At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  * * *

  I went home early, and around eight o'clock, Marty showed up unannounced at my door with a cardboard box loaded down with an assortment of booze.

  I fingered a cheap bottle of Gordon's Vodka and whistled. "What's all this?"

  "Ale for what ails ya."

  He thunked the box down on the counter by the sink, and I shook my head.

  "Contrary to what those boys in white think, the medicinal qualities of alcohol are highly underrated. This'll have you straightened out in no time."

  "Let me guess. Jessica's at work."

  "You fuckin' slay me." He hefted two twelve-packs out of the box.

  "Christ," I said. "You intending to break the world record for alcohol consumption, or what?"

  "Hey, I knew you wouldn't have shit in this joint."

  "Just some wine."

  Marty rolled his eyes as he popped the top of what I determined was his second Budweiser. An empty lay in the bottom of the box. He'd gotten a head start on the drive over. I watched as he rooted through the refrigerator and cabinets, found what he wanted, then grabbed a spoon out of the drawer by the stove. He dumped a quart of Land O' Lakes sour cream into a bowl, followed by two packets of dip mix.

  "Hungry, are we?" I said.

  Marty lifted a bag of UTZ potato chips out of the box, looked at me, and grinned. "Not for long."

  I sloshed some vodka into a tall glass and topped it off with some orange juice.

  "You always put your mail in the trash?" Marty had dropped the empty sour cream container into the can and was holding a letter from my father between his fingers. "You forgot to open it."

  "I didn't forget."

  He looked up from the envelope. "Damn, Steve. Don't you wanna know what it says?"

  "I know what it says. 'Come back home and go to this college and major in that subject, and I'll get you in at Johns Hopkins or Yale or wherever, and you can have whatever you want as long as it suits me.'" I sat cross-legged on the floor.

  "Ain't nothin' wrong with a little bribery, as long as you get what you want in the end. So what if he wants you to follow in his snotty, condescending, ivy-leagued, scalpel-wielding footsteps."

  I thought I was going to choke. "How'd you like somebody telling you how and where and when to take a piss?"

  Marty shrugged. "Depends what I get in return, I suppose."

  I picked up the remote and turned on the CD player.

  "Why didn't you finish school, anyway?" Marty said. "With your smarts, not to mention your old man's connections, you could've gone anywhere, done anything, even if you did have to kiss his ass from time to time."

  "That's exactly why I didn't." Not to mention the fact that I had felt rudderless, without purpose, and most devastating to me . . . without passion. Then there was that sour taste I knew I'd have in my mouth if I let him run my life. I swallowed some orange juice, set the glass on the floor, and closed my eyes. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, just knew I didn't want to live his.

  Marty dragged a kitchen stool around onto the carpet, then perched on it with his heels hooked on the lower rung. "Plus, you'd still have that sweet, motherfuckin' ride of yours. Hell, I would of stayed just for that."

  I stared at him and wondered where all this shit was coming from.

  "I can't believe he kicked you out just 'cause you quit school."

  "He liked control, Marty. Quitting college was only half of it. What really pissed him off was that I went to work on a horse farm. It didn't go with his image, having one of his sons slinging shit for a living. What would his colleagues think? Guess he figured if he kicked me out, I wouldn't make it on my own, and before long, I'd be back home, following his marching orders like a good little boy."

  "I don't know," Marty said. "It just don't figure. You'd've thought you'd whacked somebody, the way he treats you. Here you get the shit beat out of you, and you can't even talk to him, can't even go to your own parents for help or--"

  "Marty . . ."

  "--support. He's an asshole. He should be proud of you instead of--"

  "Marty, quit."

  "You're even defending him, for Christ's sake. And all because you made the wrong fucking career choice."

  "I'm not--"

  "He pisses me off. Doesn't he care?"

  I was on my feet, and I think that only then did Marty realize what he was doing. "No." I glared at him. "He doesn't care." I walked over to the audio system, cranked up the volume to some rock 'n roll, and said under my breath, "He only cares about himself."

  Marty was behind me then, and I hadn't heard him. He put his hand on my shoulder, wanting me to turn around. "Steve?"

  I shrugged him off. I felt like hitting him, but it wasn't Marty I wanted to hit. I stood there and stared at the throbbing green and red lights arcing across the panel in sync with the music. If I stared at them long enough, they blurred together, everything else in the room dissolving into nonexistence.

  "They killed him, Marty." I said softly.

  "What?"

  "They went to steal some horses, and they killed him."

  I told him about James Peters and watched the animation die out of his face.

  At some point, I must have drifted off, because I woke on the floor, in the dark, with a stiff neck. I moved to check my watch and realized Marty had dropped a blanket on top of me. Two o'clock. I staggered to my feet and saw him lying on my bed, on my pillow, under my blankets.

  "Fuck."

  Well, at least he'd had the sense not to drive home. I took some pain pills, which I probably shouldn't have, pulled out my sleeping bag, and went back to sleep.