Pull

by Claire Wallis

  At nine o’clock, I work up the nerve to stand. My dad and Ellie are involved in something disgusting on their half of the couch, so I’m hoping they won’t even notice me leave the room. I start walking toward my bedroom when I hear Ellie yelp a little as my father says my name. His voice is sharp and strong. I turn around and see that Ellie is now half sitting on the edge of the couch, as if my father dumped her off his lap in a hurry. She looks a little surprised. He’s walking toward me, just four or five steps away. I start walking backward because when he gets close enough, I see the belligerence twisting his face.

  “Where are you going?” He’s only two steps from my face, and I see his hand squeeze into a fist. “Don’t be rude and leave our guest. It’s Christmas Eve. We haven’t even eaten yet.”

  “It’s okay,” Ellie says from behind him. “He doesn’t have to stay out here because of me.” Her words are slurred, and when she steps up next to my father and wraps her hand around his fist, I notice that her eyes are floating around in their sockets like ice cubes in a glass.

  “Yes he does,” my father says, keeping his eyes on mine.

  “I was just going to the bathroom,” I lie, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll be right back.”

  “See Ellie?” My father turns toward her, his face splitting open into a big, fake smile. “See? I told you he’s an ungrateful little brat.”

  Ellie looks even more surprised than before. “Come on, Shep, let him go to the bathroom. Let’s go back and sit down,” she says, trying to brush off his words with a little laugh. I don’t move a muscle.

  “Fine. Go to the bathroom. When you come back, you can make us some sandwiches.” He waves his hand at me in dismissal and turns to walk back to the couch with Ellie.

  I go to the bathroom and think about spitting in his sandwich.

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  I wake up on Christmas morning to find Ellie and my dad passed out on the sofa. There are three empty bottles of whiskey on the coffee table, her red blouse is missing, and her shoes are sitting on top of the bookshelf. I pour myself a bowl of cereal and eat it in my bedroom. When I’m finished eating, I get dressed and put on my coat and boots. I walk out the front door to go find myself a Christmas tree.

  Chapter 25

  David—Present Day

  I’m not gonna make it. Emma is standing on the street corner in front of her office building right now in her high heels and business skirt, looking up and down the street. She’s waiting for me. But I’m not coming. I’m not coming because I’m lying on my side on the floor of Ray’s place trying to hold still. Trying not to breathe. Even if I could move, I wouldn’t be able to call her. My phone is way out in the hallway. Smashed.

  This is exactly how it was supposed to happen. Well, except for the fact that I should already be gone. Right now, I should be opening Emma’s car door and watching her legs, those legs, slip inside. But I’m not there because Franklin’s still here, wasting too much damn time. He’s walking back and forth, pacing the room with long, drug-fueled strides, thinking his own thoughts. Thinking about what the hell he’s going to do next. Thinking about how long it’ll take him to reach the border and disappear into nothingness. I’m on the floor pretending to be unconscious.

  I’ve never seen Ray’s place from this angle, and when I finally hear Franklin’s footsteps leave the room, I crack open my eyes. The carpet is gray and industrial, its loops tight and puckered in front of my half-open eyes. I try to focus on the threads and block out the pounding in my head. It smells sour. Like someone spilled a White Russian here weeks ago and never bothered to wipe it up. My gut rises as my eyes look upward and see a puddle of blood seeped into the carpet just above my head. If I lift my head, I know there will be more.

  Blood is a strange thing, especially when you’re so close to this much of it. As I look at the puddle, only inches from my face, I realize it’s darker than I thought it would be, and though I don’t know exactly how long I’ve been lying here, it can’t be much longer than twenty or thirty minutes. The margins of the puddle have already congealed, making it look more like dark jelly than blood. The liquid that hasn’t soaked into the stubby carpet fibers has settled on the top, looking wobbly and thick. Part of me wants to touch it to see if it’s still warm. The other part of me wants to puke.

  But I manage to keep my hands, and my lunch, to myself because it isn’t my blood. It’s Ray’s. He’s behind me, lying on the same foul-smelling carpet, only he’s the one who soaked it with crimson. Unlike me, his eyes aren’t half-open. He isn’t breathing. He isn’t moving. I heard his body hit the floor soon after my own. And shortly after that, I heard the sick gurgle of his last breath. It was followed by a “fuck you” as Franklin kicked Ray’s lifeless body just for his own confirmation.

  I was the whipping boy, but Ray was the target. And I was the one that made it so. Because this is how far I’m willing to go to protect her.

  It was easy, really. I left Franklin’s and took my time driving over to Ray’s place. I called him on the way. I started our conversation by telling Ray I decided that maybe he did deserve the ninety percent we talked about the other night. He said it was a very smart choice. I agreed, of course. Then I proceeded to tell him a different story than the one I’d told Franklin. I told Ray that Franklin had Nikki—and my money—and that he had no intention of giving either one of them up. Then I told Ray we needed to do something about it. Together. I told him we had to teach Franklin and Nikki a lesson. Ray needed his best girl back in the saddle now, and I needed the eighteen-hundred dollars she supposedly stole from me. And, most important, Franklin needed to know that Ray is not interested in his bullshit.

  Ray was breathing fire into the phone as he listened to my words. Then his mouth started spewing out words of its own. Words about Franklin and “that fucking whore.” Words fueled by anger and adrenaline. And my lies. He was fucking pissed. I told him I was on my way to his place so we could come up with a plan, but I knew he wouldn’t wait. I knew he’d call Franklin before I even got there. And I was right. That’s exactly what he did. Fools like Ray are predictable. One look at those gold teeth and you know it’s the truth.

  When I’m absolutely certain that Franklin is gone, I lift my head from the carpet and sit up. My left eye is starting to swell shut, and my skull rages with a dull pain. I sit cross-legged on the floor and raise my hand to my mouth. When I pull it away, my fingers are tipped with red. All my teeth are still there, but my lip is split and slick with blood. So this is what it feels like to be Nikki. This is what it feels like to meet Franklin’s fists. To be someone’s punching bag. No wonder that woman was happy when Brad and Cameron came to get her. No wonder she seemed relieved when I shoved that money in her pocket and told her to get the fuck out of town. And no wonder she was furious about what happened with Ricky. She’s more ballsy than I ever gave her credit for. Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy.

  I raise the collar of my T-shirt up over my chin, using the inside of the fabric to wipe the blood off my face. I lick my bottom lip, feeling the split flesh with my tongue. Emma’s going to flip when she sees me. She’s going to freak the fuck out about this. I’m dreading the conversation already.

  But first, I’ve got to get the hell out of here before somebody sees me. Before one of Ray’s guys shows up to ask him some dumbass question. I stand up, being careful not to step in Ray’s blood. I don’t want to leave any tracks. I didn’t touch anything here, so after I pick up my shattered phone, there will be no trace of me. Nothing to tell anyone I was even here in the first place. There’s nothing of Franklin’s here either, except for the bullet in Ray’s chest. And that will never lead them to Franklin. Untraceable, stolen weapons are the norm in Franklin’s world, and even though he’s no college professor, I know he was smart enough to use one.

  Ray was a pimp and a drug dealer. And Franklin is probably packing for Mexico. This was a favor to society. Not just to me. And, trut
h be told, none of it matters anyway. Because Ray’s boys will find Franklin long before the police do.

  I walk quickly out the door, heading down the hall and bending to collect my phone. When I pick it up, I notice that the screen is cracked into a spider web of fissures. Soon after he got here and started throwing his goddamned tantrum, Franklin grabbed the phone out of my hand and threw the damn thing right out the door. It hit the wall before clattering across the floor tiles and settling a few feet away. It happened right before his fist met my face for the first time. I let him land four solid hits. Then I fell to the floor, closed my eyes, and listened to him end Ray. My phone is totally ruined. Permanently unusable. It was worth it, though. Completely.

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  I start the engine and pull out onto Winston Street. The clock in my car says it’s 6:45. Forty-five minutes after I was supposed to pick Emma up. I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder how many times she’s tried to call. How many text messages she’s sent. She’s probably sitting on the bus right now, her fingers pressing into the keypad, her mind pondering all the places I could be.

  I have no way to reach her because I don’t remember her number, only my broken phone does. An idea pops into my head, and I pull over and walk into JC’s Pizza. The squirrelly guy behind the counter looks at me like I walked straight out of an episode of The Walking Dead. My eye is starting to swell shut and the blood on my lip has dried to a hard crust. He sheepishly offers me a bag of ice, but I say no thanks and tell him I just need to use their phone. He puts it up on the counter and motions his approval; then he walks to the shelving unit at the back of the store. Though he’s trying to be covert, he’s definitely watching me to make sure I don’t steal anything. But I’m completely focused on the phone, and when I pick it up and dial, I see his shoulders relax a little. I call information and get the number of the lawn service company Brad works for. Their voicemail gives me Brad’s home number as an alternative for immediate assistance. I write the number down on a receipt I find on the counter.

  A minute later Brad’s voice crackles through the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s David.”

  “Yo, man. Why are you calling me from JC’s Pizza?”

  “Because my phone is broken. Long story. Listen, I need some help,” I say as quickly as possible. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

  “I was supposed to pick Emma up at work, but I didn’t make it, and I don’t know her cell number because it’s in my phone. Think you could run over to her place and tell her I’m alright? She should be getting off the bus in like five minutes.” I hate that I’m asking him to do this. I hate giving him the opportunity to talk to her without me around, but he is thirty minutes closer to her than I am, and I don’t want her to have to worry any more than she already has.

  “Sure. I can be over there in like five. Everything okay? I mean, what do you want me to say to her?” His voice is cautious, suspicious even. He knows I’m never late. He knows there’s no way in hell I’m doing this without a damn good reason. He knows something big must have happened.

  I picture Emma’s face in front of him as he tells her I’m alright. She’s going to ask him questions. She’s going to want to know why I called him and not her. Why is my phone broken? Why did I call from a pizza place clear on the other side of town? I’m sure Brad is wondering the exact same things. Then, when they both see me, they’re going to want to know why my face is a complete wreck.

  I need to clean up somewhere first. I need to wash my face and ice my eye before I see them. And I need to change my bloody shirt.

  “You know what,” I say to Brad, “would you be willing to take her over to Cameron’s house? I can meet you guys there.” I’ll beat them to Cameron’s by a good ten, fifteen minutes. I can clean up there. And borrow a clean shirt from Cam’s closet.

  “Okay. But what do you want me to tell her?”

  “Just tell her I’ll explain everything when you guys get there. And that I’m really sorry.”

  “Alright, man. We’ll see you there. But you owe me a case for this.”

  “Okay,” I say, “no problem.”

  I hang up the phone and tell the squirrelly pizza guy I changed my mind about wanting that bag of ice.

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  Cameron isn’t home. None of the guys are. They’re probably at the bar on Beacon Street getting ripped. It’s a Friday night, after all.

  The house is open. It’s always open, and I let myself in without thinking twice. I haven’t been here since the night I took Emma to poker with me and she ended up getting smashed out of her mind. It was the night we confirmed her girlfriend status on their living room floor. The night I lifted her leg up on to this couch and put my mouth on her. The memory sends a bolt of contentment through me. I swallow hard and start walking down the hallway to go clean myself up.

  There is man-shit everywhere, just like always. Empties, shoes, electronics, dirty dishes, clothes, tools, magazines. Hell, at least they’re consistent.

  I grab a fresh hoodie from Cameron’s closet, thankful he’s got something clean and relatively wrinkle free. In the bathroom, I wash the crusted blood from my face, trying hard not to break open the fresh scab. I find some salve in the medicine cabinet and dab it on my lip, hoping to keep it from crusting up again. Actually, my eye doesn’t look half bad. The pizza guy’s ice pack kept the swelling down better than I thought it would. It’s a little red, but there’s no purple there. Not yet anyway. I comb through my hair with my fingers and double check myself in the mirror to be sure I haven’t missed anything. They’ll be able to tell someone landed a couple of hits, but it doesn’t look as bad as it should.

  When I get back out to the kitchen, I check the time on the microwave. I still have fifteen minutes until they get here. Perfect. I lift the landline off the wall and dial my own cell number. It sends me straight to voicemail. There are nine messages. I press “1” to listen.

  “Hey David. It’s Emma. I’m on the corner. Waiting for you. Call me and tell me where you are. I don’t see your car. Okay, bye.”

  “Hey. It’s Emma again. Can you just text me and let me know if you forgot or something? I’m not mad or anything, I just want to know if I should take the bus.”

  “David, where are you? Call me back. If I don’t hear back from you, I’m going to hop on a bus.”

  “Okay, now I’m worried. Not sure what’s up, but I’m a little freaked out. Can you call or text me please? Just let me know where you are. I’m getting on the next bus if you aren’t here in five minutes. Okay, bye.”

  “It’s me again. I’m in Matt’s car. He’s driving me home. I sent a couple of texts, too. I don’t know, maybe you lost your phone or something. Whatever. Anyway, I’ll be home soon. Hopefully everything is alright. Bye.”

  “David, you are totally freaking me out. We’re on the freeway on our way home. Can you call me? Or Matt? Just…please? Just let me know you’re okay. I don’t know, maybe you fell asleep or something. I’ll come up to your place as soon as we get back. Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

  “What the fuck is going on, David? I’m freaked-the-fuck-out, and I need to hear from you right now. We’re almost home. I just texted you again. That’s seven texts with no reply. What is going on? Where are you? Bye. I love you. Bye.”

  “We just pulled onto Harborough Street and I swear to God if you aren’t home and I don’t hear from you soon, I’m gonna lose my shit. Matt’s taking me inside to make sure things are cool. Okay? We’re on our way in right now. Jesus, David. What is going on?”

  As I listen to the progression of Emma’s messages, I hear the panic unfold in her voice, and it bathes me with disgust. It makes me want to drop to my knees at her feet and apologize for making her worry. A familiar metallic taste fills my mouth as her words roll out of the phone. I hate hearing her slow
loss of control. I hate knowing her distress was so real and yet so unnecessary. I hate knowing that Matt was there to help steady her and I wasn’t. And I hate having been the cause of all of it. But most of all, I hate Franklin for taking so goddamned long to leave the fucking building. If he’d left right after, I would have made it in time. And I’d be telling her what happened to my face on our way home, instead of in this shitty house.

  It was all just a glitch, I tell myself in an attempt to rid my mouth of the taste of self-loathing. In the end, I got what I wanted. And despite Emma’s very real panic, isn’t that what matters the most? A bigger risk was eliminated, and Ray will never be able to lay so much as a finger on Emma. Nor will he ever find out what I did for Nikki. Neither of them will ever matter again.

  When Emma’s eighth message ends, the mechanical voice announces the start of the final message. It was left ten minutes ago. Right on time.

  “Yo. It’s Xavier. Ray’s Xavier. Fuckin’ hell. Do you know what the fuck is going on? I’m gonna find out who’s ass to beat over this. There’s gonna be hell to pay. Call 230-693-4235.”

  I listen to Xavier’s message again, and this time I copy down the number. As I’m writing, I’m smiling, knowing that Franklin Jones will end long before he makes it to the border.

  Without hesitating, I dial Xavier’s number. He answers on the second ring.

  “Who the fuck is this?” His voice is seething with anger, filling my ears with both acridity and a strange, rippling satisfaction.

  “It’s David.”

  “David. Shit, man. What the fuck is going on? Ray is dead. Someone shot him in the fucking chest.”

  “No way,” I say with coolness.