Center of Gravity (18 page)

“Now, Miss Ruth,” Dad says. “Don't go getting all upset. It's a bit of a story. One we might want to discuss
inside
.” He raises an eyebrow and glances down to make sure I'm not paying attention. On purpose, I've already turned my head and busied myself getting Sam from his car seat. But that doesn't mean I'm not listening.

“Jack darling.” Grandma Ruth squashes me into an awkward hug. She smells like baby powder and flowery body spray. Ava says she goes through an entire bottle a week, which maybe explains why Grandma Ruth doesn't cook on the gas stove or get too close to the grill. Ava says it might set her on fire. No way if I was a girl would I ever use that stuff. Unless, of course, I wanted to blow something up.

“Oh,” she exclaims and squeezes Sam's chubby leg. He shrinks into my shoulder. “You're so big! Mitchell, they're both so handsome.”
Grandma Ruth stretches her lips into a toothy smile, which must seem scary to Sam, because he starts to cry.

“Maybe he's hungry,” I pipe up. There's always something sweet in the kitchen. If Maybelle, the cook, knows we're coming, she whips up the best Snickerdoodle cookies. Even Sam's big enough to have one now.

“Run along then, y'all.” Grandma Ruth flashes her big diamond as she waves us toward the kitchen. “Wash your hands when you finish, now. Don't get everything all sticky.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I call and head for the stairs.

The kitchen's right off the porch, so I settle Sam close to the window to listen. He's on his second cookie by the time the conversation gets any good. I'll have to move on to Fritos and ice cream if this lasts too long.

First they start talking about the athletic center at the college, and it's so boring that I almost stop listening. Numbers, dates, names. Some big party. But Dad sounds happy, really happy, and I sit up straight and strain to hear.

“Glad to do it, Mitchell,” Grandma Ruth is saying. “You're family.”

Dad says something I can't hear. They're both murmuring then, and Grandma Ruth makes that sucking sound like someone slapped her. All I can catch is “college ring” and “money.”

“I'm so sorry, Mitchell.” The voice is Grandma Ruth's. “You're certain it was Ava?”

Ava?

“I'm afraid so,” my dad answers. The chair creaks. “She's not been herself lately.”

“How do you mean?”

Dad tells her about calling the police. The day Ava came over to drop off my stuff. The day I asked her to come, practically begged her to stay. I curl into a ball and hug my knees close. Grandma Ruth doesn't say much, just murmurs and clucks.

And then Dad again. “I suspect she's seeing someone.”

I jerk apart, one leg shooting out like I can't control it. Sam reaches out a cookie-covered hand to touch my face. Grandma Ruth begins whispering. She does it anytime there's something important or upsetting to talk about. I lean closer to the open window, trembling.

“It's like she's back in high school. That summer she ran away with that hillbilly to Texas. They were going to get married. To think. Ava can be so foolish and headstrong. I was mortified,” Grandma Ruth says. “I thought I'd have to resign my membership in the Junior League.”

My dad mumbles something.

“No, she should be past this type of juvenile behavior,” Grandma Ruth exclaims. Sam drops his cookie at the noise.
Shh!
I put my hand over his mouth and move him to the left. I crouch closer to the floor, just in case.

Dad clears his throat. “She may call and ask for money.”

“Oh no.” Grandma Ruth's voice becomes muffled.

I've let go of Sam, trying to listen. As fast as he can, Sam runs off toward the parlor. Crap! The absolute off-limits tower of porcelain dolls and expensive, breakable stuff. Before I can reach him, he's grabbed a figure by the neck. Sam cocks his arm like a baseball pitcher and lets her fly. I cry out, leap through the air, and manage to get under the statue.

Whew!
It lands in my hand; I curl my fingers around it. Spiderman couldn't do better. Except . . . out of the corner of my eye, I see Sam attempt to scale the display in the corner. I scurry to grab my brother. A few clear glass vases and bowls, tinted yellow, rattle and tip. They'd be safer in an earthquake. Then the entire case tilts.

I snatch Sam from underneath the furniture and roll with him across the wood floor. Crash! Shards of etched glass sail past my head. A thick candlestick lands next to my cheek. Shaken, I realize the force from the falling shelves, or a random shard of crystal could have really hurt Sam. Maybe even killed him.

I close my eyes and picture blood splatters and my brother lying still in the center of the room. Acid churns in my stomach. Sam whimpers while I hug him to my chest. Under my weight, his heart skips like a jump rope.
Whop, whop, whop
. Another plate crashes to the floor.

The noise sends Dad sprinting, with Grandma Ruth not far behind. When I estimate my father's feet are about an inch from my head, I open one eye and squint at his brown shoe leather. Sam grunts and wiggles, trying to wrestle his way out from underneath me.

“The Fostoria!” My grandmother clutches at her chest.

I'm not sure which is worse: the anticipation of my dad's punishment, or guilt over the absolute certainty of Grandma Ruth crying for days.

Dad yanks me up by the arm and shakes me. “Jack, what in God's name—” Sam sees this and wails like his feet are being held to a fire. He's so loud my grandmother claps her hands over her ears and starts to sob. I bend down to pick up my brother, but Dad pushes me out of the way, puts Sam on the sofa. “You've done enough, haven't you?” His face is purple. “You were supposed to be watching him.”

“It was an accident, honest!” I exclaim. “Sam ran away from me. He grabbed one of those china things, then almost dropped it, but I caught it, then he tried to climb—” No one is listening, and I'm not sure my story's making much sense. Or matters. “Grandma Ruth, I am sorry.”

My father slaps me across the face, hard. “You'll speak when spoken to.”

My face stings, my arm's sore. Sam is still bawling. Dad points me to the truck. “Not another word, mister.”

Grandma Ruth doesn't flinch or move, just stares at the broken pieces.

I've been banned. An outcast. Just like Peter Parker, who always tries to do the right thing, messes up, tries to fix it, then screws stuff
up again. Mistakes make Peter Parker different from other superheroes. More human, like me. If it only took a spider bite, would I do it? Heck yeah! Regular kid one day, superhero the next. Crawling up buildings would be great, flying over cars, hanging by a thread, having superstrength. And, of course, spider-sense.

Anything I can do to avoid trouble sure would come in handy.

CHAPTER 33

AVA

SUNDAY, APRIL 18

The sun's barely up over the horizon. Sitting on the back porch steps, wrapped in a blanket with an untouched cup of hot tea in my hands, I stare aimlessly at the new swing set in front of me. Empty seats sway on long chains. The red slide, slick and sturdy, juts from a small lookout platform on one side. There are monkey bars, a rope to climb, and a sandbox.

It was my big surprise for Jack and Sam, despite Mitchell's complaining about the frame turning to rusty metal and the sight of it cluttering up our pristine yard. At the time, it sounded glorious and nostalgic. I'd scrimped and saved, squirreling away dollars for the last year and a half.

It arrived in the driveway last night on the back of a huge flatbed truck. In the chaos, I'd forgotten about it. I didn't have the heart to send it back. The workers took one look at me and asked for a mere twenty bucks to unload it and set it up. Deal. I threw in a few glasses of sweet tea for good measure.

Red streaks thread their way across the sky now, cutting through the morning's silvery mist. Miles from the porch steps, the whistle of a train echoes into Mobile Bay. A second blast, faster, longer, rushes past, carried by the breeze.

Graham's warning to make no contact with Jack and Sam hangs above me like a neon stop sign. Mitchell's staged “break-in” has me glancing over my shoulder on every corner, checking the backseat of the Jeep to make sure no one is waiting. Sure-fire scare tactics, I'll give him that. But my love for my children is stronger.

I see them everywhere, especially in their bedrooms on dark nights. I catch myself padding by Sam's crib so as not to wake him. I pass Jack's room, hoping to catch a glimpse of dark, tousled hair on his pillows.

In the folds of the blanket, I find my phone, pull it out, and stare at the blank screen. One call. It can't hurt. It's early, but the boys are up.

I press Mitchell's number. “It's Ava,” I say when he answers, summoning strength at the sound of Jack's voice in the background. A door slams. “I'd like to say hello to the boys, please. It won't take but a minute.”

The scuffing sound of a hand over the phone muffles any noise. Mitchell says Jack's name once, then again. I wait. Nothing. Mitchell seems to talk to someone. Again, no answer.

“It's not a good time.”

I bite my lip and barter for time. “Um, are the boys okay? Are they sick?” I tread lightly, a gingerly placed footstep on ice.

“They're fine.” Mitchell jumps on the defensive, volleys back. “I have everything they need right here.”

Except a mother.
“Tell me how they're doing, then—”

Mitchell interrupts. “Jack doesn't want to talk to you.”

The phone goes dead.
He's hung up on me.
In my brain, I rewind and replay the conversation, trying to slow my racing heartbeat. My eyes sting and I rub them furiously while I head for the house.

Inside, I turn on the faucet, cup my hands, and drink. The water is so cool; I splash my cheeks, hoping for sudden reason or sense to take hold. Elbows on the counter, shoulders heaving, tears mix
with the droplets falling from my face. My lips taste salty-wet. I could drown in my own grief.

In that moment, I understand desperation. Complete helplessness. How some parents kidnap their children. Run for Canada, Mexico. Disappear. My thoughts dart and hover like tropical fish trapped in an aquarium. Thick walls of glass, no way out.

I walk over to the fridge, trace my pink Valentine with a finger. As if someone was reading my deepest thoughts, the front door rattles with a hard knock.

What now?
I tighten the blanket around me, find my phone, and dash to the bedroom. When I peer out the window, Mike Kennedy's patrol car is sitting in the driveway. My throat's as dry as parchment paper left in the sun.

With shaking hands, I punch Graham's number and pray that he's there. Voice mail. I hit redial. Voice mail. Deep breath. One more try. This time he picks up. The sound of spraying drowns out his voice.

“Sorry,” Graham shouts over it. “Couldn't hear the phone. Someone's power washing his house on a Sunday morning. Are you okay?”

Finally, the noise stops. “Mike Kennedy. Outside my door,” I manage to get out, jumping on one foot in the closet to pull up my yoga pants.

“Crap. That was fast.” Graham curses a few more times. “Don't talk to him. Let me handle it. I'll explain later. Be right there.”

I stall for time and hope Mike doesn't have a warrant, still hating the thought of him standing on the porch in the now-sticky morning air.

Good as gold, I hear the rumble of his Harley in less than five minutes. My heart lurches toward the sound. Acting like an intruder in my own home, I tiptoe around the corner and peek. Graham parks, ambles over toward Mike, and after five seconds, the two of them
are having a heart-to-heart on the steps. I watch from the safety of my kitchen, my thoughts buzzing so loudly that Graham has to call my name twice to get my attention.

“Ava?” he says. “Ava? Can you come out here?”

On shaky legs I manage to walk to the door and open it. Graham lifts his chin and nods a hello as a blast of humidity hits me. “Can I borrow the keys to the Jeep?” he says in a loud voice. As he waits, he whispers under his breath. “Please tell me the Range Rover's in your name too?”

From the corner of my eye, I see Mike, leaning against his patrol car. He's waiting, watching. And none too happy with me for keeping him outside.

After a moment, he nods in my direction. Curt, polite. As if we're now strangers.

Why does that matter?
I shake my head at Graham and give him a curious look. “It's unlocked.”

“Stay here,” he whispers.

I can't breathe. I don't move a muscle.

Without a word, they head back to the driveway. Mike, not Graham, opens the door, fishes around in the front, checks the backseat, then unzips the ragtop. He moves out of sight for a second or two, then pops back up with Jack's bat in hand. He holds it out under the spotlight, examines it. The once brand-new, shiny bat now looks like someone bashed a tree with it. The paint's chipped and peeling.

My skin prickles as Graham narrows his eyes and crosses the driveway. “Did he say when and where this allegedly happened?”

“Yesterday morning, before dawn.” Mike shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't want to be here any more than I want him on my front lawn.

“Can someone please fill me in?”

Graham shakes his head at me. A warning to wait.

“Mitchell seems to think someone vandalized his truck.” Mike
looks at me. “He also said a very distinctive bat had been stolen. A Demarini Vendetta.” He holds up Jack's bat. “One just like this.”

I suck in air, gasping at the allegation. It's the bat I brought to the apartment.

“Any proof that it's my client? Any witnesses?” Graham frowns.

“Nope.”

Graham, on the other hand, doesn't look a bit worried. “Ava, the truck's joint property, right? Both names on the registration and title?”