Chapter 3: Jim Gets Ready for Dinner

At fifteen years old, Jim Bogue looked like he was twelve. He was too small for his age and too thin. His dad told him that on a regular basis.

The glasses he wore made him look younger.

He’d heard enough Harry Potter jokes to last him a lifetime.

But Jim had inherited his mother’s hazel eyes and her father’s harsh features.

He had his dad’s hair and bad attitude.

His father was away on a deployment to Afghanistan, though, so Jim didn’t have to worry too much about the ‘gentle’ slaps his Dad gave when he had a drunk on.

“James,” his mother said from the kitchen.

He looked up from the Star Wars book he had started to read and said, “Yeah?”

“Dinner time, kiddo.”

Jim slipped a bookmark in, got up and went into the kitchen. The table was set for three, which meant his grandfather was on his way down. While his mother set a pot roast on the table, Jim took the water out of the fridge and filled all three glasses.

The thump of his grandfather’s cane on the stairs sang out loudly.

Jim smiled at the sound, and he went and opened the narrow door to the hallway.

Through the darkness, his grandfather descended.

A moment later, the man stepped into the light, paused and smiled.

“I can hear you, James,” his grandfather said.

“Of course, you can,” Jim said, smiling. He stepped aside and the blind man moved easily into the kitchen. With several quick taps of his cane, Jim’s grandfather found his chair, pulled it out and sat down.

“Hi, Dad,” Jim’s mother said, bringing a bowl of mashed potatoes to the table. She set them down and gave him a quick kiss as she brushed his white hair back behind his ears.

“Hello, Karen,” he said with a grin. “Carrots, too?”

“Of course,” she said, turning to the stovetop.

He turned his head to Jim. “And you, how was school today?”

“About the same as every day,” Jim said. He grabbed the salt and pepper, brought them to the table and sat down across from his grandfather.

The man frowned. “Who did you fight today?”

“Dad,” Jim’s mother said, putting the carrots on the table. “He didn’t get in a fight today.”

“He did,” his grandfather said. “I can smell it on him. What have we said about fighting?”

“Not to,” Jim said sulkily.

“Did you?” His mother asked, surprised. She stopped by the sink and looked at him.

“Yes,” Jim said.

“Who?”

“Carlton Talbot,” he said, taking his napkin off the table and making a big production of spreading it over his lap.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because he’s a bully,” Jim said, trying not to snap at her. “I don’t like it when he pushes me. And I hate it when he pushes other people.”

“Who did he push?” his grandfather asked sternly.

“John Petroules,” Jim said.

“The crippled boy?” his mother asked as she sat down.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“What happened?” his grandfather asked. “What did you do?”

“I punched him,” Jim answered. He took a sip of his water and saw that his hand didn’t shake.

“Where?” His grandfather said.

“Kidney,” Jim replied, and before any other questions could be asked, he said, “no, I didn’t get in trouble. Mrs. Couture was out of the room when everything happened.”

“Did you get hit?” his mother asked.

“Yeah. Matt Espelin hit me just before the teacher came in,” Jim said. “But I don’t care. I’ll get him tomorrow.”

“No,” his mother said angrily, “you won’t. You know how I feel about fighting.”

“Come on, mom,” Jim said. “You married dad, he’s a soldier. Grandpa was a Marine.”

“I am a Marine still,” his grandfather snapped. “I also gave my eyes for our country, Jim. Your mother and I don’t like you fighting. You know that. Do not get Matt back tomorrow.”

Jim opened his mouth to answer, but his words were drowned out by the roar of sirens.