The Rod is Not for Sparing

He flipped the phone open and stuck it to his ear. ‘Yeah?’ 

‘Mr. Miller?’ The voice on the other end was gruff, but undeniably feminine. He recognized it immediately. ‘You’ll have to come to the school. Now.’ 

Jojo pinched the space between his eyes, and dashed to the side in time to avoid colliding with men in scrubs wheeling in another stretcher. ‘What happened?’ The whine in his voice held the unspoken this time. 

‘Your son trapped another boy in his locker, Mr. Miller! An asthmatic boy!’ With all the rage that floated over the connection, Principal Okunor may as well have been in front of him. ‘He suffered an attack and his parents are threatening to sue.’ 

Jojo felt his knees buckle. A heavy sigh left him, the tiredness of the past four months charging at him in that one moment. ‘Phil’s just a boy.’ Like his voice, Jojo’s excuse was weak, but it had to suffice. His son was nine years old, dealing with a mostly absent father, and a mother whose last days were closing in because the chemo wasn’t working. ‘He…didn’t mean any harm. I’m sure of it.’ 

‘Mr. Miller, report to the school at once! You must meet with Ralph’s parents and reach some form of agreement. In the meantime you’ll have to look for another school for your son.’ 

The harsh clatter from her receiver hitting the cradle made him wince. Fists on his waist, Jojo tapped the wall with the back of his head, his eyes fluttering shut. Phil was only a boy dealing with stuff, in his own, slightly unconventional way. He would grow out of it. 

He was sure of it.  

***

‘So,’ Cynthia said, her big eyes on him, her fork absently pushing stir-fried vegetables across her plate. ‘Tell me about your son.’ 

Jojo wasn’t bothered that she didn’t seem half as interested in the food as she was in him. It was only vegetables and chunks of meat, and the meat had come from takeout whose containers she would see if she only looked over her shoulder at the kitchen doorway. If anything, he was ecstatic, and hoping to high heaven it wasn’t too obvious. Cynthia was his first date in the four years since his wife passed, and, his eyes roaming the perfect arc of her brown hair around her face, the smoothness of her skin, and the teasing slant of her dainty red lips, he could not believe he’d managed to land her. 

It may have helped that he’d recently traded his Sentra for a Jeep. 

‘Well.’ He didn’t expect his voice to be so faint, but here he was with first date jitters. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘He’s, you know, a growing boy.’ One finger traced the rim of his glass. ‘A little rough around the edges, but then, which boy isn’t? He’ll grow out of it.’ 

She smiled. ‘And be just as wonderful as his father, I’m sure.’ 

The front door tore open and banged shut before Jojo could begin basking in the glow of her compliment. His head whipped sideways in time to avoid missing the blur that was his teenage son bolting inside the house and up the stairs, his feet pounding on the wood, the tail of his dark blue sweater flapping behind him. An upstairs door slammed a moment later to punctuate Phil’s grand entrance and exit. 

‘Hm.’ Cynthia tipped her wine glass and took a long sip. ‘Charming.’ 

Jojo jammed his hand under one thigh to keep from running it over his head. Just like Phil to try to rain on his parade. ‘One minute,’ he said, managing a tight smile. He stood, taking measured steps toward the staircase. 

A sharp knock on the door stopped him. 

‘This is the house of Phil Miller?’

The question was hurled at him before Jojo had fully opened the door, and the fury contained in it almost knocked him over. A middle-aged man stood on the doorstep, his large right hand tightening around a hockey stick. Every passing second saw his features realign into a sterner scowl. 

A familiar tiredness began to stir in the back of Jojo’s head. ‘Yes,’ he said, one hand on his waist. ‘I’m his father.’ 

‘Oh, you are!’ The man took a step forward. Jojo took one back. ‘You’re the proud man nurturing a terrorist!’ 

Jojo, thankful that that was the only step the man had taken so far, narrowed his eyes at the accusation. ‘Excuse me?’ 

‘Your son bashed my windshield!’ The man pulled off his hat and wrung it in his hand, as though crushing the urge to release the growl stewing in his throat. ‘Hit it with his stick till every last bit of glass was gone! And you know what he did after? You know? He swung right at the driver’s mirror and broke it too!’ 

Jojo bit down hard on his bottom lip. That sounded like his son. ‘How do you know it wasn’t one of the other neighbourhood kids?’ 

The man thrust the stick forward. ‘Saw him with my own two eyes just before he ran. Fool left evidence on my property. Is this for Phil? Or is this for Phil?’ 

Jojo, knowing full well it was useless, stepped closer to examine the stick anyway. Ignoring the scratches on the shaft, his gaze traveled up to the name engraved in cursive on the grip. This was the hockey stick he’d had custom-made for his son only a month earlier. ‘He’s…just a boy,’ Jojo said, looking over his shoulder in the direction of Phil’s room. ‘Thirteen years old, a little misguided. You know how these things are.’ He shrugged. 

The man’s head jutted forward a few inches. ‘Oh, wait a minute. I’m supposed to repair my car with the excuse that your vandal of a son is just a boy? Why, you—’

‘I’ll pay for the repairs.’ Like he’d paid for the neighbour’s broken window when Phil had hurled a potted plant at it. Like he’d paid for another neighbour’s trip to the vet when Phil injured a dog. ‘Bring me an invoice in the morning. I’ll take care of it.’  

The man dropped the stick on the porch. The sound of wood hitting concrete resounded less in the night air than in Jojo’s heart. ‘Fix your son,’ the man said, jabbing Jojo’s chest with his forefinger before leaving. 

‘Are you alright?’ Cynthia asked when Jojo returned. She filled his glass with more wine. ‘Phil alright?’ 

Sitting down, Jojo spared a glance at the stairs, down which floated the sounds of heavy metal music on full blast. ‘Yeah,’ he said, surprised she seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘Just a boy being a boy.’ 

***

Jojo was looking down at his shirt, where the little—but persistent—paunch had started to strain against the buttons, when the knuckles rapping on his car window wrenched him from his trip into self-pity. ‘Been here long?’ his colleague, Bernard, said, in lieu of an apology. ‘Traffic was a nightmare.’ 

Jojo stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. ‘No coffee stains on your shirt this time so we're making progress.’ He reached into his car and took out his briefcase. ‘Shall we? Obed will have our heads if we don’t close that deal with Richard.’ 

Bernard gave a mock shudder at the mention of their company’s prickliest client. ‘Which one is his house again?’ he asked, scrutinizing the neat rows of cookie-cutter duplexes in front of him. 

Something else had stolen Jojo’s attention. On one side of the street, a group of young men, tall, scrawny, and brimming with post-adolescent recklessness, sprinted out a shop. Each one clutched an electronic device to his chest, caring nothing that the cords trailed after them. Their sneakers pummeled the sidewalk as they ran to a red convertible and jumped into it. Somehow the small car managed to fit six bodies in, and sped off to the sound of screeching tires and loud music while a fuming heavyset man ran out of the shop, a litany of obscenities pouring out his mouth. In his loud rant Jojo caught the words ‘shoplifters’ and ‘police.’ 

Shoplifters. 

A hammer may have hit that small paunch on Jojo’s body for all the comfort he felt then. Those young men had robbed the store. And one of them was Phil. 

‘Jojo?’ Bernard snapped his fingers in his colleague’s face. ‘Everything alright buddy?’ 

‘Yeah,’ he said, not hearing himself speak. He hurried forward. ‘Let’s go.’ 

Bernard continued talking. Jojo’s mind wandered. Why would Phil even shoplift? They had everything they needed! Jojo had made enough to move out of their old house just before marrying Cynthia, and they had a boatload left over. Phil was seventeen, and would have his own car within a week of getting his license. What else did he need that his father wouldn’t give him if he asked? Was this just for the adrenaline rush? Some sort of rite of passage? 

He pressed his lips together when they stopped in front of Richard’s house. Jojo had himself had some rough boyhood years before cleaning his act up. He’d grown out of it. Phil would too. 

Right? 

***

The juddering on the bedside table would not let up. Cynthia murmured in her sleep, turning unto her other side. Jojo groaned, one hand feeling for the phone. He squinted at the blinding light of the screen, and the phone number he didn’t know. ‘Hello?’ he mumbled when he answered, rubbing his eyes. 

‘Dad?’ The desperation in Phil’s voice kicked away some of Jojo’s sleepiness. ‘Dad you’ve got to help me! I…I didn’t mean to do it! I swear it! It was an accident! Please! You’ve got to believe—’

‘What are you even saying?’ Jojo threw the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up. ‘Slow down.’ 

‘Dad, listen to me.’ His son paused. Jojo thought he heard a sob. ‘I hit a girl. I swear I didn’t mean—’

‘Oh, Phil.’ Jojo went into his bathroom and turned on the light. He caught sight of the thinning, greying hair on his temples—a major cause of his misery nowadays—before twisting the knob on the tap and rinsing the sleep off his face. ‘I thought I told you. Under no circumstances should you beat a girl.’ He dabbed at his face with a towel. ‘What does her family want? Let me talk to the father.’ 

‘Dad, no, you don’t understand. Please. Just. Stop.’ Many seconds of loud breathing followed Phil’s command. ‘I hit a girl. With a car.’ 

Jojo’s hand lashed out to grip the end of the sink. ‘Phil!’ His son had failed his driving test. All the six times he’d taken it. He had no license. Jojo pinched his eyes shut, picturing the extra charges that would be slapped on his son. ‘Whose car were you—’ 

‘Yours.’ 

Of course. He started pacing. ‘What were you thinking, Phil? Did she jump in front of you? Was it too dark—’

‘I was—’ there was another deep inhalation. ‘I was drunk.’ 

Jojo shook his head. ‘Are her parents there? Let me talk to them. How is she?’ 

Like an uncorked, thoroughly shaken fizzy drink, the younger man erupted in a fit of tears. ‘She’s dead, Dad! She didn’t even make it to the hospital! I swear I didn’t…I didn’t mean to!’ 

A sudden dizziness overcame Jojo. 

***

Phil picked up the black receiver and looked at the man in front of him, half a smile pushing an end of his lips up. ‘Hey Dad.’ 

‘Phil.’ Jojo’s voice was hoarse with raw emotion. He held the receiver closer to his ear, as if it could carry along with Phil’s voice the feel of his skin. ‘How are you?’ 

The young man on the other side of the glass shrugged, looking down at his arm. ‘Alive. Which is more than I deserve.’ 

‘Oh, Phil.’ Those words never made it past the bile that rose in Jojo’s throat. The boy before him was at once recognizable and completely unfamiliar. He saw so much of himself when he looked at his son, from the ruggedly fine face to the broad shoulders, and even the beard that was now part of his fashion statement. But there he sat, in his orange prison uniform, the same one he’d worn for almost five years now. The correctional institution had beaten down—perhaps literally—his eagerness to rebel, and now he was this meek thing with a pleading voice and a smile Jojo had stopped seeing as Phil grew. He was the odd combination of a shell of his old self and a better version. 

‘Don’t look so sad, Dad. I mean, I am fine,’ Phil was saying. ‘There are basketball courts. And a library. I’m never bored.’ There it was again, the smile Jojo had been missing in Phil’s younger years. He looked so much younger than his twenty-six years, and so much purer. ‘Who knows? A couple years more of good behavior and I could leave here sooner.’ 

Sometimes Jojo didn’t even know why he came to the prison, overcome with emotion as he often was, to the point of speechlessness. ‘Phil—’

‘And thanks, Dad.’ Phil drew lazy swirls on the glass, his eyes on his father. ‘Thanks for coming to see me so often. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. I’m a lot better now. I’ll be a better man when I leave here.’ He leaned forward, his eyes earnest. ‘I promise.’ 

A lone tear broke out through the corner of Jojo’s left eye and snaked down his cheek. His son had grown out of it. ‘I know.’ 

***

Phil was better. Jojo stopped at a red light, the welcome feeling of pride swelling in his gut. It had taken years, too many years and a prison sentence, but it had happened: Phil was not a sentiment-driven rule breaker anymore. 

A few yards later Jojo came to another stop, this one not induced by a traffic light. His mouth dried up. His skin was coarse with an itchy layer of gooseflesh. 

They had set up a pink canopy in the front yard. People occupied the rows of black folding chairs under the canopy, their heads bowed. In front of them, a man stood at a lectern, his lips moving as he eulogized the young woman whose framed picture hung behind him, the one Jojo recognized as Nancy Asare. Her framed picture hung behind him, capturing in the stolen moment a young woman’s happiness. 

One of Jojo’s suddenly trembling hands left the steering wheel to cover his lips. This was a memorial for a woman who’d passed away five years earlier. 

The woman his son had run over. 

The feeling of pride thinned into oblivion, leaving a void that was quickly filled by anger, pain, regret. Useless. That was what it was. Completely useless. His son had finally changed, thrown his bad boy days behind him and decided it was time to be responsible. Maybe he was sincere. Maybe Jojo’s son would really spend every day of the rest of his life becoming better, fixing himself. 

But Nancy? Tears were in a freefall down Jojo’s face now. There was a girl whose bright eyes spoke of hope and dreams he could only imagine. If she was perfect, if she was flawed, if she’d been looking to repair a broken relationship, it didn’t matter. Because in one moment, during an everyday, boring task like crossing the road, a speeding, unlicensed driver with one hand on the wheel of the car he’d nicked from his father and the other around a bottle had snuffed her life out. 

Because the driver’s father had not taken someone’s advice and fixed his son. 

The sobs racked his body. Maybe if he’d taught Phil just a few more values, instead of letting his own life consume him, his son would not have shut people in tight spaces. Maybe if he had bothered to pitch in with his son’s development, instead of leaving it to chance, and the lazy assurance that Phil would ‘grow out of it,’ Phil would not have taken his pent-up anger out on someone’s car. Maybe he wouldn’t have fit in with the wrong crowd and robbed stores. Maybe he would not have been under the influence on that night Nancy lingered too far out on the road, and she would still be alive.

He slumped over the wheel. His son had gotten better, grown out of it, like he’d believed. But at what cost? There was a girl in the ground. And it wasn’t because of Phil’s carelessness. 

It was because of Jojo’s.