He chuckled. “Jim Beam tossed his cookies, huh?”
Pearl found a bucket and started to fill it in the sink. “Jim Beam,” she said. “That’s a good one.” She grabbed a glass out of one of the cupboards, held it under the running faucet, and gulped it down. The rain drummed on the roof. It made her heart pound. Any day now, she thought. Any day the roof will cave in . . .
Pearl had known about the structural damage since she took this job. All the cops joked about it because what else are you going to do? In keeping with the rest of Havenkill, which was more often than not referred to as Historic Havenkill, it was a charming building to look at—bright blue shutters, brass door knocker. Window boxes even, as ridiculous as that may sound. But it was also condemned. A lovely shell of a place, falling apart for years, though Hurricane Irene had pounded the final nail into its coffin. “The Death Trap,” the sergeant called the station. “The Busted Bunker.” The hardwood floors buckled and popped; wind whistled through gaps in the doorjambs. And on rainy nights like this, the ceilings bled out in dozens of places. Pearl could see a spot now, right at the center of the break room, dripping angrily, water spattering on the floor. Less than two weeks, and the Havenkill PD would break ground on a new station, Pearl and her fellow officers moving into a double-wide in the new parking lot. Closer quarters, but much safer ones, especially considering the nasty winter the weather people kept predicting. Keep it together, Busted Bunker . . . Just nine and a half more days . . .
A gust of wind knocked into the side of the building, the rain thudding now. Hammering. She ripped off a swath of paper towels, grabbed the full bucket, a bottle of Murphy oil soap, a mop out of the janitor’s closet. The puke is fixable. Focus on that.
“Need any help?” Udel said in his halfhearted way. Pearl shook her head. As she headed down the hall on her way back into the booking room, she was certain she could hear the creak of shingles detaching.
The drunk was slumped on the bench, snoring. Holding her breath, Pearl poured some of the water from the bucket onto the mess he’d made, and followed it up with a few squirts of cleaner. It roused him a little. “You don’t know,” he murmured at her.
“Huh?”
His eyes opened. “You’re young,” he said. “Just a kid. You don’t know yet how pointless life is.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, remembering his name. “You’re wrong about that, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Shit,” he said, not to Pearl but at the explosion of noise—a furious pounding on the front door and then the buzzer, someone leaning on it so hard it was as though they wanted to break it.
“That doesn’t sound like your wife, does it?”
He shook his head.
Pearl rushed toward the door, Udel, Tally, and then the sergeant leaving his office, moving in front of Pearl, pressing the intercom and trying to talk to her, the woman on the other side of the door, trying to calm her as she half screamed, half cried like women never did on the quiet streets of this historic Hudson Valley town. “Please, ma’am,” the sergeant said. “We are going to let you in.”
But she didn’t seem to hear. “An accident.” That was all she kept saying, over and over again, even after he opened the door for her and she fell through it—makeup smeared, weeping in her bright red raincoat and rainbow-dyed hair, wet as something dredged up from the river. “There’s been an accident.”
“MOM?” CONNOR CALLED out from the kitchen.
Jackie couldn’t answer. She was in Wade’s doorway, eyes fixed on his empty bed.
“Mom!”
Jackie swallowed hard and made her way into the kitchen. It smelled of the coffee she’d set to brew last night.
“Can you take me to Noah’s house?” Connor said it around a mouthful of cereal. He was sitting at the kitchen table, back turned to her, eating fast. “I’m gonna be late.”
Jackie said, “I thought Wade was taking you.”
“I . . . He said he didn’t have time.”
“He said that.”
“Yes.”
“This morning.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“It’s ten.” She said it slowly, staring at the back of his head. “Why didn’t he have time? The SATs don’t start till eleven thirty.”
Connor shrugged elaborately. “How do I know? I just need a ride.” The word ride pitched up an octave. The back of his neck flushed red. Poor kid, voice constantly betraying him. Puberty was cruel, and for Connor, it often proved a lie detector, his voice cracking more than usual during those still-rare attempts to be deceitful.
“Connor.”
“Yeah?”
“Did Wade come home last night?”
“What?” A thin squeak.
“It’s a simple question.”
“Mom, if I don’t leave for Noah’s, like, now, we won’t have enough time to work on our science project.”
“Did you see him?” Jackie said. “Did you see your brother this morning?”
“Yeah, of course I did.” He said it quietly, carefully. “He was leaving when I got up.”
“Look at me.”
Connor turned around. He blinked those bright blue eyes at her, his father’s eyes. “Mom,” he said. “Are you okay?”
Jackie swallowed. No, she wanted to say. I’m not okay. I used to know you guys so well I could read your thoughts, and now it’s as though every day, every minute even, I know you less. You’re turning into strangers.
You’re turning into men.
She looked at the half-empty coffeepot, the demolished bowl of cereal placed next to the sink, unemptied, unwashed, a few stray Cheerios swimming in puddled milk. Wade never washed out his cereal bowls. Connor did. Wade drank coffee. Connor did not. Wade had been here this morning, she decided. Last night, he’d had his moment on the front step with his cigarette and the stars, and then he’d come back inside. He’d gone back to bed, gotten up this morning, and left early, for whatever reason. Connor wasn’t lying. Connor didn’t lie. Not about anything big, anyway.
“Mom?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
She cleared her throat. “Maybe after I get home from work, you and Wade and I can do something.”
Connor looked at her as though she’d just sprouted a third eye. “Umm.”
“Maybe go out to dinner. See a movie? Talk?”
He blinked at her again. “Sure,” he managed after a drawn-out pause during which they both locked eyes, a type of standoff.
Jackie smiled. It was natural, she knew, this aching feeling, this growing divide between the boys she raised and herself. All those books she used to read, the shrink she used to go to, all of them told her that as a single mother of sons she needed to maintain distance, to teach them to stand on their own early, lest they grow up too dependent on her, too possessive. Nobody liked a mama’s boy. But still, that didn’t make it any easier, your baby wincing at the thought of spending time with you.
“Go get your stuff, and I’ll take you to Noah’s.”
Connor propelled himself out of the room.
Jackie went to the sink, spilled the milk and cereal out of Wade’s bowl and rinsed it, thinking about all the times she’d yelled at him to rinse his bowl, how carefully she’d explained to him that if he didn’t wash it out right away, the cereal would crust on and never come off, no matter how many times she put it through the washer. She’d shown him the evidence: the scarred, ruined bowls, cereal remnants clinging to the sides like cement. Wade would nod at her, that dyed black hair of his flopping into his eyes, but it never sunk in. Or maybe he ignored her on purpose, the same way, without warning, he’d blackened the sandy-blond hair that used to match her own. The way he’d taken his phone the day before yesterday, checking his texts without looking at her. And how he’d said, “See you later, Mom,” in that calm, unreadable voice, without making eye contact, without looking at her at all.
It was normal, the way the boys treated her, the way they made her feel.
Growing up was hard, and parents bore the brunt of it, mothers especially. Mothers of teenage sons.
It is normal, she thought. Isn’t it? And then the doorbell rang. The police.
Two
I didn’t lie.” Connor Reed thought the sentence so hard that he actually said it out loud, and even then, he was so deep inside his own head that he didn’t realize he’d said it until his friend Noah gave him a funny look and said, “Umm . . . What?”
“Nothing.”
Noah frowned at him. Went back to cutting leaves in half. For their science project, they were supposed to figure out how caffeine affects the structural matter of plants, and so they’d taken some leaves from Noah’s mom’s ficus tree, Noah cutting them in half as Connor crushed caffeine tablets with a Smucker’s jar. Once they were done, they’d stir the crushed tablets into six different beakers of water, the ratio of caffeine to water less and less, the final one caffeine-free. Then they’d drop the leaves in and observe them for six days. Connor was trying to work fast. Noah had the newest version of Skylanders. Connor had wanted to play it for months and that’s what they planned to do, once the leaves were in the beakers. But all he could think of was the weird conversation he’d had with his mom this morning, and then the cops showing up at his house . . .
He hadn’t lied to anybody.
“Dude, that’s plenty crushed,” Noah said.
Connor looked up at him and then down at the kitchen table. He put the jar down. What was left of the pills was now a thin coat of dust.
“You okay?”
“I told you I’m fine.”
“No you didn’t.”
Noah’s kitchen smelled of burned cookies and Play-Doh. His three little sisters had been in here this morning, messing up the whole room, when Connor had arrived. Even though Noah’s mom had made them clean it all up before shooing them out, the smell still hung in the air. Made it feel like preschool in here, which was sad in a way Connor couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Sorry, Noah. I’m fine. Just . . . you know . . .”
“Nervous about the project?”
Man, Noah was a dork. “Yeah,” Connor said. “That’s exactly it.”
Noah smiled, not catching the sarcasm, of course. He had a mouth full of metal that he kept free of food by brushing probably fifty times a day. “We’ll ace it,” he said. The braces gave him a lisp.
Noah had been Connor’s best friend since before kindergarten, but lately that seemed to be changing. A year ago, six months ago even, he would have told Noah everything about last night. Everything he remembered, anyway. He’d have told him what he’d said to his mom and the cops and then he would have asked if Noah thought it was a lie. But he couldn’t. Not anymore. He felt weird around Noah lately—as though they were in two different cars, with Connor speeding ahead and Noah just watching him out the window, smiling that big, dorky smile of his, getting smaller and smaller in the rearview. “Sometimes, we outgrow our friends. It’s nobody’s fault. It just happens.” Connor’s mom had said that to him once, a long time ago. She was right, but he hated remembering that now. It was the last thing he needed, hearing Mom’s voice in his head. You didn’t lie to her. “I’ll start filling the beakers,” he said.
As he headed over to the sink the image flashed in his mind: Wade in his room. Had to be close to four in the morning—Connor hadn’t looked at the clock. The wet smell coming off of him, mud and sweat. Wade’s shadowed face. Hair dripping, which made Connor realize it was raining before he’d heard that crash of thunder, like everything in the world exploding to bits. For a few seconds, in the lightning flash, Connor had seen his brother’s eyes. I can trust you, right, buddy? You won’t say anything?
This morning, when Connor had awoken, he’d thought maybe it had all been a dream. But then he’d seen the drips of water on his floor. A muddy footprint. He’d walked down the hall, poked his head in Wade’s room. It had been empty. You didn’t lie. You did see Wade this morning. What you didn’t say was that it was very early in the morning when you saw him, before the sun came up. But that’s just leaving stuff out. It isn’t lying.
Connor half filled the first beaker of water, shook in three teaspoons full of caffeine dust, then set it back in its holder. “Hey, Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“Did the police come by your house today?”
“What? No. What are you talking about?”
Connor filled another beaker, measured out two and a half teaspoons. “I guess some kid got hit by a car,” he said.
“What?”
“Some kid,” he tried again, thoughts returning to the cop at his door, the gun in his holster that Connor had tried to avoid staring at. A real gun. It happened just a few blocks from here, the cop had said. Wondered if you saw or heard anything last night. Anything unusual . . . “Like a hit-and-run or something.”
Noah gaped at him. Why did he always breathe through his mouth like that?
“They were canvassing the area.” Connor wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. But that’s what the cop had said, as though they were covering their entire street with a giant canvas, blocking out the sun, smothering everybody.
“What kid?” Noah said.
“They didn’t tell us.”
“Did the kid die?”
Connor exhaled hard. “The cop told my mom he’s in critical condition.”
“Wow. So . . .”
“Yeah?”
“It happened in your area.”
“Yeah?”
“You live in a high-crime area now. I probably shouldn’t go to your house anymore. Like . . . you should just come here from now on.”
Connor turned. Stared at him, but he wouldn’t look back. Noah had found a stray piece of his sisters’ Play-Doh and was rolling it between his fingers, his whole face focused on it, as though it were some great archaeological find.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Just. I mean come on. They were canvassing your area.”
“You don’t even know what that means.”
Noah put the Play-Doh down on the table, now a perfectly round ball, slick from his sweaty hands. “Okay. Look,” he said. “It’s your brother.”
Connor dropped the beaker he was holding. It landed in the sink, smashing to bits.
“Oh man, Mrs. Briggs is going to make us pay for that.”
“What about my brother? What are you talking about?”
“Just some stuff I heard.”
“What?”
“Jeez, Connor. That’s school property. Those beakers probably cost a ton. My dad’s going to—”
“What did you hear?”
Noah let out a heavy sigh, his braces whistling from it. “Mason Marx said he worships the devil.”
He stared at him. “What?”
“That cat. The one that went missing a few weeks ago? All those pictures on the telephone poles?”
“I can’t even believe this. Mason Marx is a total moron. We both know—”
“He said Wade sacrificed it.”
“And you believed him? Mason Marx? That douche-nozzle?”
Noah shrugged. “Mason isn’t the only one who says stuff like that about Wade. And, you know . . . better to be safe.”
Connor moved away from the sink, muscles tensing. “You’re supposed to be my best friend,” he said. “If someone said crap like that about one of your sisters, I’d stick up for her.”
Noah took a step forward. “My sisters aren’t freak-show rejects who smell like ass.”
“Apologize.”
“You’re the one who broke school property!”
“Apologize for saying that about my brother.”
Noah stared at him. “Seriously?”
Connor stared back, waiting.
“Since when did you become Weird Wade’s big defender?”
Something happened in Connor’s head, like a door slamming hard. Every muscle in his body tensed up and his face grew hotter, electric spar
ks in his veins, pushing him forward, lifting him.
Noah sighed. “Okay. Whatever,” he said. “I’m sorry I said that about your weird-assed brother.”
And then Connor was on Noah, chair toppling to the tile floor, tile slamming into his knees, with Noah beneath him, covering his eyes, Connor punching and punching even though Noah wasn’t fighting back—why wasn’t he fighting back?—just yelling and crying and covering his eyes, Connor pulled tight like a rubber band about to break, fists slamming into Noah’s soft baby skin and hating him so much, hating every part of him, never wanting to stop.
“YOU WANT TO tell me what happened?” Jackie said.
Connor said nothing. He hadn’t said a word since she’d arrived at the Westons’ with her heart in her throat, Cindy Weston icing her son Noah’s black eye and looking at Jackie in a way that stopped her short of speaking too. She’d grabbed Connor’s arm and yanked him out the door, her fingers so tight on his skin, she may have left marks. “What the hell,” Jackie said in the car outside their house. “What the hell, Connor?”
Again, nothing.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know, Mom.” He said it so quietly she could barely hear him. “He just . . . Noah just . . . I don’t know.”
They’d met the Westons at Connor’s preschool, they being Jackie and Bill, her then-husband, the boys’ then-father. It had been maybe a few weeks after their kids had started there. Orientation night, where they were served cookies and punch in the big playroom, the children’s art tacked on the walls, and parents milling about awkwardly in their hello-my-name-is stickers, longing for wine. “Noah can’t stop talking about Connor,” Cindy had said back then, her grin wide and genuine—the mirror image of her son’s—and Jackie had felt her shoulders relax almost instantly. She’d assumed they’d be great friends, the four of them. She’d envisioned family get-togethers and barbecues at each other’s houses, double-date nights with a shared babysitter. As they chatted about their favorite restaurants in town, she’d allowed herself to picture the Reeds and the Westons out at one of them, or maybe even a concert up in Albany, tossing back beers and taking a hired car home for a splurge. Of course, none of that had ever happened. Bill had left Jackie before it could. Moved three towns away with that girl of his. The Office Girl, Jackie had called her, perhaps unfairly. She’d been the office manager, as Bill himself had pointed out. And she was a woman now. Close to forty. Proud mom to their three little girls . . .
If I Die Tonight Page 2
