Lerner at 16, crazed on angel dust, swung a hatchet into a motel room door.  He kept swinging, hoping to bust in and swipe what wasn’t nailed down. That he was making an unholy racket didn’t concern him. Two cop cars raced to the scene.  
A judge sentenced Lerner to time in a juvenile detention center.  While incarcerated, Lerner felt obliged to rip a toilet seat off its hinge then throw it at another inmate, a sodomist. The judge doubled Lerner’s penalty: in all, he did about a year.  

  
A photo captured Lerner shortly after his release. It showed a wary-looking kid, scowling through whiskers, his hair dark and scraggly. His eyes were vague; his mouth was edged open and you could see a chipped front tooth.  

Ten years later Lerner still had the photo, snug in his wallet, slipped behind one of his mom. The young man still resembled the kid from jail. He had the same wide mouth and smooth, high cheekbones. His nose had stayed long and sharp; his blue eyes could still chill.  

But he’d cleaned up his act. The broken tooth was fixed; his hair was short and brushed back. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. Lerner was over six feet now and lanky, with long arms and broad shoulders that suggested a sweeping, powerful reach.  

​

During his mom’s final year, Lerner had promised her that he was going to straighten out, maybe work with kids. And, he had done it: he taught sixth grade for two years then moved on to a school for emotionally disturbed children. Lerner was a faculty supervisor, a boss of about a dozen teachers.    

On a warm spring evening, Lerner was standing next to one of those teachers, a man named Horace. They drank at a neighborhood bar called Goody’s. Lerner knew of several people he would rather be with. But he had a job to do, and he considered socializing with co-workers part of it.  

Lerner took pride in how he conducted himself at work. He was pretty good at checking his emotions and staying focused. But Horace was one guy that got under his skin.  

Horace was large and lazy, an immovable object that dared you to move him. He often sneered, suggesting that he felt the job was barely worth his trouble. When you wanted him to do something you had to ask twice, then stick dynamite up his ass. Lerner hadn’t decided yet whether Horace was putting on an act or was a genuine prick.    

Both men stood against the bar.  Goody’s was crowded with people blowing off steam. Lerner drank Heinekens, Horace swilled rum and cokes. Lerner noticed that the more booze Horace absorbed, the more sinister he looked. Horace’s sneer shone through the dim light. He had a gold molar that winked. After a couple of hours it looked to Lerner like Horace’s sneer throbbed with a life of its own, like a quivering snake wrapped around jagged teeth. The snake shared space with the pits and boils on Horace’s reddish brown face.  

“Lerner, how long you been with Vicky?” Horace slurred his words, his voice raspy with alcohol.       

Lerner drew back slightly. He had had plenty of Heinekens and might be swaying a little himself, but he felt contempt for drunks. He surveyed the scene with that corner of his mind that always remained sober.  

Lerner fiddled with the neck of his bottle. Speaking softly, he told Horace, oh, six or seven months.   

“Six or seven months,” Horace repeated.  He rolled his eyes up as if calculating. “You all serious and shit?”   

A dull yellow tinged the whites of Horace’s eyes, making them look prehistoric. Lerner hung with those eyes, held the man’s gaze. Horace was pushing 40. His chest wobbled, his belly poured over his belt. Lerner knew that the man was clueless.  As far as Horace was concerned, he hadn’t changed in 20 years.      

“Reason I ask, I ain’t serious with my lady,’ Horace said. His garbled voice managed to be careful with the word “lady.”

​

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s fine as can be. Just like Vicky.”  

Horace’s reptile grin spread. “But there’s loads of great pussy out there. Know what I mean?”       

Lerner looked into the dark glass of the mirror behind the bar.  He picked out his slouching, weary figure.  Next to him Horace looked colorful and absurd – a fat spade in an orange fedora and purple vest.  

From a nearby pool table balls cracked together, then a surge of conversation screeched through Lerner’s ears. He took his fingers off his bottle then massaged his temples.  

      
“I get the general idea, Horace.  But Vicky isn’t your concern.”

Horace reared his head back, barked a laugh.  He was taller than most people so usually he could sneer down from atop his bulk, spitting out scorn. But he wasn’t as tall as Lerner so he had to look up.  

The role reversal made Horace seem uncertain and his eyes softened in retreat. After glancing at the mirror he lifted his glass and then tossed down a swallow, as if re-fueling.  

“Just that – well, you know,” Horace said. He looked back into Lerner’s eyes. “Vicky is gorgeous.  A man can’t help inquiring.  That long hair of hers looks sweet an’…”  

Trying to groove his voice into Barry White silk, Horace ran out of air. He sputtered, “…soft as uh…”  

After a racking cough he said, “Bet you get hard just touching it.” 

Lerner stared at his empty bottle. He thought about how lately his days had seemed impossible, like he was forced to haul himself up a ladder of problems, each rung more slippery than the last. At day’s end he’d drop off from sheer exhaustion. Horace was just another problem, and Lerner’s rage cooled to a level of irritation he was accustomed to.  Fixing this problem should have been easier than most.  But Horace wasn’t worth the aggravation he’d face over knocking a subordinate’s teeth down his throat.    

      
“C’mon, man.”  Lerner smiled. “This must be a gag. You interested in  trouble?”  

Horace’s eyes measured Lerner, head to foot. “Course not. You got me wrong. But I am curious. Can you fight? Not that bullshit when the kids get frisky. I mean, really take care of yourself.  Can you do that?”

“This a trick question, Horace?”    

    
“’Cause you look kind of preppy to me.”  

 
The situation was crude, Lerner was thinking. It ought to be beneath him.  “You’re wrong, man.  You’ve no idea.  You might get in a couple of shots. But I’ll fuck you up.”  

“C’mon,” Horace said, as if Lerner had to be kidding.

Lerner grinned, projecting ease from atop the highest rung. The trick required such exertion that he felt it might cost him a couple of years of his life. He slapped Horace on the shoulder.  “Who knows,” he said.   

Lerner tossed cash onto the bar, turned, and made for the door.  

He smacked it open, went outside.  The warm air should’ve been soothing but he choked on it.  As he was walking out, Lerner had felt Horace’s eyes on his back, growing glittery with confidence.  

Lerner knew he’d backed off too much.  The humiliation made his rage boil.  

                       
Lerner walked around a corner then leaned against a wall.  He texted Vicky that he’d soon be home, then bent over, sick from battling his nerves.  After a few minutes his wrath turned inward and became gloom, numbing Lerner as it rolled through his body like billowing black clouds.      

                                                                                               ---

​

In his apartment, Vicky looked beautiful as always. Her supple body was snug in a white turtleneck and jeans.  

Vicky had a sweet overbite and sharp, serious eyes. Lerner loved how those features played off of each other, made her look slightly different moment to moment, like a girl in a dream. He was ready to embrace her. But she surprised him.

 
“Swear to God, Bill,” she said. “All week you dump crap on me. Now I need groceries, where the hell is the money?”  

Vicky stood in the living room near the entrance, as if she’d been laying in wait. “I figured you couldn’t go low enough to take it again. But who was I kidding?” She raised her voice. “Who?”

Lerner closed the door. She’d caught him off-guard, but they’d had similar discussions before. He walked across a throw rug to the sofa. He sat, tore a beer off a six-pack. “I get paid Tuesday. I thought it was okay to borrow. Didn’t we talk about this?”  

“Yeah. We talked about how you better not goddamn do it.”  

Lerner swallowed lukewarm beer. It tickled his head, made him feel magnanimous. He was reminded of how much he adored Vicky’s no-nonsense, practical side. “Siddown,” he said while patting the cushion.    

Vicky ignored him. She sat on a metal chair on the other side of the rug. “And, you bought beer.” Her voice was throaty, tired. “You got nerve, I give you that.”  

      
“Look,” Lerner said. “I’m sorry. You know I get paid shit. But the experience is good. A year or two, I can move on.”    

     
Vicky, a nurse at the local hospital, earned twice as much as Lerner. She lit a Merit. “Fuck the money.” Smoke poured from her mouth. “Every night I come home, you’re staring at The Honeymooners or something. Only time you talk is during commercials. You tell me what a lousy day you had. Well I have lousy days too.”  

Lerner saw Vicky’s teeth scrape against her lips. He watched her tap ashes into her palm. Her nails were long and well manicured, except for one on a ring finger that looked chewed.  

“I’m having a tough time,” Lerner admitted. “The work breaks my balls. But that’s why it’s good. I’m learning a lot. You gotta stay with me here.  Please.” He sensed something new in her: a distant look, a withdrawal of light. His stomach tightened in warning but he pushed on. “And you wouldn’t believe what just happened at Goody’s. This black bastard tried to pick a fight.”

“Bill!”

“I’m just sayin’.” He winced at the way his voice broke, like a kid’s.    

                  
Vicky leaned forward and looked at him with clinical detachment. “Beer’s no good for depression,” she said.

Lerner chuckled; then he felt his guard come up. “Huh?  What’re you talking about?”    

    
Vicky stood, walked into the kitchen. Lerner watched her douse her cigarette under the faucet. Then she stood in the doorway, arms folded, tensely erect.    

“Nothing,” she said.

 
Lerner finished his beer then took a phantom sip, pretending he had plenty left. “Nothing, huh?” he said. “That’s a big help.”  

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her mouth sad, but her eyes hard. 

Lerner felt his stomach go to liquid. Vicky’s eyes scared him.  

Like his mom’s eyes had scared him years ago, when he saw her for the last time, in her hospital bed. She couldn’t move or speak; but the cancer hadn’t touched her eyes. They were big and bright, sparkling for him as they always had, spread over her drawn face like two beautiful pools.

 
But did those lively eyes indicate a lucid mind? Was she hurting? Did she understand her condition? The doctor assured Lerner that she didn’t; she was heavily sedated. But he may have been telling Lerner what he needed to hear.    

   
Vicky had left the apartment. Lerner removed his glasses then wiped them on his shirt.  

Last year with his sixth graders he’d done a couple of weeks on poetry. He had to immerse himself for a few days so that he could do a good job. He recalled a couple of lines.  

 
“Like the life inside her eyes/that left a dark and empty sky.”  

  
The words began slowly, but soon became a harsh torrent he couldn’t stop.      

                                                                                                  ---

       

The next day at work Lerner was dragging. After Vicky had left he’d guzzled the whole six-pack. It barely got him buzzed but he knew he’d feel awful today. And, he did. On top of that he agonized about Vicky, wondering where her head was. He’d texted her a couple of times with no response.    

         
Experience told him that this might be the end, that she’d dump him. But just as part of his wits stayed sober no matter how much he drank, some hope usually flickered in him no matter how dire the circumstances. It came from a mysterious place, beyond his sensibility and control.   

His mom had been the same way. Cracking irreverent jokes on her worst days, like someone determined to prove that life was always at least worth a laugh. Lerner had adored her for it, but he knew his own feelings were dangerous. Even the slimmest ray of hope could break your heart.

                                                                                                  ---

​

But at work, Lerner tried to create hope. Hope was magic for the snake- bitten kids that he cared for. He was proud of one program he’d established, a money system that rewarded them for completing chores around the school. At the end of each month, Lerner brought the top earners into town for an afternoon of shopping --a treat for kids who rarely were encouraged to show their faces in public.      

 
One of the oldest residents of the school was O’Neil, a ginger-haired, freckle-faced boy of 17, and a victim of alcohol. His teenaged mother had given birth to him after a month-long bender. The booze had poisoned the fetus’s cells, stunting their growth. For O’Neil it meant developmental disabilities and a youth spent in special schools and group homes. After that – who knew?  

But it could have been worse. Lerner knew enough about fetal alcohol syndrome to realize that the boy was relatively lucky. Many victims were deformed and severely brain damaged. O’Neil looked fine, though he was small for his age. His intelligence was just slightly below normal. He had a speech impediment, and sometimes a short temper that belied his generally decent nature.  

​

By late morning, Motrin had dulled the sharpest edges of Lerner’s headache. He was doing paperwork in his office when he heard shouting outside. The strident tones sounded like trouble. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. As he reached the door his desk phone rang; he thought of Vicky but the shouting rose to a fever pitch so he let the call go to voice mail.  

Outside, Lerner felt the heavy, boiling weight of the sun. He squinted through the glare. He saw that near a basketball pole on the playground, O’Neil was shouting threats and advancing while another boy backed off. O’Neil’s voice carried the resonance of fury. The other boy, a chubby teen named Chafetz, whined and looked pale.  

Lerner also saw Horace. Horace was approaching -- quickly for him, a relaxed stroll for most. Lerner felt sweat spread under his arms and along the back of his neck. He slowed his pace as Horace reached the boys.

“What’s happening?”  Horace asked.  

Chafetz said that O’Neil was trying to steal his money.  

“You fuck liar,” O’Neil said.

Lerner stood at courtside, arms folded.  

“He said he’d cut off my balls,” Chafetz said.    

O’Neil clenched his fists. “I will cut yaw balls!  Fo’ lying!”

“Nobody cuts off balls round here but me,” Horace said. “This on the level, Chafetz?”

Chafetz scrunched his moon face. “What?”  

  
“Is it the fucking truth?” Horace said.

“It’s the fucking truth!” Chafetz said.  

“Watch your language,” Horace said.  

“No it ain’,” said O’Neil.    

   
“O’Neil, he better be lying,” Horace said. “Or I’ll put a size twelve up your ass.”

Lerner laughed. O’Neil called Horace a “fat bastuh.” A few teachers and other kids had gathered, enjoying the diversion and the warm day.  

“What did you say to me?” Horace had a wide unbalanced grin, like Lerner remembered from last night.

“Fat brack bastuh,” O’Neil said.

With his gold molar looking like a shark’s tooth, Horace stepped closer to the boy. Lerner rushed forward. He placed the back of his hand on Horace’s chest.  

Lerner’s cell phone rang. He ignored it and said, “O’Neil, I’ll put a size fourteen up your ass.”  

“Ha!”  Chafetz yelled.  

 
“Fuck,” O’Neil said. His eyes were filled with tears. “You.”

Lerner felt Horace moving forward. “Easy, Horace,” Lerner said. They locked eyes. In the hard sunlight Horace’s skin looked raw and reddish, like Lerner felt.  

Lerner moved toward O’Neil, who didn’t back off. Lerner tried to reason with him. “You guys act like morons, we can’t even have a money system.”

O’Neil kicked Lerner in the shins. O’Neil wore boots, and it stung. Lerner grabbed O’Neil’s shirt and lifted the boy. He hauled him up over his shoulder.  

“You little fucker,” Lerner said.

Lerner heard Horace’s rumbling laughter. O’Neil was wailing, kicking and spitting. Lerner’s headache deepened. Sweat slid into his eyes. He carried O’Neil toward the office, worrying a little. He hadn’t seen O’Neil go off like this in some time.

Inside, Lerner dropped O’Neil to the ground, shoved the boy toward a corner. “Siddown and shut up!” O’Neil did what he was told, sat crumpled on the floor. His face was wet and twisted, as if in agony.  

The suffering expression made Lerner hesitate. “Alan, you gotta calm down. You’re not doing yourself any good.”  

His voice mail light was blinking. “Hold on.” Lerner sat and punched in the code. If it was Vicky, and she had something nice to say, his day would go from awful to great. If, on the other hand. . .  He held the phone to his ear.    

But it was Spiro, Lerner’s boss. “Bill, this is bad. O’Neil’s mother was in some kind of an accident yesterday. She’s been killed. Son of a bitch. I’ll try you again.”

Lerner knew the drill: Spiro would give him the details and then he’d have to deliver the news.  As he was cradling his desk phone, his cell went off again.  He glanced at O’Neil, who was staring at him with wet-eyed intensity.  

Lerner snapped up his cell.  “Yeah.”

“You get my message?”

 
“Yeah.”

 
“You’ve got to find and tell him,” Spiro said. “She was in a car wreck in the city.”

 
“He already knows,” Lerner said softly.  He broke the connection, tossed the cell on his desk.

 
He remembered when his own mom had passed away, he was attending community college and working nights as a security guard. By then her death was expected but he wasn’t really prepared. The grief overwhelmed him. He quit school. For a year he sat at his security desk, zonked out, staring into space with damp, burning eyes.

        
To this day, he didn’t understand how he’d pulled through.  He wasn’t sure what kept him going today.  Was it the pledge to his mom to improve himself? A lot of good it did her now. Maybe it was a voice inside him, encouraging him to stay active because he might stumble into something that made everything okay again. What a load of horseshit. But it was that other part of himself, the persistent, mysterious part, talking.  

Lerner walked to the water cooler. He filled a paper cup then handed it to O’Neil. “Alan.  Is there anything I can do?”

O’Neil swallowed. When he looked up his eyes were clear. “Yeah.  Geh’ me the fuck outa here.”

Lerner sat. “I can get you to the funeral. But you’re gonna probably have to come back.”

O’Neil pulled a wallet from his back pocket.  He riffled through its compartments, squinting.  

 
Lerner recalled that O’Neil had earned the wallet through the money system, filing papers in Spiro’s office, the only student entrusted with a clerical job.  

O’Neil carefully pulled out a photo.  With steady eyes he looked up and held the picture toward Lerner.  

Lerner took it.  He studied a black and white snapshot of a pretty teenaged girl with long blond hair. The girl looked serious, her mouth sloped down at the ends. She had a sprinkling of freckles on her nose, like O’Neil.  

Lerner stared at the girl’s eyes, narrowed under long lashes.    

The girl’s eyes were large.  Lerner thought he saw signs of life.  Like her pupils were about to flick to the side, and then O’Neil’s mother would break into a smile. Lerner could tell that her smile would be beautiful. He removed his glasses, wiped the lenses on his shirt.  

Lerner put the photo on his desk, took out his own wallet. He pulled out the photo of his mother, exposing the ten-year old image of himself that was stored behind it. For a moment he stared at the numb adolescent.    

 
His mother had been pretty too, her face had character. Her sardonic look, with a side of her mouth turned up and her jaw stuck out. Like she was about to tell a funny story and make her son laugh again.  

Lerner tossed the photo toward O’Neil. It fluttered then settled at the boy’s feet.    

“I know how it is,” Lerner said.  “That’s my mom. I lost her seven years ago. If I live to be 90, swear to God, it still fucking killed me.”

O’Neil presented the top of his head to Lerner as he looked down at the photo. Something inside Lerner swelled: something warm that tickled – maybe  pride. He stood, walked to the water cooler then filled a cup for himself. On his desk, his cell rang. Vicky’s face popped onto the display. But he hesitated. What the hell would she say to him?   

He might have imagined a line connecting this moment – with him completely absorbed in his job – to that unrelenting light in his spirit that kept him going. It scared him.    

Lerner cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Alan.” 

He picked up the phone and gently wiped an eye with his finger.  

​

"Is that you?" Lerner asked. 

                                                                                                 THE END

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