Tilt - Alan Cumyn [47]
Stan had never hit anybody in the pit of the stomach. But he felt ready now.
“I think that’s our taxi,” Ron said. Feldon rubbed his eyes and looked around sleepily.
“Leave him with me. I’ve got the phone you gave Lily. As soon as things are settled —”
“Are you blocking my way, son?”
Thunderstorms inside Stan’s body now. He was standing in front of his own father. He tucked his chin in. Battle stance. But hidden, almost nonchalant.
“Leave him with me till you’re settled.”
Stan heard the door of the taxi open. Just on the edge of his peripheral vision he saw the cabbie get out. An old man in a turban.
“Did someone call for a taxi?”
“Leave Feldon here,” Stan whispered.
Know the outcome of the battle beforehand. Know in your mind you’re going to win. Then it won’t matter how much of a beating you take. You’ll keep going till you’ve achieved what has already played out in your own mind. That’s how determination and bloody-minded effort overcame size and weight and years and everything else a father might have over a son.
A shitheel, cowardly father with both hands full. Both knees exposed.
“Taxi for you, sir?” the driver said. He was halfway up the walk now, but Stan could sense the man was wondering what he’d stepped into this late at night.
Stan didn’t let his eyes waver. It was Ron who looked away first.
“Does your girlfriend . . . does she live around here?” Ron asked.
“A couple of blocks. They’re a great family. Her father is an investor, very wealthy. Beautiful mom. They’re good people. They can keep a secret. You’re right, I was just going there now. I was going to see my girlfriend.”
Stan reached for Feldon, who turned to him. How much did he understand?
Stan pulled the boy from his father’s grasp. It’s what you did with cowards. He stepped aside so the coward could have a clear path to the taxi.
“Is it morning?” Feldon asked sleepily.
Stan had him two or three paces off the front walkway now. Plenty of room for Ron to pass by.
“Just sleep,” Stan whispered.
Ron, his father the coward, handed the brown suitcase to the taxi driver, shuffled his old gray self into the back of the vehicle and said something to the driver. Bus station? Train station? Somewhere on the edge of the highway?
Stan didn’t want to know.
“Where’s Daddy going?”
“Your mommy’s coming soon to pick you up,” Stan said.
Feldon buried his face in Stan’s shoulder.
How much of this scene would he remember? When he got to be Stan’s age, would he play it over and over again in his head?
The taxi backed out and headed away into darkness. Stan stood with the boy in his arms.
What kind of father abandons his son in the middle of the night? Just hands him over?
If he wanted out so badly, why didn’t he leave Feldon with Kelly-Ann in the first place? Just out of spite?
Feldon was heavy. And he was holding onto Stan like he was never going to let go.
19
The next step was clear. Stan carried Feldon into the house. He would take him up the stairs straight into his mother’s room and wake her up.
Wake her and tell her.
Stan’s heart was drunk with it. He’d stood up to the giant! Taken Feldon from his father’s arms! Without a punch, without a kick!
Just with words and with knowing what the outcome had to be.
No way Stan was going to let his dad take Feldon on the run in the middle of the night. He’d done exactly the right thing.
Now he climbed the stairs. Even with Feldon lumpy and heavy, not a sound. No creaking boards.
Sirens, practically, going off in his head. He was a man now, who used his powers for good.
His mother’s door was closed. All he had to do was open it and tell her.
But his feet turned into his own room, not his mother’s. His arms put Feldon in his bed again. He was going by feel.
Feldon turned over as soon as his body hit the bed. Stan pulled off Feldon’s coat and shoes, covered him with a blanket. Then he walked out, stood in front of his mother’s closed door.
She’d hit the roof. She’d think Ron had left another kid for her to look after. So Stan would have to tell her right