Milo said, “Evening, Dr. Overstreet and Dr. Delaware. These are the Buchanans, Mr. and Mrs.”

The man and woman gave miserable nods.

“And this is Matthew. He did the artwork on your car.”

The boy cried louder.

His father said, “Cut that the hell out. At least face up to it and don’t be a coward, goddammit.”

The boy continued to cry.

Buchanan shot up and walked to the couch, a big, soft man. He took hold of the boy’s wrists and yanked them away. The boy bent low, tried to bury his face between his knees. His father reached under and forced his head upward, gripping him by the jaw.

“You look at them, goddammit! Face up to it, or it’ll be even worse for you, I promise.”

The boy’s face was pasty and snot-smeared, his mouth lopsided and grotesque in his father’s grasp. He clenched his eyes shut. Buchanan swore.

Mrs. Buchanan took a step toward her son. Her husband’s eyes warned her off. His hand tightened. The boy yelped in pain.

“Easy,” said Milo. He touched Buchanan’s arm. The man stared at him furiously, then backed off.

“Sit down, sir,” said Milo gently.

Buchanan returned to the recliner, drawing his robe around him and looking away from the rest of us.

Milo said, “Matt, this is Dr. Overstreet. Principal of the Hale school, but you probably know that, don’t you?”

The boy stared at Linda, terrified, then clamped his eyes shut.

Linda said, “Hello, Matthew.”

The boy buried his face again.

His father whipped around and said, “Say it!”

The boy mumbled something.

Buchanan was up in a flash. His right arm shot out and the boy’s head snapped back.

Mrs. Buchanan cried out.

Milo said, “That’s enough! Sit down!”

Buchanan put his hands on his hips and stared at Milo. “I want him to say it.”

“Pete,” said his wife.

Her husband pointed a finger at her. “You keep the hell out of this!”

“Mr. Buchanan,” said Milo, “let’s not make things worse than they are. Why don’t you just sit down?”

“I’da been listened to in the first place,” Buchanan said, “there’da been no trouble. He did it. He’s got to face up to it- no more coddling.” He tried to stare down Milo, gave up and glowered at his wife.

Milo said, “You’re absolutely right, sir. Face up is exactly what he needs to do. So let’s give him a chance to do that.”

Buchanan looked at his son. “Say it!”

The boy choked out a “sorry” between sobs.

“Sorry, ma’am!” barked his father.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“He really is,” said Mrs. Buchanan, looking at Linda. “He’s never done anything like this before and never will again. We’re all so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, for God’s sake,” said her husband. “What in hell do we have to apologize for? Except maybe for your coddling him, giving him everything he whines for so he’s never had to take any goddam responsibility for himself.”

“Pete, please.”

“Don’t Pete please me!” said Buchanan. “Just stop getting in the way and let me handle this the way it should have been handled a long time ago.” He extended a pair of big white hairy fists.

His wife bit her lip and turned away. The boy had stopped crying long enough to follow the parental skirmish.

Buchanan Senior turned his back on him and approached Linda. His lip was quivering and I noticed that one eye drooped lower than the other. “Ma’am, I’ve got a President’s last name. I believe in this country. A deep belief. We’ve got soldiers in our family going way back, generations. I did my time in Korea, active duty, got the papers to prove it. So we sure don’t encourage any Nazi talk around here. He musta picked it up on that crap he plays all the time- rock videos. Which is long gone from this house, that’s for sure.”

An angry look over his shoulder.

The boy covered his face again.

“Don’t you dare when I’m talking to you!” shouted his father. “Face up, goddammit!”

He turned and moved toward his son. Milo got between them. “I’m going to have to insist that you sit, sir. Now.”

Buchanan tightened, then let out breath.

Milo’s face was a police mask.

Buchanan muttered, then returned to the recliner, picked up the previous day’s newspaper from an end table, and pretended to be interested in the sports section.

His wife’s heavy face was ripe with humiliation.

Milo said, “Dr. Overstreet, if you want to press charges, I’ll have Matt arrested and taken in.”

The boy started crying again. His mother followed suit.

Mr. Buchanan looked at both of them with revulsion.

Linda walked over to the sofa and studied the boy. He tried to avoid her gaze, sniffled, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

She said, “Why, Matt?”

Fidget. Shrug.

“That’s important for me to know. Before I decide what to do. Why’d you do it?”

The boy mumbled something.

Linda said, “What’s that?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t know why you demolished my car?”

Shrug.

“What’d you use?”

“Crowbar.”

“Did you know it was my car?”

Silence.

“C’mon, Matt. You owe me.”

Nod.

“You knew it was my car?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you want to hurt me? Have I ever done anything to you?”

Shake of head.

“Then why?”

“The school.”

“What about the school?”

“Bringing the… them in.”

“Who?”

“The niggers and beaners. Everyone said you were bringing them in to take over the neighborhood.”

“Everyone? Who’s everyone?”

The boy shrugged. “Just people.”

Buchanan broke in. “He didn’t hear that here. Not that I approve of what you’ve done, but we stick with the law, go our own way and don’t make trouble for others. And we don’t talk gutter talk. I work with the colored- we get along just fine.”

“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Buchanan?”

He named an electronics company. “Line supervisor. Got seventy-five people under me, plenty of them Mexicans and colored. He didn’t hear that kind of gutter talk here.” To his son: “Did you!”

The boy shook his head.

“It’s the goddam rock videos,” said his father. “And that car- he never shoulda had it. Too damn babyish to wipe his own nose. Look at you!”

Mrs. Buchanan left the room and came back with a box of tissues. She pulled one out and handed it to her son.

He swabbed his nose.

His father said, “Congratulations, smart guy. That Trans Am is history.”

“Dad-”

“Shut up!”

Linda said, “Matt, let me get this straight. You resent me because you think I’m trying to take over your neighborhood by bringing in kids from other neighborhoods. So you smashed up my car.”

Nod.

“How’d you know it was my car?”

The boy said, “Seen you.” Barely audible.

“Was anyone else with you?”

Shake of the head.

“Did anyone else know you were going to do this?”

“No.”

“You just did it yourself.”

Nod.

“Why’d you paint a swastika on the car?”

Shrug.

“Do you know what the swastika stands for?”

“Kinda.”

“Kinda? What does it stand for?”

“Germans.”

“Not Germans,” said his father. “Nazis. Your grandfather fought them.”

Linda said, “Why’d you paint a swastika?”

“Dunno. Just being kinda…”

“Kinda what?”

“Rad, Bad. Like the Angels.”

“Hell’s Angels?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ,” said his father.

Linda said, “What were you doing up so late, Matt?”

Buchanan glared at his wife and said, “Good goddam question.”

The boy didn’t answer.

Linda said, “Matt, I asked you a question and I expect an answer.”

“Cruising.”

“With a crowbar?”

No answer.

“Why’d you have a crowbar with you?”

“To do it.”

“To smash my car with?”

Nod.

Buchanan said, “Talk, goddammit.”

“Yeah,” said the boy.