by Cubed, Magen
Chris didn’t realize Norah was on the other side of the door hiding under the peephole. She cursed under her breath, unprepared to deal with this today. Hannah was in the living room watching Saturday morning cartoons with Adam. Introducing her to her wayward bastard of a father wasn’t part of the agenda.
Adam appeared at the doorway, drawn by Norah’s flustered cursing. “What’s wrong?” Norah jumped, caught herself, and settled again with a flap of her hand. “Shh.”
“What? Shh? Who’s out there?” Adam looked out the peephole.
“My ex. Hannah’s father.” She grabbed his shirt to tug him down. “Be quiet. He might hear you.”
“Why are we hiding? Is he looking for you?”
She sighed. “No. Well, I mean, yes.”
“Should... should I hit him? Because I guess I can hit him.”
She closed a hand over her eyes and shook her head. “Look, it’s complicated. He ducked out on us when Hannah was born. Now he wants to meet her.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“Do you still want me to hit him?”
“No. Can you do me a really huge favor, though?”
“Sure.”
“Can you answer the door and pretend to be my boyfriend? Like, just look really imposing and tell him to come back later?”
“What?” Adam nearly blanched. “Why me?”
“Because you’re hot and it’ll make me look good.”
“Make Kyle do it. Kyle’s naturally offensive to most people.”
“Kyle wouldn’t do it. And you’re, you know, all buff and shit. It just looks better if you do it.”
“I’m not comfortable with this, Norah.”
“Adam, I just really can’t deal with him today, okay? He just wants to stir up old crap, make me feel bad so he can weasel his way in.” She grabbed his forearm in an imploring squeeze. “Please?”
After a moment, Adam sighed. “Fine. But you owe me.”
Norah crept out of sight to hide behind the door. Adam took a deep breath, straightened up, and tried to look as big as possible. He opened the door.
“Can I help you?”
Chris took a step back when Adam appeared in the doorway. Adam, who was young, blond, and equipped with a muscular, V-shaped torso that disappeared into a pair of black jeans, was the opposite of Chris. Chris was five-foot nine, 175 pounds, and a recreational jogger who skipped the gym if he could help it. It was for this reason that Chris assumed the worst and measured Adam up accordingly.
“I’m looking for Norah Aroyan,” Chris answered. “Do you live here? I really need to talk to her.”
“Yes, I do.” Social convention brought Adam’s hand out to shake Chris’s despite his uncertainty. “And whom should I say is here?”
“Chris. I’m her ex-husband, Hannah’s father.”
“I see.”
“And you are?”
“Adam.” From behind the door, Norah mouthed, Butch it up. “Her boyfriend.”
Chris’s smile was tight and uncomfortable. “Ah, right. So... is she in?”
“You just missed her. She went out to run some errands.”
“Oh. Will she be back soon?”
“I’m not sure. It’ll probably be a while.”
Adam puffed himself up. After a moment, Chris got the hint. He nodded and stepped off the stoop.
“That’s fine. I understand.”
“I’ll let her know that you came by, okay?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, that’s fine. Thanks, anyway.”
As Chris turned to retreat to his car, Adam closed the door. Norah trudged to the dining room table and sat down to put her face in her hands. He followed and took the seat across from her.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m sorry. That was so lame.” She sat up, pushed her hair back in place, and tried to pull herself together. “Every time I see him, I just see red. I can’t deal with him right now.”
“What happened between you guys?”
She sagged back into her chair. “We were married for six months before I got pregnant. Both of us wanted kids, and we made enough money and had a big enough house for it. Everything was solid, you know? It was perfect. Then, I went in for a sonogram in my second trimester and my doctor noticed that Hannah had a spinal deformity, and Chris...” She shook her head on the end of a dark chuckle. “He couldn’t handle having a baby that wasn’t perfect. I told him to make a choice: either commit to this or get out. So, he got out.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “He was supposed to be the love of my life. Since then, it’s just been me and Hannah.”
“So, what’re you going to do?”
“I have no idea. I mean, he has every legal right to see her, but I never even told Hannah about her dad. Why should I? He checked out and stayed that way for seven years. Now, his new wife is pregnant and he’s feeling guilty, and I just... I don’t know.” She put her head on the table with a defeated sigh. “Why can’t he just stay gone? Why do I have to do this now?”
He came around the table to take the seat beside her and ran a hand down her back. “Okay, so, let’s try to break it down. What’s going to benefit Hannah?”
“It’ll benefit me if I punch him in the face.”
“Not helpful.”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t know Hannah. He doesn’t know anything about her. I mean, Christ, she’s not a toy, or a stand-in kid until he gets the one he wants. He can’t just show up whenever he wants to play and put her back in the closet when he’s done.”
“Then, you need to tell him that. Tell him he can see her, but only if he starts pitching in to help take care of her. She deserves a real dad, not a tourist.”
“But what if he bails? What if this is just practice until his wife has the baby and he dips out on Hannah all over again? I can’t put her through that. She’s already been through so much.”
“We can’t control other people, and we don’t always get what we want, either. Sometimes we just have to know when to accept the things we hate and do what’s best for those we care about.”
“Yeah, says the guy who’s been hiding out from his family.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She looked at him for a moment, then closed a hand over her mouth. “Oh, honey.”
“What?”
“You mean Bridger, don’t you?”
His shoulders drooped as he leaned away. “It’s not what you think.”
“Honey, no, that’s an awful idea. I know you care about him, but he’s a midlife crisis on wheels. You don’t need to be a part of that.”
“I know. It’s just...” He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts despite the heat rising to his face. “You don’t know him like I do. And, look, I know. Okay? I do. He has a wife, and he’ll probably go back to her once all this is over with, but I can’t help it. I know where he’s at, because I’ve been there. And I remember what it’s like to not have anybody when you’re twisted up like that. So, I’m going to be the person he needs until he doesn’t need me anymore.”
She made a pitying sound and patted the back of his hand. “Just don’t get your heart broken, honey.”
After a moment, he offered a smile. “Then, you have to swallow your pride and make peace even if it sucks.”
“Fine. But I’m not going to like it.”
“Me neither.”
III.
The attic made an appropriate perch as Kyle sat on the jutting lip of the windowsill to overlook the city. Beyond the rows of townhouses and family businesses that made up East Essex were the arms of the bridges Pascal and Percy, and the concrete spires of Camden’s business district that overshadowed the Hull, Somerset and Merseyside. The police scanner purred between short bursts of routine chatter about the liquor store robberies and domestic disputes. There was nothing to write home about, nothing worth chasing. He hadn’t heard from Amanda about the case or anyth
ing else in a few days. That may have been a good sign for all intents and purposes. Things were quiet. Quiet wasn’t always a bad thing.
The sudden knock told Kyle he was no longer alone. Looking over his shoulder, he found Bridger at the top of the trap stairs with a bottle of top-shelf bourbon in one hand and a travel chessboard folded in the other. Bridger sloshed the bottle around with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“Knock, knock.”
“Come in.”
Kyle slid off the windowsill to pull out two glasses from the bottom of his desk drawer. Bridger set to rearranging Kyle’s meager furnishings. He stole an end table to set the chessboard on and a few stray pillows from the bed to toss on the floor. As they sat, Kyle set up the board while Bridger played bartender.
“I didn’t know you played,” Kyle said, eyeing his black pieces for an opening move.
“I only have a few hobbies.” Bridger passed Kyle an overfilled glass and licked the bourbon that had spilled from his fingers. “Working twelve-hour days in an office will do that to you.”
“We used to play in prison. My cellmate made the pieces out of soap.”
“Crafty. I started in high school. Obviously, as a waifish math nerd, I picked up chess to score with chicks.”
“Did it work?”
“No. I did get beat up a lot, though. Got really good at kicking guys in the nuts.”
“Admirable.”
Bridger took a drink and moved his pawn to e4. “So, you good with this?”
Kyle put a pawn on e5. “Good with what?”
“This. Us. Our living arrangement.”
Kyle shrugged. “I guess.”
“I know this communal living thing isn’t really your speed. Hell, it’s not even mine, and I grew up in this place.”
Kyle swallowed a warm pull of bourbon and considered his next move. “Why are you here? If you don’t mind the question. You kept talking about dying before.”
“Yeah. Cancer.”
“Terminal?”
“Nope, just a pain in my ass.” Bridger moved another pawn. “I have a tumor in my lung that’s too big to operate on but too small to kill me yet. It might shrink with chemo, they think. I don’t feel like finding out.”
Kyle nodded. “I get that.”
“So, how did you get to the party?” Bridger asked before taking another drink.
“Same as you. Got on the wrong fucking train.”
“Yes, but cops usually find themselves on the opposite side of prison bars if I recall.”
“Ah. That.”
“So, what’s your story? Can I take a guess?”
Kyle took another drink. “Knock yourself out.”
Bridger finished his glass and licked his lips. “You got into the academy right out of high school. Top of your classes. Career overachiever. Not a lot of family to rely on, so you were used to pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. You were aiming for the federal level—organized crime, maybe white collar. High flash. Because you’re a big picture guy, right? Petty crime irritates you. You like to go for bigger fish in deeper waters.”
After a moment, Kyle smirked. “Not bad.”
“Am I close?”
“You’re in the neighborhood. How’d you guess?”
Bridger’s knight captured Kyle’s pawn. Kyle captured Bridger’s knight.
Bridger shrugged. “I have a similar story.”
“Sure, but I’m pretty sure yours was a hell of a lot nicer and whiter than mine. You traded the Camden townhouse and the Wall Street job for this, not the other way around.”
“Hey, pump the brakes, kid. I married into the Camden townhouse to get out of this block, and I earned the Wall Street job because I didn’t take no for an answer.”
“Why did you leave?”
“What, my wife?”
“Your life, the job – all of it.”
After pouring another drink, Bridger capped the bottle. “I used to be good at not feeling anything. Then, one day, I wasn’t. I wasn’t the guy my wife married who could stomp his way to the top of the food chain without batting an eyelash. That wasn’t her fault, so I left.”
“I don’t know if I could do that.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
After a moment, Kyle laughed. “No, I guess not.”
They ran out of words but kept making moves across the board until they drank most of the bottle. The quiet wasn’t always a bad thing, Kyle decided.
IV.
The contents of Clara’s leather-bound journal lay scattered around her bedroom floor. She tore the pages from the worn spine to rest in a vast timeline of her achievements. It had arrived in a package from Santa Monica by way of her mother Doreen. Her mother had little material use for it anymore. Framed articles and award statements interspersed with photos of Clara holding up ribbons and trophies lined the hallways of their home. The pages were just memoirs for Clara to look back on in her own time and appreciate. Their weight held a different meaning for her now. It made her feel comforted, rather than burdened by expectation.
Standing precariously on her bed, Clara strung lengths of twine from all four corners of her room to meet in a crisscross at the center. From the twine, she attached the torn pages by paperclips and pins like flags raised in her honor. They made their constellations of memories and events—a chronology of Clara Reyes from birth to death, regeneration to evolution. Clara Reyes: genius, scientist, the girl who ran, the girl voted most likely to succeed in all things. There, her accomplishments could surround her. Her awards and accolades would feel like souvenirs and keepsakes rather than the horrible reminders she had allowed them to become.
At the center of her web, she fixed a photo of her father, Lawrence. It was taken at Christmas when Clara was three, long before the accident took him and left her mother alone. He was so strong then—so full of life. Lawrence was big man with sturdy arms and a loving, infectious smile who held his daughter close and would let her sleep on his chest where she could hear his heartbeat. Her mother always said that Clara inherited her smile from her father and just forgot how to use it somewhere along the way. Sitting on her bed to admire her good work, she tried to remember that smile. She tried to remember him as he was before he died and she started running so that she would never again forget.
V.
It was 6:15 in East Essex and the house on Chelsea Street was full of life. Dinner was cooking on the stove and Hannah was in the backyard chasing insects as quickly as her braced legs could manage. Clara and Adam were in the kitchen chopping vegetables to the murmuring radio on the countertop while Norah set the table in the adjoining dining room. Bridger and Kyle were upstairs playing chess and slowly getting drunk; their voices drifted downstairs and vanished into whispers like the secret laughter of schoolboys.
By 7:00, Norah called Hannah in to wash up. Clara and Adam placed the pasta, vegetables, bread and salad in the center of Norah’s set table. (She’d completed it with the floral tablecloth her mother had given her. She’d never had a use for it before.) It was Adam who called Bridger downstairs. Kyle followed after with the bottle of bourbon and found the chair left for him at the table. They forgot the radio as they sat down like the do-it-yourself family they had become: crowded around the table to pass dishes and plates, share food, and fill glasses. They talked and laughed in ways none among them had in months. They had each become accustomed to varying manners of private suffering and public tragedy. For one night, it seemed, all of that was left to sleep outside the door.
The radio burped and buzzed in the kitchen, left to its own devices. They didn’t hear the sharp cut of breaking news between headlines. A bomb went off at the regional headquarters of IGC Insurance in Camden: eighty-seven dead, fifty-three wounded by shrapnel on the street outside.
Chapter Eighteen
I.
Kyle hadn’t seen the improvised shank pressed to the inside of the other man’s palm. It was a filed-down toothbrush hidden behind gnarled, dirt-rimmed fingers. He didn’t
notice the way the other man shifted and twitched in the line, his head bobbing back and forth among the crowd shuffling through the chow hall. If Kyle had noticed, he would have done a better job of evading the sudden, lunging strike, or would have wriggled free of the arms that snapped out to hold him in place. Food scattered across the floor as trays were tossed in the ensuing skirmish. The crowd of men parted around Kyle and his attackers as they looked the other way, stepped aside, and ignored the inevitable.
Had he been more aware, he would have dodged the initial thrust of the sharpened plastic between his ribs. The other man’s spit sprayed him from his grunts and growls. If he had been smart, none of this would have happened. The kick Kyle landed on his attacker’s arm deflected the second jab, knocking him off-balance and opening him up to a head-butt that followed. Kyle hadn’t seen the other man before, some meth-scarred blonde with crooked teeth and a twitchy eye.
It hadn’t really mattered who the attacker was as the brawl came to a halt. Within moments, they each found themselves crushed under the weight of batons and boot heels as guards flooded the chow hall. The rest of the inmates dropped to the floor and put their hands on their heads before Kyle could react. The pain slowed his responses, and his head spun from the blow. Still, he went for another kick at the guy’s stomach—and found a fist in the meat of his cheek. A guard grabbed him by the neck with a thick paw of a hand and forced him to the ground.
The guard dragged him down the corridor to the infirmary for a cursory examination. The nurse on duty checked him over to see which blood was his and which was his attacker’s. She found Kyle no worse for the wear than the reedy meth head wailing in the next cot. Afterwards, they hauled him into Counselor Jeanette Lourdes’s office and forced him into the desk chair opposite hers. Looking him over, Lourdes sighed.
“So, that’s it?”
He swiped at his nose to check for the blood he could still smell on his prison scrubs. “Give or take.”
