St. Nacho's (16 page)

I heard the key in the door, scraping, and waited patiently until Jordan came into the bedroom. I sat in bed, wearing brand-new flannel drawstring pants and an old T-shirt, the ashtray next to me. I had a book, some mystery that my sister had given me, and I’d been reading the first paragraph since about eight, over and over again. He wasn’t reeling or walking awkwardly, except maybe he walked slowly, like he was stiff.

“Hey,” he said, standing in the doorway, backlit by the light from the hall.

“Hey, Jordie. I was getting worried. You okay?” I had to go carefully. His eyes said something, his body said something, but for once I couldn’t read it at all.

“I’m fine.” He began to remove his jacket and winced a little.

“Need help?” I asked.

“No. I’m a little…” he murmured, and staggered a bit, and I admit, I guessed he’d been drinking or maybe taking drugs.

I got up quickly and came around him to help him with his coat. “Rough day.”

“Thanks.” He walked past me to the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt. As soon as I saw his shoulder revealed in the glow of one of those plug-in nightlights, I had to fight the urge to say something. His skin was covered with marks. I watched him, feeling my blood drain from my face. “You have no idea.”

St. Nacho’s

87

“I guess I don’t.” I stood there, stunned.

He began to pull down his trousers and I saw thin red slashes, welts, and bruises.

Stripes covered his back and down his buttocks, and I guessed from the way he took off his undershorts, down his thighs as well. I watched without understanding at all.

“Jordie?” I stared at his ruined skin. “What the fuck?”

“I needed it,” he said simply.

I sat down hard on my side of the bed.

“I need it sometimes. I found out it helps. It’s not like you don’t know that.”

“Jordie, how can it help you?” My past was fueled by alcohol and stupidity. Any kinky pain play, anytime I’d taken that road had been for the rush, the chance to experience just how far I could take my body to the edge. How much further I could push it, allow it to be pushed, before I slid into the darkness and surrendered to it. This was not the same. This was another drug for Jordie, another bite at the apple that he considered safe because it didn’t involve street drugs or alcohol. But I knew better. He was playing with the most powerful drugs of all, and he’d allowed himself to get hurt to get high.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I lose myself.”

“Jordie.” I barely breathed.

“Night, Coop,” he said, crawling to his side of the bed. He rolled away from me, presenting the gruesome tableau that was his flesh, and stared at the wall.

“Jordie,” I said. I wanted to put my hand on him but I was afraid.

The following day Jordan was gone before I woke up. He’d left a note saying he was going to a meeting before work.

88 Z. A. Maxfield

Chapter Fourteen

I probably didn’t give Jordan enough credit for trying to work his way back from the past, even though I continued to try to support his efforts. It was never far from my mind that it was my past, too, that we were trying to live down. That night when he got home I asked him if he wanted to go to the grocery store with me. I saw a flash of something in his eyes that I didn’t understand, fear maybe, or resignation, but he agreed to go. He was still wearing his uniform shirt from the UPS Store and looked more tired than I’d seen him in a while.

“I’ll buy you ice cream,” I said without thinking, just like I would have when we were kids. For a minute that seemed to help.

“I can get my own ice cream, Cooper,” he said, petulantly.

We walked through the humid early evening together; it wouldn’t be dark until nine or so.

“What are you going to make for dinner?” he asked. That was probably more than he’d said in the whole time, and I took it.

“What do you feel like eating?” Fortunately, food was the one thing I could count on to make Jordie talk. He liked all kinds of things, and when he was in the market, he could be easily distracted and talk whether he meant to or not.

“You feel like making some trout?” he asked. “On the grill?”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s take a look. Sometimes it’s been sitting in the case since the floodwaters of Genesis receded.” I felt happy just to be walking with him. There was no denying he would always be my best friend or that I loved him as much today as I always had. Love is a complex thing.

Jordie and I entered the air-conditioned store, and I almost groaned aloud at the pleasure of that cool air hitting my skin. It smelled exactly as it always had, a little meaty, a St. Nacho’s

89

little like disinfectant, but now that it rented space to a chain java joint, it had the added aroma of good coffee. We got the few nonperishables we needed first, an ingrained habit with me. When you’re used to walking to the store, you know what to get last and exactly how long a pint of ice cream has before it melts.

I sent Jordie to choose the ice cream, and I went to get the fish. I found a whole trout that didn’t look or smell like my grandfather had caught it before he died, and I was coming down the ice cream aisle when I saw Jordie coming toward me empty-handed.

“What kind of ice cream do you want?” I asked.

“Never mind,” he said lightly, but I could see he was holding his body rigid.

“Well, I want some,” I told him, and I went down to the frozen case where they kept the pints. “How about Chubby Hubby?” I stopped for a minute to get some frozen hash browns. When I turned back to Jordie, he was standing in front of the ice cream, but there were two men standing in front of the case with their arms folded.

“What the hell?” I muttered and went to ask what was going on. “Jordie?” He was actually politely waiting for them to move, and they weren’t. “Excuse us,” I said, thinking it would bring matters to a head.

“No excuse for you,” one of them mumbled.

“What?”

“Just move on, Wyatt,” the other said. The men had on jeans and T-shirts, standard farmwork clothes around here. They didn’t have on the typical trucker hats. They seemed to be just plain guys, although one looked familiar, as if I’d maybe gone to school with one of his siblings or met him when he was young. Chances were we’d known each other, but I didn’t think it was recent. They both had dark hair, but one had light gray eyes and one had brown. They looked as hot, dirty, and tired as I felt.

“What’s gotten up your ass?” I asked. Usually when you ask a direct question with a big chip on your shoulder, you get an answer or a fist. I wasn’t looking for a fist from this guy; he didn’t look the type.

“We’re the local chapter of this whole fucking town against drunk drivers,” he said.

“So then I guess you know that neither of us drink,” I countered. We were starting to draw a crowd.

“Tell that to Bobby Johnson,” the one with light eyes said. “He was my girlfriend’s little brother. You remember, don’t you? You crashed her graduation party? Came in and drank like you owned the place and killed him on your way out?” I could feel the tension building under Jordie’s skin even though I wasn’t touching him.

I was sick myself with shock and shame, and I wondered how Jordie could stand there without running or screaming or something.

“I just need my ice cream,” I told the man with a shaky voice.

90 Z. A. Maxfield

“Then you’ll have to go through me to get it,” the one who said he was the Johnson girl’s boyfriend told us.

“Don’t bother, Coop,” said Jordie. “You go on ahead, I’ll handle this.” His voice was low and dangerous and took on a reckless edge he hadn’t even had when we were kids and thought we could do no wrong.

“No, Jordie.”

“Coop.” Jordie stayed where he was. “I’ll handle this.” I looked up at him. I could see it in his eyes, the way they lit up at the thought of a fight. It wasn’t like we could for sure beat these guys, and there was no telling how many others in the supermarket were going to come over and help them, but I figured it would be more than would help us. And Jordie would go back to jail.

“It’s ice cream, Jordie.” I took him by the arm and tried to pull him along. “Not worth it. We’re leaving.”

“I don’t think so.” Jordie stayed put.

“Jordan.” Pastor Stan was standing behind us. He spoke Jordie’s name as if he were saying something important from the pulpit, and Jordie jerked his arm out of mine and turned toward him like a guilty kid. He kept his eyes on the ground.

“Yes, sir?”

Pastor Stan advanced, and the men who’d confronted us looked a little uncertain.

Whatever anyone said about Stan’s church-of-the-strip-mall, these two were boys who’d been brought up to respect a man of the cloth.

“This isn’t our way of solving problems, is it?” Stan asked in his silky voice.

“No, sir,” Jordan said.

Stan turned to me. “Would it be all right with you if Jordan came with me for a while?” he asked. I really couldn’t say why, but I didn’t like the idea, and yet I knew that if Jordie went to a meeting or had someone he trusted to talk to maybe the anger he was feeling would dissipate a little.

“It’s fine with me if it’s okay with Jordan,” I said. I still felt hesitant.

“It’s fine,” Jordan said. “I think it’d be a good idea.”

“Fine then,” said Stan, putting an arm out to usher Jordan toward the exit.

“Looks like your boyfriend’s stepping out on you,” one of the men behind me said.

I turned around and dropped my basket. “You wanna take his place?” The two men stepped away lively enough. Cowards. Jordan, who was on parole, couldn’t afford to get into an altercation like this, and they knew it. That was way too close for comfort. Had it gone any further, I’d have knocked Jordan out myself and dragged him home. I found myself leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the freezer case.

St. Nacho’s

91

A hand touched my shoulder. Expecting a fight, I spun around. Bill Leviton, a local police officer and a guy I had gone to school with, was standing behind me. He had braced himself for trouble, but we both relaxed immediately.

“Is something the matter?” he asked. I thought he recognized me, but he looked happy to see me, and I wondered why.

I shook my head.

He gave me a firm handshake. “I haven’t seen you since high school.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Hi.” I looked around behind me, but the two men who’d given Jordie such trouble were long gone.

“I got a call there might be a problem here, Cooper.” Bill regarded me. Cop s are t

.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

I guess I wondered how much I should tell him. “I think it’s sorted,” I said. Just for the hell of it I grabbed my damned Chubby Hubby ice cream.

“All right,” Bill said. He was handsome in his uniform. He’d ditched the hat, or didn’t wear one, and had a full head of brown hair. His face was interesting and expressive; he was slightly taller than me but built like a wrestler. He had those white lines around his eyes I always associated with time spent in the sun, maybe fishing. “There’s something else, though.”

He walked with me toward the front of the store. “What?” I couldn’t help it. I still had alarm bells that went off when cops took an interest in me.

He looked around. “I don’t want to talk about it here. You came here on foot, didn’t you?” he asked. “Can I drive you back to your place?”

“No,” I said, as politely as I could.

“What?”

“I said no. I don’t do cop cars.” I wasn’t ready for everyone in the world to know I didn’t do cars at all. It wasn’t a secret I walked everywhere in town. So far I believed people mostly thought I walked and rode a motorcycle as a healthy and green alternative lifestyle choice.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I have to work anyway. Will you meet me for coffee?” Did I want to meet Officer Bill for coffee? If I didn’t have a suspicion it had to do with Jordan, which I wanted to talk to him about anyway, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. “When?”

He looked at his watch. “Eight, maybe? At Hallowed Grounds? I’ll meet you.”

“Great.” Bill shook my hand again. He grinned at me as I put my basket on the conveyor and then he left through the market’s double doors.

I paid for my food and hurried home. Having fought for and won my Chubby Hubby, I wasn’t going to let it melt on the street.

92 Z. A. Maxfield

* * * * *

“So,” Bill said. We’d exhausted all our small talk. Our health and the weather was over two minutes in; our families gotten out of the way before my sister’s tattooed barista even began making our giant lattes. Someone brought us pumpkin brownies, which really shouldn’t have tasted good, but did.

“I guess you asked me here to talk about Jordan?” I started. “I want to tell you, Bill, that I always thought once a man did his time and served his sentence, he was free to go.”

“Well.” Bill looked at me like he didn’t know what to say.

“And I know he has to keep his parole, but it’s going to be hard to do that if people don’t give him some kind of a damn chance. We don’t need the people of this town holding a grudge and trying to run him off.”

“Who’s --”

“I mean he’s like this big whipped dog. I’m starting to see how this is taking its toll on him. I’m coming to you, man to man. Is there anything you can do to help him? Because one of these days, he’s going to get into a fight and they’re going to send him back to prison. I’m hoping only about three-fourths of the people in this town want that and that you’re in the fourth that doesn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bill said over a particularly loud outburst from a group of teenaged kids at a table near the door.

“Didn’t you bring me here to talk about Jordan?”

“Jordan?” Bill asked. “No.” Just then something on his face changed, and I sat back in my chair. Bill went from interested and polite to openmouthed and staring into space in a heartbeat.

I turned and caught a glimpse of my sister, who had just come out from behind the bar with a box of decorative mugs.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Bill said. He shot to his feet almost instantly and took the box from her, then held it while she put out a new line of ceramics.