by Ike Hamill
“I believe you’re holding my underage nephew for no apparent reason.”
“Of course,” the man said. With a glance, the woman disappeared through the door again. “Mister?”
“Carroll.”
“Of course. Yes, Mr. Carroll. We picked up your nephew on the complaint of one of your neighbors. For his own welfare, we brought him here until we could verify his identity.”
Reynold’s brain immediately ticked down the list of nosey neighbors and which one of them had implicated Eric. He shook his head clearing away the thought—the cop was trying to transfer blame. The neighbors might all be busybodies, but they weren’t the ones who had essentially arrested Eric. If he hadn’t stumbled on the bag, who knew how long it would have been before Reynold found out. This was how good kids got swept into a bad system.
“Sir?”
“This is unacceptable,” Reynold said. “He’s sixteen. Why wouldn’t you call me? I have to come down here and discover on my own that you’ve abducted a minor for the crime of coming home?”
That last bit was a stretch. Their house hadn’t been Eric’s home for two years. Reynold wasn’t going to apologize for that stretch though—it was close enough to the truth.
“Sir, we’re just trying to look out for everyone’s best interest,” the man said.
Reynold realized that he didn’t even have a name to put to the fat face on the other side of the desk. It wasn’t Captain Williams. He was about to ask for the man’s name when the door at the end of the hall opened. Reynold saw the woman emerge from the far door and wave through a familiar shape. Eric lowered his head when he saw his uncle.
Reynold wanted to run to Eric and pull him into a hug, but this wasn’t the place for a reunion.
“Come on, Eric. Let’s go home.”
HOME
OUTSIDE, BEFORE THEY WALKED to the car, Reynold handed the bag to Eric and put his arm around him. The uncle only recoiled a little from the smell of his nephew.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Reynold said.
Eric glanced up at him, not sure what to make of that.
The car that they walked to wasn’t the big old Gran Torino, but some fancy, foreign thing. Reynold opened the door and Eric got in the passenger’s seat.
Behind the wheel, Reynold dug in his pocket, produced a key and then fumbled to figure out where to put it.
“When did you get back?”
Eric looked at his uncle, trying to figure out what game they were playing.
“Listen… Uncle Reynold.”
Eric tried to force out the words, but they wanted to stick in his throat. When Reynold slowed and put on his turn signal at the exit of the parking lot, Eric considered jumping out to run. It would be easier. Before he could, his uncle turned the wheel and made a tight turn so he could pull to the side of the road and parked the car.
“What’s wrong, Eric? What did they do to you in there?”
“It’s not…” Eric started to say. This moment was the reason that he had stayed away from Maine after he had left Ohio. In his imagination, he hadn’t been able to see a way through this moment. He had never been able to picture summoning the courage to apologize.
“I’m so sorry,” he finally said.
“Sorry for what?”
The question drove a dagger into Eric’s heart. Of course his uncle wasn’t going to forgive him, but it seemed cruel that he was going to feign ignorance and make Eric spell it out.
“Eric, I can see you’re upset, but I genuinely don’t have any idea what you’re sorry about. Are you sorry that you went back to Ohio? I don’t blame you for that. I’m proud of you that you gave your mother another shot. She and your aunt can be stubborn and hard to take on a daily basis—don’t ever tell either of them I said that—but they both have a heart of gold.”
Eric couldn’t take it.
He pressed his hands to his face and tried to shut himself off from the world. There was a hard knot in the middle of his chest, like a tumor that had sprung out of nowhere and was inflating as rapidly as a balloon. Soon it would make him explode all over the interior of the fancy foreign car.
“I killed them both. I’m so sorry.”
Eric never intended to say the words. They just burst from his mouth, against his will.
Reynold’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
“You… Who?”
This was the cruelest question of all. Eric knew that his uncle was very aware of the situation. He couldn’t believe that Reynold was going to make him say that too.
Eric heard a little anger in his own voice.
“I killed my mother and Aunt Zinnia.”
Reynold laughed.
# # #
The laugh sounded triumphant and mocking to Eric’s ears.
When he looked at his uncle, and Reynold saw the pain in his eyes, the laugh ended abruptly.
“Wait, Eric, she’s not dead.”
Hope fluttered in Eric’s chest for a fraction of a second and then he remembered the waxy shape of her in the funeral home. When the man had asked if he wanted to see his mother, he had said yes, just to be sure. Below them, in the depths of the funeral home, an old elevator had rumbled. The man in the suit had led Eric into a room with too many dark, dusty curtains. Eric had expected that she would be prepared and dressed, ready for the coffin. Instead, she looked pale and deflated. Her shoulders, just visible below the fold of the sheet, were naked.
His uncle was wrong—his mother was most certainly dead.
Then it occurred to him that Reynold wasn’t talking about his mother. He was talking about Aunt Zinnia. If that was true, then half of his guilt would be lifted. It wasn’t everything, but it was enough to keep him in the car.
“What made you think that your Aunt Zinnia was dead?”
“They all said so.”
“Who?”
Eric swallowed. “She’s really not dead?”
“Hold on,” Reynold said. His eyes darted around as connections sparked. “Did something happen to your mother?”
Eric nodded slowly.
“A year ago. September twenty-eight. We buried her behind the church where she had her meetings.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
Eric looked down, forcing his hands to stay away from his face.
“They did.”
“Who?”
Eric shook his head.
His uncle fired up the engine of the fancy foreign car and they raced down the road. Elm Street looked different to Eric now. It was dark and the homes were lit up from within. Families moved around behind those windows, having dinner and enjoying an evening together. In some of the houses, older people, free from the chaos of children, enjoyed a TV program or a quiet book. It would be fall soon and there would be leaves to rake and yard ornaments would be packed away into the backs of garages. His uncle didn’t hate him. There was a chance that Eric would be welcome in this neighborhood again.
They pulled into the driveway fast and Reynold was out of the car in an instant. He paused at the stairs and turned back to wait for Eric.
“Come on.”
# # #
There were only three of them at the kitchen table. The family was incomplete. Eric forgot about that when he saw his aunt’s smile. Her face had all the parts that his mother’s face had been missing in the funeral home. There was light in her eyes and joy in every feature. Eric put his hands to his face again to block out all that warmth.
“Eric! Oh my god! Reynold said he thought you were back, but I never believed it. Look at how big you’ve gotten,” she said, moving towards him.
The boys shouted his name at the same time. They jumped up from their chairs and then held their ground. There was a self-imposed limit to how much enthusiasm they were allowed to show. Eric tilted his chin to each of them in acknowledgment.
“Quick reunion,” Reynold said. “I’m afraid we have bad news.”
She put her hands on Eric’s shoulders and he slid his hands
away from his eyes.
Concern folded into her brow.
“Are you okay, Eric? Please tell me you’re okay.”
“He’s fine,” Reynold said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s Rose.”
“Is she in trouble?” Eric’s aunt asked him. Her eyes teetered between sympathy and frustration. “Trouble with the police?”
“Honey,” Reynold said, shaking his head.
The realization went through her, cutting all her strings until she was barely upright. She allowed Reynold to guide her to a chair.
“What happened?” Jessie asked.
“What’s happening?” Wendell asked like an imperfect echo.
Eric shrank back when his aunt looked at him for answers to the questions.
Reynold put his arm around Eric. “Come on, Eric, let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Jessie, see if you can find something big enough for Eric to wear. You can take a shower while I get your clothes in the washing machine, okay?”
Eric allowed himself to be herded towards the living room. He felt better as soon as he gained distance from his aunt’s sad bubble.
“You’re going to have to stay with Jessie. Lily has your room and the boys have split up, but Jessie still has the bunk beds.”
“For now,” Jessie said. The brothers were both following them towards the stairs.
“And you should use the front bathroom. There’s no floor in the back hall.”
“I locked the door, Dad,” Wendell said. “You left it open.”
Everything was different upstairs. The second door to the big room had been walled up. A new door opened up to a hall closet, where Reynold fetched a towel. Eric had never used the bathroom they led him to. He felt like a time traveler—returning to a place he had never really known.
# # #
Her Rolodex was a mix of business, friends, and family. Zinnia flipped another card out of the way and then another. Whenever she picked up the telephone, a smile came to her face. It was habit. People responded better when she smiled, regardless of whether or not they could see her face. She hated that she couldn’t turn it off.
“Any luck?” Reynold asked.
“No. I don’t know who to call. There’s nobody left. She managed to break all contact with everyone.”
“If it makes any difference, I believe him.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“He said that he… He just said that she died a year ago. He seemed to think that somebody had called us to let us know.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Take it easy on him,” Reynold said. “Remember, he’s just a kid.”
“No,” Zinnia said, shaking her head. “I’m not saying that he’s bullshit. Give me some credit.”
It was always the most stressful situations when Zinnia finally caught a true glimpse of herself through her husband’s eyes. What kind of monster would blame a child for not communicating the death of his own mother? How could Reynold assume that was what she meant?
“After he gets cleaned up, we’ll see if he can talk,” she said.
“Good. We also need to figure out what to do about Lily.”
“Lily?”
“Remember? According to Nicky, she ran away.”
Zinnia shook her head. “She’s an adult. You don’t say ‘ran away’ about an adult. That’s for a puppy or a five year old with a blanket tucked under his arm.”
“Fine. I guess I’m more worried about what she might be running from,” Reynold said.
Zinnia flipped through her Rolodex again. This number was easy to find.
The smile sprang to her lips as she dialed the phone. This time, she let it stay there.
Reynold leaned forward to see what name she had flipped to. Zinnia held up a finger—he would know soon enough.
“Hi, may I speak to Jackie?”
“This is she,” the voice on the other end said.
“Jackie, this is Lily’s mother. Do you know where she is this evening?”
There was a pause on the other end. Jackie sounded so young—probably because she was. It always irked Zinnia to wait for young people to make decisions. They almost always came out on the wrong side of it. She waited to break through the silence and tell Jackie to not bother with whatever lie she was trying to concoct. It would disintegrate soon enough.
“Frankly, I’m a little worried about her,” Jackie said.
“Oh?”
“A lot of the girls were. When someone is let go, we have a tradition. We all meet at Smitty’s right after work to toast the fallen.”
“Fallen?”
“Yes. That’s what… Anyway, when Lily didn’t show, Chelsea called. She didn’t get an answer. Lily looked pretty peeved, you know?”
“She was fired?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Thank you, Jackie. If you hear from her…”
“I’ll tell her to call.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”
Zinnia heard the girl’s goodbye just before the receiver clicked back into the cradle.
Reynold was standing there with this hands on his hips, looking out at nothing.
“Well?” Zinnia asked.
He turned up his hands.
“She knows when curfew is,” Zinnia said. “Maybe she’s out getting drunk.”
“Alone?”
“I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “Do I look like I know?”
# # #
Reynold climbed the stairs when he heard the shower shut off. Wendell and Jessie were both in Jessie’s room, sitting and waiting for their cousin to emerge from the bathroom.
“Don’t you have homework?”
“Nah,” Jessie said. Wendell shook his head.
Reynold pointed a finger at Jessie, “You, I don’t believe.”
Then, at Wendell, “You, have an apology to make tomorrow. If you don’t want to say it aloud, I suggest that you go compose it.”
“What do I have to say?” Wendell asked. At least he didn’t burst into tears—it was progress.
“Write that you didn’t take into account how your actions would be perceived by others and that you’re sorry for the pain and commotion that you inflicted.”
“But why?”
“That’s for you to reflect on. Put yourself in their shoes and think about it.”
Wendell’s gears were turning as he got up and moved towards his own room. It would be interesting to see what he came up with. There was no chance that he would get it right the first time, but it would be interesting.
Reynold took the chair that his youngest had vacated.
“Is Eric going to live with us again?” Jessie asked.
“More than likely, but no guarantees.”
The door to the bathroom opened and Eric emerged. Clean and wearing Jessie’s clothes, he looked a couple of years younger. The shirt and shorts were too small for him, but he was so skinny that they managed to fit.
“How are you doing?” Reynold asked him.
“Good. Hungry,” Eric admitted.
“Good,” Reynold said. He pointed at Jessie again. “Homework.”
Reynold shut the door most of the way and led his nephew towards the stairs.
“Your clothes are in the washer. I’ll move them to the dryer before bed so you can have something to wear tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Reynold paused on the stairs before they got within sight of Zinnia.
“If you can, maybe you can share a little about your mom? If you’re not ready to talk about it, then that’s fine too.”
Eric swallowed and blinked. He nodded and they continued down.
“I’m starving too. We have China Town.”
When he led Eric into the kitchen, Zinnia had disappeared. Eric took the seat in the corner that had always been his spot.
“You want this heated up?”
“No, thank you.”
“Good man.”
Reynold brought the whole bag of half-filled cartons over to
the table along with two plates and two forks. They split the food between them. After they shoveled food into their mouths for a solid minute, Eric took a break to stand up and get two glasses of water.
“Thanks,” Reynold said, rubbing his chest to try to dislodge the rice in his throat. “It was just about to happen.”
Eric smiled.
In the house, the two of them were the only ones with the rice problem. When they ate too much too fast, it got stuck in their throats. More than once, Eric and Reynold had been sidelined during dinner while the rest of the family continued on. The only cure they had found was water, and lots of it.
The side door opened and Zinnia came in. She sat next to Eric, touching his shoulder briefly as she got comfortable.
“I’m so glad to have you back.”
Eric blushed and looked down.
“I’ll tell you what happened.”
“Take your time,” Zinnia said. Her eyes were fixed on him though, urging him with silent intensity.
The boy put his fork down.
# # #
“Mom was trying really hard,” Eric said. “She was going to her meetings all the time. I was busy with school, but I went with her when I could. She liked to have someone along, and she liked to talk to me when she was up front. A lot of the stories she told to the group were apologies to me in a way. I could tell that she was really sorry for what happened.”
He looked between his aunt and uncle. Reynold was looking down at his plate, pushing food around. His aunt was looking over her shoulder. Finally, his uncle glanced up and Eric knew that it was okay to keep going.
“A guy from the meetings gave me a job that I could do after school. It was going pretty good. We had enough money for everything. The only bad part was the dreams.”
Eric squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t meant to mention that part. When he opened his eyes again, they were both looking at him. They looked away and he continued.
“Anyway, Mom got sick. It all went very fast. She was sick and couldn’t work, then she got better for a little bit, and then she got sick again. That happened a few times and then she was…”
Eric picked up his water. It felt like rice was getting stuck in his throat again, but he hadn’t been eating. When he finished the glass, his aunt jumped up and refilled it. The water there tasted good—exactly like he remembered. He had never gotten used to the taste of the water in Ohio.
