Chapter 8 - The Slap
My slap became its own problem.
When I struck Marjorie, Ione was already behind me.
Passport was in Vaughn’s hand.
Flight was effectively impossible to catch.
Immediate physical danger had stopped.
My slap was retaliation.
No legal poetry changed that.
Marjorie reported it.
She had facial redness.
No fracture.
No fall.
No further strike.
I admitted.
My attorney said:
“Do not say you had no choice.”
“I had a choice.”
“Good.”
The prosecutor offered diversion.
No prior record.
One open-handed strike.
Anger-management assessment.
Community service.
Case eligible for dismissal after compliance.
I accepted.
My father said:
“She deserved worse.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
He blinked.
“Fletcher.”
“She deserved consequences. I don’t get to choose violence because I’m angry.”
Vaughn went quiet.
That distinction mattered for him too.
His entire generation had treated violence differently.
A slap could be:
a message.
A correction.
A line.
I did not want Ione growing up with that vocabulary.
I told her:
“I hit Grandma.”
“I know.”
“I should not have.”
“She hurt me.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“I should have gotten you safe and called the people who handle consequences.”
“Police?”
“Sometimes.”
“Lawyer?”
“Sometimes.”
“Grandpa?”
“Not this time.”
She almost smiled.
May you like
Good.
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