The Buffalo Soldier by Chris Bohjalian Read Free Book Online Page B

happening. The kid had absolutely no interest in Scouting, wouldn't even talk to the local troop leader. Didn't want to play soccer after school, even though there was a pretty good program, or go to the gym to shoot baskets. Disassociative was the word Louise, the caseworker, had used. Mostly he just groused that there was no cable in Cornish, and so he couldn't watch music videos and trash TV. Big loss, that, it seemed.
    Sometimes Terry wasn't even sure that he liked the child, and that thought always made him feel guilty. He didn't believe it had a damn thing to do with the fact that the boy was black. Still, he'd probably said about a thousand words to black people in his whole life. When his lieutenant-- a guy pushing forty-nine who'd be gone in fifteen months--had called him a multicultural wanna-be one afternoon in the barracks, he'd taken great comfort in the remark. It suggested that he was well-meaning and big-hearted.
    His boss, of course, hadn't meant it quite like that. When he heard about Alfred, he'd nodded thoughtfully, his massive boots resting on the wastebasket beside his desk, and said to Terry, Noble notion, taking in a black boy. But what do you and Laura really know about a kid like that--or, for that matter, raising a kid like that? You ever done anything more with a black person than bust one?
    And he was right. He told himself that he was no more likely to pull over an African-American for speeding or for driving a rust bucket without blinkers than he was anyone else. But how could he be certain? He saw so few, so very few. How could he really know? Moreover, he had to admit that, pure and simple, he didn't have a whole lot in common with a black boy who'd been born in Philadelphia and then lived most of his life in Burlington. Burlington may not have been a major metropolis, but it was considerably more urban than any place he'd ever lived. When the kid had arrived at their house, he had a line of metal studs in his ear that some sociopathic teen had placed there in a shopping mall men's room. Terry didn't even want to know what kind of needle the older boy had used to pierce the lobe and tough cartilage.
    Sometimes he wondered what the hell those SRS people were thinking when they sent a black child to live in rural Vermont. He'd look at the boy over dinner as he and Laura talked about what they had done with their days at their jobs, and he'd realize he didn't have the slightest idea what he should be telling this kid about the black experience.
    That was his lieutenant's expression, not his. But he understood what the lieutenant had been driving at. Laura had bought some books on black history, and they'd both read articles on interracial parenting. One afternoon he spent forty-five minutes on the phone trying to find a barber closer than Burlington who would have the slightest idea how to cut the boy's hair. It was proving to be a real stretch for them both, and most of the time they just tried to be decent parents and hoped the rest would work itself out.
    Unfortunately, it was hard to be a decent parent when the child hardly spoke. He was real big on single-word answers, but downright allergic to complete sentences. And it seemed as if he was way too comfortable disobeying Laura when she was home alone with him. They'd actually had to take the studs away from the kid after the school principal had called Laura at the animal shelter to tell her that Alfred had arrived in his classroom with the line of steel balls back in his ear. And twice Alfred had ignored Terry's edict that the cruiser was off-limits unless he was present, taking the keys off his dresser and climbing inside. There was a Remington 870 in the trunk, a weapon with a twenty-inch rifle-sighted barrel, and the last thing he wanted was for the lad to discover that little piece of hardware.
    He shuddered when he thought about the lyrics to the songs the kid listened to on his headset, or the fact that he played the music so loud they