angle. He dropped to one knee, sat leaning against the building, aimed from just around the corner, and finally settled on a position close to where he'd tried to attack with his club. He stood resting his back against the brick, gun poised, barrel straight in the air.
He held the pose, unthinking, until his knees locked. He shifted his weight from leg to leg a few times, loosening the joints. He rubbed his sore knee. The gun started feeling heavy, and he dropped the heavy weight to his side.
His eyes remained fixed on the bushes. And at 2:15, he saw a flash of yellow flicker in the shadow of the brush, then another, and seconds later the slinking silhouettes perched atop a dumpster.
Ed held his mouth closed and tried to reduce the flow of breath whistling through his nose. He lifted the gun carefully, his arms straight out in front, and squinted, trying to find the sights against the black sky. His hand shook, and he could barely make out the notch at the end of the barrel. He aimed his vision along the barrel, pointing at one of the figures. He held his breath, trying to stop the shaking. The figure started to move. Ed pulled the trigger.
A metallic 'thunk' sounded and the cats disappeared. Ed quickly squeezed off a second shot, which hit nothing. The report echoed into the darkness, and Ed slumped against the building. He let out his breath. Then he heard running footsteps. He looked across the lot and saw the kids running away. He ran toward them and aimed the gun in their direction.
"Halt!" he yelled.
The kids didn't respond, and he fired a warning shot into the air, which made them run even harder.
"Jesus, he's shooting at us!" he heard the loud kid yell.
Ed stopped running, realizing he was out of bullets and that the kids weren't going to stop anyway. He walked back to the store, feeling the pain in his leg again. He wanted to sit down.
But he didn't rest long. He realized that someone would probably be coming soon. The cops, maybe. He would have to hide the gun. He wouldn't be able to explain why he had the gun. He looked around him, but couldn't see an obvious place. So he wandered through the aisles, finally burying the gun in a freezer, under the peas. Then he sat, thinking, shivering, trying to figure out what he would say if the police did come. Then it came to him. A plan. He rose from his chair, and called the police himself.
They showed up soon after, knocking on the window. Ed wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and limped to the front, where he unlocked the door.
"Evening, Ed," the cop said as he stepped inside. He took off his cap and smoothed his oiled black hair back.
Ed stared at him, with a blank look. "How'd you know my name?"
"Your shirt," the cop answered, pointing.
Ed looked down. "Oh yeah."
"So you heard some shooting?" the second cop said. He was more serious than the first, his freckled face all business.
"Yes sir," Ed said. "I heard some shots, about a half hour ago."
"Any ideas?" the black-haired cop said.
"Yeah, matter of fact." Ed scratched his head. "There's a group of kids-a gang, I think-that hangs around this neighborhood. They were out in the parking lot. I saw them earlier. I think it was them."
Ed described the kids to the cops, who took down the information, then asked to take a look around.
"Sure," Ed said.
He watched from the window as they wandered head down through the lot. He saw the freckled cop pick something up, near where Ed had fired his last shot, and show it to the other cop. He realized he hadn't thought to look for the spent shells. Then Ed watched them walk around toward the dumpsters. Just then another car pulled into the lot and drove right up to the front. Steve Sewell climbed out. He waved to Ed, then went around to the dumpsters, and after a few minutes came into the store. Ed wondered who had called him, and he got worried, thinking the cops might already suspect him.
"Hey Ed, you all right?" Steve looked sincere about his concern, which surprised Ed.
"Yes, sir. I'm fine."
"Did you see anything?"
"I saw those kids around, then I heard some shots." His voice faded a little.
"Those kids." Steve shook his head. "Just when I thought we didn't have to worry about them any more."
Ed nodded.
"Tell you what, Ed. You look kind of shook up. Why don't you go ahead, go on home. The cops are going to keep an eye on this place for the rest of the night. I'll lock it up."
Ed panicked. "No, no. That's all right. I don't mind staying."
"Ed. I insist. Go home." Steve gripped Ed's upper arm and gave him a friendly smile.
Ed couldn't see any way out of it. He tried to figure out how to retrieve the gun, but no idea came to him. It was impossible. So he said goodbye to Steve and left, catching the bus home.
Adele was asleep in her recliner, the TV murmuring and flashing in the dark. Ed sneaked past, not wanting to explain why he was home early. He crawled in bed and slept fitfully, sweating, his knee aching. But after several hours of half-sleeping, waking up, trying to figure out how he was going to get his gun, and half-sleeping again, he finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
He was in this state when the phone rang around noon. Adele answered and had to hobble into the bedroom to wake him up.
"It's Steve," she said irritably. "I told him you were asleep, but he said it was important."
Steve told Ed he needed to talk to him, that he'd better come in to the store. Ed took a deep breath and said he'd be there as soon as he could.
| * |
When Ed walked into Steve's office, he saw the gun lying on the desk, and he felt his throat tighten up. Steve followed him in and sat down at the desk. Steve looked down at the gun, studying it for a moment, then raised his eyes to Ed-a slight, sad smile on his face.
"Ed..." Steve paused, seeming unsure of what he wanted to say. "...is this your gun?"
Ed sat stiff in his chair, his back not touching it. "No sir. I've never seen that gun."
Steve kept his gaze on Ed, the tight, small smile frozen on his face. He waited, and Ed knew he wanted him to admit the truth. He didn't want to do that. He didn't want to lose his job, so he held Steve's eye and said nothing.
Steve sighed, shook his head, and folded his hands on the desk.
"Ed, I'm going to have to let you go. The police found some shells out in the lot that match this gun. And it's registered to you." Steve's voice sounded as if it was about to break, and for the first time, it occurred to Ed that Steve actually liked him.
"They also talked to the kids. They said you fired at them." Steve's smile disappeared, and he held out his hands and shrugged. "I'm sorry."
Ed studied him, not believing that he was really sorry at first. But Steve got up, walked over and put a hand on Ed's shoulder.
"You going to be all right?" he asked. "Is everything okay at home and all? You need any money or anything?"
Ed sat stiffly, paralyzed by the notion that Steve actually liked him enough to wonder. His eyes started to tear up. He couldn't answer.
"I hate to do this, Ed, but I don't have any choice. You're lucky they aren't going to press charges. Those kids didn't even tell their parents because they weren't supposed to be hanging out around here in the first place."
Ed blinked, looking at Steve. And he suddenly felt worse than he could remember feeling in a very long time. The look on Steve's face told him that Steve had trusted him, had taken him seriously all along. And now, Ed felt as if he had let him down.
Steve walked back to his chair, and laid a forearm across the back of it. He looked at Ed. "Ed, you were doing a great job. You didn't have to try so hard. Didn't you know that?"
But Ed was running his finger over the stitching on his name, too busy figuring out an explanation for Adele to even hear the question.
© Russell Rowland
