by Anna Shinoda
“All this junk,” she whispers. “My father used every little thing until it rotted or rusted . . . and even then he wouldn’t get rid of it, because he saw promise in turning it into something else.” Her tiny flame bursts across the newspaper, to a plank of wood, quickly taking over the whole pile.
A pair of hands rests on my shoulders. Luke’s hands.
Mom silently looks at him, her jaw set, her eyes dull with exhaustion.
“Ma, Squeaks. Granny and me just finished making dinner. Come inside and eat. I’ll watch the fire.”
Mom simply nods and heads for the back door, her footsteps slow and steady.
“Luke, can we talk?” I want an explanation. An excuse.
“What about, Squeaks?” What about? Like he doesn’t know.
“We were all worried about you this morning,” I start.
“Oh, yeah. That. Sorry. I got carried away last night. I was in the store and ran into one of the guys from the bar and he invited me out to party. I just lost track, that’s all.” Luke wraps his arm around me and constricts. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But I can’t help it. The way you were sleeping, like you wouldn’t wake up.” My mind imagines drug-induced comas. Him vomiting in his sleep and choking on it.
“I’m fine, Clare. Don’t worry about me.” He folds his arms over his chest.
“But I do.”
“Don’t.” His voice is suddenly edgy.
“Hey, you know, maybe you should stay with us tonight. Not go out and see your friends.” A suggestion. Just a suggestion.
“Maybe you should leave me alone.” He turns and lights a cigarette, drawing in a deep breath, letting the smoke out slowly, controlled. His eyes have gone hard. Hard and glassy, bloodshot from the night before.
“I love you,” I say. Please hear me, Luke. Please. Silence.
I leave him alone with the fire.
He’s gone before we finish dinner.
Chapter 34
Compassion Will Cure Him
THEN: Age Fourteen
At the end of my eighth-grade school year, my honors English class took a field trip to see the musical Les Misérables. Selling candy bars gave us each a ticket and the school bus ride down to the theater.
Early in the play—was it the first or second scene?— the main character was released from prison, his sentence for stealing bread so his family could eat. Everyone in the audience felt sorry for him—sorry that his family was starving, sorry that he had to resort to stealing in order to save himself and save his family from famine, sorry that he had to serve a prison sentence. I could feel the audience’s pity. It wasn’t fair. Should stealing bread if your children are starving be considered a crime?
Out of prison he found sanctuary with a clergy member, who took him in, fed and cared for him. In the middle of the night, the main character decided to steal from the kind man. He was caught, but when the police brought him back to the bishop, the bishop not only did not press charges; he gave him the stolen goods, as well as additional items.
From there the main character changed course, became the unlikely hero. Compassion saved him.
I left the play running those scenes over and over in my mind, thinking, Maybe all Luke needs is more compassion. Maybe I can provide the compassion that will cure him.
Chapter 35
Good Things Await in Tennessee?
NOW
Compassion will cure him. That thought rolls over me as I sit in the pew while the priest drones on about the prodigal son and forgiveness. It’s one of Mom’s favorite gospels. Maybe because it justifies all the chances she gives Luke. The parable ends with the welcome home for the son who squandered all of his inheritance. But what I want to know is what happens later. After the feast is over. Does he spend the rest of his life working hard and staying out of trouble? Does his father’s compassion cure him? Or has his father given him his trust only to find that his son can’t change? I look at Luke. He blends right in with the church crowd in his khakis and collared shirt. Looking at him, no one would be able to tell that he’s been out nearly all night almost every night. I don’t know where he goes, and I wish I didn’t care. At least he’s up every morning with the rest of us, ready to work.
I shift uncomfortably. Three more days and we’ll be on our way home. Then what? We’ll just be taking Luke back to Dan.
From the backseat of the truck, I see the barn from a distance. Damn, it looks good. It stands straight and tall, no trash or weeds to obstruct the view, the new coat of paint making it shine in the sun. I know up close how rickety it still is, how it creaks when the wind blows and how none of us dared go into the certain-death hayloft. But now at least someone might be willing to work on it some more. Give it another chance.
For a second I feel happy. Proud of the work that Luke and Mom and I did together—something good. But then Luke says something that rips it all away.
“So hey, Squeaks. I’ve decided to stay in Tennessee.” “What?” He’s not coming home with us? “Why?” “I made some job connections in Chattanooga. This
guy I met has a brother who lives near there, so I’m gonna crash on his couch,” Luke says. “They’re even looking for a welder. And I took those metal classes, so maybe they’ll hire me. I’ll bet there’s some good pay for that too.”
My emotions are splitting in a million different directions. He’s leaving us again? Without us, there will be no one that he needs to check in with. Nothing to keep him from drinking, using, falling deeper into old habits.
Then there’s the other part of me, a selfish part. The part that’s a little relieved. Glad that when we left California, he was still on his best behavior; he hadn’t done anything to start gossip. Or at least, if he had, he hadn’t gotten caught.
“Hey, I’ll be home for Thanksgiving, and Christmas,” Luke says. “And we’ll keep in touch. Don’t worry.”
•••
The next day Mom and I drop Luke off at the bus stop. “I wish Peter and your father were here,” Mom says as
she hugs Luke. “Wish I’d gotten one more family photo
before we left. I guess I just didn’t expect you to end up
staying here.”
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he says. Then, “I
love you guys.” Luke hugs the breath out of me. “I’ll be
good. I promise. I’ll write or call once I get settled.” I hold him as tight as I can for as long as I can, trying
to let every sense take in Luke—how his arms feel around
my back, his smell, the sound of his voice, the way his
eyes are glowing with hope. I hold back a sob and convince myself this is not the last time I’ll be seeing him. “Hey, Squeaks, don’t cry,” Luke says as he lets me go.
“Thanksgiving. I promise.”
Chapter 36
Luxury
THEN: Age Fourteen
When I was fourteen, the women’s council decided to do family photos for the church directory after Christmas mass, the theory being that it would be a great success, since almost everyone had attended service that morning, looking so nice in their holiday best.
Mom, Dad, Peter, and I waited in a long line out the front of the church door in the freezing cold while a photographer arranged each family in front of the poinsettias around the alter. “Okay, line up. Look toward me. Smile. One. Two. Three. And thank you. Next.”
The Jordan family was in front of us, complete with both sets of Mandy’s grandparents, visiting from New York and Florida.
“Isn’t it wonderful to have the whole family together for Christmas?” Lucille gushed to Mom.
“Yes, you’re very fortunate,” Mom politely replied.
I couldn’t tell if Lucille was blind or just being a bitch. I wanted to say, “What whole family? I don’t see my oldest brother here. Go be merry with your whole family somewhere else.”
We waited in line silently, an uncomfortable tension rising as we listened to Luc
ille drone on and on about having a full house and how wonderful this family photo would be as a treasure.
Our picture appeared in the mail on the same day we got letters from Luke.
Mom sighed irritably. “Why do they insist Luke write the name of the prison and his number on the return address. It’s an embarrassment!”
I raised my eyebrows. Luke in prison was no secret, so how could that be an embarrassment. I knew she really meant that she didn’t like the reminder. That without that prison number, she could pretend he was just off somewhere else, living a normal life.
“Do you want me to frame this?” I asked Mom, holding up our new Christmas family photo in one hand, the old framed one in the other.
Her face distorted a little. The old photo was from three years before. I was eleven, with braces, and my haircut looked suspiciously similar to a mullet. It would have been nice to have an updated family picture in our living room. Even if Luke wasn’t in it.
“I don’t think so,” Mom said, crinkling her nose at me. “It’s not really a family photo.” Then, her voice lighter, she added “Here’s yours” as she tossed me a letter from Luke.
It didn’t matter to me that Luke was in jail because he’d been found guilty of stealing. I was excited to hear from him.
Dear Squeakers,
Thanks for your letter and the care package. I can’t tell you how much I needed that stuff. Clean T-shirts, boxers, and socks are a luxury here.
This time of year is so hard for me. I just want to be home with you guys. It’s lonely. All I can think about is snow, crackling fires, Ma’s cooking, and the Christmas tree with our special ornaments. All I can think about is everything I’m missing.
What I did was wrong. I know that, and I am paying for it.
Don’t ever do anything that will land you in jail. It’s miserable here, worse than you can imagine.
I promise that when I get out of here, I will never ever make any more mistakes like that. I will get a good job. I will buy a house. I will find someone really nice to have a family with.
Everyone has abandoned me except you, Ma, and Pop. I don’t know what I would do without you. Don’t give up on me. Please. Your letters mean more to me than you will ever know. Keep writing.
Love, Luke
After reading it, I grabbed on even harder to the idea that my letters were making a difference. That they had some sort of power not only to help Luke get through his prison sentence but also to change him forever. A fear crept inside me that if I didn’t continue to support him, all hope for him to lead a normal life would be gone.
Chapter 37
Homecoming Part Two
NOW
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Dad called from the house.
Said that the police had asked to search my car. Then there was Mom, sitting me down on Granny’s
couch, grabbing both my hands and questioning me, over and over: Was there something she should know? Had I done anything illegal? Anything at all? I told her no, but I know she doesn’t believe me.
Dad is at the airport with the police when we land in LA. They’re wondering if I might be able to answer some questions for them.
So now I am in the police station, sitting upright in a hard chair next to my mother—who has to be present because I am under eighteen—waiting, waiting, waiting to find out what questions they have. Skeleton is sitting in the corner, legs crossed, reading a trashy tabloid. He’s been here before.
The man who comes in to interrogate me looks like a nice guy. He probably has a nice family, with well-behaved kids, who are possibly playing tag in their backyard, waiting for their hard-working dad to get home.
He says that he just wants to talk to me a little bit, that I’m not under arrest, but it is still policy to let me know my Miranda rights. But it doesn’t feel at all like they portray it on TV. His voice is relaxed and he rattles them off in a tone of voice like he might be offering me something to eat. When he gets to the part about a lawyer, he pauses and looks up at me, saying that if I didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything wrong. I think. So I shouldn’t need a lawyer, right? But do I need one? If I ask for one, I’ll look guilty, right? But if I don’t, could I end up doing or saying something that will get me in trouble?
He asks if I understand everything, and I say yes. Then he says it’s time for me to answer some questions. I look to Mom. Wondering if she’ll cut in and ask for a lawyer, but she just nods. Maybe she does believe me.
But maybe, maybe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Wrong place, wrong time. My heart starts to pound. Wrong place, wrong time. My vision blurs for a second, and all I can see is Skeleton, pointing at the receipts on my car floor. My eyes focus as the detective starts talking again.
He says he knows I am a good student. He knows I have plans to go to college. He knows that I’ve never ditched school, never gotten a ticket, and that I volunteer sometimes as a lifeguard at the kids camp that the school organizes. He says he also knows what kind of car I drive, and that on one particular day I drove to three different stores with my brother Luke.
He asks me if I remember that day.
I say yes.
Wrong place, wrong place, wrong place.
He’d like for me to write down everything I remember about that day in my own words; he says that details are important. Where will this lead? What if I do or say something wrong?
Trying to remember every detail, I pick up the black pen and write: On July 19th my brother Luke asked me to drive him to a few stores so he could return items. He had three different bags, one from each store. He pulled out a receipt from his organizer at each store and returned the items. I then drove him home.
The interrogator looks at what I wrote and shakes his head. Maybe he can help me remember some of the details. Maybe we can figure this out a little better, together.
He asks about Luke’s organizer. I say that it is black, and small.
He asks why my fingerprints were on the organizer. I say because I picked it up when Luke was in the stores. I wonder how the police have it. Did Luke leave it in my car?
He asks why I touched it. I say, because it fell on the floor of the car and the receipts fell out, so I wanted to put them back in for him.
He asks what items Luke returned. I say I don’t know.
He asks why I don’t know what items Luke was returning. I say they were all in bags, and I didn’t see inside the bags.
He asks if I remember what time we were gone. I say I remember I had to be back by two, so earlier in the day. I think we left the house around eleven.
He asks a.m. or p.m. I say a.m.
He asks if there was anything I noticed about the organizer. I say just that it was black and had receipts in it.
He asks if I looked closely at the receipts. I say I glanced at a few of them.
He asks if there was anything I noticed about the receipts. I say I noticed that they were all very crisp, very new.
I pause, thinking about Skeleton pointing at the receipts. They were fake? No! I need to think about this more. But—why else would he question me about the receipts?
The interrogator notices my pause. He asks why I paused. I say because I am thinking.
I want Mom to cut in. To say something that will slow the questions down. Give me more time to be allowed to think. But she just sits silently next to me, rubbing at her thumbnail, and I know she’s not really here. Mentally she’s at home, buffing a stain off one of her ornaments. I wish Dad were here. Maybe he would say something. Probably. I’m sure that’s why Mom asked him to wait outside.
The interrogator asks again about the receipts.
I say they were from different stores, with different items; they were dated recently. I don’t dare say that one I looked at was dated from when Luke was in prison.
He asks how long I looked at the receipts for. I say just a few seconds.
He asks wh
at I thought. I say I thought that there were a lot of receipts and that Luke has a great way of organizing his files.
He asks why the organizer was in my car. I say I don’t know.
He asks if Luke left the organizer in my car. I say I don’t know.
He asks if Luke told me what he was returning. I think, They’ve already asked me this. Are they trying to trick me into messing up? Into saying something new, something different? Maybe I should have asked for a lawyer. I say no, I don’t know what Luke was returning.
He asks if Luke has ever wanted me to drive him anywhere else before. I say yes, to the store so he could buy snacks and cigarettes, to the pool hall, to the lake a few times.
He asks if Luke ever returned anything else when I was driving. I say no, not that I can remember.
He asks me if this is my car in this photo. I say yes.
He asks if this is me in my car in this photo. I say yes.
He asks if this is Luke getting out of my car. I say yes.
He asks me if I knew Luke had printed fake receipts. I say no.
I think, oh, crap. They were fake receipts. It was a scam. It was a scam. And I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I could go to jail. I could go to jail. I’m an— what’s the word? Accessory. I’m an accessory to a crime. Am I? If I didn’t know?
How could Luke do this to me?
Little splotches of green and yellow appear in front of my eyes as the room tilts. I close my eyes and tell myself to concentrate. When I open them again, I am looking straight into the interrogator’s dark brown eyes.
He asks me if I knew that Luke was returning stolen goods. I say no.
I think, Luke wouldn’t do that to me. Luke wouldn’t make me an accessory to his crime.
The interrogator asks me if it was my idea to make the receipts and return stolen goods. I say no, I didn’t know he was doing that. I thought he was returning items he’d bought.
