“I’m not sure you heard me,” the principal says. He removes his glasses, throws them onto the desk. “His nose was broken, and pretty badly at that. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I heard you the first time, and it sounds as though he deserved it. This ain’t the first fight they’ve had, nor is it the first time Donny’s said these things about my family.”

“There’s a protocol for such taunting. Your son should have brought it to my attention.”

“Yeah, and what would you have done? They’re kids; kids fight.”

The principal closes his eyes. “Well, it’s apparent where your child gets his aggression,” he says in a derogatory tone, challenging my father.

“Stratton, go wait in the truck,” he says without taking his eyes off the principal.

I do what he says. When he comes out a few minutes later my suspension has been reduced from three days to two. We pull out of the school parking lot.

“What happened in there?” I ask with something resembling amazement.

“Just chitchat between grown men.”

“I’m not sorry for breaking his nose.”

“I’d be pissed if you were.”

“I did just as you taught me.”

He looks over and smiles. “Ya did good, buddy,” he says and cuffs me in the back of the head. “Though you better not tell yer mom that.”

“Is she going to kill me?”

“She may kill us both, but she’ll get over it.”

I shrug, nervous the whole ride back over how she’s going to respond, but when we walk into the bar, she simply smiles and hugs me and tells me that she loves me. I hug her back, and accept that women are one of the many mysteries of this world I have no hope of ever understanding.

5

It’s six o’clock when he finally walks in, livid, dragging his son by the arm. Donny’s nose is encased in cotton beneath a metal splint held in place with several strips of white surgical tape. My father has been waiting for this, turning his head each time the door has opened since we arrived. He drinks what’s left of his whiskey and turns in his stool. He smiles in a way that can only be taken as a taunt.

“Mike Smith, I thought we might see you today.”

“See what the hell your son did?” he asks, stopping five feet from us.

“Well, no, but I certainly see it now. Did a pretty good number on him, eh? And by the sound of it yer boy deserved it.”

Everyone in the bar falls silent. They’ve heard the story proudly recounted by my father. Several of them have stuck around out of pure curiosity as to what might happen. Donny stares at his feet, never once lifting his head to look at me. I don’t feel a shred of regret.