The Deputy

It was a long time before anyone spoke, but the boy knew almost immediately that he had made a mistake.

“What kind of a question is that?” His father, halfway through his rice pilaf and roasted vegetables, was frozen with anger. He shook his dreadlocks at the boy and seemed to be on the edge of breakdown. “Who would ask such a thing over dinner?”

Sympathy was not forthcoming from his mother, a woman much younger and calmer than his dad, but still tight with her annoyance. “Oh, darling, you can’t pose such a question while we are eating. It just isn’t right.” She attempted to spoon more chick peas onto her plate and stopped for her tears.

“You see, now? You see what you do to your mother with such nonsense. Apologize!”

“Stop yourself.” His grandmother, always a reliable one in his corner, quietly admonished her son with a gentle slap on his arm. “You were no different at that age. Always asking the big questions when people just wanted to get on with other things. You think that your son is going to be any different? You think you have a chance with him?” She somehow managed to smile at both generations of her family at the same time, showing her perfect teeth and perfected wrinkles developed over a long life of laughter and forgiveness.

“But still…” His uncle was a different matter. It was very difficult to get a read on the man when he came over for these weekly meals. If he was really hungry, everyone tried to get on his good side and not mention his ex-wife (he wished Ms. Clara was here with him; she always carried toffees and jokes). If he was in a good mood – a rare and possibly extinct animal – he would not mind anything that happened as he passed from the living room in through the kitchen and out to their patio. But the boy had heard the older man’s stomach growling as they all walked in. He was on his second bowl of broth and second plate of plantain slices. This would not be an easy time for any of them. “…The boy needs to know about time and place.”

“Yes, time and place… This is neither one nor the other.”

“But it is a fair question, dear. I always wondered about it myself.” His mother continued to eat, slightly elbowed into it by his grandmother. “Why would anyone set up a line like that? Makes no sense.”

“But it’s a classic. No one ever asked that question before.”

“Then you should be proud you have a son asking questions no one thought to ask. He’s got a bigger brain than most.” His grandma had the most perfect smile for him.

“Silliness is all it is. These kids asking about things that no one care about. Maybe he should worry about other things instead of a work of art that no one questions.” His uncle said all of this with a mouthful of plantain. This actually impressed the boy.

“I don’t see what was so wrong about the question. It’s a fair one, right?”

“Would you just stop? You have already vexed me as I try to eat.”

“Dad…you mean to tell me you never thought of it before? No one at this table ever had a question about it?”

Another long and awkward silence followed.

“Y’know,” his mother said, as she stood up, took out a lighter, and lit some incense waiting in its holder by a painting, “I was once young, too. Had a lot of silly questions about life and things and I never got a real answer on any of them. My parents were not the most talkative or friendly people. But I always respected them.” She waved away the growing flame until it was just a plume of blue smoke. “And I always respected him.” She was staring up at the portrait.

They all looked up at it and then bowed.

Except the boy.

“You see, this is the problem. I ask a simple question and every time I try to get an answer, you do this. You try and turn it into something like church.”

He was really going too far and his father knew it.

“I am giving you a chance to take that back.” He held his fork in a very tight grip now.

“Dad, no. No apologies. Not for this. Not until you at least try to answer the question.”

They were all beginning to hate these silences. You could hear the traffic outside, the ticking of a clock in the hallway, and the noise of the neighbours upstairs (like they were running buffalo, his father once said).

“Oh, my dear. Maybe we should think about this after dinner.”

You had to hand it to grandma, he thought. She was such a smooth negotiator. Was that the reason why her marriages were pleasant thoughts for all her children? Here was another question for another day.

“Yes, yes…” His uncle moved on to more rice and peas. “We came here to eat and not debate what should be obvious.”

“Obvious?” He really did not understand what the man was saying. It was not an uncommon feeling to the boy.

“It was a set up, right? Someone else took on the other one. He took on the one who was coming hard on him like he was a criminal. So, that’s why the line is that way. Smart, if you have brains to think about it.” He smiled and looked at the portrait. “Very clever, that man.”

They all agreed on something at least. And they were also happy that the people upstairs had no access to the patio. It was a beautiful evening for it.

Dinner went by smoothly after that, although he did have to apologize and clear the dishes after the meal.

He went to bed that night and thought about his questions. His dreadlocks were wrapped up with help from his grandmother and his parents actually seemed proud of him for thinking for himself finally. It was something that they really had never considered themselves. But he would write it down in his journal for today’s entry (just in case he forgot it):

“If he shot the sheriff, but did not shoot the deputy, then someone else must have been involved.”

Maybe his uncle was right.

Smart…