The First Stone (10 page)

The judge had assigned Reef a new social worker following the hearing, and when he'd first met Matheson he'd been pleasantly surprised. For one thing, Matheson was much younger than all the other social workers he'd had, and he wasn't wearing that Only-Five-More-Years-Till-Retirement look of weary desperation that Reef was so accustomed to seeing on the faces of government employees. They'd talked for a couple hours then about North Hills, what the judge expected of both of them, the whole christly package.

But, to his credit, he'd at least pretended to enjoy meeting Reef, even showed him pictures of his kids, telling him about this one's favorite toy and that one's favorite cartoon show. Not that Reef gave a shit. But it was a break from the Barkers, who'd been watching him like a hawk since the hearing, perhaps afraid they'd be murdered in their beds.

Now, though, as much as he disliked the idea of moving to the North Hills Group Home, he'd have gladly stopped anywhere to avoid being seen in Matheson's geriatric subcompact.

It was bad enough that Scar, Jink and Bigger had been there when Matheson had arrived to collect Reef and his things. Despite the early hour, the Barkers had been out—Saturday was the big open-air flea market in Sackville, and Karl liked to set up early before the crowds arrived. Reef always marveled that people actually bought the junk the Barkers lugged there each weekend. Karl got most of it from the people he delivered mail to—usually seniors with attics or garages filled with stuff they wanted to get rid of. Some of them even paid Karl to take it away, and then he and his wife would clean it up and put ridiculous prices on it so the bargain-hunters could beat them down and everybody walked away feeling good. It didn't matter that most of the things would just end up collecting dust in someone else's attic or garage—it was thinking you'd got a deal, put something over on someone. “Free enterprise at its finest.” Karl had described it one

Saturday—the only Saturday—Reef had gone with him. Reef had shaken his head in disgust.

Much as he had when Matheson's Escort had rattled into the driveway to pick him up.

“Jeez, Reef,” Bigger had said, “how far you plannin' on gettin' in that thing?”

“End ‘a the goddamn driveway,” Reef muttered.

“I feel your pain, man,” said Jink, watching as the car wheezed to a stop.

Matheson climbed out. “All set?” Reef saw he'd had to lift up hard on the door handle because the bottom hinge was about to let go. As the car idled, an ominous knocking sound reverberated under the hood.

Reef tore his eyes away from the automotive ruin and nodded toward the tattered nylon gym bag sitting on the front step. “Would ‘a been all set if you'd called two
minutes
ago. Where ya been the last hour?”

“Had a little trouble with the car.”

“Imagine that,” Scar murmured.

“Got a neighbor to boost me. I plan on leavin' it running till I get home.”

The four teenagers just stared at him.

“Hey, so it's a little old.” Matheson grinned. “You just wait till
you've
got a mortgage, Visa bills and kids who need braces. Then we'll see how choosy you are about cars.”

Hunkered down now on the passenger side of the Escort, Reef hoped his life never got so pathetic that he wound up driving a shitbox like that and calling it a car. Not that he spent much time thinking about what his life was going to be like. Reef Kennedy lived in the moment. Life was now. Not ten years, ten months, ten
minutes
from now. He could be dead in ten minutes, and riding in this rustbucket only increased the likelihood of that event. Why waste time worrying about couldabeens and gonnabes?

Scar. Now,
she
was a person who thought about gonnabes. She and Reef had been together off and on since they'd met that day on the soccer field, and most of the time she was great to have around. But there'd always been a
What now?
between them that took the edge off whatever feeling he had for her, made him seek out other girls to remind himself—and Scar—that the less you carried with you, the less you had to lose. Reef's Life Lesson Number Three.

He thought now about the goodbyes they'd said above the knock of Matheson's motor. Scar had put her arms around Reef's neck, drawn his face toward hers. She'd kissed him, their tongues a warm tangle for a long moment before she pulled back. “So,” she said.

Reef hated situations like these when people expected him to say or do something, like they had a picture of the moment in their heads and he wasn't doing his part to make it happen. He looked at her. Waited.

She turned away, stuck her hands in her jeans pockets, and he tried not to notice the wounded-deerexpression on her face. “They tell you anything about what the school's like?” she asked finally.

“It's just a school.” He hated that he felt awkward, like he'd been far away for a long time and had just got back. At least, that's how he imagined it would feel. He'd never been out of Nova Scotia. Hell, he'd only been out of Halifax four times, and never farther than Truro. Reef Kennedy: World Traveler.

“Anybody else from the group home go there?”

“Jeez,” Bigger said. “What
is
this? Twenty questions?”

Scar's face turned the color of her hair, and she shrugged. “Can't a person be interested? It'll be weird not having him at school with us.” Then she grinned. “With
me
, I mean. You two losers are never there anyway.”

Bigger grinned back but Jink only stared at her. School was always a sore point with him. Nothing he joked about. Ever. “Yeah,” said Jink, “like
you
never miss a day. Or five.”

Reef recognized where this was headed, could see Scar suddenly on the defensive. Of the four of them, Scar was the only one who actually enjoyed school, could even make sense of the stuff the teachers made them do. In fact, Reef had overheard Mr. Morse, the principal, telling her in the hall one day how she could be on the honor roll if she really wanted to be. Which was his way of saying come to school every day. But that was her old man's fault, not Scar's.

Scar twisted her face up for a comeback but Reef interrupted. “I ain't gonna be that far away,” he said.

“Might as well be Dorchester,” Jink said, referring to the New Brunswick penitentiary where his uncle was serving time for armed robbery. “What's that place called again?”

“North Hills Group Home. Out near Waverley.” According to Matheson, a half-hour bus ride, including transfers.

“Any groupies there?” Bigger elbowed Reef in the gut.

Reef jabbed him back. “I wish.” This he said for Scar's benefit, too, and it worked. He saw her clench her teeth, the muscles in her jaw tightening in annoyance. But she said nothing.

“Well, man,” Jink said as he gripped Reef's hand, “we'll be by to see you after you get settled in.”

Greg Matheson cleared his throat. “No can do, guys. At least not for a while. One of the rules.”

“Screw the rules,” Bigger snarled.

“Yeah, well, that's pretty much been the order of things so far, and where has it got you?” Despite Matheson's smaller size, he didn't seem intimidated by Bigger's bulk. “Unless Reef keeps his nose clean and follows the judge's ruling to the letter,” he said, “his next stop very well
could
be Dorchester.”

The car lurched now, backfired twice, and emitted a huge plume of blue smoke as Matheson stuck his arm out the window and turned left. “Signal light doesn't work,” he said. “Gotta fix that.”

“Yeah,” Reef muttered. Matheson's arm out thewindow was drawing even more attention. “I'd be real worried about that.”

Matheson glanced at him and grinned, then pointed right. “Here we are,” he said, pumping the brakes and pulling the car into a driveway that led up a short incline to a rambling, two-and-a-half story Victorian structure. Although clearly an older building, it was still impressive. “Used to be a single-family home before someone bought it and cut it up into apartments. After that it went to hell. Frank Colville got it for way less than market value and restored it himself before opening it as a group home. What do you think?”

Reef ignored the building and looked instead at the sign on the narrow front lawn. Above a painted backdrop of rolling hills, a star—which, he presumed, was the North Star, although it looked more like an exaggerated Star of Bethlehem you'd see on Christmas cards and nativity scenes—shone jagged yellow rays down on the silhouette of a figure carrying a heavy load. Reef sighed. If the corny symbolism was any indication of life at North Hills, it was going to be a long twelve months. He grunted noncommittally.

“If you don't mind,” Matheson said, “I'm just going to drop you here. I'm low on gas and I want to get the car home before I have to shut it off.”

“No problem.” Actually, Reef was relieved. The sooner that piece of shit was out of his sight, the better. He reached into the back seat for his gym bag and got out.

“That's Frank, there,” Matheson said. “You'll like him. He's a good guy.” He leaned across the seat and smiled through the passenger's window at a tall man coming out the door. “Frank!” he called. “How're you doin'?”

“Hey, Greg,” Colville replied. “Good to see you, man. Got time for a coffee?”

Matheson shook his head. “Thanks, some other time. Gotta get my car home before it quits on me. This is Chad Kennedy. Goes by Reef.” He turned to the teenager. “You're gonna do fine here, Reef. I've already given Frank a copy of your file. I'll stop by in a couple days to see how you're settling in. If you need to talk to me before then, though, you have my number.” The Escort sputtered and Matheson revved the engine to keep it from stalling. “Gotta go. You take care ‘a yourself, okay?”

“I'll just do that.” Reef's sarcasm was lost in the cacophony that was Matheson's departure. The social worker ground the Escort's gearshift into first and the car lurched down the circular driveway to the street, the motor hammering away like someone was trapped under the hood. Reef watched it trail blue clouds that lingered after the vehicle had gone, then turned and climbed several steps to a veranda that stretched the length of the house.

“Greg's still driving the clunker, I see.”

Reef looked at the ham-sized hand extended to him, then at the smiling face above it.

“Hi. I'm Frank.” The guy looked like an ad for L. L. Bean, his square, rugged face a roadmap of crinkled lines around steel-blue eyes. The plaid shirt and jeans he wore were snug on his large frame, but certainly not because he was overweight. Colville was well over six feet and two hundred pounds, and it was clear from the thickness of his shoulders and arms that what wasn't bone was solid muscle.

To many people meeting him for the first time, Colville would have been an imposing presence on that Victorian veranda, but Reef wasn't intimidated. Life Lesson Number Four:
The bigger they come, the harder they fall
. He looked at Colville's hand for a long moment, then hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat into the bushes at the foot of the step.

Colville's hand dropped to his side, but his smile never faltered. “Glad to have you here, Reef. I've been looking forward to meeting you. So have the others. Bring your bag inside and we'll get you settled before breakfast. We eat late on Saturday mornings.”

He turned and led Reef into a large, oak-floored foyer that opened up to a living room on the left and what appeared to be an office on the right. Straight ahead was a hallway and a curved staircase that led to the second floor and beyond. Reef's eyes were drawn to the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Thicker than his thigh, the post was a solid piece of oak, the upperpart of the wood ornately carved in the shape of a pineapple and burnished to a high gloss.

“Most people notice that right off,” said Colville. “It's hand-carved. Found it in an antique shop in Lunenburg.” He moved to the staircase and rested his hand on the pineapple. “My only extravagance, as you'll soon see. I spent more on this than anything else in the whole house. It isn't even Victorian,” he said, shaking his head, “but I bought it anyway. It just seemed to belong here.”

Reef said nothing, allowed the comment to hang in the air.

“The pineapple is a traditional symbol of hospitality,” Colville added. “During colonial days, a host's ability to serve such a rare treat to his guests said a lot about his rank and resourcefulness.”

Reef yawned loudly. “You're pretty big on symbols,” he said dryly.

Colville grinned. “You're referring to the sign out front, right? Not my idea, really. One of my first residents painted it before he left. It was a gift.”

“Some gift.” This time there was no roaring motor to mask Reef's sarcasm.

Colville stared at him for a long moment. “Gifts come in many forms,” he said. He sat down on the stairs, his long legs draped over several treads. “Your being sent here was a kind of gift, Reef. The judge could have put you some place far worse than North Hills.”

Reef snorted. “You think I ain't been in worse places?” he asked.