by Kylie Key
Malachi teared up; it was like he'd never experienced such generosity. He thanked Mom a hundred times and Mom got emotional. She later told me that I was extremely brave to be helping him; I told her it was Malachi who was the brave one.
On Sunday he stayed awake long enough to hear me read a chapter of The Hunger Games, which is what Mrs Marshall had been reading him. When I asked if he wanted me to carry on, he shook his head and said he had no idea what the story was about.
"You mean I read all that for nothing?"
"I like the sound of your voice," he said.
"Oh yeah, that's right. I'm good at putting you to sleep," I said. "I might bring in a book about the impact of climate change on South American geese."
"That sounds fascinating," he said.
His dry sense of humor made me giggle. I placed Mrs Marshall's paperback in the cabinet drawer. He watched as I stood over him, a moment of hesitancy as our eyes locked. I wanted to hold his face in my hands, take his beanie off and stroke his hair. Malachi smiled, and my heart soared, but he started to cough, his throat fighting for air. He sat upright, so I held out a glass of water. He sipped from the straw, his cheeks looking sunken as he did. That small action seemed to tire him and he leaned back and closed his eyes.
"Thanks Dominique," he whispered.
"Sshhh," I hushed, annoyed at myself for exhausting him. "I'll put the bed down. You sleep." I watched anxiously as his head reclined, his face too pale, skin too dry, breathing too ragged, chest too rattly. His fingers wiggled and I sat back down, reaching out to hold them. His pointer finger wrapped around mine, but then went limp like he didn't have an ounce of energy left in him.
That's what I was telling Dad later that evening. That Malachi was very listless and might have an infection.
"I'm sure the doctors are monitoring him," he said.
"I know they are, but I'm still worried about him."
“Well, do what you can to cheer him up," Dad said. "You know we're leaving early on Wednesday?"
"Yes," I nodded. We were making the 800 mile round trip in one day, the plan to get Damon settled, have a final meal with him and then return around midnight. Mom had an important meeting the next day, one she couldn’t miss.
"Doesn't seem real that it's finally happening," Dad said, and I detected a hint of emotion in his voice.
"Are you going to miss him? You're going to miss little Damey?" I teased, using one of Dad's nicknames for him.
Dad scowled. "Go and do your homework young lady."
"I don't have any. It's Sunday," I said, poking my tongue out at him. I went to my room, laid down on my bed and opened my iPad.
An idea had come into my head and I did a search on google maps. Malachi came from a small town off the interstate, and it looked like we would pass it on our way up north. It wasn't even a detour, it was en route. I researched the place where he worked and a plan came together. I wanted to drop in and visit his co-workers.
Malachi's boss had been a man called Bob. Bob was married with two kids and Malachi had told me he had a secret desire to one day have Bob's job, well, Bob's life. Bob used the laptop at work, while Malachi marked things off on a clipboard. Bob had his name embroidered on his coveralls, whereas Malachi's was on a plastic badge. Bob and his wife lived in a three bedroom bungalow, with a yard with lawn and orange trees. He drove a pick up truck and his wife had a minivan. To Malachi this was the epitome of success, this was what he strived for in life.
I never judged. I never specifically said I lived in a big house with five bedrooms, a pool and home gym, but I often mentioned I'd been swimming or working out, so I guess he had an inkling. He knew my brother was a surgeon, he'd met my parents, he knew where I'd vacationed, so he wasn't stupid. Our worlds were far apart, I knew that.
When I told Damon my plan, he dismissed it immediately. "We won't have time," he insisted.
“Well, can't we leave earlier?" I pleaded. "We don't have to go in a convoy with Mom and Dad, do we?"
Damon considered it. "Guess not. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes," I said and I pulled up the location on my phone. "If we leave by eight we can take a few minutes to go there. I really, really want to see where Malachi worked. And I can take some photos and show him how it is now."
Damon was suddenly agreeable. But it was well after eight before we left. He'd dashed out earlier, saying he wanted to fill up his gas tank. I assured him there would be plenty of places along the way, but he disappeared anyway.
He was acting all weird on the first part of the journey, breaking out into random smiles.
"Are you that happy to be leaving?" I asked, when he started grinning for no reason.
"Yeah, glad to finally get away from my crazy family.”
"You'll never get away from us.” I laughed. "Mom and me will visit every holiday weekend."
"I don't doubt that for a minute," he said, with a roll of his eyes. "But I'll be back at Thanksgiving." He looked pensive. "Or maybe even earlier."
"Thought you couldn't wait to get away from us." He gave me a wry smile.
We came to the exit for Malachi's town and followed the directions that would take us to his workplace. It was in an industrial area, amongst other warehouses and I started to get nervous as Damon slowed down and looked for a place to park.
"Will you come in?" I asked. Initially I thought I'd be able to do this on my own, but now I wasn't so sure.
"Do you want me to?"
I nodded, appreciative of his quiet support. He didn't make a big deal of it, just came in with me.
A large lady with short graying hair sat at the office reception. Her name badge read Bev. She smiled curiously as we came in, I guess we were unlikely customers for rigging chains. I stumbled through my introduction, telling her I was a friend of Malachi's. She looked at me blankly.
"No one called Malachi has ever worked here," she said bluntly.
I felt deflated, on the verge of tears, until Damon shoved me and said aloud, "Spider? He was called Spider."
The woman gasped in recognition. She pulled herself out of her chair and waddled through to the warehouse, telling us to follow. She started rambling on about Spider this and Spider that. She waved down a man on a forklift, from his named coveralls I could see it was the fabled Bob.
Bob was not what I expected. When he took off his safety hat he had a receding, close shaved head. He was short and stocky and wore silver rectangular glasses but his arms were covered in tattoos. He and Bev were moved to tears as I told them about Malachi's progress.
"We went to see him a week after the accident but they had him in an induced coma," Bob said. "I feel bad I haven't been back to see him, but, y'know how it is. Life is so busy." His words seemed sincere. "We still miss him, don't we Bev?"
Bev spoke in a hushed tone. "Greyson isn't quite as good," she said, as she signaled towards a young man stacking a pallet of cartons. "Spider, he was a hard worker, he was quiet, very shy when he first started, but he could be a little bit cheeky. You know, I still remember the day of the accident. Terrible, terrible thing."
"Where was the accident?" I asked.
"On the interstate, near the exit," Bob said. "He was going to football."
"Football?"
"Flag football. He played in a team. Every week."
"Oh he loved his football," Bev chimed in. "He'd give us a play-by-play the next morning." She rolled her eyes and laughed, “Every. Single. Play." Then she frowned. "Remember how we thought he wasn't his usual self that day." She looked at Bob. "He came back from lunch and he got all uppity about one of the orders." She shook her head, "It wasn't like him at all."
"Yeah, something was definitely bothering him," Bob agreed.
"What happened in the accident?" Damon asked.
"His car crashed into the median barrier, flipped and caught fire," Bob said.
"Was he speeding?"
Bev shook her head, "Not excessively. I think they worked out he might've been do
ing 60."
"Could he have been drinking?" Damon asked. I hated that he was asking these questions, but equally I had wondered if Malachi had somehow been at fault.
"Doubtful," Bob said, "that wasn't his way."
"No, he hadn't been drinking," Bev assured. "They tested for that. But, apparently there had been an oil spill earlier in the day. A tanker dropped some oil and the road was still slick. They think that maybe it hadn't been cleaned up properly."
"I don't suppose he remembers the accident?" Bob asked.
"No," I said, "he doesn't remember anything."
"The brain shuts off," Bev said, "and that's the best thing." She tutted. "But I'd love to know what upset him that day. Something was definitely off."
"Oh yes," Bob agreed, "definitely. He came back from lunch all out of sorts. I think he must've had a fight with his Grandpa." Bob's tone changed, "Ooh, you did know he lives with his Grandpa, that his father is in prison?" Damon and I nodded.
"Did he visit his Dad often?" I piped up.
"Not that often," Bob said, "every five or six months maybe. And usually he'd take his grandfather. He had a pretty regular routine. He'd go to the gym after work every day. And he played football, you know flag football, a couple of times a week."
"Do you know how much longer he'll be in hospital?" Bev asked. I shook my head. Bev sighed. "Y'know it was a good thing he had full medical insurance. Can't imagine how much those hospital bills would be."
Damon and I looked at each other and grimaced. We had an idea of what they were; Cassian had told us they were astronomical.
I pulled out my phone and showed them a couple of photos of Malachi. They gasped at one without his beanie on, his hair only an inch long.
"He liked his long hair," Bob chuckled. "Wait till I see him and laugh about his crew cut."
"I always knew he was a handsome boy," Bev said, "beneath the hair and the tattoo, he has such a lovely face." I beamed, somehow feeling like she was personally complimenting me.
"He is pretty special," I said.
Bev put her hand on my shoulder. "How about a cup of coffee? Come and sit down?"
Damon explained how we didn't really have time, that we were on our way up north, that he was about to start college.
"That's a shame," Bev said, and she looked tentatively at Bob, "Um, guess you haven't met Spider's Grandpa?"
"Does he live far?" I asked, and I saw Damon wince, as if he thought we were already running late.
"But it's not far away," I said, after I'd exchanged phone numbers and we were back in the car, "can't we drive past? Maybe he won't even be home. Can't I just see where he lives?"
I guess seventeen years of having a nagging little sister made Damon relent. Ten minutes later we arrived at a trailer park. My heart sunk as the car snaked its way through the run down trailers, looking for Malachi's house.
Damon pulled up outside one of the most dilapidated ones, its paint job long overdue, the planters in the front full of weeds. I couldn't picture that they had once grown sunflowers. Damon didn't ask if I wanted him to go in with me; he automatically followed.
I was hoping no one would be home, because then I wouldn't have to confront reality. I could pretend that Malachi hadn't really lived in such a dump, in a place that looked not much bigger than our pool shed. My heart was already breaking. There was no way Malachi could ever, ever come back to this.
I tip toed on the wonky front step, scared I might go crashing through it. A screen door was closed but the front door open. I knocked on the side of the wall and called, "Hello."
An old Asian woman from the trailer opposite poked her head out of her front door. She carried a broom and started sweeping her steps. She called out something in a language we didn't understand.
I knocked again and shouted, "Hello? Mr Keneally?"
A gruff voice came from within. "Who is it? Who's there?" I took a step back, landing on Damon's toe. He shuffled aside. "Who is it?"
The screen door opened and a man with combed back gray hair and a gray flecked mustache stepped out. He had a slight limp, his plain blue tank was stained and dishevelled, his jeans grubby. He was heavily tattooed on the skin that was exposed, but not on his face. "What do you want? I already paid the rent."
I was unable to speak for a moment. There was an unpleasant smell about him, stale, booze, cigarettes. I tried not to squirm.
"Hi Mr Keneally," Damon said, in a louder than normal voice. "I'm Damon and this is my sister Dominique. We're friends of Spider's."
In an instant Mr Keneally's scowl vanished, his face softened, but his voice was still harsh. "You're friends of Spider? Where ya from?"
"From LA," Damon said, "we're just passing through."
"I have some photos. If you'd like to see them," I said, holding my phone up.
Mr Keneally's eyes scanned from Damon, to me, and back again. He nodded his head and stepped back. "You better come inside then.”
We entered the trailer, the musty smell assaulting our nostrils. To the right was an L-shaped kitchen, the counters dirty, covered in food crumbs and beer bottles. There was a small bench oven and a narrow fridge. Straight ahead was a living room with a green velvet couch, a brown armchair, a coffee table covered in dust, more crumbs and a stack of pizza boxes. All had seen better days. The only new thing was a fairly large television and an X-box.
"You want a drink?" Mr Keneally asked, as he limped back to the armchair, "Bring me a beer will ya?" Damon and I gaped at each other. He opened the fridge. There was a shelf of bottles, a loaf of bread and a jar of pickles. Damon grabbed the beer, and again we looked at each other with a look of stunned disbelief.
Mr Keneally had a bottle opener on the coffee table. He opened the beer, his hand shaking as he let the cap drop to the floor, joining a pile of others. "Sit down," he said and Damon shifted a pillow across to give us room. "How's he doing? Spider?"
Damon glanced at me, indicating I should answer. After all, he'd only met Malachi once.
"Um, he's doing good," I said, but in truth, Malachi wasn't doing well at all. I had assumed his Grandpa hadn't visited because he was old and disabled in some capacity, unable to drive or something. I didn't realize he was a drunk. "Um, he's having skin grafts on his foot."
"Y'know when he's coming home? I need him to take care of things. I can't pay all these bills on my own." My heart lurched at his complete insensitivity, I was afraid I might burst into tears straight away.
"Mr Keneally, I think he's going to be in hospital a few more months, at least," Damon said, trying to keep an even tone. "Spider is still seriously ill."
"I got no money to help with hospital bills. I hope he doesn't expect me to pay 'em. I did everything for that boy y'know. Wendy and me, we brought him up." Damon and I turned to each, wide-eyed. I knew it wasn't my place to judge, but I was sure he was thinking my exact thoughts: Malachi's grandad is a heartless drunk.
"I given that boy a home all these years, y'know. I did now. When his mommy died and his daddy went to prison, I had to look after him. Me and Wendy. And Wendy's been gone ten years in November, ten years already." He took a long swig on his bottle. "Yep, it was me who brought him up. And now he's wrecked his car and he ain't making any money." He took another drink, finishing the bottle.
"Do you know how the crash happened?" Damon asked, and I frowned at him, wondering why he wanted to keep a conversation going with this crazy, horrible man.
"I told him to bring me some beer at lunch time," Mr Keneally spat, his voice rising in anger. "He brings me home a ham sandwich. Can you drink a ham sandwich? No, you can't." Mr Keneally held out the empty bottle to Damon, his hand shaking. Damon took it and went to get him another one.
"You have the same tattoo as Malachi," I blurted out, pointing at his outstretched hand. "He has it on his face."
"I ain't heard him called Malachi since his mommy was alive.” Mr Keneally laughed. "He don't need a fancy-smancy name. Everyone calls him Spider." He glanced at the w
eb on the back of his hand and let out a crazed cackle. "He tried to cut it off, the stupid boy. Cut off the mark. He used a knife to try to cut it off." His roar was drunken, callous, cruel.
I felt my cheeks burning and my heart racing, this man making fun of a boy who wasn't there to defend himself. My boy. His face covered in a tattoo he had never wanted.
"He hates the mark," I said, my anger building rapidly, "he hates the name Spider." I felt like I was ready to explode. "His name is Malachi and it means angel."
"Hey, Dom," Damon whispered, squeezing my arm as he sat down. He passed the beer to Mr Keneally, who flicked the top off in an instant, guzzling it like a man dying of thirst. Hate seethed through me. I didn't want to stay here a minute longer, but I also needed to know what sort of despicable life Malachi had endured.
"His mother gave him that name," Mr Keneally said, his eyes filled with fire, "and she was no angel." He shifted awkwardly in his chair, like his back or hip was causing him pain.
"She never looked after that boy," his voice hissed with hatred. "She never wanted him. All she did was party. And the drugs got her in the end."
Damon and I both gasped, looking at each other as if we couldn't possibly have heard right. There were things that were inconceivable, totally incomprehensible, and the concept of a mother not wanting her own child was one of them.
"Spider's mother died from an overdose?" Damon demanded clarification.
"She was on the drugs. Smashed into a tree," Mr Keneally said, oddly as if he was happy about it. "She never cared about him. Never wanted to see him. Just left him with his father. It was the best thing — that car crash that killed 'er."
Damon's arm went around me and unexpectedly, I could feel him trembling. Or it might've been me trembling. All I know was that everything was a blur.
"We better get going," Damon said, and he pulled me up to standing.
"You gonna take that boy's things? Or I gotta keep 'em here?"
"What things?" Damon asked, unable to hide his surliness, obviously as outraged as I was.
