Chapter 21
JVAREN KNOCKED LIGHTLY AND ENTERED THE DARK ROOM with a basket of fruit. The card brought get-well messages from the congregation of Little Creek Baptist Church. The apples and bananas and grapes were •wrapped in green cellophane, and looked pretty sitting next to a rather large and expensive arrangement of colorful flowers sent by the concerned friends at Ark-Lon Fixtures.
The shades were drawn, the television was off, and when Karen closed the door to leave, none of the Sways had moved. Ricky had changed position, and was now lying on his back with his feet on the pillows and his head on the blankets. He was awake, but for the last hour had been staring blankly at the ceiling without saying a word or moving an inch. This was something new. Mark and Dianne sat next to each other on the foldaway bed with their feet tucked under them and whispered about such things as clothing and toys and dishes. There was fire insurance, but Dianne didn't know the extent of the coverage.
i ney spoke in hushed voices. It would be days or weeks before Ricky knew of the fire.
At some point in the morning, about an hour after Reggie and Clint left, the shock of the news wore off and Mark started thinking. It was easy to think in this dark room because there was nothing else to do. The television could be used only when Ricky wanted it. The shades remained closed if there was a chance he was sleeping. The door was always shut.
Mark had been sitting in a chair under the television, eating a stale chocolate chip cookie, when it occurred to him that maybe the fire was not an accident. Earlier, the. man with the knife had somehow entered the trailer and found the portrait. His intent had been to wave the knife and wave the portrait, and forever silence little Mark Sway. And he had been most successful. What if the fire was just another reminder from the man with the switchblade? Trailers were easy to burn. The neighborhood was usually quiet at four in the morning. He knew this from experience.
This thought had stuck like a thick knot in his throat, and his mouth was suddenly dry. Dianne didn't notice. She'd been sipping coffee and patting Ricky.
Mark had wrestled with it for a while, then had taken a short walk to the nurses' station, where Karen showed him the morning paper.
The thought was so horrible, it seared itself into his mind, and after two hours of thinking about it he was convinced the fire was intentional.
"What will the insurance cover?" he asked.
"I'll have to call the agent. There are two policies, if I remember correctly. One is paid by Mr. Tucker on the trailer, because he owns it, and the other is paid by us for the contents of the trailer. The monthly rent is supposed to include the premium for the insurance on the contents. I think that's how it works." This worried Mark immensely. There were many awful memories from the divorce, and he remembered his mother's inability to testify about any of the financial affairs of the family. She knew nothing. His ex-father paid the bills and kept the checkbook and filed the tax returns. Twice in the past two years the telephone had been cut off because Dianne had forgotten to pay the bills. Or so she said. He suspected each time that there was no money to pay the bills.
"But what will the insurance pay for?" he asked.
"Furniture, clothes, kitchen utensils, I guess. That's what it usually covers." There was a knock on the door, but it did not open. They waited, then another knock. Mark opened it slightly, and saw two new faces peering through the crack.
"Yes," he said, expecting trouble because the nurses and security guards allowed no one to get this far. He opened the door a bit wider.
"Looking for Dianne Sway," said the nearest face. There was volume to this, and Dianne started for the door.
"Who are you?" Mark asked, opening the door and walking into the hall. The two security guards were standing together to the right, and three nurses were standing together to the left, and all five appeared frozen as if witnessing a horrible event. Mark locked eyes with Karen, and knew instantly something was terribly wrong.
"Detective Nassar, Memphis PD. This is Detective Klickman." Nassar wore a coat and tie, and Klickman wore a black jogging suit with sparkling new Nike Air Jordans. They were both young, probably early thirties, and Mark immediately thought of the old "Starsky and Hutch" reruns. Dianne opened the door and stood behind her son.
"Are you Dianne Sway?" Nassar asked.
"I am," she answered quickly.
Nassar pulled papers from his coat pocket and handed them over Mark's head to his mother. "These are from Juvenile Court, Ms. Sway. It's a summons for a hearing at noon today." Her hands shook wildly and the papers rattled as she tried hopelessly to make sense of this.
"Could I see your badges?" Mark asked, rather coolly under the circumstances. They both grabbed and reached and presented their identification under Mark's nose. He studied them carefully, and sneered at Nassar. "Nice shoes," he said to Klickman.
Nassar tried to smile. "Ms. Sway, the summons requires us to take Mark Sway into custody at this time." There was a heavy pause of two or three seconds as the word "custody" settled in.
"What!" Dianne yelled at Nassar. She dropped the papers. The "What!" echoed down the hallway. There was more anger in her voice than fear.
"It's right here on the front page," Nassar said, picking up the summons. "Judge's orders." "You what!" she yelled again, and it shot through the air like the crack of a bullwhip. "You can't take my son!" Dianne's face was red and her body, all hundred and fifteen pounds, was tense and coiled.
Great, thought Mark. Another ride in a patrol car.
Then his mother yelled, "You son of a bitch!" and Mark tried to calm her.
"Mom, don't yell. Ricky can hear you." "Over my dead body!" she yelled at Nassar, just inches away. Klickman backed away one step, as if to say this wild woman belonged to Nassar.
But Nassar was a pro. He'd arrested thousands. "Look, Ms. Sway, I understand how you feel. But I have my orders." "Whose orders!" "Mom, please don't yell," Mark pleaded.
"Judge Harry Roosevelt signed the order about an hour ago. We're just doing our job, Ms. Sway. Nothing's gonna happen to Mark. We'll take care of him." "What's he done? Just tell me what's he done." Dianne turned to the nurses. "Can somebody help me here?" she pleaded, and sounded so pitiful. "Karen, do something, would you? Call Dr. Greenway. Don't just stand there." But Karen and the nurses just stood there. The cops-had already warned them.
Nassar was still trying to smile. "If you'll read these papers, Ms. Sway, you'll see that a petition has been filed in Juvenile Court alleging Mark here to bea delinquent because he won't cooperate with the police and FBI. And Judge Roosevelt wants to have a hearing at noon today. That's all." "That's all! You asshole! You show up here with your little papers and take away my son and you say 'That's all'!" "Not so loud, Mom," Mark said. He'd hadn't heard such language from her since the divorce.
Nassar stopped trying to smile and pulled at the corners of his mustache. Klickman for some reason was glaring at Mark as if he •were a serial killer they'd been tracking for years. There was a long pause. Dianne kept both hands on Mark's shoulders. "You can't have him!" Finally, Klickman said his first words. "Look, Ms. Sway, we have no choice. We have to take your son." "Go to hell," she snapped. "If you take him, you whip me first." Klickman was a meathead with little finesse, and for a split second his shoulders flinched as if he would accept this challenge. Then he relaxed and smiled.