The Field

More Scars

"Hey, Eddie," Mr. Foster said.

Eddie felt like he was caught in some kind of gravitational pull. He didn't want to stop or turn his head in the direction of the voice, but he had to. Mr. Foster rested his hands on the roof of the El Camino with the door open, the engine still running.

"Yeah?" Eddie said.

"Got a minute?"

"Uh-huh."

"You know those two boys who have been giving you and Will a hard time? The ones who ... did that to Charlie?"

"Yeah." Eddie had been staking out their house on and off for the last few days, coming up with a plan for revenge. Maybe break their bedroom window or light some dog crap on fire and toss it on their doorstep.

"Think you can show me where they live?"

This was it. This was how it was going to go down. Mr. Foster would make them sorry. Maybe drive his car through their house, or tar and feather them before making them run down the street like in those old movies. The possibilities were endless. He was in.

"There's a burger in it for you."

He was so in.

***

Aaron stopped the car outside a house that looked like it was meant to be admired, not lived in. A pillared entryway, wrapped in vines, held the first of two stories in place. Enough windows lined the walls on either side of the upper level to accommodate a busy bed and breakfast. Sculptures of rabbits, fairies, and other creatures hid in the garden among vibrant flowers.

"You sure this is it?" Aaron asked Eddie.

Eddie strained a look out the window. "Uh-huh."

"Better be."

"I promise. I followed them home from school once, then stayed really late and saw them up in one of the windows, just to be sure. I had to since this could have just been a place where—"

"All right, all right. I believe you. But you're staying here."

"But—"

"Eddie. You're staying here."

Aaron walked to the front door and adjusted his humble T-shirt and jeans. The knocker was a golden lion head with a giant ring hanging from its mouth. He grabbed it and knocked.

He breathed, running through the hypothetical conversations he would have.

A series of deadbolts slid within before the door opened. The scent of perfume and spice wafted out.

"Yes?" A woman, displayed much like the house, begged for admiring eyes. Auburn hair shimmered around her face, sculpted with layers of color. She adjusted her stance a few times, running hands over her tailored clothes, smoothing out the rare wrinkle.

"Hi," he said. "I hope I didn't catch you in the middle of something."

"No, of course not. Can I help you?"

Help? He wasn't sure. His son was sitting in a therapy session, battling with the loss of his dog and the wounds that this woman's children had caused. He shoved his hand into his pocket before it curled into a fist. "My name is Aaron Foster. My son, Will, goes to school with your boys."

"Rick and Robbie. I always enjoy meeting the parents of my boys' friends. Please, come in."

Friends. He jammed his other hand into his pocket.

"Is your husband around?" He'd stepped over the threshold into a living room far more ornate than its outer shell. Polished concrete floors ran like undisturbed water to a winding staircase that climbed to a wide balcony, one that must lead to the many rooms of the house. Hazy light filtered from the domed skylight above, shining off gold leaf accents.