Migrators by Ike Hamill Page B

hurried to catch up with his wife. She was at the bottom of the stairs and Alan hurried down. He stopped, seeing the stairs again in his mind from the camera’s vantage point. This is where the little girl, Pauline, had landed. His foot rested on the stair where her face had hit, somehow only bloodying her lip.  
    Alan put his feet back in motion and found Liz pushing through the door to the parking lot.
    “Slow down, would you?”
    “I just want to get out of here, Alan,” Liz said. She was pressing at the corners of her eyes, trying to shove the tears back inside.
    She held out the keys and Alan took the driver’s seat. He had to slide the seat back just to fit behind the wheel of her car. Alan didn’t adjust her mirrors—Liz hated that. Her face was a blank mask as he turned to back out of the parking spot. Alan turned away from the Depot. He decided it might be better to take the long way home instead of driving through that row of depressing buildings.  
    “I think we’re in pretty good shape, babe,” Alan said. “At least Pauline wasn’t hurt and Joe has the option of coming back.”
    “We have nothing, Alan,” Liz said. “I have no idea how we raised a son who is even capable of such a thing, and that man is only interested in helping the local children. He has no interest in us outsiders. Joe’s development doesn’t mean a thing to him.”
    “That’s unfair,” Alan said. “I think he’s trying to make the best of a bad situation. Let’s consider the alternative. If we were still in the city, we’d probably be looking at a lawsuit from Mr. Mc-what’s-his-name. Let’s focus on positive here and try to find a way to communicate with Joe about what happened.”
    Liz nodded as she looked out the window. For the briefest moment, Alan thought his point had landed well.
    “Yup, the positive,” Liz said. “Well—I’m pretty positive that our son is either a psychopath or he’s just had a psychotic break.”
    “What if it’s not entirely his fault?” Alan asked. “What if he was manipulated? Maybe her father advocated leniency because he knew that she was partly to blame?”
    “Who cares? What could she possibly have done that would justify Joe pushing her down the stairs, Alan? Can you think of anything? Anything at all—let’s hear it.”
    “I’m not trying to justify anything,” Alan said.
    He took a left onto the twisty road that took them back in the direction of the house. Through the trees, a little pond twinkled down the hill. Alan glanced at it and saw his wife’s clenched jaw and wrinkled brow. Her tenacity served her well in her legal career, but it also meant that she clung to stress, refusing to let it go. Alan slowed and pulled over where there was a wide shoulder next to a curve.
    He put Liz’s BMW in neutral and looked at her face.
    “This is where Lyle stove up,” Alan said. It was one of her family stories. An old neighbor had slid off that same road one winter, and the family always referred to it as the time that, “Lyle stove up,” whatever that meant. Liz didn’t smile.
    “You’re not helping, Liz.”
    “Forgive me if my disillusionment with our son’s lack of character has left me out of sorts.”
    “I don’t care if you’re disillusioned or not. You need to focus all of your energy on helping me figure out what we’re going to do next. Joe could be lying about the whole incident, in which case I guess we’ve just got a discipline issue. Or, Joe could honestly believe the story he told us. In that case, I don’t know what we do—take him to the doctor?”
    “If he’s got some sort of brain tumor or chemical imbalance, then we need to know immediately. We start with the doctor,” Liz said.
    “I agree,” Alan said. “And I think we keep him grounded, but make sure that he knows we’re trying to impress upon him the importance of impulse control, and not just punishing him.”
    “Agreed,” Liz said. “I have to go into the