Riven (27 page)

“What?”

Some leaned against the bunks. Some sat on the floor. Manny took charge.

“You were supposed to tell us when you got a job, man. Start paying your full share.”

“I will. No problem.”

“How long you been at Burger Boy?”

“Just a few days; why?”

“Meter’s been running.”

“Yeah, that, well, I’m on probation, so the job isn’t guaranteed until they watch me for another week or so.”

“That’s bull and you know it. Why didn’t you tell me you had a job?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I thought I told you. I meant to tell you. That’s my bad.”

“No good,
gringo.
We got to be able to trust you. You want to live here, you tell us what’s going on, and you take your responsibility for your share.”

“I don’t get paid for another week. I couldn’t pay you till then anyway.”

“Yeah, but we got to know how much to expect. Full price started when you started work.”

“Fine. No problem. Now, we okay?”

“We’ll let you know. Anything else we should know about?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything. You don’t want to be a stranger here. We got to be like family.”

“Okay. Good.”

“You need anything from us?”

Brady laughed. “I need money, man.”

“You got two jobs and you need money?”

Brady said he had debts and wanted to throw his brother a birthday party. “I also wouldn’t mind a little weed, but I know you don’t do that on credit.”

Everybody turned to look at Pepe, who stepped forward and smiled. He was a young-looking, round-faced man who was probably carded at every bar. “I might be able to work something out,
amigo,
” he said. “We can talk in private.”

The rest of the Mexicans took that as their cue to head back downstairs.

“Somebody said you got a shotgun,” Pepe said, sitting uncomfortably close to Brady on the bunk.

“Yeah. A sawed-off. My dad left it to me.”

“I love guns. Can I see it?”

Brady shrugged. He wanted to talk business, but Pepe spooked him—so young and innocent-looking, yet clearly afraid of nothing and no one.

Brady dug out the shotgun, and Pepe weighed it in his hands, turning it this way and that, expertly breaking it open.

“Got any shells?”

Brady nodded. “Not sure how old they are.”

“Lemme see.”

Pepe deftly popped two shells into the chamber at once. “One way to find out if this works,” he said.

“Hasn’t been shot in ages. And that’s really old ammo.”

Pepe smiled and shrugged. “Plug your ears.”

“What’re you, serious? You’re going to shoot that inside?”

And before Brady could cover his ears, Pepe pointed the weapon at the ceiling.

The explosion deafened Brady and left his ears ringing. He could feel the rumble from the stairs as the rest of the guys in the house charged up.

Pepe laughed loud and long and pointed at the hole in the ceiling, from which drifted bits of drywall and insulation.

“You’re crazy, man!”

“Pepe, you’re a fool!”

“You want the cops all over this place?”

Pepe just kept laughing. “Nobody heard that but you,” he said.

He lifted the shotgun and swept it toward his friends. They all dove for cover. Then he broke open the mechanism again, slid the empty and the live shell out, and handed everything back to Brady.

They hadn’t even talked business yet, but Brady had been sent a message.

Pepe was capable of anything.

31

Christmas Eve | Adamsville

December had broken cold and snowy in Adamsville, and the holidays saw freshly shoveled sidewalks tunneling through drifts and piles from snowplows.

Thomas loved winter almost as much as he loved Christmas. Brightening his spirits this year was that it appeared his fears for Grace’s health had been unfounded. Though Ravinia checked in frequently and kept badgering him to force her mother to see a doctor, Grace had convinced Thomas she was better.

Her energy level seemed back to normal, and they were walking nearly every night, bundled up, laughing and talking through white vapor. The marks on her arms had disappeared, and except that she slept a little longer each night than she had in years, he was satisfied she was herself again. Maybe she had needed more sleep in previous years and either didn’t know it or didn’t feel she could afford the time.

Thomas was also satisfied that after a lengthy search, he and his wife had found their new church home. Their first visit had been at Thanksgiving, and he wondered how they’d missed the tiny chapel set at the back of a small lot just three blocks from their home. Its nondescript name had made it invisible, he guessed. But they almost immediately believed they had been led to Village Church.

The congregation numbered fewer than ninety adults, but they were salt-of-the-earth types, lower to middle income at best, and with bunches of kids running all over the place. Despite its modest size, the nondenominational church had a lot going. Kids’ programs. Men’s activities. A women’s group. The congregation gave generously to missions. And they had a young pastor who was seminary trained but didn’t talk over their heads. Will Kessler was a Bible man, a real expositor, and he and his wife—carrying their first child—seemed to live what he preached.

Thomas had been almost immediately pressed into service, substitute teaching the adult Sunday school class. And he and Grace had even been asked to sing a duet one evening. Thomas agreed only out of a sense of obligation and was grateful that Grace’s sweet tone carried the melody while he reached for a nasally high harmony. Their new friends clapped politely.

Tonight, as they strode—early as always—toward Village and its Christmas program, Grace’s tiny hands enveloped Thomas’s arm, and she drew him close as they crossed a lamp-lighted street. “You know what I want for Christmas this year?” she said.

“Of course.”

“You do?”

“It hasn’t changed in decades, has it? You never want anything for yourself.”

“I don’t need anything but this.”

“Me too.”

Every year it was the same. She’d ask the question, he’d bite, and she’d say, “That my daughter love and serve the Lord.”

That it went unspoken this year made it only more poignant. Neither spoke the rest of the way, and as they entered the cozy sanctuary, where squealing kids in bathrobes and bandannas ran up and down the aisle to find their places, Thomas noticed Grace brush a tear away. He had to do the same, though he hid it in one motion as he removed his hat and scarf.

Thomas remembered when Rav was the age of many of these kids and had played Mary in one Christmas program and John the Baptist’s mother, Elizabeth, in the next. He would never forget the Christmas—when she was eight—that she came home with the box of treats each child received each year from the deacons. She laid out the hard and soft candies and the orange and a Brazil nut, planning to parcel them out so she could enjoy one a day for a week. Always organized and pragmatic. Thomas had known Ravinia would one day make something of herself.

But that was also the year Rav had suddenly paused in her candy chore and stared out the window. Then she turned and gazed at the Christmas tree, and her eyes seemed to focus on the star at the top. Finally she seemed to study the cheap Nativity scene Grace helped her set out each year.

The stable was made of cardboard and the figures of plastic. But Rav had always enjoyed arranging them just so. As Thomas watched, determined not to interrupt her reverie, she carefully moved aside the wise men and the shepherds and a cow to reach into the manger and pull out the tiny Jesus.

Ravinia held it before her eyes for the longest time, then began humming “Away in a Manger.” Finally she replaced the baby and set the figures back in place, and when she turned to face her father, she appeared surprised to see him.

He smiled.

“You know what, Daddy?”

“Hm?”

“I really, really love Jesus.”

Thomas recognized a teaching moment. “The baby Jesus, because He was so cute and His birth so special?”

“No. Well, yeah, that too. But I really love the grown-up Jesus who died for my sins.”

Thomas, normally stoic, had dissolved into tears as he embraced his daughter.

Oh, God. Oh, God,
he prayed silently now.
Bring her back!

Leave it to God, he decided, to arrange that the very first thing on the program that night was the preschoolers singing “Away in a Manger.” Thomas hoped Grace wouldn’t look at him. He refused to hide his face, but tears ran as he forced his lips together and fought not to sob aloud.

Addison

Brady’s Mexican housemates were going to Mass and then to get drunk. Brady had a quarter kilo of grass stuffed into his belt at the back and was heading to Stevie Ray’s to share a joint with Stevie and his wife—who indulged only on holidays—then go with Stevie to a midnight gig. He and his band were playing a local rich guy’s party until 2 a.m. But first, Brady wanted to stop by his mother’s trailer to give her and Peter each a cheap gift.

Where’s the wench now?
Brady wondered as he crossed the empty carport and mounted the steps to the trailer he had hated for so long. He found Peter watching television and eating something he had clearly prepared himself. Peter reported that their mother was at a party.

“Shocking,” Brady said flatly. “She forgot we were going to do Christmas tonight?”

“She said you could wait.”

“Till when?”

Peter shrugged.

“So she just leaves you alone on Christmas Eve,” Brady said.

“She knew you were coming.”

“But that’s just it. I can’t stay. I have plans.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Brady put a wrapped carton of cigarettes on the kitchen table for his mother and tossed a festive envelope to Petey. The boy tore it open and smiled. “Ten Burger Boy bucks! Cool!”

“Just promise not to come when I’m working so you don’t see me dressed like a dork.”

That made Peter laugh as he ran to the back and brought out his gift for Brady, a huge color photo book about Academy Award–winning movies.

“I didn’t know what else to get you.”

“It’s perfect, but how’d you afford it?”

“Mom still gives me a dollar a week. I saved up.”

“Thanks, man. This had to cost—”

“Only $6.95 on the bargain table. Regular price is over thirty bucks.”

“That’s a really cool present, little man.”

Brady heard a car pull up and hoped it wasn’t his mother. She had already missed the gift exchange, and she’d probably come in drunk anyway. He didn’t need that. He pulled back the blind.

Oh no!
“Petey, kill the TV and go play a video game, will ya? I’ll handle this.”

“Who is it?”

“Just go!”

As soon as Peter was out of sight, Brady yanked the grass out of his belt and tossed it high into a kitchen cabinet. A rap came on the door.

Two uniformed officers.

“Hey, how you doin’?” Brady said. “I was just leaving.”

“We could use a few minutes if you could spare them,” the larger of the two said.

“You got a warrant?”

“Do we need one?”

“No, I’m just saying . . .”

“We just want to talk to you. You got something to hide?”

“No! No! Come on in.”

“You alone?”

“My little brother’s in the back.”

“But you’re leaving?”

“My ma’s gonna be home any minute.”

The three of them sat awkwardly in the cramped living room.

“You know a man named Tatlock?” Big Cop said.

“Sure. Used to work for him. Is this about my debt? He didn’t get my last payment? I dropped it off at the Laundromat.”

“You can stop the bull anytime you want,” the officer said. “Now, he doesn’t want to embarrass you or mess up your holiday, so if you’ll be honest and convince us you’re prepared to work something out and really get this taken care of, he won’t press charges.”

32

Adamsville

Pastor Will Kessler stood shivering in the doorway, shaking hands as the congregation filed out. “My closing was a little long, wasn’t it?” he said.

“Oh, it was fine,” Thomas said, but Grace squeezed his elbow.

“I think he wants you to be honest, Thomas.”

“I do, sir! Please!”

“All right; I do feel you made your point long before you finished. And the point had been made throughout the program anyway. All you needed was to make certain it was clear. . . .”

“And get out of the way.”

“You said it; I didn’t.”

“I really want your counsel, Reverend Carey. I want to get better.”

Thomas and Grace chatted the whole way home about what a wonderful man Pastor Kessler was.

“Strange though,” Grace said. “It’s different to have a pastor so much younger. I mean,
he’s
supposed to be
our
shepherd, not you his. And would you feel comfortable going to him with our heartache?”

“No, I wouldn’t, but that’s just pride. I’m ashamed to say we’ve lost our own daughter.”

“We haven’t lost her, Thomas. Don’t say that. I’ll never concede her to the enemy.”

A few minutes later Grace was puttering in the kitchen as Thomas was changing in the bedroom. Noticing something sticking out of one of Grace’s bureau drawers, he opened it to tidy the contents and found a packet of pamphlets—all about natural treatments for leukemia symptoms.

Thomas stopped breathing, stepped back, and slumped onto the bed. He felt violated, betrayed, almost as if he’d discovered she was seeing another man. What kind of a husband did she take him for if she did not feel free to confide her deepest fears?

She seemed better lately, so maybe these natural treatments, whatever they were, were working. But Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that his beloved had left him out of the most dire season of her life.

Addison

“We’re happy to hear your side, Darby,” the cop said. “But it’s only fair to tell you that we know Tatlock. He teaches self-defense at the police academy. He was an Eagle Scout, then a marine, then an Olympian. Not so much as a parking ticket on his rap sheet. He’s told us the whole story, and your pretending the check somehow didn’t get to him isn’t going to fly. Now, you owe him; you threatened him; you vandalized his door. Yet he’d rather ask us to talk you into making it right than hurt you. And he could hurt you. He could rough you up or press charges, and he wants to do neither. So, is he lying?”