“Who owns such an expensive car in this area, anyway?” Dad asks. “They told us it cost something like two hundred grand. I can’t imagine someone lives near us with that kind of money.”
“Indy’s not that far, Dad,” I blurt out. “Probably commutes the hour like everyone else in the area.”
Officer Hall clears his throat. “The car is registered to Jeffrey Taylor. He was out of town when this happened, so he didn’t know about any of it.”
“Jeffrey Taylor, as in Taylor Real Estate Investments?”
Officer Hall nods, rests his fingers on his belt buckle.
Dad’s focused on the wrong things, scratching his head like he’s solving a mystery. “Thought he lived in Indy.”
Mom’s hand drops to her side. “Oh my God. He called me! It didn’t make sense before, but now—”
“What? When was this?” Dad interrupts, the concern in his voice growing.
“A few hours ago, when you went for coffee. He said if we needed anything, he’d take care of it. I didn’t understand why. I thought, because he owns the housing complex, it was about our house, but then he said something about a Kyle? I couldn’t remember anyone with that name helping us with the sale. I don’t know. The nurses were trying to check Benny’s vitals, and I was half asleep, so I just hung up.”
“Wait,” I say slowly, my heart skipping into my throat. The pieces suddenly string together like magnets. “Bash’s friend is Kyle—he did this—he has to be Mr. Taylor’s son. The money, the car … It makes sense now—Bash is innocent! He didn’t do this! I knew it!” I turn to Officer Hall, plead with him to hear me. “Please let him go. Talk to Kyle!”
Officer Hall seems perplexed, but reluctantly jots down my notes. “We already had Kyle Taylor in for questioning but couldn’t keep him. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll look into it,” he says. “So if you don’t have any other questions, I’ll get back to you when there’s news.”
“Thank you for dropping her off,” Mom says. “We’ll take it from here.”
He nods, reaches for a handshake from Dad before turning to me. “Remember what I said in the car? No matter how much you love someone, doesn’t mean you should be together. Some chemicals don’t mix.” He tips his hat and disappears. Maybe the words should echo or I should feel like they mean something. They don’t.
The moment he leaves, Mom’s eyes zero in on me, but she says nothing; she doesn’t have to. In exactly four weeks, two days, thirteen hours, I’ve somehow gone from knowing exactly where my life would take me to becoming our family’s inhibitor. I am preventing us from moving forward because maybe—and I didn’t see this before—I’m not ready to. To move forward, to go away to a college we can’t afford, to let Nan go, to leave Sarge and Brynn and everyone else, to accept all the damage I’ve caused with Benny (and Bash), all because I lost traction in my own life, would mean I’m flawed in more ways than I can process. I am not perfect. I will mess up. I will fail.
And Bash? He’s a bear—doesn’t need “any damn one for any damn thing.” And yet here I am. Maybe I should hate him for being part of our tragedy, keeping the truth from me, whatever the truth is. How could I even consider forgiving him? I wonder.
But more so, How could I not?
In the middle of this long, drawn-out silence, a series of beeps grows louder. My ears pop as if I’m hearing for the first time. I follow Mom’s wide eyes, Dad’s too, to Benny’s twitching limbs, all the way up to his half-bandaged face, where, finally, his lashes flutter.
And his eyes, they open.
LESSON OF THE DAY: This variable in any reaction is unexpected because that is, literally, what it’s supposed to be—a surprise element. Like a twist in the plot. Or wind velocity that suddenly picks up during a rainy night. There are so many variables in everyday life, things I don’t always notice at first that can change the outcome dramatically.
That’s the beauty/pitfall of science/love.
BASH
“Name?” the officer asks, barely looking up from the glaring computer screen.
“Sebastian Matéus Alvarez,” I state.
“Ahh, yes,” he says smugly. “Repeat offender, Mr. Alvarez. Looks like we didn’t leave a lasting impression.”
“Don’t remember.”
He laughs. “Hopefully this time does the trick, then. You’re eighteen now. This ain’t juvy. This is a serious felony, with a multi-year sentence up for grabs. That’s a lot of time to remember.”
He continues with the obvious questions. I can almost say the words before he does. Date of birth, social security number, address. Blah blah blah.
“Could you please recall the incident, in your own words?”
I lean into him, my cuffed hands propped on the desk. “You know, I’m missing my mother’s funeral planning for this. How about you let me go, arrest me tomorrow, and we’ll start over.” I smile, something plastic.
“Sorry, compadré. Arrest warrants don’t care who died. But off the record, I’m sorry for your loss.”
I lean back, take a deep breath. “Thanks, I guess. So if I tell you what you want to know, can we get on with act three already?”
“Absolutely.”
I tell him how it went down, how Kyle had no idea I snuck into his house to get the keys to his dad’s Benz, how I drove, drunk and high (things I could’ve probably left out, but at this point, what the hell?), on a dangerous highway bend, struck this kid, and left the scene almost immediately. I tell him I thought it was a deer, because I (we) did. I say the impact scared me (us) shitless, so I drove the car back to the house and snuck out the garage door. And finally, when he digs deeper into the file and asks if recently released Kyle knew about, or helped, with any part of this, I look him straight in the eyes. “No.”
My answers don’t satisfy the curious cop. “Perjury is punishable by up to five years in the slammer, so if you had help, don’t cover.”
I don’t flinch. “You wanted my story. You got it.”
He taps his pen against the desk. “How’d you get in the garage?”
I don’t even hesitate. “We used to live there. I remembered the code.” This satisfies him—this helps his case more than anything else I’ve said. Because now I have credibility. Now I have access. Now they might believe every lie I tell them.
He notes my dark hair and hazel eyes, the clothes I’m wearing (the same I’m always wearing), and pushes my fingers onto a pad of black ink, then onto the document. He doesn’t make small talk, not that I expect him to, but through the noise of the precinct, it’s still stifling and uncomfortable. I look away, bite my tongue, so not to make it worse. Whiskey hangover intact, my head’s thrashing a thunderous bass line through my skull. He eventually guides me to my mug shot photo session.
I blink. “Can I do that one over?” I ask.
He ignores me, taking me over to a small area where he tells me to put my hands up. His hands pat every inch of my body, digging into my back pocket where my phone is nestled. He takes it, throws it into a bin. “You’ll get your phone call from our phone.”
I keep my mouth shut, let him push me into a holding cell where four others are waiting for me. Their eyes are transfixed by the fresh meat walking in. I’m obviously a decade, or more, younger; a shade, or twelve, darker; and a little less sure of my place. The one on the bench slides over. He’s built like a Tonka truck, large and in charge, but his eyes are soft, and he nods at me like we’re old friends.
“What are you in for, little homey?” he asks. The others turn away from us to sink back into their own thoughts.
I dig my head into my chest and keep my voice low. “Car accident, my fault.”
He nods and points to himself. “Robbery, strike three. Good thing we’re not in Cali, or I’d be shit outta luck.”
We make eye contact, but just for a second. He looks me up and down. “You can’t be older than fifteen, sixteen. Why you in here?”
“Eighteen. The kid I hit might not wake up.”
Another man pulls his sights from the bars and spins to face me. He’s pencil thin with eyes the color of coal. “I thought your face looked familiar. It’s all over the news. We got ourselves a celebrity in here.”
There’s that lump again. “It was an accident.”
“Some accident,” the thin man says. “Police have been lookin’ for you for weeks.” Tonka Truck Man slaps his legs. “He’s just a little girly man.” He pulls my shirt back, flings it against my skin, then musses my hair. He pretends to search for a bug in the air—“Probably wouldn’t swat a fly if it landed on him”—and smacks his hands together as if he’s smashed it.
I don’t say anything. My arms crossed tight, I back away, bury my head deep, and keep looking down. Just get through it, I tell myself. And finally, they leave me be. I sit in this exact position for five hours, watching, waiting. In this five-hour period, each of the other four people go on to their own fates. When the officer opens the door, I’m the only one left in the quiet, urine-scented cell.
“It’s your lucky day,” he says. “Someone posted bail.”
I look up. A wretched crick in my neck momentarily paralyzes me. “Who would save me?”
“Your guardian angel.” He points to a tall man in a navy suit, with silver hair and golden skin from the California sun he’s been basking in recently.
“Mr. Taylor,” I say, confused. “What are you—”
“Get your things,” he orders, briefcase at his side. “We need to talk.” His shadow fades beyond the door, and I’m still frozen to this goddamned spot. My heart beats faster. I sign everything I need to sign, plead whatever Mr. Taylor tells me to plead, and with my phone back in my pocket, drag my sorry self out into the morning sun, where my breath nearly freezes in the air in front of me. His new car, a navy BMW, is parked in the front row, the engine warming with a cloud of smoke that clings and separates as it moves.
I hesitate, but he opens the door. “Get in.”
I stare at the floor, try to find a way out of this. He beats me to it. “Sebastian,” he says, angling his body toward me, “why would you do this?”
My hands are shaking. Partly from the cold, partly because of this man I looked up to for so long. “I thought it was a deer, or dog. Not a kid. I’m sorry for—”
He’s shaking his head. “No, I mean, why would you protect Kyle?”
I raise my eyes to his, unsure of what to say. “Why would you think I—”
“Stop,” he interrupts. “I know my son. He’s manipulative like his mother, charming like his old man, and when our backs are turned, reckless.”
“Sir,” I say, “Kyle didn’t—”
“I knew it when they set him free. He did this, not you. My lawyer is working on getting the major charges cleared. Hell, I’d have had you out of here sooner if I’d known they arrested you through the night.”
“I’m not innocent. We were both drinking and smoking and—”
“You were scared of losing your mom,” he says, with a firm hand on my leg. “I’d have wanted to fall into a black hole, too. Who wouldn’t?”
My eyes drop. And it’s now, right now, I see her face again.
“I know you were there, but I also know you weren’t behind the wheel. Kyle thinks he’s invincible. That’s my fault. Let him get away with too much, too long, and now look where we are.”
“Mr. Taylor,” I say.
The sunlight catches on his wedding band, sending a direct gleam onto the dash. It’s a reminder of the line drawn between us.
“After that New Castle dealer called me, said Kyle had been paying him to keep his mouth shut and he wouldn’t do it anymore unless I gave him money, I confronted Kyle, and of course, he denied it, said it was you. He tried to tell me that you and Camilla were still pissed over Linda kicking you out. He actually said you had it in for me, after all these years, and probably went on a joyride to hurt someone the way I’d hurt you. Like payback.”
The words singe my insides. “Kyle said that?”
He’s nodding slowly. “Finally, after cops questioned and released him, he was so damn cocky around the house, I got it out of him that he anonymously called the cops on you. He said it was to protect me and the agency, but I knew it was to protect him from paying for what he’d done. I guess he told them he had proof you’d been breaking into one of my empty houses in the development by the boy’s house. But I knew better.”
I look up at him, afraid of what he’ll say.
“It’s not just that the keys to that Benz are in a locked drawer in my study or that the station was turned to something heavy metal, Kyle’s favorite, but it was something else, something bigger that told me you didn’t do this. You.”
Confused, I’m careful with my words. “I … I don’t understand, sir. I was there. I deserve to be punished for not coming forward. I’m an accomplice.”
A slight smile forms. “Sebastian, I don’t disagree with you. You’re guilty, too. Keeping quiet was wrong. But protecting Kyle was worse. I’m of the mind, like most might be if they actually knew you, that maybe you’ve already suffered more than a kid should. Maybe you’ve already paid for this mistake long before it ever happened.”
I swallow. It hurts.
“I remember when you were little. Kyle blamed you for everything, whether you were there or not. He thought I liked you more. At times, I did. You were grateful, never talked back, and liked hearing about all the ‘boring’ details of my job. You and I have always been more alike than Kyle and I, and it bugs the shit out of him and Linda.”
I open my mouth, but snap it shut quickly, not sure what he’s trying to tell me.
“I went to see your mother last week,” he blurts.
“What?”
“At the time, she was clear and coherent. Honestly, I was surprised she even knew me when I walked through the door, but the nurse said she hadn’t seen her like that in a month, and it wouldn’t last. I had no idea she’d go so soon after, and I’m very sorry. Truly.”
He gives a heavy sigh. “There’s something you should know, Sebastian. I feel I owe it to you.”
He pauses. Please don’t pause.
“I never wanted you to move out. That was all Linda. We fought over it for months.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“No,” he says, firmly, “I do.”
“I tried to make it right and give Camilla things—a place to stay, money, whatever you needed to grow into whatever person you wanted to become.” He pauses again. “She wouldn’t accept it. Refused it all. Didn’t want the trust fund I tried to establish to secure your future, wanted to teach you to work for things. I tried to keep in touch, but she didn’t want to cause more problems in my marriage. She’d probably have kept you away from Kyle if you didn’t go to the same school.”
“She tried.”
“Let me guess—Kyle’s dedicated persistence is the reason it didn’t stick.”
I try not to nod, but it slips.
He clears his throat. “She always put you first, the man in her life. She wanted to teach you right from wrong. And she has, because look at you. I can see how sorry you are over this. Others will, too. I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’ll make sure you have what you need, make sure you graduate, get into whatever college you want. I owe that much to Camilla. This isn’t your cross to bear, Sebastian. It’s Kyle’s.”
We sit for a while. Until the sun is glaring its blinding golden rays onto the dash. I’m acutely aware of how valuable his time is and grateful he carved some of it out just for me. Even more so to hear answers to all the things I never had answers to.
Before we leave, he tells me his attorneys will help clear my name so the accident won’t haunt me wherever I go. I won’t get off entirely; I’m an accessory, however unwilling. But he assures me he—and his lawyers—will not rest until things are set right and Kyle has real consequenc
es to his careless choices. I breathe a long sigh of relief, letting the guilt float away into the wind and hoping that somehow Birdie breathes it in, too.
In the end, he begs me not to worry, instead to take this time to grieve for Ma. And he thanks me for being Kyle’s only friend. I don’t know what to say, so I just nod. Eventually, he shifts his car into gear, and we ride in silence.
A few minutes later, we’re parked in front of my trailer, the same spot where Kyle parks his car. I look up at my crappy shack with regret and hesitation in a way I’ve done so many times before, and yet, not. I now see what Birdie was talking about:
This is my after. And it royally blows.
Mr. Taylor watches intently as I open the door. I look at him one last time, knowing after this I have nothing to go home to. “Thank you,” I tell him. My voice cracks.
He nods, reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crisp white envelope with my name on the front, and offers it to me. “Take care of yourself, Sebastian. I hope this helps you find some peace.” He lingers for just a moment, his smile fading with the sun. “We’ll be in touch.”
I slam the door shut and watch as he pulls away, leaving me here, in literal ruins. My fingers poke inside the envelope to pull out a crumbled piece of paper.
My eyes spring wide. The tall man with eyes like crystal. There really is a letter, just as Birdie said. I smile because Ma wasn’t crazy in the end, and that comforts me.
I choke on the sloppy writing because it feels like her hand was just here; her pen dragging these words out of her fingers not long ago. The paper smells like her perfume. It’s small, folded in half, with the header CLIFTON NURSING AND REHAB CENTER at the top. I close my eyes and see her, hear her, speaking to me.
My dearest Bash,
You don’t yet know how special you are, but I always have. From the moment I first held you, I saw it in your eyes. That spark, that flicker; most people don’t have it. I won’t be there to tell you how proud I am (a ton) or how much I love you (more than a ton), but know I am here, cheering you on from the bluebird sky. My first, only, and one true love, you are so beautiful to me (having a little Joe Cocker never hurt anyone). I have one request and you’ll probably think I’m a buzzkill (or lame or rank, or whatever word you kids use these days): Finish school. Just because you’re grown and I’m not here to force you doesn’t mean you can quit. We may come from drunks and addicts, but we’re hardworking, loyal sons of bitches, and we’re sure as hell not quitters. Never have been, never will be. And when you want to let chemistry, or whatever subject you’re failing, get the best of you, think of me—I fought until the very end (mostly because they wouldn’t give me enough morphine to end it sooner) (kidding) (sort of).
The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash Page 25
