The Prodigal Son

[I just threw this together. Tell me what needs help. ]

Mrs. Foster slid the white potatoes into the oven and closed the door. She pulled off the thick oven mitt, and set it on the green and blue speckled countertop. Over the years that countertop has been used for so many things. When her son James was a baby with a toothless smile and fat hands, he would eat at that spot. More food ended up on her clothes than in his stomach.

Later, whenever she would cook a cake, he would sit there watching her with attentive brown eyes. And even later, he would set bowls and measuring spoons there when working on a culinary project of his own. Now, the only thing on that special corner of the counter is a digital clock with glowing red numbers. Mrs. Foster watched as the numbers changed to 5:30.

--Hope he comes home on time.

To James, time was everything. His hands gripped tightly around his car’s steering wheel as he backed into a space at one of his favorite discount stores. He had many favorite types of stores: gas stations, apparel, supermarkets—he never was a fan of restaurants or banks especially. Banks aren’t even stores. They just give out money, and he wasn’t into that. After shutting off the car, he sat for awhile. His fidgety fingers played with the silver metal stud in one of his ears. His thin lips pulled tight.

--What did I come for again?

He usually had to remind himself what he came for. Shopping was so exhilarating, he often would forget. Besides, what he was going to do was much more important than the actual purchase.

Mrs. Foster methodically set the table. Fork, spoon, and knife to the right. A delicate glass etched with square patterns—to the left. Salt, pepper, and other condiments go to the center of the table. James always liked to put salt and pepper on his beans. He said that it made them taste better. He always had a hard time swallowing food that was good for him.

Mrs. Foster sat in her spot at the end of the little table. The base of it was solid oak, and it had a glass top. Her son had bought the table. He claimed that it was a refurnished antique, and it cost him a bit of money. She only prayed that he was telling the truth. She wouldn’t dare ask him.

The clock glowed 6:00.

James periodically checked his watch, trying to look normal and mix in with the store crowd. He noticed the time.

--I hope mom leaves dinner on the stove.

He walked the aisles, putting on the appearance of just a curious shopper. He walked through the book and magazine section, picking up novels, reading the back, and putting them back down as if he wasn’t interested. They were not on his shopping list.

Hiding his hands that were growing increasingly sweaty in the pockets of his jeans, he walked on. Soon he was in the electronics department. He looked at the cameras that were tethered down with security devices for protection against those who pick things up but cannot put them back down. As he made his way down the aisle, seeing pictures of himself in the LCD screens of digital camcorders, he knew the time was getting close.

An employee noticed him carefully examining the cameras.

--Can I help you, sir?

He said no.

--I’m just looking. Just looking.

Mrs. Foster looked at her upside down reflection in the inside of a spoon. She still sat in the same spot, only difference being that now she had a plate of food in front of her. A meal of black eye peas, baked chicken, white potato, and a biscuit steamed on the plate. She had eaten none of it. Mrs. Wood waited for her son to come, not taking an eye off of her inverted reflection. James once asked her why reflections inside of spoons were upside down. She tried to explain that it was because of the concavity, but he was too young to understand. So she just told him:

--That’s the way spoons are. No matter how bad you want that reflection to be right side up, it will always be upside down. It won’t ever change.

He took that explanation. A few weeks later, while she was picking up toys off the floor in his room, she happened to stumble on a stash of spoons under the bed. Mrs. Foster pulled them out so that they were scattered all over the carpet. These spoons weren’t hers. They belonged to the neighbors next door. The spoons reflected her distraught face a million times like a smashed mirror. The only thing—all the images were upside down.

At the end of the row of high tech cameras was the CD section. James’s hands were extra sticky from perspiration. His mouth was dry. Knowing that every thing on his list was here excited him so much, his legs shook. He quickly scanned the area, checking for those who possibly noticed his erratic behavior. It was all clear. He walked up to a rack and removed his tingling hands from the shelter of his pockets. They snatched up three CDs. The artist didn’t matter. Not even the genre. He simply wanted them.

He fought the urge to run away. Instead, he went on with a relaxed grin, holding the CDs in his hands for everyone to see.

6:30

Mrs. Foster pushed the plate in front of her to the side. Her food was cold.

The beaded sweat felt cold on James’s face as he took out a pocket knife and sliced through the plastic seal on one of the CDs in a private corner of the store next to a fire exit. He ripped through them fast; fearing security cameras were recording his every move. After tearing off all the seals, he opened the CD case, revealing the magnetic security device inside. He pealed it out, threw it to the floor, and started attacking CD number two.

Mrs. Foster feared something maybe wrong.

He tore out the third plastic security device, dropped it, and attempted to grind it with his heel.

She decided to keep his food on the stove until seven. She didn’t see the point of keeping it on any longer.

And James didn’t see anyone watching him as he pulled a bag with the store’s logo out of the side pocket of his baggy jeans. He put the CDs in the bag so no one could tell the difference between him and a paying customer. After kicking the debris from the CDs under a nearby shelf, he started walking back to the main front doors.

His pace was fast like so many other shoppers, but then again, unlike the other shoppers. Unlike them, the steps of his sneakers seemed too loud on the vinyl floor, soliciting unwanted attention. The sensation of eyes on him caused his already electrified blood to rush to his face, flushing it. What if when asked, they would remember his blue shirt, white baseball cap, and six foot one stature? He imagined his face sticking out in the crowd like a black dot against a white background. He feared being watched.

His mother watched the clock on the counter top, feeling as if by the minute she could see what was going on. She didn’t know, though. She just inwardly prayed that he wasn’t in trouble. Again.

The front doors were coming up. They were opening and closing, letting customers in and out. A worker wearing a green vest pushed in a row of squeaking shopping carts, frowning because it was beginning to drizzle outside. James took quick inventory of the exit: cameras, security scanners—even worse—an armed and ready security guard. But it was the only way out. His breath held as he began to cross the threshold of the magnetic scanner in front of the door. The cameras rolled. The guard’s gray eyes followed. He didn’t want to put his mom through it again. Accepting the collect calls from prison. The scanner clicked. That’s all it did. It just clicked like it did with person who went before him and the one who followed right after. He walked through the automatic doors undetected. No one noticed.

He jogged through the sprinkles to get to his car. Not that he was concerned about getting wet. It was just a great excuse to run so he could get off of store property as soon as possible. He hadn’t completely gotten away. He threw the CDs in the glove compartment and started trying to drive out the parking lot.

The parking lot was a nightmare. A woman talking on a cell phone and pushing a shopping cart stepped out into the street without looking. James nearly had to slam on breaks to avoid hitting her. Behind her came a parade of people. A businessman. A soccer mom weighed down with grocery. An old couple crept across the street. With every second, the risk of getting caught grew, and James couldn’t take it anymore. He blew his horn at them, and the elderly couple jumped from shock. They walked faster, not withholding their angry stares.

With the road clear, James went on. The further away he drove, the more he began to relax. The sweaty feel of his hands began to leave. His heart slowed down. The heightened senses disappeared, and his mind began to worry about more normal things.

--The rain is getting heavier. I better turn on the wipers. It’s almost seven o’clock. Mom might be worried.

His eyes took a quick glace at the side view mirror to see what the traffic was like behind him. On his bumper was a police car. James didn’t sweat it. After all, he was doing the speed limit—actually a little less than that—so nothing could be wrong…

Then he saw the lights on the car start flashing red and blue. Maybe he just got a call. Then the siren came on. James drove a little more to see if the police car would go around. It didn’t. It was following him. He sighed and pulled over.

The policeman stepped out his car with the usual drama. Since it was raining, he wore a bright yellow poncho with Sheriff’s Department printed across it. Even though it wasn’t necessary, he took out his flashlight and flashed it down through James’s open car window. Its beam went from the glove compartment, to the empty passenger’s seat, to James’s face. The policeman’s eyes squinted at him.

--Are you James Foster?

James fought to keep his hand from reaching up to his ear and playing with the ring in it, an obvious sign of nervousness and guilt. He had to keep it under control. He looked the cop squarely in the face. Stay cool. Stay cool.

--No, I’m not. James is my cousin.

--Did you shoplift some items from Jerry’s Corner Store last week?

--No. Like I said, it wasn’t me. It was my COUSIN.

The policeman’s brows crumpled with disbelief. He knew it was a lie. Everyone in the local sheriff’s office knew who James Foster was, even the secretary. He said:

--So, it was your cousin? Your car--it has the same license plate number as a vehicle that was reported stolen a few days ago.

James was sticking to his story. All the way.

--I borrowed this car from him.

--Leave the car and come with me, so I can confirm who you are.

At first, James wasn’t sure if he should go. Resistance through, could be a validation of what he claimed he didn’t do. So he went along with it, even consenting to a pat down. Drivers slowed down to look at him getting cuffed on the side of the highway.

Mrs. Foster hesitated to take dinner off the oven. It was about five minutes till seven. He could still show up. Anything may have happened. The weather was kind of messy—he could have gotten into a car accident. There could be a traffic jam. Maybe he had other plans…

Ding. The doorbell. It was a simple single tone ring, but to Mrs. Foster it was more than that. As she made her way to the door, she knew she had no reason to worry so much. Everything was fine. Now she will let her son in, he will take off his muddy shoes, and then they will eat dinner together. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t her son.

Instead it was a police officer in a poncho. A few raindrops rolled down his tan face, the only white area being around his eyes where he usually wore sunglasses. In Mrs. Foster’s eyes, all the policemen were beginning to look the same.

I’m Officer Robert Glenn for the Sheriff’s Department. I’m hate to bother you, ma’am--he said--But can you see who’s in my car?

Yes, she could. It was a young man. Twenty-three. Had the soft brown eyes and strong square jaw of his father, and easy smile and slender nose of his mother. And something else that neither of his parents possessed. She said that she could see him.

--Can you tell me who he is?

--His name is James Foster. He’s my son.

--I have a warrant for his arrest. Five counts of shoplifting among other charges. I have to take him away. He’ll probably end up serving some more prison time.

--I know. It’s okay. Do whatever you have to.

For a moment the policeman opened his mouth like he had something else to say. Something like an apology. However, Mrs. Foster’s calm face, her distant smile, made him feel that it wasn’t necessary. She was giving up her son without insisting that he had always been a good boy from the start. So he only thanked her for her time and left.

Mrs. Foster closed the door and locked it. Locks could protect her against the criminal elements outside her home, but she could do nothing about the problems within.

7:00

She took dinner off the stove like she said she would. By the time he comes back home, it would be way too cold.