This Is Home

by Lisa Duffy

  “Why?” she asks.

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Bent called and said you wanted to talk—”

  “No. I mean why are you late?”

  He studies her, looks at the ground, the small movement making him sway slightly on his feet.

  “You’ve been drinking,” she says quietly.

  “I’ve been thinking.” He smirks. “And yes, that required a bit of fortification.”

  “Well, come back tomorrow. I’m going inside.” She moves to turn, but he grabs her arm.

  “I won’t be here tomorrow,” he tells her, and pauses, as though waiting for her reaction.

  In the silence, she hears the low rumble of an engine. Over John’s shoulder, the black truck from earlier turns onto the street. It speeds up, then comes to a screeching halt in front of the house, only inches from where John is parked.

  Someone in the truck yells out to them, a torrent of insults, the word Pig making its way to her ears over the engine and loud music.

  John whips around and takes a step toward the voice, but she grabs him.

  “John—stop! They think you’re Bent! Just ignore them, it has nothing to do with you.”

  He rips his arm away from her so forcefully she stumbles forward.

  “Nothing to do with me? They call him that—might as well call me it too.” He points at the truck, strides forward. “Get out and say it to my face, punk,” he shouts at them.

  The driver lays on the horn, presses it several times, hoots and laughter coming from inside before they peel off down the street, the truck zigzagging, a stream of smoke spurting from the exhaust pipe.

  John is on the curb now, as if he might follow them, his eyes blazing, the veins in his neck bulging.

  She steps closer, trying to get him to focus on her face. “Let them go, please. Come inside. If we’re not standing out here, they’ll just go away.”

  She touches his arm again, but he sneers at her, a look of disgust on his face, and bats her hand away.

  “You want me to go inside and hide? You think I’m hiding from these punks? Fuckers don’t know who they’re messing with.” He walks over to his truck, yanks open the passenger door, and reaches into the glove compartment. When he shuts the door and faces her, he’s holding a gun.

  She can’t breathe suddenly, unable to pull her eyes away, the shock of it turning her numb.

  John is breathing heavily, as though they were in the middle of a battle instead of being harassed by teenagers, and she forces herself to speak.

  “John. Look at me. Look at my face.” He glances at her, but it’s as though he doesn’t know who she is, his eyes looking through her, his pupils large and empty. “You need to go home. Those are just kids in that truck. Teenagers!”

  “Don’t give me that shit. Boys half their age have tried to blow my fucking head off.”

  “We’re not in the Middle East—we’re not at war! Go home, right now. I don’t want that thing near me.” She points to the gun, but he ignores her, his eyes glazed over.

  She hears the truck before she sees it. Hears the thunder from the engine, loud as a tank, minutes before she sees it turn the corner onto the street.

  Then it’s slowly pulling up in front of the house. Or maybe everything around her is moving in slow motion—the guy in the passenger seat sticking his head out; John raising his arm; the look of shock, then terror on the guy’s face, followed by the deafening roar as the truck lurches forward to escape the pointing barrel of a gun.

  John’s truck is still idling where he parked it—too far into the street—the driver’s-side door ajar.

  The truck surges forward with such force that it fishtails and plows into John’s door, ripping it from the hinges and sending it sailing through the air, where it slams to the ground.

  She hears a scream and looks at John, but he’s no longer standing next to her. He’s shoving the damaged door aside, moving it out of the way. His truck is dented, sideways in the street from the impact. But he climbs inside the driver’s seat, disappearing inside the gaping hole where the door once was.

  And she realizes it’s her voice that’s screaming as she watches him tear away from the curb, speeding after the truck up the street.

  She doesn’t pause for a moment. She turns and runs, slams into the house, and races up the steps. Hurrying to reach Libby, rushing to the phone, trying to get help.

  She’s on the stairs when she hears it.

  Car horns wail and tires screech. The raw sickening scrape of twisting metal. Then a thunderous BOOM so loud it seems the entire world hears it. The noise brings her to her knees. She stops breathing, squeezes her eyes shut.

  Then there is nothing.

  A silence so bottomless, so empty, she holds on to the railing to keep it from swallowing her whole.

   25

  Libby

  The noise shakes the house, shifts the ground underneath me, knocks the pictures off the walls, and blows out the windows.

  That’s what it feels like, at least.

  Even Rooster startles and gets to his feet from his spot on my bed, looks at my closed door and back at me accusingly, like everything I’ve just whispered to him about how he’s okay is just one huge fat lie.

  It took me forever to coax him away from the front window. Away from barking and growling at Flynn and my father down below.

  And now, the sound of whatever just exploded outside has him standing up, barking again. I tell him to stay and close the door behind me.

  The house is empty, and I’m hurrying to the window to see where the noise came from, when the front door opens so hard it bangs against the back wall, the glass threatening to shatter.

  Quinn rushes in, her eyes wild, the puppy pressed tight to her chest, a panicked look on her face, as though the loud noise she heard outside is a physical thing that’s coming to get her.

  “He has a gun!” she hisses, and rushes past me to the window, cranes her neck to see up the street. I look over her shoulder, but there’s nothing but trees and sky.

  “Who? Bent? What was that noise?” I ask, but she runs back to the door, locks it, looking through the glass frantically before ducking underneath it.

  “Quinn. Calm down—”

  “What if he comes back here? Whatever that noise was—it’s right there!” She points up the street. “He’s drunk, and he has a gun!” she says again. “We need to call the police—your father! I ran down to get the puppy, but I can’t find my phone, and I wanted to get out of the apartment!”

  She pats her pockets, even though she’s wearing a sundress, and goose bumps run down my arms, the terror on her face making the room grow cold.

  And suddenly I know she’s talking about her husband. He must have shown up after all. Drunk. With a gun.

  Bent always says domestic disputes are the most dangerous calls. How they can turn deadly in the blink of an eye. And I’ve never doubted it—we have Rooster to prove it.

  I don’t stop to think now, just grab Quinn’s arm and rush through the house, shutting lights off as I go.

  “Where are we going?” she blurts, but I don’t answer, just push open my bedroom door and yell at Rooster to come, and thankfully, for once, he listens, jumps off the bed and runs past us.

  I open the back door and look out in the hallway. It’s pitch-black, but I don’t turn the light on.

  “Up to Lucy’s,” I whisper to Quinn, and she grabs Rooster by the collar and hurries him up the stairs. I close the door behind me and follow them. Upstairs, I find the spare key and let us in.

  The kitchen is dark, only the small light on under the microwave, and we file quietly into the living room. Quinn moves to the window, shielding herself behind the curtain. She peers out and looks back at me anxiously.

  “I can’t see anything. There’s flashing lights, though. The police are there.”

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice calm. “He doesn’t know Bent’s sisters live here. If he comes back, he won’
t come up here.”

  I slip my phone out of my back pocket and call Bent, but it goes right to voice mail. I send him a text that we’re at Lucy’s and to call me ASAP.

  Quinn is still staring out the window, and I tell her to sit, gesturing to the couch. She ignores me until I point out that all the stress isn’t good for the baby. She sighs, and I hold my arms out for the dog. She hands him over and sits on the couch, but on the edge, as though she’s ready to run.

  The puppy squirms frantically in my arms, and I look down to see Rooster sniffing at him, his tail wagging. I look at Quinn and she shrugs, nods. I put him on the floor, and he launches his body at Rooster, who sinks to a crouch, his head the size of the puppy’s entire body, and rolls on his back. The puppy takes this as an invitation to jump on Rooster’s neck and disappears over him, tumbling in a heap.

  We’re quiet, watching them play as the sound of sirens fills the street.

  “What happened?” I ask, and she picks up from where I left my father and Flynn on the street.

  When she finishes, I get up and look out the window again.

  “Maybe we should go out there? I mean, find out what happened?”

  “No, you didn’t see him. The look on his face—he wasn’t there anymore. Like something flipped, and he just was somewhere else. And the rage in his eyes. I’ve never seen that before. Like he wanted to . . .” She pauses, looks at me.

  “Wanted to what?”

  “Hurt someone,” she says softly, and glances at the window, a fearful look in her eye, as though afraid that someone might be her.

  I leave her alone for a minute. Walk to the kitchen and fill a small bowl with water and grab the newspaper from the table.

  In the living room, I put the bowl on the floor, and the puppy trots over and laps at it, while Rooster catches his breath and watches him. I spread out the paper in the corner and bring the puppy over, and it’s only a second before he makes a small circle in the center. I crumple it and leave the rest of the paper on the floor in case he needs to go again. When I come back from throwing it out in the kitchen, Quinn is watching me.

  “What?” I ask, and she shrugs, shakes her head, and a tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away, sniffs.

  “Ever since I’ve moved in here, you and your dad, you’ve just . . . been so great. And here I have you hiding up here like some sort of prisoner. You must wish I never moved in.”

  I wave her away. “That’s not true. I like having you here.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” she says sarcastically. “You didn’t at first. And you know what they say about intuition.”

  “Okay, I admit—I wasn’t crazy about you moving in.” I smile weakly. “But I didn’t even know you then . . . and it was more about having another person moving in here. We used to have our own house, and after my mother died, I pretty much had Bent to myself. But . . . it’s been kind of nice these past months. You know, coming home to people who like to be here.”

  I glance up, not sure if she’ll understand, but she nods, looks me in the eye.

  “Your mother?” she asks. “Is that who you mean?”

  “She wanted a different life. And she made us believe we were stopping her from getting it. And then she got sick and died.” I sigh, shrug at Quinn. “All before I had the guts to tell her how I felt. That we never seemed to be enough.”

  Quinn studies me. “Maybe her wanting to leave had nothing to do with you and everything to do with her. The hard part is figuring out how to not take it personally.”

  I pause, consider this. “And how do you not take it personally?” I ask finally.

  “I’m still working on that one,” Quinn says, and laughs. “But I think coming home to people who are happy to see you is a good start.”

  A door slams downstairs, and we both jump. Quinn stands up quickly and puts her back to me, between me and the door, her arms out, shielding me, it seems, from whatever might come through the door.

  “Quinn, it might just be—”

  “Shh!” she hisses, and we listen as footsteps climb the stairs until they’re just outside Lucy’s door. Quinn reaches behind her and grabs my wrist, pulling me close to her, her hands cold, and I feel her body relax when we hear a key in the lock.

  Bent steps in and looks over at us, his eyes finding Quinn, his face pale, his shirt covered in blood.

  “There was an accident,” he says. Rooster rolls off his back and stands up, the puppy between his legs, and whines at Bent, as though he knows the meaning of the word.

  “Are you okay?” Quinn asks, but he doesn’t answer her.

  He clears his throat, a deep sound that rumbles through the quiet hallway.

  “You need to come with me,” he says. “It’s John. He’s at the hospital.”

  She looks at him and nods, bends down and picks up the puppy.

  “I’ll put him in his crate and meet you out front,” she says, and walks out.

  Bent hurries past me, downstairs to our apartment. I call Rooster over to me and shut Lucy’s door behind me. Bent glances over at me when I walk through the door, but his face is blank.

  “What happened?” I ask, but he turns and walks away. I follow him to his bedroom. He pulls off his T-shirt, throws it in the small wastebasket in the corner.

  “Why is your shirt covered in blood?”

  “There was an accident,” he says again, walking past me to the bathroom and shutting the door. I hear water running and when the door opens, he won’t look at me.

  “What happened?”

  “Libby. Just—” He turns and puts his hand up. “Look, I need to go to the hospital—”

  “I’m coming,” I say.

  “No, it’s going to be a long night.”

  “I wasn’t asking,” I tell him, and grab my sweatshirt off the coat rack and walk out the door before he even has a chance to argue with me.

  Quinn is on the porch, and there’s a police cruiser waiting for us out front.

  Bent opens the passenger door for Quinn, but she slips into the back seat with me. The officer who’s driving pulls away from the curb and turns to Bent to say something, but Bent catches her eye and shakes his head. She looks back at the road, and we drive to the hospital in silence.

  In the waiting room, Bent disappears for a moment, and when he returns, he pulls me aside.

  “I’m going to have Lucy come get you. Quinn’s filling out paperwork, and I have to find—”

  “I’m not leaving,” I interrupt. “I’ll just sit here. I’m fine.” I point to a row of empty seats, and he frowns at me but kisses my forehead and walks away.

  I settle into the seat, glance around. The room is empty besides an older couple in the corner gazing blankly at the TV mounted on the wall.

  I close my eyes, make a pillow out of my sweatshirt, and rest my head against it, trying not to picture Bent’s shirt covered in blood.

  Hours pass. I fall asleep and wake up, stretch my legs, and sit down again, my eyelids heavy.

  Then Bent is shaking me awake, asking me if I want to go home. I ask if Quinn’s leaving, and he says no, and I shake my head, and he sighs, stares at me. He tells me he has to leave for a minute to go to the station, but he’ll be right back.

  I find the cafeteria and buy an orange juice and a muffin and sit at a table while I eat. Then I take the elevator back to the waiting room and see Bent standing at the nurses’ station. He glances up and motions for me to come over.

  “The truck Flynn was in earlier was involved in this. The two morons weren’t hurt more than a couple of stitches and a broken arm, but they’re in a lot of trouble—possession, DUI . . .” He pauses, looks at me. “I went to the station to tell Flynn, and when he found out you were here, he asked me to bring him.” He points to the row of seats against the wall. “You might not want to see him, but I thought you could both use a friend right now.”

  I look over at where Bent pointed and see Flynn, his head against the wall, his eyes closed.

  When I w
alk over and sit in the chair next to him, he looks over at me and blinks. His forehead creases, and he leans forward, puts his face in his hands.

  He doesn’t make a sound, but his shoulders tremble. I grab a handful of tissues from the nurses’ station. He shakes his head when I sit down and hold one out to him. A second later, he sniffs, wipes his eyes, and sits up, looking over at me, his eyes red rimmed and swollen.

  “Crybaby,” I say, and he makes a noise that’s somewhere between a sob and a snort and puts his arm around my shoulder, pulls my head toward him. I wait for his knuckles on the top of my head, but I feel his breath in my ear.

  “I’m such an asshole,” he chokes out.

  “You really are,” I whisper, and his arm tightens on my shoulders before he lets go of me.

  “I wish I could say I was too drunk to remember any of it. But I remember everything. Every fucking awful minute of it.” He sighs, a sob threatening to slip out again.

  “Seriously, stop crying. You’re embarrassing.”

  He smirks, shakes his head. “I can always count on you to set me straight, Plural.” He studies me. “Still hate me?”

  “Yup.” I nod. “Always.”

  He looks over at Bent. “Be serious for a second. How much trouble did I get you in? You know, talking about Jimmy.”

  I shrug again. “It’s Bent. He doesn’t stay mad. Plus, he’s got other things on his mind.”

  “He told me if I thanked him one more time, he was going to kick my teeth in.”

  “You thanked him for arresting you?”

  “He didn’t arrest me. They just put me in a room, and your father showed up and told me he wasn’t going to let me go anywhere until I sobered up, and I should put my head down and sleep it off. So I did. Next thing I know, he’s shaking me awake—telling me what happened and that he wants to take me home, but I made him drop me off here.” He breathes out, a ragged, wet sound. “I would’ve been in that truck, Libby. You know they’re probably going to jail? I would’ve lost everything—”

  “I don’t want to think about that. So, tell me things change. Because you’re a different person when you drink. And I don’t want to be sitting in this room someday and you’re the one back there.” I point to the emergency room.