Jericho

J Jericho by Elizabeth Howard "We saw Dr. McAnally today," Hope said. She kept peeling potatoes. Jeff didn't look up from the newspaper, but he knew she was watching him. "He wants us to take Anthony to a therapist," she said. "He thinks it's time to start some new exercises." "Why don't you admit it's hopeless?" Jeff said. "You spend hours twisting his legs around, but he can't do any more now than he could when you started. He won't ever be able to walk." He got up, folded the paper, ripping the fold, and threw it on the table. He went out to the garage, letting the door slam behind him. He put his fishing gear into the Bronco, got the ice chest, and went back to the kitchen for some ice. "Are you going fishing again?" Hope asked. "Why don't you stay home and do something with Anthony?" "Do what?" Jeff asked, his voice rising in spite of his vow not to argue. "He can stack blocks by himself." "You might push him to the store for ice cream," she said. "He needs you. He needs to know who his father is." "I pay the bills, don't I?" Jeff shouted. "Who do you think pays McAnally? Who's going to pay a therapist?" "Anthony's handicapped,' Hope said. "But he has feelings the same as anybody else." Jeff could tell by her glistening eyes that she was going to cry, but he couldn't stand any more tears. He took a deep breath. "Don't wait supper for me." 17 He went to the den to get his cap. Anthony was there, building skyscrapers out of plastic bricks. He grinned shyly. "Hi, Daddy." "Hello, Anthony," Jeff said. He got his cap with the lures on the brim. Anthony's grin disappeared, and he stared at Jeff with solemn brown eyes. "Going fishing?" he asked. "Yeah," Jeff said. "See you later." As he reached the door, there was a loud clatter. He turned and saw pieces of skyscraper scattered across the floor. Anthony was looking out the window, watching the children next door play kickball. Jeff grabbed the ice chest and hurried out. He shoved it into the Bronco, started the engine, and burned rubber as he drove away. The Bronco skidded to a stop, and Jeff jumped out. He was arranging his fishing gear when a shadow appeared and stopped, making a dark zigzag across the boat, its head lying in the gravel beyond. Jeff looked up. A black boy was standing a few feet away. Jeff's eyes traveled down past the boy's t-shirt and shorts to long slender legs. The boy smiled. "Going fishing?" "Yeah," Jeff said. "How about you?" "I'm with them." The boy pointed toward three black men sitting under some willows on the bank. Jeff shaded his eyes with his hand and looked at the men. He thought he recognized two of them, but with the glare, he wasn't sure. "Is that Cesar Riley? And Estes Pittman?" The boy nodded. "You know them?" "They work at the plant," Jeff said. "They're good men." The boy smiled, his eyes shining. "Cesar's my grandpa, and Estes is my uncle. The other man's Truman Filson. He's my dad." Jeff unhooked the taillights and put the plug in the boat. The boy moved closer and touched the gold flecks in the red fiberglass with the tips of his long fingers . "Say!" Jeff said. "How would you like to go for a ride? Maybe try casting a fly rod?" "You bet!" the boy said. "Go ask your folks," Jeff said. "Tell them it's Jeff Spencer." The boy turned and ran toward the men. Jeff watched him run, his eyes following the long brown legs. He started whistling, "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, nobody knows my sorrow," but the tune died on his lips. He kicked a mound of gravel. Rocks spattered, and dust flew into his eyes. Jeff was fishing with a minnow, but the cork on his line was bobbing idly in the water. The boy, Lamar Filson...