Child of My Right Hand by Eric Goodman Page A

then at his father. “I’d rather be dead. You’re always right. You’re always right. It makes me feel stupid.”
    Genna said, “Maybe we can get a tutor like last year.”
    â€œI hate that school, I hate it.”
    Back and forth, back and forth, and every second Jack was thinking, I’m a terrible father, a terrible father, I make him feel stupid. But he also knew Simon was jerking him around. Simon failed two classes because he did no work. Then the phone rang, and Simon leapt for it.
    Genna said, “You better get Lizzie at soccer practice.”
    Disappointed, his eyes still red-rimmed, Simon said, “It’s for you,” and handed Jack the portable phone.
    â€œMister Barish,” began an older woman. “Simon’s father, that right?”
    â€œSpeaking. Who is this?”
    â€œGladys O’Brien, Rich’s grandmother.”
    Without hearing another word, Jack knew this would be a grievous conversation. That must have showed, because Genna turned, mouthing her words, “I’ll get Lizzie.”
    â€œMrs. O’Brien,” Jack said. “I’m going to change rooms, would you hold a moment?”
    He left Simon’s room carrying the portable; he didn’t want to chance Simon listening in. Genna walked beside him. “Who is it?”
    â€œRich’s grandmother.”
    Genna looked as if she’d been gut-punched. “Oh,” she said, and hurried up the stairs.
    â€œMrs. O’Brien.” Jack looked out the family room picture window into the trees and down the stone path to the meadow. “Is something wrong?”
    â€œI won’t mince words.” She wheezed slightly, as if out of breath or asthmatic. “Don’t believe in it.”
    She spoke in the distinctive manner of the country folk of southwestern Ohio, not a drawl, but not a northern rhythm, either.
    â€œRich’s been living with me and my son. Until yesterday, when we decided it would be better for him to live with his mother, up Earlham way.”
    You’re telling me this why? But he knew she’d get to it, and that when she did he wasn’t going to like it.
    â€œWe got these letters, notes, really, from your son. You know what kind he is, dontcha?”
    Through the picture window Jack watched leaves tremble.
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me, Mrs. O’Brien?”
    â€œThese notes is hardcore, is what they are. They describe what your son would like to do to my grandson. Got the picture?”
    It occurred to Jack this might be blackmail. “It would be better,” he said, “for everyone, if you threw those notes away.”
    â€œMy son’s gointer decide. It was me, I’d burn ’em. My grandson’s fifteen.”
    Jack listened to her labored breathing. He didn’t know what to say. Months later, he realized she probably had her own worries about what kind Rich was, too.
    â€œWell,” she said. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
    â€œI don’t see why anyone needs to see those notes.”
    â€œThat’s for my son to say.”
    After another silence in which he thought he would just fucking kill Simon, Jack said, “Thanks for calling, I appreciate it.”
    She hung up, and Jack wondered if he should have offered to buy the notes, unseen, unread, no haggling. He hung up and wondered how soon Genna would return. There was no way he’d have this conversation alone with Simon, no way at all.
    ***
    When Genna reached the middle school, a half dozen minivans ringed the soccer field. Years ago, when Jack coached Lizzie’s U-11 and U-12 teams, she’d hated being the coach’s wife, the star player’s mother. She didn’t mix easily with stay-at-home moms. She never knew what to say or how to say it, and thought she’d go mad when the women revealed what they really thought about the world. Still, it was an unalloyed joy to watch Lizzie dribble