I&#39ll Be There (14 page)

‘I’m giving the potatoes a mustard bath. With the olive oil. And then we bake them in a really hot oven, and the mustard, which is coating the potatoes, turns crispy . . .’

She’d learned her technique in the ER. Simply listening to someone speak, if the sound was in the right tone, could calm a person. It was part distraction, part plain audio comfort, and
Debbie knew what she was doing.

So with Felix always at Riddle’s feet to retrieve scraps of fallen food (deliberate and unintentional), and with Debbie moving around the kitchen, the two did a kind of dance.

Debbie was pulling him, almost literally, out of his old world and into a new one. She’d come to the conclusion that his deficiencies were, for the most part, with language.

But she felt that his chronic asthma and his multiple allergies had set him back much further than he would have been without these problems.

She had no way of knowing that he’d been locked inside a very small world that consisted of his brother and his interest in all things mechanical.

And now he was out.

What Debbie Bell really wanted was to get both of the kids in school. She’d made appointments with the pulmonary specialist, who couldn’t see him for nearly two more weeks, but he
was on the books.

And she’d arranged to take him to a child-development specialist.

Emily didn’t know. And neither did her husband. Or Sam. Taking him to see a friend in the ER was one thing. But how would she deal with the paperwork in a regular doctor’s office?
Who would she say that she was in this boy’s life? A trusted friend? An aunt? A godmother? The mother of the boy’s brother’s girlfriend?

And who would pay for the appointments?

She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. That’s what ER training teaches you. Deal with the here and the now.

So first she had to gain his trust. That’s what the time they spent in the kitchen was about.

And it was working.

He was late.

Thursdays he had office hours instead of classes. They were set up to provide time to hear his students discuss musical issues but ended up being when college students came to discuss their
grades. They all wanted an A. Even the kids who had no business being in a music class wanted the top grade.

Tim realised he was scowling.

Someone once told him that the most unhappy whitecollar job in the world was to be a junior-high school music teacher. The instructors loved music, and they had to spend eight hours a day
listening to kids butcher it.

At least he was a college professor. At least his students weren’t being forced to play plastic recorders.

But so many of them still were joyless in their pursuit of the one thing, outside his family, that Tim Bell loved best. So many felt as if they were simply ordering off a menu that someone had
put before them years ago, with the parental equivalent of a gun to their heads.

And then there was Sam.

He understood music; he loved music, in the most pure way that Tim Bell had ever witnessed.

Sam wasn’t just a natural; he was something else. He had made his own musical language.

The boy had a gift, and it had been allowed to mature wild and free and apparently in some kind of vacuum of aloneness that made him completely, entirely unique. He did not have ideas about
possible acclaim or reward. And as far as Tim could tell, he didn’t even understand what a grade was.

Maybe there was something to this homeschooling thing. What if there was some incredible secret to this way of teaching? If only Tim could speak to the boy’s father. What if he were some
kind of educational genius? Sam had his music, and Riddle had his drawing. How had they been nurtured?

Here was a kid who couldn’t read music, who had no training whatsoever in the guitar, and he was doing things musically with the instrument that were completely innovative.

Tim turned up the volume on the CD playing in his car. Ali Farka Touré. Low-pitched vocals with minimal accompaniment. Tim rounded the corner and drove right past the black truck parked
just down the street from his house, not even noticing as he flew by. He pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and, grabbing his shoulder bag, headed to the front door.

Home.

Tim Bell realised that he was now smiling. That’s what happened when he thought about the kid’s potential.

Limitless.

That’s the kind of future Sam Smith had.

Clarence got out of the truck and walked down the sidewalk towards the Bell house. When he reached the Subaru parked in the brick driveway behind Debbie Bell’s car, he
pulled a slim jim from the front of his jeans.

The thin strip of spring steel had a notched hook on the end. Clarence expertly slid the tool between the car’s window and the rubber seal, catching the rod that connected to the lock
mechanism.

A subtle motion of his wrist, and the car door was open. Inside the house, Felix had left the kitchen and was now at the living room window. He saw a figure in the driveway and lifted his head,
sounding his bark for alarm/intruder. At the TV set, Jared shouted for the dog to be quiet.

Clarence ignored the now-silenced dog and slipped into the Subaru. First thing first, vehicle registration. Clarence found it in the glove box.

Timothy Duncan Bell.

Clarence shoved the piece of paper into his jacket pocket, his eyes darting around the interior of the car. Breath mints. Quarters and dimes for parking. Programmes for musical events at the
college. ChapStick. Half-empty water bottle. Windbreaker in the back seat. Sunscreen. Guitar pick. A handful of CDs.

Clarence scooped it all up, stuffing the things into a plastic bag. He then removed an eight-inch knife from a holder that was wrapped around his calf.

He turned to the passenger’s seat and sliced the leather as if he were cutting the belly of dead animal. Clarence then slid out of the vehicle and moved to the back of the car, where he
thrust the knife into the sidewall of the left rear tyre.

Satisfied with his work, he pulled out the blade and headed back to his truck.

He was smiling now.

He’d introduced himself to Tim Bell. Too bad he didn’t have time to meet the rest of his family.

Emily had no appetite.

She pushed the food around on her plate, trying to figure out what to do.

She watched the table. Whenever Debbie talked, Riddle looked at her with real interest. This all would have made Emily happy if she weren’t so worried now about Sam’s father. Who was
this crazy guy who didn’t believe in something as small as a cell phone? And why was she just now hearing about what a nut he must be?

Should she tell her parents what Sam had said? Should she just bring it up right here at dinner? Was that the right thing to do in front of Riddle and Jared? And when would her father, going on
now about a musician named Ali Farka Touré, finish his dinner?

Emily calmed herself by making the decision to speak to her mom right after they were done eating. Whether Sam wanted her to or not.

But that didn’t happen.

Emily’s father went out to his car to bring in a CD he wanted to give to Sam. When he came back in, he was shaken. Someone had vandalised his car. The back tyre was flat, the front seat
was slashed, and all the things in his Subaru were missing.

Everyone rushed out to the driveway to see. There was lots of talking going on, but both Sam and Riddle were silent.

Tim Bell said he distinctly remembered locking the car, which showed no signs of break-in. No one was on the street, and no cars were parked nearby. Whoever had done this had come and gone.

They all shuffled back inside the house, and Tim Bell got on the phone to file a police report.

That’s when Sam said that he and Riddle had to go.

Riddle was standing near the wall by Debbie, who was waiting near the phone as Tim sat on hold with the police department. Jared, now carrying one of his plastic saber swords,
stared out the front window, looking for suspicious vehicles. Emily was trying to talk to Sam when he turned to his brother. ‘We’ve got to go. Come on, Riddle.’

But Riddle didn’t move. He shifted his weight, making it look as if he were even closer to Debbie.

Sam’s voice got hard. ‘Riddle, you heard what I said. We’re leaving now.’

Again, no acknowledgment. Sam crossed over and grabbed his brother by the sleeve of his grey sweatshirt. ‘Let’s go.’

Riddle looked at Debbie and said in a whisper, ‘We’re sorry . . .’

And then he turned and followed his brother out the door.

Debbie didn’t move. Empathy. Riddle had it. She knew that he did, but still the words directed just to her were like hearing a newborn’s first cry. The relief was overwhelming.

They took the bus across town. Debbie Bell wanted to drive them home, but Sam wouldn’t let her, and Tim’s car with the flat tyre was blocking the driveway
anyway.

Emily stood on the lawn, watching them recede into the distance, and a lump formed in her throat. What was really going on? She then waited outside for twenty minutes with Jared and her father,
because the police were on their way. Maybe she was mixing up everyone’s emotions. Maybe Sam and Riddle weren’t acting so strange. Maybe they were just upset like everyone else at the
act of vandalism.

When she finally went inside, an hour later, she found the cell phone her mother had given Sam. It had been placed on the table by the front door. She checked her own phone and found a text
message. It was the last thing he’d sent from the phone. It said simply,
I will never forget you
.

And she knew that the look she’d seen in Sam’s eyes when he’d left meant he wasn’t coming back.

Sitting in the bus, driving back across town, Sam was certain. It had to have been Clarence. He had to have followed them.

And Riddle must have known that, too. Because when Sam looked over at his brother, who’d moved for the first time to sit by himself in the last seat in the back of the bus, he was leaning,
glassy-eyed, against the window. And even the squeal of the brakes did nothing to break his dull stare.

The bus dropped them off two blocks from the house, and it was the longest two blocks they’d walked in their lives. They both knew what was on the other end.

Clarence was in the dark driveway, throwing the last ratty sleeping bag and pillow into the nest of crap in the back of the truck. The light inside the vehicle had been disabled long ago so that
no one could see Clarence make off with stuff.

Hearing their footsteps, Clarence turned and aimed a high-powered flashlight that he’d lifted from a city utility truck right in their faces.

He could see them but, now blinded, they couldn’t see him. But they heard him. ‘Get in. I packed your stuff. We’re out of here.’

It had happened before. Many, many, many times. But never like this.

There were choices. They knew that they could have run. And they knew that they could have refused to go. But it felt, to both boys, as if those choices did not exist.

Because, if you cared about something, it would be taken away. If you stood up for yourself, you would be beaten down. If you spoke out, you would be silenced. They had only learned how to be
there for each other. Other people could never be part of the equation.

Clarence had set up the rules of the game that way long ago. Sam opened the truck door for his brother, but Riddle didn’t get in. He headed for the house. Clarence called out to him,
‘There’s nothing in there. I took it all. Now get in the truck.’

But Riddle kept walking.

Clarence spat on the ground, turning on Sam. ‘Get your brother into the truck.
Now!
’

The front door opened and closed, and Riddle disappeared inside. Sam didn’t move.

Clarence swung the flashlight from the door back to Sam’s face as he said, ‘I know where Tim Bell lives. And pretty Emily. Next time I’ll slice more than a tyre. Now go get the
boy!’

Sam tried not to wince. He tried to bury his rage in the flat ocean that he would literally picture inside his mind. If he showed any emotion, Clarence won.

If it didn’t matter that they were leaving, if he couldn’t hurt him or his brother, Clarence wasn’t as powerful as they were.

Only this time, it was impossible.

This time, he wanted to grab his father by the throat and squeeze until he could squeeze no more.

Instead Sam turned and walked towards the house.

Inside, the only light that was on was in the hallway. But it didn’t take light to see that the place was a wreck. It had always been a mess, with mismatched, broken furniture and
aggressive neglect.

But now it had the element of Clarence gone mad.

Chairs were tipped over and the floor was littered with possessions.

Sam could hear Riddle move down the hallway to the back door. Sam stepped over a broken plate and followed.

Outside, in the small square of the backyard, Riddle did two things.

He went to the old metal trash cans at the rear of the property and removed a bag of cat food and a plastic dish from a hiding place. He then filled the dish and placed it on the ground by the
fence.

Riddle then moved to the old oak tree that was growing up against the broken metal shed. Putting one foot on the shed, Riddle reached up to a tree branch and removed the second inhaler that the
doctor had given him. It was wrapped in a clear plastic bag. He shoved it into his pocket.

Riddle then headed across the yard, down the narrow driveway, and to the truck, where he silently got in the back seat and closed the door.

Clarence was now waiting just for Sam. He shouted at the house, ‘Sam! Let’s go!’

But Sam was still in the backyard. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness as he saw two small cats, siblings, scrawny and wild, come out from behind the shed. They cautiously made their way to
the bowl of dry food.

Riddle’s secrets.

While Sam had left the house to see Emily, Riddle had found something to keep him company. Sam continued to stare as the cats ate, and it was only when he finally turned that he saw his
guitar.