Pull (Push #2) (23 page)

I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, then I reach over and pick my phone up off her nightstand to see if Carl sent me a message about today’s jobs. He did. And it’s a very long list. Fix the Bachmans’ doorbell, unclog Mrs. Croft’s toilet, change out a light switch at the Gardeners’, and lots more. It’s all very boring stuff, and it’ll keep me busy all day. It will also give me time to work on my plan to get rid of our last remaining risk: Ricky. As I am reading Carl’s list and prioritizing all the items, another text comes in. It’s from her.

I promise to make it worth your while.

My reply is a short one.

Atta girl.

Chapter 36

David—Age 14

Middle school sucks. The girls are cliquey and mean, and the boys are…well…just like me. Caught somewhere between playing with Transformers and playing with some girl’s boobs. It’s easy to feel lost sometimes, not knowing who you are and where you’re going. We’re all in the same boat, though, so that makes it a little less lonely. Sometimes, anyway.

Eighth grade has been a spectacular flop. I’m glad it’s almost over. Only two and a half months to go, then I’ll be out of here, back at some jobsite for a few days a week with my hands full of work and my mind left to wonder. These days, it mostly wonders about Kathy Curtis. I know she’s Clay Marshall’s girlfriend and all, but she’s got the prettiest face of all the girls at school. Plus, she’s actually nice. When I see her in the hallway, she always says hello. I can’t think of a single other thing that’s been good about this year. Except for maybe my grades. They’ve been pretty good. Not that anyone’s noticed.

Tonight is the last night of high school basketball playoffs. Our guys are playing against Reakton Valley for a shot at the championship. I usually try my best to avoid sporting events, but I actually enjoy watching basketball. Sometimes I even play a pick-up game with a handful of other guys, but I’m nowhere near good enough to play on the school team. Not even the middle school team. Tonight’s game starts at 7:30, and at lunchtime, Jimmy Paxton says he and his dad will pick me up on their way to the game. I’m grateful because without a ride from Jimmy’s dad, I wouldn’t be able to go.

At 6:15 I go downstairs and wait for Jimmy and Mr. Paxton in front of McMillan’s Grocery store. I finished all my homework for the weekend as soon as I got home, and I cleaned up and organized the entire apartment so that if, on the odd chance, my dad gets home before me, things will be in order. I even left him a note on the kitchen counter, just in case he wants to know where I went. He’s never wanted to know before, but you never know. Better to be safe than sorry. Mr. Paxton pulls up a few minutes later, and I hop into the backseat with Jimmy.

It’s a real shame that our team loses, because the game is brilliant. The final score is 55-52. Despite our awesome offense, we just couldn’t pull it off. As everyone is filing out of the gymnasium, my cell phone rings. My cell phone
never
rings. Unless it’s Jimmy Paxton. And right now, he’s standing next to me, clearly
not
on his phone. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows. My stomach twists into a giant, palpitating mass when I see that the call is from my father. He’s calling me from his mobile.

I answer on the third ring.

“David,” he says, his voice awash with scorn, “where are you, boy?” Surprise. He’s drunk. I can hear it in his slur.

“I’m at the basketball game. I left you a note.” I pull away from the Paxtons and stand next to the trophy case, shoving the index finger of my free hand into my phoneless ear so I can hear my dad over the dull roar of people leaving the bleachers. He sounds very far away.

“You’ve got to come down here and get me. But you need to get some money first.”

I what?

“Where are you, Dad?” I ask. I think I may already know the answer.

“I’m down at lockup.” Yep. Just what I thought. He’s in jail. Again. Any money says he got busted for public intoxication. Maybe even a DUI. Next time will be strike three, and he’ll get thirty days. At least. I can’t wait.

“What happened?”

“Don’t ask me questions, boy. Just do what I say.” He’s angry. I can hear his breath bouncing off the phone. I want to leave him there. I want to hang up the phone and go back home and forget he even called. I want him to rot down into nothing.

I take a deep breath, pull my finger from my ear, and signal to Jimmy that I need one more minute. “How much do I need to bring?” I ask.

“Two grand,” he says, his voice gritty and sour.

“Where is it?”

He sighs heavily. As if telling me where he keeps his stash of cash is going to make his life any worse.

“At my office. In the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. There’s a spare key inside my extra work boots at home.” I never knew he kept a spare key to his office at home. Knowing it makes me feel important.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” I say just before pressing the
End
icon and shoving my phone back into my pocket. I’m not going to say a word to Jimmy, or his dad, about where my father is. I’m going to be quiet in the backseat.

Mr. Paxton drops me off outside of McMillan’s Grocery a half hour later. The traffic to get out of the school parking lot was terrible. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get to the lockup, or to my father’s office, since I don’t have a car and I’m not old enough to drive one anyway. I run upstairs and get the extra key out of my dad’s boot, then I do the only thing I can think to do. I call Danny.

Danny’s been pretty good to me ever since I started working for my dad three years ago. He supervises me on the jobsites far more than my own father ever does. He even helped me build a miniature wooden rollercoaster for my seventh-grade science project. I got an A on it, and Mr. Edmonds said it was the most creative science project he’d ever seen. I still have it. It’s in my bedroom closet.

Danny answers on the second ring. I hear his wife talking in the background, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. I’m sure she’s asking who the hell is calling him at 11:30 at night.

I tell Danny about where my dad is. I ask him if he can come get me and take me to my dad’s office to get some money. And then to the drunk tank to get my dad. He agrees, telling me he’ll see me in ten minutes.

When we get to the lockup, Danny comes in with me. But only to sign my dad’s paperwork. After he signs the form, Danny tells me he doesn’t think my father should see him. He says that my dad is not going to be happy I called him. My dad is not going to like Danny knowing he was in jail. As we sit in the lobby, he calls a taxi for me and my dad. He tells me that he’s going to sit in his car on the far side of the parking lot and drive away as soon as he sees us get in the cab. That way, my dad will never even know he was here. Danny hands me eighty dollars and tells me to use it to pay for the taxi. I try to refuse his money, but he won’t listen. My eyes are on my lap the whole time he’s talking because I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed to have a father who ends up in the drunk tank. I’m ashamed that I couldn’t keep Danny out of this. I’m ashamed that I truly want to leave my father here to rot. But mostly, I’m ashamed that I feel like crying.

I keep my eyes down, thanking Danny for the ride and for keeping this whole thing under his hat. He says it’s no problem. Then he wishes me good luck.

But luck is not what I need.

He gets up and walks out to his car, announcing loudly that he’s going to wait outside.

A few minutes later, my still-drunk father is released and we walk outside. Well…I walk and he stumbles. Before the taxi pulls away from the curb, I look out my window at Danny. Even though he’s on the other side of the parking lot, I see both disgust and pity in his face. The disgust is for my father, and the pity is for me. I know the look. Because I’ve seen it before.

My dad is sloppy and irritated and probably more drunk than I’ve ever seen him. And that’s saying a lot. The whole way home he yells at the taxi driver, telling him he should go back to India and drive a rickshaw instead. I occasionally see the back of the driver’s head shake from side to side. He’s wearing a small, knowing smile. I’m guessing he’s driven more than a few drunks home in his time. He handles my father the best way he can. By simply ignoring him. The funny part is that the driver is clearly a black guy. Not an Indian. Which only makes my dad an even bigger asshole.

By the time we get home, my father has insulted the driver more times than I can count. He hops out of the taxi before it even comes to a full stop. As I get out, I lean forward and hand the driver all the money that Danny gave me, even though it’s over twice as much as the fare. I apologize to him and then step out of the car. Before I close the door behind me, the driver wishes me good luck. His voice rings in my ears.

Why does everyone wish me good luck? Why can’t anyone ever wish me sweet dreams or happy birthday or Merry Christmas? Hell, I’d even take bon voyage. But I can’t handle any more “good lucks.” I. Don’t. Need. Luck. I need my life to stop spinning.

I need control. Over something. Over
anything
.

Chapter 37

Matt—Present Day

As I drive in to work on Thursday morning, I feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought Monday up to Emma yesterday after work, but honestly, how was I supposed to know it was that big of a deal? I wanted to talk to her about it on Tuesday, but I was stuck in the project wrap-up meeting all day, and she left before we had a chance to chat. Yesterday afternoon was the first decent opportunity I had to ask her about what happened.

I could tell from the moment she checked her voicemail on Monday morning that she was upset. I could see it in her face and hear it in her voice. Especially when she asked to borrow my car but wouldn’t say why. Then yesterday, when I brought it up after work, she somehow shifted and the whole thing caught me off guard. As soon as we got outside and I asked her where she went, her shoulders tensed, and I saw a shadow of apprehension cross her face. Like she did something she couldn’t take back. I’m sure she feels badly about putting so many miles on my car, but it was more than that. I’m no expert on reading women’s emotions, that’s for sure, but even
I
could see that there was more. Instead of answering me, she turned and walked over to David, leaving me to wonder if I’ll ever find out where she went with my car.

When I walk into the office, she’s already here, sitting in her cubicle booting up her computer. I’m afraid to approach her because I don’t want to upset her again, but eventually I know I’ll need to talk to her about today’s conference call. I try to sneak by, but she must see me pass the end of the hallway because she gives me a bright hello. I’m relieved to hear happiness in her voice.

Most of the day passes as normal. Emma and I finalize the last few details of her first project, spending a good two hours on a conference call with the installation team. I don’t know if we’ll be assigned to another project together anytime soon, but I wouldn’t mind if we were. Emma’s really good at what she does. Having her fresh eyes on this project was quite a benefit, and despite our rough beginning, we ended up working together quite well. We ended up becoming friends.

At lunchtime, we decide to head down to the cafeteria together. When she stops by her desk to grab her purse, she reaches in and pulls out an envelope, handing it to me.

“This is for you,” she says, standing next to her desk. “If it isn’t enough, please let me know, and we can square up later.”

“What’s this for?”

“All the miles,” she says. I watch the shadow return to her face. “It was really nice of you to let me use your car, and I’m really sorry I put so many miles on it.”

“It’s okay,” I say to her, my voice and brain suddenly filled with concern. It’s not like her to seem so unsure. So uneasy. I can’t help but ask her again. “I’m not worried about my car. I am worried about
you
, though. I know you think you can’t for some reason, but I really wish you would tell me what happened. And why you’re keeping it from David. Are you in trouble or something?” Her eyes drop back into her purse, as if she’s embarrassed.

And then it hits me. “Does this have something to do with your brother?”

Her eyes shoot up to mine and I can see the worry there. Her voice drops down to a whisper. Not a shameful whisper, but a guarded one. “There’s no trouble. I just had some things to sort out. And I can’t tell David about it because he has a habit of taking matters into his own hands, and I don’t want him to take any more risks. He’s already taken too many chances for me. This was something I needed to do myself. But it’s over now. I promise. Everything’s okay. I want David and I to move forward, and asking for his help would’ve pushed us both in the wrong direction.”

While her words don’t deny or confirm her brother’s involvement in all this, I have a feeling that the things she had to work out had everything to do with him. I know how much David likes to keep everything under control, and she’s right. If this does have something to do with her brother, and David finds out about it, he’ll do exactly what Brad said he would. He’ll serve the guy his own dismembered balls with a side of fries.

“I handled it and it’s over. I swear it,” she says again, with more than a smattering of reassurance now permeating her tone. She smiles a sheltered smile and nods her head at me in confirmation.

“Okay. I won’t say a word to David. But you have to promise me you’ll be safe. And you’ll tell me if you need my help with anything.”

“You’re a good friend, Matt.” Her smile grows significantly larger, and she puts her hand on top of my shoulder. Squeezing it with reassurance.

“That’s what all the girls say.”

She puts her purse over her shoulder and we walk down to the cafeteria.

                                          ---------------------------------------------------------

Six o’clock arrives, and I gather my things and get ready to leave. On my way out the door I notice that Emma’s still sitting in her cubicle, looking down at her cell phone. I’m surprised she isn’t already out the door and wrapped in David’s waiting arms, kissing him like they both have a bad case of “food poisoning.” Again.

“Hey,” I say, walking over to her desk. “Isn’t lover boy waiting for you?”

“Not today.” She puts her phone down on her desk. “He just texted me to let me know he can’t come get me. He has to finish up a project for Carl. Looks like I’m taking the bus.”

“I’ll give you a ride home, if you want one,” I say. Emma’s place isn’t that far out of the way, and I was going to stop for takeout on my way home anyway.

“Nah. You’ve already done enough for me the past few weeks. I’m okay taking the bus, really. But thanks for the offer.”

“Okay,” I say, “suit yourself. But I’ll be stopping for ribs…if that makes a difference. Takeout, not sit-down. Wouldn’t want you-know-who to think it’s a date or something.”

“Very funny,” she says. “Ribs, huh? Isn’t my place totally out of your way?”

“Not really. Chatty Tate’s is only like two miles from your building.” I see her look at me with confusion. “The rib place,” I add before she can ask.

“Got ya,” she says with a nod. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind, then yeah, I’d love a ride. Ribs sound great.”

“Come on. Let’s go.”

On the walk to the parking garage we talk about all the different kinds of ribs they have at Chatty’s, and I tell Emma how awesome they are. By the time we get to the car, I’m salivating. As we’re sitting at a stop light somewhere on 2nd Avenue, I notice a diamond bracelet on her left wrist. I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier. It’s hard to miss.

“Wow,” I say, not able to stop my curiosity from taking over. “Is that bracelet real?” She lifts her arm up and holds it up in front of her face, carefully examining it as if she too were noticing it for the first time.

“Yes,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “It was my mother’s.”

“I never noticed you wearing it before.”

“That’s because I never have,” she says with resignation. I hear a small amount of love in her voice as she looks at the bracelet and says those words. It must be for her mother.

“Why not?” I ask with a cautious tone.

“Because my stepfather had it.” She keeps her eyes on the bracelet even as she drops her arm back onto her lap.

“Oh,” I say, wondering if the bracelet has anything to do with where she went on Monday.

“He was a real gem,” she remarks as I turn the corner on to Westboro Street. “And, as you already know, my brothers aren’t any better.” Her voice is hushed. Sad. Like she’s still haunted by her own memories. Still threatened by them.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think to say.

“Yeah, well…” She shrugs her shoulders, turns her head, and looks out the car window.

“You’re still worried about Ricky, huh?” I regret the question as soon as it leaves my lips.

“I told you before, he’s a very unpredictable guy.”

“What would you have done if it really was him outside of your door on Friday night?”

She turns and looks over at me, clearly surprised by my question.

“I would’ve shot him in the fucking head…if I would’ve had a gun.” At first I think she’s joking, but it becomes immediately clear that she’s quite serious. Her mouth is pressed into a bitter, straight line. Her face is solid as stone.

“Is that what you were looking for in your bedroom?” I ask. If it is, it explains the look of shock on her face when she found the drawer empty.

“Yes. But I didn’t know that David had it because of an issue with the poker move.” She must be talking about Franklin the junkie. “Since it wasn’t in my drawer,” she continues, “I’m not sure what I would’ve done if it had been Ricky. I’m just glad it was Brad, and we didn’t have to decide.”

“Me, too.” I turn into the parking lot at Chatty Tate’s. “Because I sure as shit didn’t know what to do. Hell, I was going to run and hide in the bathroom.”

Emma snorts out a single, sharp, staccato laugh, her face and mood lightening. “And I probably would’ve been right there behind the shower curtain with you.”

We get out of the car and walk inside.

I drop Emma and a bag of ribs off at her place a little after 7:00. David’s car is not in the parking lot. I offer to walk Emma inside, but she declines, telling me she’ll be just fine. Regardless, I ask her to text me when she’s safely inside her apartment.

When her “all is well” text rolls in, I turn out of the lot, pulling the first rib out of its cozy Styrofoam home even before I make it all the way around the corner.