by Karen Cimms
“You are not the boy I married.” The words cut through him, jagged shards of glass spilling out between pitiful sobs. “You’re a monster. You have finally become your father. Get your stuff and get out. If you’re not gone in fifteen minutes, I’m calling the police—and I will press charges.”
Every step she took away was as painful to watch as it must have been for her to take. Before she closed and locked the bedroom door, she faced him one last time.
“I never want to see you again. Ever.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Devin stood on the corner of Leonard and Hudson streets feeling guilty. He’d never really lied to his mother before, at least that he could remember. This was a pretty shitty time to start, too, but he couldn’t help it. After the bullshit his father had pulled after the funeral, he didn’t want to be anywhere near him. At least he’d been able to get out of Uncle Joey’s apartment before he’d woken up.
The city was surprisingly refreshing that morning. That, or getting out from under all the sadness made it seem that way.
A little red car waited at the light. Devin stepped up to the curb and waved. When it pulled alongside him, he climbed in, leaned over, and kissed the driver.
“Want me to drive?”
“I’ve made it this far without getting run off the road by some maniac—might as well go the rest of the way.” She flashed a big smile.
He couldn’t resist, so he kissed her again.
The cabbie behind them laid on the horn.
“I’m going! I’m going!” she shouted, nosing the car out onto Leonard Street. “Good grief. This is a hundred times worse than Pittsburgh traffic any day.”
Danielle Kelly was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen: expressive eyes the color of melted chocolate and a thick mane of chestnut curls framing her heart-shaped face. At just a tad over five feet tall, compared to his six foot five, they made an odd couple, but they’d hit it off immediately. She was not only pretty, she was brilliant, well-informed, and socially conscious, which as far as he was concerned made her even more beautiful.
Watching her white-knuckle the steering wheel of her ridiculously small car, he couldn’t stop grinning.
“What?” She took her eyes off the road for only a second, even though they weren’t even moving.
“Nothing. I’m just glad to see you. I missed you.”
She chanced a quick smile, then returned her focus to the Manhattan traffic.
It had been ten long weeks since they had seen each other, but Devin loved what he was doing. A summer working with kids whose fathers had skipped out long before they were born or were serving time for any number of offenses had shown him he’d found his calling. He couldn’t compare himself to any of those kids even on the tiniest of margins, but he did feel a connection. He knew his own father would eventually come home, but he also knew what it was like to wish for a dad to be sitting in the stands at his baseball games or coaching his soccer team. He also knew what it was to have a father who didn’t know when to say when.
Which reminded him of the bullshit his father had pulled after the funeral.
His guilt over escaping the city early dissolved. He was supposed to be heading for the airport to catch a plane back to Colorado for the last two weeks of his summer break. Danielle’s summer internship with a newspaper in Pennsylvania had just ended. They had originally made plans for her to join him in Colorado, but with him having to return early for the funeral, they instead decided to escape to her family’s weekend place in the Poconos. With her parents in Europe and his in New York, no one would be the wiser.
“I hate saying it,” he said as she edged up Canal Street toward the Holland Tunnel, “but I’m glad to be out of there. I feel bad leaving my mom, but my father’s being a jackass, and I can only take so much.”
It felt good to share his feelings with someone for a change. He never spoke to anyone about his family. Most of his friends were in awe of his father, and whenever they came over, his dad played the humble rock star. Devin had thought he would die the time his father had pulled out a joint and offered to share it with them. That day, he envied each of his friends their dull accountant, truck-driving, factory-working fathers.
Danielle understood him. Talking to her was easy. She didn’t judge.
She gave his hand a quick squeeze before regaining her death grip on the steering wheel. “Was it that bad?”
He shrugged, staring out the window. “Yesterday started out okay, all things considered, but at the luncheon afterward, he started drinking.” He tugged on the shoulder strap. “He actually left the restaurant before it was over. I didn’t see him go, or I’d have gone after him. I don’t know what happened or why he did it. Left my mother there by herself. Even Rhiannon couldn’t come up with an excuse this time—not that she didn’t try.”
“What did your mother do?”
“Nothing. She said he had to see someone, but I know damn well she was just covering for him.” The cramped compartment made it difficult to stretch his legs. He shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. “Sometimes I feel like I’m living in the Valley of the Dolls.”
Danielle groaned. “Did you actually read that?”
He chuckled under his breath. “No, but you know what I mean. Did you?”
“Hardly.”
Maybe he could stick his legs out the window.
He tugged gently on one of her curls, watching as it sprang back when he let go. “You know, if we’re going to keep seeing each other, you’re gonna have to get a bigger car.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
Her mouth quirked up into a smile, and if it wouldn’t have freaked her out, he’d have stolen a quick kiss right then. Screw the traffic.
“In the meantime,” she continued, “we can stop, and you can buy me breakfast and stretch those stilts of yours.”
“That’ll work. For now.”
They stopped at the last diner before the interstate.
Devin carefully unfolded himself from the front seat. “I’m not kidding. I hope we have what it takes to survive a Volkswagen, because I feel like an accordion.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a giant.”
“You can blame my father for that, too.”
“I will.” She gave him a brilliant smile over the roof of her car. “If you ever let me meet him.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Billy stood in the shadows a few hundred feet from the end of his driveway, hands jammed in his back pockets, careful to avoid the pool of light cast by the streetlight. It was unlikely anyone would drive by, especially at this hour, but there was the possibility that one of his neighbors might get up to take a piss. He didn’t want anyone to see him lurking about.
Although if he were being honest, he had no fucks left to give. All he cared about was numbing the soul-sucking, gut-wrenching pain Kate had left him with. Whiskey wasn’t doing it; it just made him sadder and sick. He didn’t want to feel anything.
Not one damn thing.
If he didn’t do something about it soon, he would lose his fucking mind. Maybe he’d already lost it. He remembered almost nothing of the night of Joey’s funeral. If it wasn’t for the random flashbacks and nightmares, he’d swear it had never happened.
It made no sense. The idea that he was capable of physically hurting Kate was beyond him. It was impossible. Yet he’d done exactly that. And then, as if that weren’t bad enough, he’d opened his big mouth and slit his own throat.
For twenty years, he’d successfully kept Kate from learning what had happened with Christa. He never allowed her to travel with any of the bands he played with, even when other wives and kids came along. On the rare occasions he flew her out to meet him on the road, it was always when he had a couple of days between shows, and they always stayed in a hotel away from the others. He told her he wanted to keep his two lives separate—and that was true, but mostly because he knew not only had Christa blabbed about what had happened to a
nyone who would listen, she’d made it sound like a lot more than giving him head in a back room while he was so blitzed he could barely remember his own name.
And in the end, he had gotten so wasted he’d told Kate himself. It made no fucking sense.
An engine growled from a few blocks away. Moments later, a sleek red Mustang turned the corner onto River Street. The driver killed the headlights as the muscle car rumbled to a stop. Billy emerged from the darkness and waited, pretty sure the passenger was sizing him up from inside the car.
After what seemed like too long, the dark-tinted window slid halfway open. The man looking up at him was right out of central casting—so much the movie version of a drug dealer that Billy wondered if he was being set up.
“Chooch?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
Dick. Chooch, or whatever his name was, looked to be in his mid-twenties. His hair was long and black, and despite it being the middle of the night, he wore dark sunglasses. Thick gold chains dangled around his neck. On his right arm were several poorly executed tattoos. Billy could see nothing of the driver.
“Yes or no, I ain’t got all night.”
“Simmer down.” Chooch flashed him an artificially white smile. “What you got for me?”
“What have you got for me?”
“Exactly what you asked for, man. Two 8-balls. Five caps. I even threw in a couple spikes. Gratis.”
Spikes? He hadn’t planned on shooting up, just snorting. Just something to get him over the hump. He’d done some messing around with needles years ago, but when Kate found out—
Fuck it. What difference did it make now?
“Let me see.”
Chooch held up a magazine. Tucked between the pages were five small bags, each containing a tan powder the consistency of brown sugar, two syringes, plus another small bag with a couple of 8-balls of coke. Satisfied, Billy pulled four hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to Chooch.
The man motioned to the money and laughed. “I don’t think so, rock star. Six bills.”
Billy stared, stony-faced. He was going to kill Eddie. This guy wasn’t supposed to know anything about him, not his name or what he did, which was part of the reason he was taking the risk of meeting him out on the street.
“You said four.”
“That was before. You’re forgetting travel time for me and my girl. One bill each, plus four bills for the smack and the blow.”
He should have expected this. He tugged his wallet from his back pocket and peeled off another two hundred.
“Pleasure doing business with you, rock star.”
Before he could answer, the car peeled away. Billy flipped over the magazine. Even in the dark of the night, he could see it was a copy of Rolling Stone from earlier in the year, the issue that announced he’d been hired to replace Alec Grant in Stonestreet.
So much for keeping a low profile. He rolled the magazine into a tube and slipped it into his back pocket and headed for his empty house.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Since his parents would be in New York till Friday, Devin wasn’t too concerned about driving back to Belleville to hook up with some friends. They decided to meet for dinner at La Cucina in Spring Lake. He just needed to make a quick stop at the house and pick up a jacket and tie, since he’d left his suit in New York with his mother.
And Danielle didn’t know it yet, but he also planned to take his father’s pickup rather than keep squeezing into her tin can of a car any longer than necessary.
“This is a cute little house,” she said as they pulled around back. “I’m kind of surprised it’s so small.”
Devin snorted. “What did you expect? A gated entry with a pool and tennis court?”
Color rose in her cheeks.
“Just kidding,” he said. “To be honest, I wouldn’t like to live that way. I like this house. It’s small, but it’s home. My parents put an addition on about ten years ago, so it’s a lot bigger than it used to be. It’s nice, but my dad . . . He thinks it’s too far from everything and too old. Every time something breaks or the roof leaks, he threatens to sell it. My mom grew up around here and she loves it, so after a while he quits grumbling. He’s gone most of the time anyway. I don’t know why he even cares.”
Devin unfolded himself from Danielle’s car and stretched. “I think you’ll like the inside. My mom’s decorated it in that primitive style like an old farmhouse.”
“Sounds nice,” she said as he unlocked the back door.
Loud music was coming from upstairs.
“Shit,” he grumbled. “I didn’t think they’d be home until Friday.”
Dishes were piled in the sink. Empty liquor bottles lined the counter. It was obvious his father was home, if not his mother.
“Too late now. They probably heard us drive up.”
But he wasn’t ready for this, for introducing his parents to Danielle. It had nothing to do with her. He just wasn’t ready to share her with his family. At least not yet.
“Dad! I’m home.”
Nothing.
Alice in Chains was pumping through the speakers upstairs.
“Dad?” Devin took the steps two at a time.
He pushed open the door to the music room and found his father slumped on the futon, a belt loosely twisted around his arm and a syringe on the cushion beside him.
“Oh fuck!” He started toward his father, then turned back and yelled down the hall. “Dani! Danielle!”
He was rounding the top of the stairs when her face appeared below.
“Call 911! It’s my dad. I think he OD’d!”
By the time Danielle made the call and raced upstairs, Devin had his father stretched out on the floor. He knelt beside him, trying to resuscitate him, while Layne Staley’s vocals screamed in his ears.
“Could you please turn that off?” he asked between breaths.
“Yeah, of course.” She picked her way over his father’s bare feet.
A Bose stereo system sat on the upper shelf of a large wall unit that lined one side of the room. Danielle struggled to reach it. When she finally flicked the button and the music stopped, the room still hummed.
“The amp,” he said between breaths. “It’s the amp.”
An electric guitar leaned precariously against the futon, plugged into an amplifier in the corner. A tiny red light glowed next to a power button. She pressed the button, and the hum died away. Silence filled the room.
Devin held his ear above his father’s mouth. “I’m not sure, damn it.” He exhaled sharply. “He might be breathing. I’m not sure.”
“You’re doing great.”
He wanted to believe her, but the panic on her face told him she had no clue how he was doing.
He sat back on his heels and tried to fill his lungs. “Where the hell is that ambulance?”
She checked her watch, then tapped the face as if trying to make sure it was still ticking. It wasn’t just him, then. She must have noticed how long the ambulance was taking.
As he crouched over his father again, his eyes passed over the carnage on the end table. Empty glasses and a half-full bottle of whiskey littered the top, along with some glassine bags and a spoon. Considering the belt he’d yanked off his father’s arm and the hypodermic needle lying nearby, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. The only question Devin had was why.
He pressed his fingertips into the space below his father’s jaw. His neck bristled with several days of unshaved whiskers. At least he was still warm. Now if only he could find a pulse.
“It’s weak, but I think I can feel a—I don’t know. Damn it. I’m not sure.” He yanked his hands through his hair and leaned back, linking his fingers together at the back of his neck.
Danielle knelt beside him and placed her fingers in roughly the same spot, then nodded. “I feel it.”
A siren wailed in the distance.
She pushed up off the floor. “I’ll go let them in.”
; Devin took a cleansing breath. “C’mon, Dad. Don’t do this to us. Please.”
He pressed the heel of his hands onto the center of his father’s chest, laced his fingers together, and threw his weight into more chest compressions. Voices floated up the stairs, followed by heavy footsteps. A police officer dropped to his knees beside him, opened the small plastic box he was carrying, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
Devin leaned back onto his heels, surprised. Then he realized it was his father the officer was grumbling at. The policeman tilted his father’s head, checked his airway, then pulled a bag valve mask from the box.
“What happened?” he asked Devin.
Why: That’s the question Devin wanted answered. It was obvious what had happened.
“I don’t know. I came home and found him unconscious on the couch.”
The officer’s eyes scanned the room, landing on the items on the table. If Devin had to venture a guess, he’d say it was heroin.
Why?
The officer tipped his father’s head back, raised his chin, and fitted a clear mask over his nose and mouth. He held the mask in place with one hand and began to pump the bag with the other. Devin held his breath as if it might help.
After a couple of minutes, the officer paused, took his father’s pulse, and listened. He shook his head. Everything about his father seemed gray—his skin, the hair on his face, his lips.
Was he already gone? How the hell would he tell his mother? Jesus.
The officer replaced the mask and resumed squeezing the bag. “Breathe, you sonofabitch!”
A second set of sirens filled the air. Danielle disappeared again. Knowing he would only be in the way, Devin moved toward the door as a paramedic came racing up the stairs carrying a large orange box and a portable defibrillator. An oxygen tank was hoisted over her shoulder. Danielle was right behind her.
“Hey, Digger,” the woman said, dropping to her knees. “What’ve we got here?”
The officer glanced up in acknowledgment but kept working the bag. “He was barely breathing when I arrived. His son was doing mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions, but his lips were still blue. His pulse was very weak. He’s got needle marks in his left arm, and judging by the bags on the table”—he angled his head—“it’s heroin.”
