Burned

by Meg Watson

  “We’ve got to get going now, okay, sweetie? Time to get up.”

  He nods sleepily and pushes himself up. Sliding off the side of the bed, he scratches at the exposed inches of tummy flesh as he pads barefoot to the bathroom. Such a cute gesture, like a little man trapped inside a boy's body.

  “Don't forget your meds,” I call out as I hear the sound of him peeing in the toilet. I can't help it; it's a habit. He never forgets his meds. Truth be told, he's more responsible than I am.

  His bright blonde head pokes sideways out of the bathroom door. “What did you say?”

  I swallow another wave of emotion. Such a handsome face, so trusting.

  “Your meds, baby,” I whisper hoarsely.

  He nods and smiles, edging back into the bathroom without another word. I hear the tap go on and the sound of a glass sliding across the countertop. Then the puff as he takes the daily dose of his inhaled steroid.

  Something in my brain makes a mental check mark on the list of things that we have to do. Mechanical things, everyday things. Brushing teeth and picking out clothes. Making the bed, making sure all his belongings and puzzles are in his backpack. The daily maintenance of keeping Gus safe and happy.

  It's like second nature to me now, but it didn’t come easily to me. I feel terrible admitting it to myself, even now, but I never would've thought I was going to be raising a child on my own. I had an image in my mind of the future, but everything changed.

  Not that I would have wanted anything but motherhood, but I simply thought I would have someone with me. Someone to shoulder half the load, someone to share half the joy. Someone who, if I failed, could make sure Gus was cared for. Someone to ensure that failure was not an option.

  But I guess that's not how it was meant to be. Derek and Sammy were good to me, but I'm not sure that I was really good to them. I never really let my guard down long enough to allow them real access to Gus. Primarily, he was my responsibility and their relationships were with me — not with me and Gus, unified.

  So even though I wanted to make a family, something always held me back. The guilt of that just curdles in my chest. I’ve never really given Gus as much as he deserves. Still, those partial families were more than we have now. Now I'm shipping him across the country to God knows where, and who knows what we are going to end up doing.

  No, I don't want to think like that. We’re going to be fine. I’ve been through so much worse than this. We’re going to be absolutely fine.

  “Make sure you get everything out of the bathroom, Gussie,” I call out, brushing those thoughts aside with a vengeance. “We need to get everything packed up.”

  He comes back out again, his hair damp and combed back from his head in neat rows. It’s all school-picture-orderly except for one stubborn spike that sticks up right at the crown of his head.

  “Why don’t we stay here?” he asks me. “I like it here. We can stay for a couple of days, couldn't we?”

  “No, baby,” I say, shaking my head. “Soon though, I promise. But not today.”

  He nods slowly, his eyes cast down and disappointed. Even though I know it's dangerous for us to stay here, I really want to say yes to him. I always want to say yes to him. He hardly asks me for anything, so how can I not say yes?

  But this is where motherhood brings you to. You're always searching for the right thing to do, and somehow trying to get the courage to do it. Things you never thought you'd have to do. Courage you never thought you were going to have to grow.

  “How about pancakes? There's a diner downstairs…”

  He looks up at me, startled. “Pancakes?” he repeats.

  “Yes, probably the best in the universe.”

  “In the universe?”

  I hold up my palms like I cannot even believe it myself. “That's what it says, right on the sign by the front door. I would not make this up.”

  “Pancakes!” he mutters to himself.

  Suddenly he gets a burst of energy and starts darting around the room, gathering his things and shoving them into his backpack. There's another thing to check off the list: getting everything organized, getting everything out the door.

  My phone jangles my purse, and my heart skips a beat. I should have turned it off. Bruno told me to turn it off. That's my old phone, the one that I was told to throw away, but I can't. It's got all my contacts, and it's got two years worth of pictures on it. I can't just throw it away. I hardly have anything left.

  Nervously, I walk over to the desk and peek into the top as though my phone is a snake that might bite me. The screen is face up and bright inside my purse. And it only says one word on it.

  Aldo.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. My chest feels like it's going to explode. All I have to do is not answer the phone, but just the fact that he's calling me sends shivers of cringing fear across my skin.

  “Who's calling, Mommy?” Gus says, approaching me. His shirt is tucked in and he wriggles his shoulders into his backpack straps. He's ready to go. Oh, the magic of pancakes.

  “It's nobody, baby. Nobody,” I mutter, and swipe the zipper closed. “Just give me two seconds here to brush my teeth and we will get going. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he says obediently and walks to the door, leaning his shoulder against it as he waits for me.

  I do a quick check of myself in the bathroom, sweeping my eyes along the counter to make sure I haven't left anything here. It's not like we settled in or anything, but something in me really doesn't want to leave anything else behind. I have lost so much already.

  Gus has a small game out and is staring at it intently while I shoulder my bags and walk to the door. He steps out of the way without looking up as I swing the door open, then nearly jump back in shock. A man stands there with his hand halfway up, apparently ready to knock. He frowns his surprise and instead of knocking on the door, rubs the back of his hand against his chin.

  “Didn’t anybody tell you not to just open the door like that?” he fumes at me. His voice is higher than I remember it.

  I automatically flinch back. And then I lean forward, my stubbornness more powerful than my surprise, I guess. He looks familiar, a little.

  “I didn't hear you knock,” I snarl right back at him. His eyebrows go up at the outer corners at my tone of voice. Family guys don't particularly tolerate women with smart mouths. But since he was a friend of my father’s, maybe he is not going to push it.

  Rocking back and forth on his heels for a couple of seconds, he rolls his tongue over his teeth with his mouth closed, ending with a sucking noise that makes my skin crawl.

  “I'm supposed to take you where you want to go,” he says as though I'm too stupid to understand. “You know where that is?”

  My fingers find Gus's shoulder and push him gently behind me. At this point, there is about a 50-50 chance that I am going to slam the door in this guy’s face.

  “I'm not supposed to know where that is, am I? Isn’t that your job? To know where I'm supposed to go?"

  He blows his breath out between his cheeks and presses the heel of his hand between his eyebrows. When he looks back up at me, his expression has changed. Soft, but stubborn. Frustrated, I can tell.

  “Listen, I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot here,” he says, all Italian Family guy in the accent. It comes out strong when they need to puff up their chests, which is apparently what he feels like he needs to do. “My name is Carmine, they call me Knuckles. Do you remember me? I'm Knuckles. I'm here to help you out.”

  “Knuckles,” I repeat. I heard what he said, but I just want a second to digest it. “Yeah, I remember you. Friend of my father, right? I thought you were coming yesterday.”

  “You really gonna bust my balls about this? At this point?” he snaps, the thin veneer of his patience splintering immediately.

  I start to back away from the doorway. I can do this myself. There's no reason that I need him, right? I've got money, I’ve got Gus, and I can do this myself.

  “Ok
ay, hold on…” he says, holding up one hand like a traffic cop. “Let's try this one last time… I'm here to help you. Your dad was a helluva guy. Let me help you. We don’t gotta like each other or nothing. Just let me do this. For you, I mean.”

  Something in his eyes makes me stop. He's all twenty kinds of the macho that I want to leave behind me, and yet something about that makes me feel a little sorry for him. Maybe it's all that greasy skin under the few stray strands that go over the top of his shiny scalp. Maybe it's the crazy puff of gray hairs coming out of his ears. This might very well be his last at-bat. I can give him the shot. What's the harm?

  Gus slides out from behind me, and I watch Knuckles’ eyes flicker down toward him.

  He leans forward, pushing his palms against his knees to get more at child level. "Hey there, little guy. I'm your buddy, Knuckles. You want to come with me?” he says in a sort of ridiculous voice. Gus's eyes dart toward him and then away. He looks up at me briefly and I see his small nod of agreement. I guess it's fine with Gus, and that is fine with me.

  “Yeah, I guess…” I finally concede. “Well, we we’re just about to get some pancakes. Let's just get some breakfast, and then you can tell me what's next, okay?”

  “Breakfast,” Knuckles grumbles, as though that’s highly unusual at 9:30am. “Yeah, okay whatever. Let's make it quick."

  He holds out a hand for my bags. I shift the one with clothes in it toward him, but keep the black duffel close to my side. I guide Gus by the back of the neck toward the door. Knuckles peers down the hallway both ways before gesturing with a nod of his head that it's safe for us to exit the room. I can tell he is really enjoying this, all the cloak and dagger stuff. Seems a little ridiculous to me, but I guess it is his show.

  Gus drags his fingers lightly against the glass when we enter the diner. He smudges the space where there actually is a sign that says ‘home of the best pancakes in the universe’ with an illustration of a Jetson-era spaceship below it. His mouth drops open a little bit in surprise at this sort of proof, and he eagerly hustles behind the waitress as she leads us to a dark red vinyl booth.

  “Pancakes, right,” Knuckles says, looking all around the diner with a manly scowl. He sighs again through his nose.

  “You know, you could have told me you were coming,” I explain, trying to sound reasonable but hearing the strain in my voice. “Then we would've been all ready for you with breakfast out of the way.”

  “Nobody gave me your number,” he snorts. He slides in next to me in the booth, way too fucking close.

  “Well you could have shown up yesterday. I waited. We waited.”

  “I just got the job this morning, all right?” he says, snapping a plastic menu open between his fingers. I see him tilt his head back as he tries to get the menu into focus.

  “I was told you were going to be here yesterday," I explain.

  He shrugs. “Yeah well, there was some kind of mixup. I never had a way to reach you, so I couldn’t tell you I was here. I called around, no dice. End of story."

  End of story, how I love that phrase. That means I'm supposed to shut up now because the man is done talking.

  My eyes swim over the menu, barely taking in the words. I'm so aggravated that I can feel myself sweating under my arms. Who the hell does this guy think he is? It's like they're all the same. Every one of them thinks women are just stupid inconveniences.

  This jerk hasn't had anything to do out here in retirement land for God knows how long, and he still thinks I'm lower than him. I hate it that Gus can see men treat me this way.

  But as though he hears me, Gus’s fingers find mine under the table where I have them pressed hard against my knee. He slides his tiny fingertips, wedging his hand under mine, forcing me to place my fingers against his. It's such a sweet thing, I almost want to laugh. Just a tiny silent gesture to let me know he understands me. I remember for the millionth time just how lucky I am.

  The waitress delivers our plates and barely looks at us, like we don’t even register. I think our trio looks a little strange. Knuckles glances obviously at the door every ten seconds or so in an ostentatious display of self-importance.

  She's probably seen everything though. I can't even imagine what kind people must come to this diner every day. I didn’t see another truckstop or anything, so this must be the place to pause through if you're going to pass through Oriental.

  As soon as the plate of pancakes slides under Gus's nose, he drops the game on the table and picks up his fork. He takes the time to tap the top of each one of the dozens of chocolate chips that litter the surface of the pancake, nudging a couple into better alignment.

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling at his work for order and balance. Apparently satisfied, he reaches for the syrup. Then his eyes widen as he notices the new, enormous canister of whipped cream. He tips his face up to me with a questioning, awestruck stare.

  I shrug one shoulder. "Yeah, why not? We’re on vacation, little man. Go crazy with the whip cream.”

  I can practically feel him bubbling with delight as he tips the can over and sprays a slow, carefully concentric spiral of whipped cream over the entire surface of the pancake. He's like a professional pastry chef, creating a perfect plane.

  I am sure he's wondering if he's going to be able to eat it. Destroying such a thing is counter to his nature, but I guess the scent of the melting chocolate has won him over. I hear him sigh a little when his fork plunges into the creamy topping and cuts out a small triangle.

  “Weird kid,” Knuckles mutters next to me. I want to punch him right in his mouth.

  “Excuse me?” I hiss.

  Knuckles jumps back a little bit in his seat, clearly startled that he said that out loud. “Oh, I mean nothing by it. Just, I never seen a kid so careful with his food like that. You know. The thing he just did.”

  I can feel my eyes narrow and my cheeks getting hot. “No," I say slowly, “I really don't know."

  Knuckles opens his mouth again like he is going to say something, then clamps it shut. He sniffs and presses his lips together, shaking his head fretfully as he looks away. I stare at him, laserlike, for at least another thirty seconds, mentally daring him to look my way again.

  I would love nothing more than to dress this jerk down. He's obviously in need. Someone should have done it a long time ago.

  Thankfully, we don't have much to say to each other. I just turn to watch Gus do an impressive job of destroying his breakfast while I nibble on the crispy ends of my English muffin. Somebody slathered it in margarine without asking me and while I like the smell, I really don't want to eat it.

  Anyway, I seem to have lost my appetite. Every moment that ticks by is starting to jangle my nerves as though it's an individual clock strike. I want this to be over. I want everything to be done, settled, finished.

  Part of me wants to ask Knuckles where we’re going or what we’re doing. But I know he's not going to answer anyway, and he'll really enjoy an opportunity to shut me down. So forget it. I'm just going to keep my mouth shut as for as long as I have to be in his company.

  Gus uses the side of his fork to squeegee all the syrup away from the center of the plate, arranging it carefully so that there is an even distribution. I swear that I can see Knuckles raising his eyebrows. For his safety and mine, I don't look at him directly so I don't know for sure.

  “So, we ready to get out of here yet?” Knuckles sighs in a creaky voice.

  “Yes,” I force myself to mutter.

  I tip my head down and press my lips hard against Gus's forehead, filling my nose with his scent, trying to calm down. I love that fresh, musky odor he has. My little animal. My little bunny.

  Instantly my nerves settle down. At least it’s enough to follow Knuckles as he leads us back out of the diner after dropping a couple of twenties on the facedown check. I suppose he thinks that’s chivalrous, picking up the check for me.

  I shade my eyes when we come out into the brightly lit parking lot, instan
tly almost choking on the dust from the gravel. Knuckles leads us to a shiny silver Cadillac and presses the key fob to unlock the doors. Subtle. I'm sure a Cadillac rolls down these quaint fishing town streets with nobody noticing. Sure. Subtle as a heart attack.

  Suppressing my urge to roll my eyes, I fling my bags into the back seat and help Gus with his seatbelt. Knuckles has the car started when I finally get into the passenger seat. A part of me, I have to admit, is actually excited to see this underway. Another phase of the adventure, and we’re one step closer to the finish line.

  We roll out of the parking lot in a hurry, the engine of the Cadillac growling unevenly like a slightly middle-aged panther or something. I'm sure it was very nice, back in its day.

  When we roll into the Marina parking lot, I hear Gus shift against the seat behind me as he pushes himself up to look out the window.

  “Boats, mommy,” he says with awe in his voice.

  “Sure are, little man," Knuckles croons ingratiatingly.

  “Are we going on a boat?" Gus chirps, his excitement filling the car.

  “That's the plan,” Knuckles says.

  I'm not enthused. I don't like boats, never have. And this Marina is filled with sailboats, the kind that sway dramatically from side to side. I'd rather be in a canoe. I'd rather be on a rubber raft.

  The last thing I want to do is be sitting on something that's basically a fishing bobber on a large scale. Instantly, a mental movie montage of undersea creatures flickers through my mind and I have to catch my breath.

  “You okay over there?”

  And now I'm irritated again. That's good. Irritation will keep me from remembering how little I want to be eaten by sharks.

  “I'm fine. Absolutely fine,” I growl in response. I hope that is the last thing that I have to say to this man.

  Gus’s mouth hangs open as we get our bags out of the car again and head toward the dock. Knuckles slides the keys behind the visor and I snicker inwardly at this funny little old man trick. I guess here in Oriental, they probably don't even lock their doors. Crime rate: zero. How ironic that it is filled with all these gangsters.