Running on Empty (2 page)

“But—”

“I wasn’t the one showing off for my friends.
You
were. Every action has a consequence, Ethan.”

The
Every Action Has A Consequence
speech. One of his father’s favourites, second only to his lecture about obligation. Once again, Ethan struggled to keep the anger from creeping into his voice. “I have no problem with the consequence as long as it involves me paying the deductible.”

His father shook his head. “Not an option,” he said.

Jillian started to say something, but Ethan cut her off. “That’s what insurance is
for!
”

His father sighed. “There’s no insurance against stupidity, Ethan. Next time, maybe you’ll think twice before you pull another stunt like that.”

Ethan had been down this road a few times before.
More
than a few. He knew where all this was heading. And glancing at the weary expression on Raye’s face, he was pretty sure she knew, too.

“Life seldom allows us the luxury of choosing our consequences,” said his father. “A person is invariably defined by his ability to meet his obligations.” He leaned back against the countertop and crossed his arms, a gesture Ethan recognized from countless confrontations with his old man as Jack Palmer’s Final Word On The Matter.

Ethan glared at him, burning a hole in his father’s forehead for a few long seconds before standing up and ramming his chair back so savagely that it toppled onto the porcelain tiles.

“Young man, pick that up,” said his father, but Ethan ignored him as he stormed across the kitchen and out the door, slamming it behind him so hard it rattled on its hinges.

He hoped Big Ben Cleveland was taking notes.

Ethan was seething as he reached the sidewalk. He’d expected to lose driving privileges for a while, but that shouldn’t have been a problem two days from now. What Ethan hadn’t anticipated was having to empty his entire bank account to pay for those goddamn repairs.

He’d been saving that money for over a year and a half now, putting aside as much as he could from his job lifeguarding at the Harbourside Pool. He’d worked full-time during the last two summers—the payoff for all those lame swimming badges and Red Cross lifesaving courses he’d taken—and he’d stayed on part-time this fall, suffering through those godawful Saturday morning mom-and-tot swims and teaching beginner lessons to losers on Wednesday nights. Not that he’d had a choice. The day he’d turned sixteen, his father had cut off his weekly allowance. “You’re old enough now to earn your own spending money,” he’d told Ethan, like he’d just given him a second birthday present, something else to go with the gaming unit Ethan had just unwrapped. Ethan had been pawing around in the box for the Gods of Slaughter disc he was sure must be inside. After all, what good was the unit without the game he’d asked for? But it
hadn’t
been inside. Instead, he’d found an envelope containing a business card with “Hank Freyer, Harbourside Manager” on it. “Hank’s a friend of mine,” his old man had told him. “He’s hiring now, so give him a call.”

The
You’re Old Enough Now
speech was just another in a
long line of big life lessons that his father was forever cramming down his throat. Like the one about meeting your obligations. If Ethan wanted Gods of Slaughter, he’d have to earn the money and buy it himself.

He’d gotten the job. And since then he’d been pretty careful with the cash he’d earned. Sure, he’d spent some of it on junk food, weed, the occasional case of beer with his buddies when they could get someone to buy it for them, gas (which his father insisted he pay for whenever he wanted to drive one of their cars), movies and food when he took out his girlfriend, Allie—stuff like that. But he’d still been able to bank a fair chunk of his pay, and that chunk was for one thing only. Until now. All because his old man was too cheap to put the repairs through his insurance.

It wasn’t like Jack Palmer had money problems. Only last week, Ethan had overheard his financial adviser in the study telling his father how “well positioned” he was. His old man had more than doubled his investments in the last eight years, and his biggest problem now—according to the adviser—was finding creative ways to shelter his profits from taxes. In fact, his father was so “well positioned” that every few weeks one of those just-call-to-activate credit cards arrived in the mail. Only yesterday, Ethan had seen an envelope on the kitchen counter probably containing another plastic rectangle that would end up like all the others in his old man’s shredder. As if an extra few hundred bucks a year in insurance premiums would break Jack Palmer. He’d spent a hell of a lot more than that on the suit he was wearing this morning, not to mention the small fortune his fiancée was wearing on her left hand.

No, this was all about his old man’s obsession with teaching him a lesson.
The
lesson, in fact.
A person is invariably defined by his ability to meet his obligations
. Ethan had begun to think of those twelve words as the Dirty Dozen, and hearing them always
made him want to kick the crap out of something.
Any
thing. How many times had he been forced to listen to that shit? How many times had he heard his old man solemnly deliver those twelve words like he was passing down an eleventh commandment? If Jillian Robicheau worshipped at the Tabernacle of Two More Pounds, Jack Palmer was forever kneeling at the Altar of Ann Almighty.

The toe of one of Ethan’s cross-trainers caught a seam in the sidewalk and he nearly face-planted on the concrete. He cursed and kept going. He had no idea where he was heading, but he’d already decided he was skipping school. He’d had his fill of adults for one day.

A person is invariably defined by his ability to meet his obligations
. Ethan had his grandmother to thank for the Dirty Dozen, a grandmother who’d died long before he was born. That, he figured, had to be a blessing in disguise. If a dead woman had that much influence in his life, he could only imagine what power she might have held over him if she were actually alive.

Despite never having met her, Ethan sometimes felt as though he knew his father’s mother, Ann Palmer, a lot better than some guys probably knew their living grandparents. His old man had talked about her often when Ethan and Raye were younger, and an enlarged black and white photograph of her hung in an elegant rosewood frame above the mantel in their Seminary Lane living room, just as it had in their last house. In the photo, she was standing beside a clothesline, the wind billowing clean sheets around her as she laughed at the person holding the camera. In the last few years, Ethan had grown to hate that picture. Each time he looked at it, he was convinced that dead woman was laughing at
him
. Well, she sure deserved a snicker at his expense this morning. Here he was just two days from getting what he wanted most, but now the money that would have bought it—
his
money—would be spent on something that his old man’s
insurance could have paid for easily. He cursed under his breath, jammed his hands into his pockets, and walked faster.

“Yo! Palmer!”

Ethan looked ahead to see Pete hanging out the passenger window of a black car that had pulled over at the intersection of Seminary and Cloister. And not just any car.
His
car. Technically, of course, it still belonged to Pete’s older brother, Kyle, because no money had changed hands, but until this morning that had just been a formality. For the past couple days, Ethan had pretty much thought of that Mustang Cobra SVT as his.

“Figured you might not have wheels after what happened last night,” said Pete, “so I talked Kyle into giving us a ride.”

His spirits lifting, Ethan walked over to the Cobra, his eyes following the car’s classic lines. Sure, it needed bodywork to patch some holes that rust had eaten away, not to mention a complete paint job, new tires, and a windshield to replace the one with the starburst crack just below the rearview mirror, but Ethan could see beyond those flaws, could visualize exactly what the vehicle would look like after all that work was done. Besides, there was no problem with the guts of the car. The 32-valve 4.6 litre engine still delivered smooth horses, the 5-speed manual transmission shifted effortlessly, and Kyle had replaced the brakes and exhaust system that summer. The only reason he was willing to part with it now was because he and his girlfriend, Selena, were heading out to Alberta to work on an oil rig and, since they needed to get there by Saturday, they were flying instead of driving. Kyle’s pogey had run out a few weeks ago and, according to Pete, Selena had zero problem leaving her server’s job at The Chow Down, a diner near the waterfront.

Looking at the Cobra now, Ethan could see himself behind the wheel, could feel the thrum of those horses under the hood, could even see screwed to the back of the car the vanity licence plate he’d decided on: ENOUGH. He’d already gotten the
application from the Registry of Motor Vehicles and filled the thing out, unaware that he was wasting his time.

He squatted beside the car and crossed his arms on the edge of the passenger window. “Kyle,” he said, nodding across Pete at his buddy’s brother behind the wheel.

“Hey, man,” said Kyle.

“You finally going back to school?” Ethan asked, nodding at the backpack on the seat behind him. Its Velcro flap had opened, spilling a
Physics for the Future
textbook onto the worn black leather.

Kyle didn’t crack a smile. Even though it had been three years since he’d dropped out, school was still a sore point with him. When he lost his job at the chocolate factory and couldn’t make his rent, he’d had to move back home. The only person in the house who hadn’t minded was Pete, who bummed rides from his brother as often as he could. “You’re funny as cancer, Palmer,” Kyle grunted.

“Where’re your books?” Pete asked.

Ethan shrugged. “I’m cutting today.”

“You think that’s such a great idea after banging up your dad’s car?” said Pete.

Kyle rolled his eyes at Ethan. “How do you put up with this guy, Palmer? Sometimes I figure the maternity ward lost my real brother and gave us this pussy instead.”

Ethan grinned. “What d’you say the three of us pick up some pints and hang out by the Arm?” He always enjoyed spending time beside the inlet that opened to the Atlantic Ocean, enjoyed watching the water that was always dotted with sailboats during unseasonably warm days like this one in the middle of October. The ultimate revenge of retirees.

“I dunno,” smirked Kyle. “That probably means Petey here won’t get his perfect attendance medal.”

“Screw you,” Pete scowled. “Besides, didn’t you tell Selena you’d help her finish packing this morning?”

Ethan raised his eyebrows. “She got you whipped already?” he asked Kyle. “Better be careful she doesn’t pack up your balls while she’s at it.”

Pete chuckled as Kyle flushed, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Guess it’s nothing she can’t handle herself,” he muttered.

“Get in,” said Pete, opening the door and sliding out. Pulling his seat forward, he added, “Might as well get familiar with the back seat. You and Allie’ll be enjoying it soon enough, right?”

The smile on Ethan’s face dissolved into a hard line. He’d talked of little else besides the Cobra with Allie during the past two days, only to have his old man ruin everything in two minutes. He thrust himself through the opening behind the front seat, inadvertently bumping his head against the metal door frame in the process. “Son of a bitch!”

“You okay, man?” asked Pete.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Just whacked my head.”

“As long as that’s the
only
thing you’re whacking back there,” muttered Kyle as Pete repositioned his seat, climbed back into the car, and yanked the door closed. Kyle hit the turn signal, punched a hole in the morning traffic, then turned left onto Cloister Drive. Of course, Ethan had stopped thinking of it as “Cloister” ever since Seth had dubbed it “Clitoris Drive.” One-track mind, that Seth.

“Your dad give you a hard time this morning?” Pete asked.

Rubbing the side of his head, Ethan replied, “Making me pay for the damages.”

Pete turned to look at him over the seat. “How much is the deductible?”

Ethan sighed. “I have to pay the whole shot.” He felt the worn leather of the seat beneath his fingertips, felt the throb of the motor pulling them forward. Felt his anger flare again.

Pete whistled. “That’ll run you some serious coin, man.”

“You
think?
” Ethan muttered.

“Any idea how much?” asked Kyle.

“Everything I’ve got. Maybe more, depending on what he gets for an estimate.”

Frowning, Kyle glanced at him in the mirror again. “So where’s that leave
us?
”

Ethan shrugged, turned to look out the window.

“You know I got somebody else who wants her,” said Kyle.

“Yeah. I know.”

Except for the throaty rumble from the Cobra’s muffler, they drove on in silence.

Ethan nursed his second beer—they’d only been able to scrape together enough cash from their pockets for a six-pack of Molson Canadian when the liquor store opened—and watched a sailboat on the Northwest Arm tack against the stiff breeze. As the boat headed toward open water, its back and forth movements reminded Ethan of the dance he and his old man had been performing for as long as he could remember. There must have been a time when the two of them hadn’t been at opposite ends of every argument, but he couldn’t recall it now.

“So,” said Pete, swivelling around to look at him over the back of the bucket seat. Pete had downed both his bottles soon after they’d opened the six-pack, and he released yet another toes-to-tonsils belch before he continued. “Any idea how you’re gonna come up with the cash?”

“Yeah,” Ethan grumbled, “no sweat. I’m winning the lottery.”

Kyle snorted in the front seat. “Too late. I already picked those numbers,” he said, patting his chest pocket. A slip of paper crinkled inside it.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then, “You hear about
those two from Antigonish who won last week?” asked Pete.

Ethan nodded. He remembered the photo on the front page of
The Chronicle Herald
, a middle-aged couple holding a Lotto 6/49 cheque the size of a sheet of plywood, shit-eating grins on their faces.

“I read somewhere that all those lottery winners end up miserable,” offered Kyle, tipping his second bottle and draining the last of the amber liquid.

“You’re kidding me,” said Ethan.

Kyle turned to look at him. “No, seriously. Losers come out of the woodwork looking for handouts.”

“That part I believe. Just not the part about you reading.” Ethan winked at Pete, who hooted and high-fived him.

“Asshole,” Kyle growled over their combined laughter, but even he had to grin before going on. “Anyway, they did some kind of survey, contacted the really big winners a few years after they claimed their cash and asked them how their lives changed. Every one of them said they were happier before they got it.”

“My heart bleeds,” said Pete.

Ethan nodded. “I could live with a problem like that.”

Kyle slid his bottle back into the box with the other empties. “One problem at a time, okay? If you don’t have the money, I gotta let Filthy take her.”

Ethan groaned. The thought of Philip LaFarge owning the car
—his
car—made his heart sink. Filthy, who had dropped out of school at the same time as Kyle, drove one of the city’s garbage trucks, and Ethan imagined him tooling around in the Cobra now, pictured him installing one of those christly musical horns and hanging furry red dice from the rearview mirror. Filthy wasn’t the classiest guy going. Ethan felt his anger toward his father blaze again, and his knuckles whitened around the neck of the beer bottle. “You couldn’t maybe wait a while for the cash?” he asked, though he knew what the answer would be.