George grabbed Raymond by the shoulders and jacked him up against the door. I heard a thud as the kid’s body made contact with the wood. He hung there, his arms flattened against the door, his feet dangling a couple of inches off the ground. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide with surprise. He looked like a scarecrow on a pole. Too bad he didn’t have a field to guard. “Listen, you little shit ...” George was saying in a tone of voice that would have frozen Lake Erie solid when I yelled from the bed for him to put Raymond down. The sound distracted George, and he turned his head toward me. He must have loosened his grip slightly at the same time, because suddenly Raymond’s feet were planted on the floor while his jacket was still being pinned to the door by George. As he took a step back, a tight, smug little smile flitted across Raymond’s lips for a few seconds before vanishing. Seeing the expression on Raymond’s face jolted me. It made me realize that maybe Raymond had gotten what he wanted: George out of control.
