The Regulators - Stephen King [99]
Still, I had 'em in a corner, finally it came out. William did most of the talking; by then the kid had decided he didn't like me. His eyes had gotten narrow, and they'd quit leaking, too.
Most of it I could've figured out myself. The Hobarts belong to the Zion's Covenant Baptist Church, and one of the things they do as good church members is to 'spread the Gospel'. This means leaving tracts like the one Herb found sticking out of our milkbox, the one about a million years in hell not one drink of water. William and Hugh do this together, a father-and-son type of thing, I guess, a holy substitute for Little League or touch football. They stick mostly to houses that look temporarily empty, wanting 'to spread the word plant the seed, not engage in debate' (William Hobart's words), or they put their little love-notes under the windshields of cars on the street.
They must've hit our place right after we left for Milly's. Hugh ran up the driveway and stuck the tract under the milkbox, and of course he saw Dream Floater wherever Seth put it down. Later, after his father had declared him off-duty for the rest of the day but before we got back from the mall, Hugh wandered back up the street . . . gave in to the ever-popular TVS (Tempting Voice of Satan). His mother found the PW yesterday, Monday, while Hugh was at school she was cleaning in his room. Last night they had a 'family conference' about it, then called their minister for his advice, had a little over-the-phone prayer, and now here they were.
Once the story was out, the kid started in on 'Do you forgive me' again. The second time through, I said, 'Quit saying that.'
He looked like I'd slapped him and his father's face got all stiff. I didn't give a crap. I squatted down so I could look directly into Hugh's piggy little eyes. It wasn't all that easy to see them, either, because of the dandruff flakes and grease-smears on his glasses.
'Forgiveness is between you and your God,' I said. 'As for me, I'm going to keep quiet about what you did, and I'd advise the Hobarts to do the same.' They will, I'm pretty sure. I only had to look at the bruise on Hugh's cheek, really, to know that. I don't know about the creep's mother, but what he did is absolutely killing his father.
Hugh backed a step away from me, and I could see in his face that this wasn't going the way it was supposed to, he hated me for it. That's okay. I hate him a little, too. Not surprising, is it, after the weekend we put in because of his light fingers'?
'We'll leave you now, Mrs Wyler, if you're finished,' Hobart said. 'Hugh has got a lot of meditation to do. In his room. On his knees.'
'But I'm not finished,' I said. 'Not quite.' I didn't look at him. It was the boy I looked at. I think I was trying to look past the hate shame self-righteousness, to see if there was a real boy left inside anywhere. And did I see one? I truly don't know.
'Hugh,' I said, 'you know that people only have to ask forgiveness if they do something wrong, don't you?'
He nodded cautiously . . . like he was testifying in a trial thought one of the lawyers was laying a trap.
'So you know that stealing Seth's toy was wrong.'
He nodded again, more reluctantly than ever. By then he was practically hiding behind his father's leg, as if he were three instead of eight or nine.
'Mrs Wyler, I hardly think it's necessary to browbeat the boy,' his old man said. Unbelievable prig! He's willing to let me turn the kid over my knee whale on his ass like it was a snare drum, but when I want the kid to say out loud that he did wrong, all at once it's abuse. There's a lesson in this, but I'll be damned if I know what it is.
'I'm not browbeating him, but I want you to know that the last few days have been very difficult around here,' I said. It was the adult I was answering but still the kid I was really talking to. 'Seth loves his Power Wagons very much. So here is what I want, Hugh. I want you to tell me that what you did was wrong, and it was bad, and you're sorry. Then we'll be done.'