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“WHAT DID PRIS MEAN when she said you were telekinetic, and how does a roast beef sandwich sound?” Frank asked as they entered the kitchen. As with most homes in America, they didn’t eat in the dining room; they ate in the kitchen at a counter which separated it from the dining room.
“Do you have horseradish mayo?” Ham inquired. “I’m glad you said roast beef, as I don’t eat ham.”
“Oh, Nichols doesn’t sound like a Jewish name?” Frank replied curiously.
“Not Jewish, just not a cannibal,” Ham replied with a grin.
Frank stared at him for a moment before it registered. “That’s some defense mechanism you’ve got there, young man,” he observed.
“How’s that?” Ham asked.
“Making fun at your own expense, or being self-deprecating, is a common defense mechanism for someone who either doesn’t want people to get too close, or who has low self-worth,” Frank explained. “I’m fairly certain you have strong self-esteem, so I’m guessing you just don’t want to let people in. It’s common among adults with disabilities, but not so much with teens.”
At Ham’s look of dubious respect, Frank replied, “I’ve read a lot in the past ten years while I’ve helped Clara adjust to her condition. Now, she helps me adjust to mine.”
“Oh, and what is your condition?” Ham asked, his curiosity piqued.
“That you eat this sandwich while I make one for myself,” Frank deflected in turn, setting a plate holding the quartered sandwich and a handful of cheese puffs in front of Ham at the counter. “I don’t know what Priscilla or her mother will want, so I’ll wait to ask.”
Rather than continuing the sparkling repartee’, Ham dove into the meal. As Frank finished making his own and turned from the kitchen counter to sit opposite Ham, a soft chime sounded.
Ham looked curiously at Frank, who said, “Clara needs my attention, I’ll be right back.”
While he was alone, Ham took a moment to call his father, who answered on the first ring. “Are you all right?” Martin Nichols asked immediately, concern audible in his voice.
“I’m fine, dad, I just haven’t had a chance to call until now,” Ham replied in his most apologetic voice. “I’m sorry I worried you, but things have been just a little crazy. I’m over at Detective Kratos’ house, and we’re all fine.”
“Hamilton Nichols, how can you say things are fine and I’m with the police in the same breath?” Martin asked heatedly. He sounded like he’d been drinking for a while.
“Dad, can I explain it once I get home?” Ham asked hopefully. “It’s much too complicated to get into over the phone. Just trust me when I say everything is fine; in fact, everything is great,” he concluded on an upbeat note.
“How long before you get home, and have you eaten since lunch?” his father asked. “It’s nearly seven, and you know how you get when you don’t eat on schedule.”
“Actually, I’m eating now,” Ham reassured. “Frank made me a sandwich.”
“Oh, it’s Frank now, is it?” Mr. Nichols replied.
“Dad, can we not do this right now, there’s still a lot going on,” Ham pleaded. When his father got a drunken notion in his head, he could be dogmatic about it. “I promise, I’m fine. Please don’t come over to get me, Mrs. Benson will bring me home. Everything is really good, and you’ll see that when I’m there. I promise you’ll understand it all once I’ve explained what’s been happening.”
“When will you be home?” Martin asked again, pointedly.
“I don’t know right now,” Ham admitted. “But I’m here with Mr. and Mrs. Kratos, Mrs. Benson, and Priscilla. What kind of trouble could I possibly get into?”