Free Tumbledown by Robert Boswell Page A

big thing,” the War Vet said, “and it can wait.”
    Candler displayed the results of the aptitude and interest tests, going over them category by category. It took a while. He was intentionally deliberate, not so much for the kid’s sake but for his own.
    “What’s the gist?” the War Vet asked.
    “You should do well in college if you can make yourself sit through the classes. A lot of them are dull and not what you care about but they’re required. My best guess—it might be premature for you to leap into it. As for your interests, there’s every reason to believe that you have a shot at being some sort of artist, particularly, it looks like, in graphic design, though people typically move away from their initial plans. I think you’d be better off in a specific art school where you’re less likely to get restless. Whether you could be a successful artist depends on artistic growth, luck, economic intangibles, a lot of fac—”
    “ Fate,” he said. “I get fate. Jesus and Jonah, do I. But you’re saying I got a chance?”
    “Absolutely. You ought to be in individual art classes now, take the time to get some therapy, and then go to college.”
    The War Vet nodded, waited.
    “As for the possibility of achieving happiness, I’d say the obvious stumbling block is your anger. A lot of it is self-directed, which leads to depression.”
    “If you’re telling me to chuck the anger, I’ll kick its ass out the door.” It was Candler’s turn to wait. Rainyday buzzed to say another client had arrived. Candler acknowledged her and leaned back in his chair.
    “I guess we’re done then?” the War Vet said.
    “I’ll write a report and send it to you or to whomever you designate.” The War Vet stood and offered his hand but Candler shook his head. “We can take another minute or two.”
    Mendez dropped himself again into the chair. “The big thing?” He took a deep breath and exhaled through his teeth. “I’d like the report to say I can’t go back to Iraq, that I’m unfit one way or the other, psychologically, physically, mentally, karmically, any goddamn way possible. That’s the big thing, cause without it, the other stuff doesn’t matter.” He stood then. “I hate to keep people when I know they want me gone.”
    They shook hands.
    “I know it’s true,” the War Vet said. “I can’t go back and if I’m made to . . . I’m afraid I won’t get through it.” He rocked his head against his shoulders. “I thought maybe these tests’d tell me I’m right. Then maybe I’d have the courage to say no to those motherfuckers.”
    “That might mean prison.”
    He winced. “Not if the tests, you know . . .” He gave Candler a long look. “You’ll email me the report?”
    “I can do that.”
    “Thank you, sir.” And he was gone, the door thoughtlessly slammed.
    “ No, you ugh-water, the song is called ‘Summer Wind,’ ” Maura said, “not that I was talking to you.”
    “If the wind can choose when it blows . . .” Rhine continued but she cut him off.
    “Shut the fuck up.” She glared, a mock glare, really, but it did the job. It was almost noon, and Crews had not come back. He must be mowing a football field. She was telling Mick about someone in her dorm playing the same song over and over, a dorky Frank Sinatra song, but Rhine couldn’t keep his nose out of it, and now Cecil Fresnay was upset.
    “She’s not talking to you, Cecil Something Something,” Mick said. “You’re doing just really fine. Good, fine work.”
    Cecil the human trout was on the verge of tears every five minutes. Maura had paid Cecil and Alonso at the hourly breaks. There shouldn’t have been enough left in the cash box to continue paying them, but Cecil hadn’t yet earned a dollar for the whole morning. He was hopelessly out of it. Crews had never been gone this long before, and she imagined him at the emergency room with a mowed-off foot in his pocket.
    Mick calmed Cecil down and put him back to