“S’okay, Mum,” he said. “I use him when I have nightmares.”
(why don’t you ever tell me these things?)
Her mother’s voice:
(why should he?)
“He must work, then,” she said, squeezing the dog to her lap. “Good night, hon.”
“Night, Mum,” he said and left her bedroom. A part of her expected him to look over his shoulder, perhaps with that unreadable expression, but he didn’t.
She listened to his bed creak faintly as he climbed back in, the rustle of bedclothes being straightened. She set his dog on the other side of the bed and slid further under the sheets herself.
(now i won’t sleep now it’ll be like any other time)
But she was already drifting off as she thought this. Within five minutes, she was out, arm loosely curled around Kevin’s dog.
Karen had her hand draped over the steering wheel, her arm—covered by the sleeve of her light jacket—a barrier between her and Kevin.
“Ready for school?” she asked.
Kevin nodded, watching the street corner through the windshield. The bags under his eyes weren’t any larger, were they? When she’d gotten up this morning, he’d been asleep, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d been asleep the entire time.
(while i slept like a babe in arms)
(what kind of mother are you?)
She followed his gaze. A handful of kids, all varying heights and sizes, shuffled around on the corner. The matronly crossing guard kept an eagle-eye on the traffic.
“Are you liking second grade?” she asked. Loathing filled her mid-section, this need to try conversational gambits with her son.
(he just never talks)
(well whose fault is that?)
“Sure,” Kevin said, and then had to stifle a yawn. Then he sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing on something outside. She glanced through the windshield again.
The Perozzi girls walked down 54th Street, the littlest gamboling, seeming to yank the older two.
Karen looked at Kevin. His face hadn’t changed, but he held his backpack in his lap and his left hand worried the zipper to the main pocket.
“Is there anything wrong at school?” she asked.
He didn’t stiffen, but his body shifted in some way, reared up and away from her. Outside, the crossing guard stopped traffic to let the Perozzis cross.
“Because you can tell me, hon,” she said. “If a class is hard, or a teacher is mean, or …” She tried to stop herself from licking her lips, failed. “… or kids are teasing you, you can tell me those things. Even if it hurts.”
He offered her a quick side-eye. “No, Mum.”
(no to what?)
“It’s good to talk, honey,” she said, and caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of her eye. Dammit, dammit, dammit. “If you’re in pain, you shouldn’t hide that. It makes it hurt more.”
(oh you’re one to talk)
Another bit of side-eye. “Bus is coming, Mum.”
She looked as the school bus shuddered to a stop at the corner. The kids, with the Perozzis in the middle and watching the ground, lined up in front of the doors.
“So it is,” she sighed.
Kevin unbuckled his seatbelt, threading it slowly back to its holder without taking his eyes off the bus.
“Want me to walk over with you?” she asked, watching him watch the kids get on the bus.
He shot her a look that made her recoil—not embarrassment, or anger, but fear. Horror. And then his face tightened again, so fast a part of her wanted to imagine it’d all been in her head.
(what’s he scared of?)
“No, Mum,” he said. “It’s fine.” He leaned across the console and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
Instinct made her want to grab him, hold him until he told her what was going on—she could drive him to his goddamn school—but she kept her hands in her lap. “Okay, honey. Be good.”
He reached the door handle. “I will.”
“I’ll be here when you get off.”
“Uh-huh.” Door open and shut, and then he was racing up to the corner, last in line. She watched him climb on, seemingly so small in front of those large steps, and then the doors closed. She saw the silhouette of his head, leaning up and around, as if trying to see something beyond the line of kids taking their seats, and then ducking into a seat near the front and crunching down. Behind the school bus window, he looked paler than ever.
(what’s wrong with you?)
She didn’t know if she was thinking about him or herself.
The bus rumbled through the intersection, and she let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding.
“Shit,” she said.
She took off her jacket when she got out of her car. Now that she was alone, it wasn’t like she had to hide the cuts, anymore.
She started up the steps. The downstairs apartment was empty at the moment—it was one of the reasons Mr. Vucella had been graceful about late rents—and her footfalls echoed. They kept time with her thoughts, which warred with each other.
(what’s wrong with you, kiddo?)
(why would he talk to you about it?)
(what’s with those girls?)
(he looks ill)
(are they bullying you? why won’t you tell me?)
(you’re making him that way why would he tell you anything?)
(Mum what happened to your arm?)
The top of the stairs outside of her apartment was pitch-black and she felt through her keyring and unlocked the door by feel. The apartment had that silence to it that made the inner ear ring.
She dropped her jacket over the back of the loveseat, her keys on the bookcase behind the door.
(yay i only have eight hours of this to contend with and then kevin can be here to not talk to me!)
A weight filled her chest, as if her heart had been replaced with a two-liter of soda; something sticky and heavy and pulling her down. She paused at the end of the loveseat, holding onto the corner, and tried to think of what to do next. There were dishes. There was cleaning. She could make up the beds. But those chores, done over and over and over again on a daily basis over the past year, numbed her.
Her brain refused to leave the image of Kevin in the passenger seat. In her head, though, his eyes had been replaced with the buttons of the stuffed dog he’d given her last night, and they stared vacantly, glassily, at her.
(what happened to your arm?)
(no mum it’s fine)
The phone rang and she jumped, a surprised “Oh!” escaping before she could stop herself. The phone rang again and she walked into the kitchen. She reached for the phone, and then stopped. What if it was Mister Alan Ladd, wanting to discuss the “custody situation” of Kevin?
(oh knock it off)
She’d never called Ladd back, didn’t even remember the number he’d rattled off in that greasy, patronizing voice of his. Nick had said they’d talk when cooler heads had prevailed … and that had been two weeks ago.
(because he dropped it)
Why would he?
The phone rang a third time: hey, lady, you gonna answer or what?
The answer machine would click on with four rings. One more to go and then she wouldn’t have to hear that man’s voice, listen to what that man said.
(no you’ll get another insulting voice message and have nick look at you like a goddamned dutch uncle on friday night)
The phone started to ring for a fourth time and she snatched it up. “Hello?” she said.
“Ms. Dempsey?” the young male voice said. “This is Patrick from Tri-State Temp. Is this a good time?”
“Of course,” she said. “I just came back from taking my son to the bus stop.”
“Uh-huh.” Don’t care! his tone trumpeted, and her dislike came roaring back. “Well, enjoy doing that for the next couple of days, because it’s going to end soon.”
“Why’s that?” she asked. She sounded shrill to her
own ears.
A slight pause; she imagined him pulling the phone away from his ear, shooting it a look. “Because you’ll be working, Ms. Dempsey. For the foreseeable future.”
“Bainbridge Financial,” Lisa said, chewing on the name. She took a drag of her Salem, blew a streamer of smoke up and away from Karen into the early evening air. “They handle investments, don’t they? Portfolios and shit?”
Karen shrugged. She drummed her hands on her knees. “Don’t know, don’t much give shit. They got me answering phones for a week or two.”
Lisa nodded. They sat on Karen’s porch stoop as the sun slipped behind the houses across the street. An alley ran beside their house, and Kevin sat on the curb, his back to them, playing with his Batman action figures.
She glanced at Karen, who was all-but bouncing on the concrete step, like a kid with a sugar-high. She was still too thin and her coloring was completely fucked … but she was wearing a tee-shirt, her right forearm looking like what a prisoner might do to count his escape attempts, and she wasn’t acting self-conscious about it. Karen’s eyes bounced with the rest of her—looking up the hill, looking down the hill, watching the houses across the street.
“So you’ll be back downtown for two weeks, at least,” Lisa said, and ground her cigarette out on the concrete between her heels—she’d come over directly after work. “What happens after?”
“Another reception gig,” Karen said. “Ryall Construction over on lower 50th Street. Shit, I can come home for lunch, if I want to.”
“Hell, go to my house,” Lisa said. “Feed my cat. That’s only a few blocks from me.”
“I know!” Karen said. Her eyes sparkled. On her too-thin face with her too-dark sockets, they made her look unhinged. “My agent says they tend to hire full-time from the temp pool quite often.”
“A lot of places do—saves HR from going off and having cattle-call openings. The temp agencies do it for you.” She pulled another Salem from her purse and lit it with a disposable lighter. There was already a bed of coals along the back of her throat—it typically took her all evening to go through four smokes, but she’d only been at Karen’s for thirty minutes. “When are you going to tell Nick?”
“I’ll let Kevin tell him,” she said. “They talk on Wednesday nights—just a check-in—and by then I’ll already have gone over the after-school routine with him: what route to go home by, when to call, all that. It’ll give him something to talk about. Kiddo always seems at a loss of what to say to his dad over the phone. I don’t know why Nick insists on it, but he does, and Kevin always tries to maintain a good conversation, but how much goes on between the Sunday he last saw you and Wednesday, y’know?” She shrugged. “Besides, it might table the whole custody-discussion for good.”
Lisa studied her for a moment. You’re more concerned that your son has something to talk about with his father than the fact that you’re using him as a bit in some parental politics, she thought, but didn’t say. Smooth.
She glanced over at Kevin, who was still playing—how much was he listening? “That’s good. I think.”
Karen took a deep breath, let it out. “I feel good, Lisa. Like, really good.” She grinned and it pulled her pale face all out of shape, but it was genuine and toothy. “I was scared. It was getting bad. Getting dark. And then when Nick sicced that lawyer on me … I mean, you have no idea, hon.”
“How you holding up?”
“Better. Slept straight through last night. First time in forever.” Karen took a breath. “It’s all turning around. Finally.”
Lisa breathed smoke. “Glad you think so.”
Karen turned towards her and Lisa had to keep from recoiling. Karen had stopped bouncing and seemed—
(wraith-like)
—like a statue on the concrete step. Her face was empty of all emotion, like she was trying to ape her son’s restraint and could only manage slack deadness.
“There’s no other choice,” Karen said. “But all evidence is pointing that way. I’m feeling better—”
Even if you don’t look it, Lisa’s head interjected, and then felt guilty for thinking it.
“—I’m working again,” Karen went on, “and Kevin …” She looked over at her son, then shook her head. “It’s me and him, Lisa. We’re a unit. We’re together.” She blinked again and, Jesus, Lisa realized that Karen’s eyes were wet. “I’d do anything for that boy.”
“Everyone knows that, Karie,” Lisa said, but had to look away, couldn’t stand that expression—dead but tearful—any longer.
She looked at Kevin.
He still held his action figures, but wasn’t doing anything with them any longer. Just holding them.
“Everyone knows that,” Lisa repeated.
The sun had died and Lisa sat in her car, letting it run. She glanced at Karen’s house. The second floor windows were lit—the kitchen. Karen was making dinner.
(that face)
Lisa’s mind shied away from it. Karen had seemed stronger than she had in forever, but she’d reminded Lisa of pictures of Holocaust survivors she’d seen, scores of emaciated figures walking out of the death camps, beatific in their joy while looking like candidates to be the new Lord of Death.
(i’d do anything for that boy)
(everyone knows that karie)
What I know is you need some fucking therapy, Lisa thought now, and shook her head. Undoubtedly true but no less horrible. Karen needed a friend, not someone picking apart her progress.
All this just from no longer cutting, though?
She shook her head. She didn’t pretend to understand; she’d barely passed her intro to psych course at the community college. Maybe that had been what Karen needed. A little shake up. A little rattle of the cage. Still, what should’ve been a relief to Lisa—to see her formerly strong friend becoming strong again—had only made her more uneasy. Like she wasn’t seeing the whole picture.
“Enough analysis,” she muttered, shifting the Toyota into Drive. “Momma needs a glass of wine.”
Big words, but, try as she might, Karen’s dead, tearful face, kept intruding into the front of her mind.
“Kevin tells me you’re working,” Nick said, after Kevin climbed into the car. He leaned against the side, arms crossed.
“Started today,” she said.
“How long?” Nick asked. “This is through the temp-agency?”
“Two weeks at this position, then an ongoing position at a company a few blocks from here which has a history of hiring its temps full-time.” She paused deliberately. “I have the phone numbers, if you need them.”
Nick looked away, chewed his lip. Karen glanced at Kevin, who watched the two of them from the window. She promised herself he wouldn’t see a replay of two weeks ago.
“How stable can that be?” Nick asked finally. He looked back at her. “I mean, it’s just temping.”
She refused to allow her muscles to tighten, her lower stomach to lock with anxiety. “Stable enough.”
“And what’s Kevin doing after school? It’s not like you can pick him up, anymore.”
“He comes straight home and calls me,” she said.
“An eight-year-old boy,” Nick said. “Home. Alone.”
(worked for macauley culkin)
“It’s tough for single mothers,” Karen said. “But it worked wonderfully today.”
“In such a wonderful neighborhood.”
“We lived in worse after you left.”
“He’s too young. When you used to work—”
“I could afford a babysitter,” Karen said. “True. In this neighborhood, by the way.”
He frowned. “Are you going to keep jabbing me like this?”
She met his eyes. “I don’t know. Are you going to keep being so passive-aggressive? Why don’t you tell me what you really want to know.”
He set his jaw. “I just don’t like this. It’s not safe.”
“That,” she said, “didn’t bother you before. We have a system. Kevi
n knows not to dawdle, not to answer the door. Anyone tries to talk to him, he runs.”
“I don’t like it.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I only want what’s best for him. This—” He gestured vaguely. “This is thin. Running? Not answering the door? What if some goon just grabs him from behind and takes off? What could he do? How would you even know before it’s way too late?”
“Hey—welcoming to the fears of parenting, glad you could join us.” She shook her head. “Listen, this is not the ideal situation. On the upside, I’m working, it’s steady, and this system’s only for two weeks. Then I’m here, in the neighborhood, where I could switch my lunch around to pick him up, if I so desired.”
“With temping,” Nick said.
“And we’ve come full circle.”
He exhaled dramatically. “You might think about all this, though. Living with me, it’s quiet. Suburbs. There are after-school leagues and clubs. We looked into it. He—”
“—wouldn’t see you until six or seven because you live an hour from work,” Karen said. “Didja notice the four-hour lapse between the end of school and when he’d see his parent?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “He’d be supervised, at least.”
“And far from home.”
Nick flapped his hands, giving up. “Just think, though—he might actually be better with us. Better schools, better attention, better chance. And, you—you wouldn’t have to worry about making sure there’s enough in the checking account so that you can have food in the house, wouldn’t have to worry about unemployment running out.”
“I’m so glad you’re thinking of my well-being, Nick,” she said, and no more. A scream built up in the back of her throat, like thunderclouds on the horizon.
Nick looked at her for a five-count, then shoved himself off the side of car—
(careful—you might dull that toy of yours)
—and went around to the driver side.
“See you Sunday,” he said, his words slightly muffled because he said them through gritted teeth.
Bones are Made to be Broken Page 29
