by Lisa Tucker
“Rick! Please.”
It doesn’t last long, but it seems like forever.
“Here,” Rick says, exhaling as he hands the elephant to Willie. He shakes his head. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”
He is. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he has his hands stuck under his armpits, like he’s determined to control them, like he’s ashamed of what they just did, what they’re capable of.
But Willie won’t even look at him. He hasn’t grown up with kindness mixed with cruelty. He sees no reason to forgive.
I’m walking down the hall, trying to comfort Willie, when I see all those things from our apartment lined up so carefully on the floor. It seems sad to me now, how much those things meant to me.
All I wanted then was to hold on to what I had. Nothing in my past had taught me that change could be good.
I’ve changed, Rick. This is what I told him when he showed up in my hotel room in Kentucky, and it was so true. Maybe the truest thing I’ve ever said to him.
I hold Willie closer, gently rub his back, as I realize the other thing I told Rick was true too. There’s someone else now, I’m sorry. There’s someone else, the first person in my life who it doesn’t hurt me to love.
fifteen
The enormity of the mistake I’ve made is beginning to dawn on me, but I have to believe I can fix this. I’m not a little girl anymore. I can stand up to anybody for Willie’s sake, even Rick.
Poor baby, as soon as we walked into the toy room, he burst into tears. He cried and coughed and hiccupped and finally fell asleep in my arms. When I put him down on the twin mattress, he rolled over on his side and stuck his thumb in his mouth. His other fist was still glued around the elephant’s trunk.
After I shut the door behind Willie, I went straight into the living room. Now I’m standing in the doorway. Rick’s about five feet in front of me. Of course he knows I’m angry, but he chooses this moment to ask why I cut my hair.
“It was so beautiful. It felt like—”
“That’s none of your business.”
He pauses for a moment. “All right. Are you ready to talk to me now?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re going to take us back to Kansas City.”
He shakes his head.
“Yes, you are,” I say firmly. “You’re taking us back and then you’re going to leave us alone. And I’m not talking about this week or this month, I’m talking about for a long time. Willie’s too little to deal with this kind of crap.”
“It’s never gonna happen.” His voice is quiet. “I can’t live without you, Patty. You know that.”
“It is going to happen.” I take a breath. “Because if it doesn’t, I’ll have to tell your parole officer.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell him about Omaha, all the stuff you did. The drugs, the gun, threatening to kill Jonathan.”
“No, you won’t.” He walks closer. “I know you. You haven’t talked to anybody about that night.” He smiles. “You’re good at keeping secrets, remember?”
I used to say this when we were first together and he had to go out with his friends. I wanted to be with him all the time. I wanted him to take me along, trust me. Usually he’d just laugh and tell me I was cute. Once he put his lips on my ear: “You want me to tell you a secret? I love you so much, sometimes I dream of building a big cage to keep you in. No other guys would ever see you. I’d feed you from my hand, look at you naked night and day.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up. He’s right, I’m still keeping his secrets; otherwise, why didn’t I tell Boyd any of this before? Why didn’t I even mention that Rick had shown up in Kentucky and Omaha?
But I rock back on my heels, insist I will tell him now. I’ll tell him everything, even what Rick did to me.
His voice is soft. “What did I do to you?”
“You know what it’s called.”
“Yeah.” He puts one finger on my throat, traces a line around my neck. “With other girls, it’s just screwing. With you, baby, it’s always love.”
Without even thinking, I reach up and slap him across the face. And then I finally say it. “Rape.” I say it again, louder, knowing for the first time that I’ve forgiven myself for letting him touch me, wanting him to comfort me.
His mouth looks flat, depressed, but he isn’t arguing. It feels like freedom. I’m standing up to him, telling the truth. By the time I notice the tic on his left eye beating like the tail of a rabid dog, he’s already grabbed my arm. He jerks me around backwards, puts his other hand on my shoulder, and starts shoving me down the hall, past the room where Willie is sleeping, into the back bedroom. He throws me on the bed and he’s on top of me before I can move.
“It was love,” he hisses. “Now I’m gonna prove it to you. I’m gonna take it slow. Make it like it used to be.”
I’m squirming and fighting him, but he quickly pins my arms and my legs, pushes my shirt up with his teeth.
“I hate you!”
“No, you don’t.” He smiles and licks my chest. “I remember. You want this as much as I do.”
He already has his pants unzipped when we hear the knocking. He mutters a curse and jumps up, goes to the window.
“Boyd. Shit, what is that little prick doing here?”
I’ve jumped up too, but before I can get to the door, he grabs my arm.
“If you leave this room, I’ll have to kill him.”
“Let me go.”
He puts his hand under my chin, pulls my face so I am looking in his eyes. “I don’t want to kill him, but I can’t let you talk to him, now can I?”
I push him off and reach for the knob.
“Go ahead, Patty. Just so you understand, I’m not going back to jail. As soon as you walk through that door, I’ll have to go out there and blow Boyd’s brains all over the front porch.”
I still don’t believe him, but I’m afraid to keep arguing about it. Boyd might leave. “At least let me go in with Willie,” I say slowly. “If he wakes up, he’ll be scared.”
He walks me down the hall and into the room; then he closes the door behind him. I press my ear to the keyhole and recognize Gerald Boyd’s voice immediately, probably because he’s saying my name. He wants to know if Rick has seen me.
“No. I’m just getting ready for work.” Rick sounds so sincere. “Did something happen?”
“Her mother called me around four o’clock this morning. Apparently, she’d been calling every police department for a hundred miles. She wanted your phone number, but I told her you didn’t have a phone yet.” He coughs. “It was difficult to follow what she was saying, but from what I could gather, her daughter and grandson have moved out.”
“Damn.”
“Have you spoken to Patty at all?”
“No, GB. I thought about going over there, but I remembered what you said.”
“That’s good,” Boyd says. “If you do hear from her, I’d advise you to—”
Boyd is still talking, but I’ve heard enough. I can’t risk going on the porch. I don’t believe Rick would kill Boyd, but he might beat him up. He might start screaming and scare Willie. But I’ve just thought of another possibility.
I rush to the window facing the back of the house. I open it slowly, quietly, and listen for a moment. I can’t hear Boyd or Rick. If I crawl out quietly, they won’t hear me. I can run into the woods and then circle back around. As Boyd drives away, I can flag down his car.
I pick Willie up and his eyes snap open. I whisper that he has to be very quiet, like the best spy in the world. He must hear the urgency in my voice, because he doesn’t cry, doesn’t even groan. The window isn’t wide enough to hold him and crawl through, but it’s low to the ground; it’s easy to stand him on the grass and then scramble out backwards. He’s blinking in the bright sun, but he still isn’t making any noise.
I grab him and take off running. His arms are squeezing my neck; his bare feet are thumpin
g against my sides, echoing the loud beat of my heart. We go deep into the woods, but I can see the sun sparkling on the tops of the trees, and I guess that the dirt road is to the left, along the creek, directly north. If only I’m right.
I keep running until I’m soaked with sweat. I can’t pause for breath or even to take off my sweater; I’m afraid Boyd will leave before we get there. When I get to the clearing, there’s nothing and I’m sure I’m lost. But then a few minutes later, I hear it. An engine. An old brown Jeep is coming down the hill.
I hug Willie to my chest and pant, “We made it, baby. We did it.”
He whines that he wants to get down. I laugh with relief.
Boyd has seen us and jammed on the brakes. He unrolls the window, but I shake my head and run to the passenger side.
“We need to get out of here,” I say, after I fling open the door. He doesn’t say anything as I jump in. Willie is squirming on my lap.
“What’s wrong?” he says slowly, as he puts the Jeep in park. “Who are you?”
His voice is the same. It has to be Gerald Boyd, but he looks like a high school kid. He has a mass of brown curls and a round face and eyes that are so wide they look like he’s stuck being surprised. His body is soft like Humpty Dumpty’s. He has on gray sweatpants and a shirt that says Drugs Aren’t the Problem, Poverty Is.
This is the guy who was so sure Rick had changed. Oh God.
“It’s me, Patty Taylor. We talked on the phone, remember?”
“Wait, Rick just told me—”
“Just drive, okay? I’ll tell you everything as we go.”
I turn my head, glance out the back window. Willie is kicking my legs, whining that he wants out of this car. I don’t want to say it in front of him, but I have to make Boyd understand. “Look, he threatened to hurt you. I don’t think he’d do it, but—”
Boyd’s voice is incredulous. “Rick threatened me?”
“Just go.”
But he won’t. He has to know what happened. He says he’s been working with Rick for the last month and a half. He can’t believe Rick would hurt him or anyone. Rick’s worked too hard to get his life back on track to screw up now.
His stupid, innocent eyes are looking right at me. I feel like slapping him. “Please! We have to go!”
And then Willie says it. “Daddy.” His finger is pointing at the back window. I look, and Rick is running down the hill. Boyd looks too but still, he doesn’t make a move to get us out of here.
Rick flings the door open, grabs Boyd by the shoulders and yanks him out of the car. He throws him down on the road and jumps into the driver’s seat. The window is still open. I think he might just drive away, leave Boyd lying there blinking with surprise, but then he pulls a gun out of his pants.
The gun makes my mouth go dry. I didn’t see the Reebok bag anywhere in Rick’s house. I didn’t expect this.
It’s different than the one in Omaha. It’s silver instead of black, and it shines like it’s never been touched. Boyd is standing. His voice is conciliatory but not afraid, even though his eyes keep glancing at that gun.
“Listen to me, Rick,” he says. “Whatever the problem is, we can work it out. There’s no reason to overreact.”
“Oh yeah?” Rick says. “We can work it out?” I’ve never heard him sound this way. His voice isn’t cold or harsh; it certainly isn’t angry. It isn’t even flat, because a flat tone still has resonance. He sounds like I imagine a dead person would sound. He sounds like someone who is capable of anything.
I’m thinking about jumping out of the car when he turns to me. “Sit right there. Don’t move.” He turns off the Jeep and grabs the keys; then he tells Boyd to wait for him across the road—to talk.
Willie is sniffling. I know he wants to cry. He has one of my earlobes, but he’s not flipping it back and forth, he’s holding on tightly.
I yell to Boyd to run, but he just looks at me. Rick tells me to shut up.
“But you don’t want to do this.” My voice is a plea.
“No, I don’t.” He opens the door.
“Then—”
“Then what? Go back to prison? Lose you?” He steps out, but he’s still looking in my eyes. “I don’t think you understand how miserable I’ve been for the last three years. I told you I’d do whatever it takes to have you back.” He slams the door. “Now you’ll see I meant what I said.”
As Boyd and Rick walk off into the woods, they look like two friends going fishing. I can hear Boyd’s voice, and it sounds oddly comforting, as if Rick is his brother, in trouble, yes, but not really a danger. I flash to when Boyd told me he was aware of the kinds of things Rick had done. He meant the drugs. He meant the gang stuff: beating up people who couldn’t pay, brandishing knives and guns, all the threatening and posturing that goes along with dealing. Of course he didn’t mean murder. As far as Boyd knew, as far as I knew, Rick had never killed anyone.
It hits me with a jolt: Boyd is trying to talk Rick out of shooting himself. He thinks Rick is suicidal, just like he told me on the phone. This is why Boyd doesn’t seem afraid. This is why the last thing I see is his hand on Rick’s shoulder before they disappear into the trees.
Willie has let loose now, wailing and sobbing and kicking. I’ve opened the glove compartment, looked under the rug, praying that Boyd has another set of car keys somewhere. If only I knew how to hot-wire a car, I could go get help. Rick knows how. I saw him do it years ago, I don’t remember why.
“Ssh,” I tell Willie.
I’m holding him close, trying to calm him down, when the shot comes. It sounds far away, but it echoes in the quiet woods, disturbs the birds. It’s followed by two more in quick succession. A few minutes later, Rick comes walking back. The gun is put away now. He gets in the Jeep and starts the engine without looking at me.
Willie stops crying then, distracted by the fact that Rick is driving backwards up the hill so fast.
“Where the other guy?” he asks, when Rick stops in front of the house. I look at Willie, pray he really doesn’t know.
“He had to leave,” Rick says. His voice gives nothing away, but I notice blood splattered in the hairs of his arm.
Rick lets Willie honk the horn before he tells me to take him inside. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He touches my face. His fingers smell like smoldering metal. “Don’t run off again. If I have to chase all over the woods looking for you, I’m gonna be really pissed.”
I’m trembling so hard I can barely walk. When Willie runs into the toy room and starts lining up the train cars, I slump to the floor and put my hands on my face to stop my teeth from slamming together.
If only I’d stayed in this room, Gerald Boyd would still be alive.
“Choo-choo,” Willie says, after a while. It sounds halfhearted though, as if he’s forcing himself to play his usual games in this horribly unusual place.
Rick said he’d be gone for a few minutes but it was really almost an hour. I kept thinking we should run, but I was afraid as soon as we tried, he’d come back.
He went all the way to Lewisville and returned with Zeb. They’re in the kitchen; we’re sitting on the living-room floor, watching television. Rick turned on the set and told me to sit still. I’m holding Willie on my lap, straining to hear what they’re saying. Every time a food commercial comes on, Willie reminds me he hasn’t had lunch yet.
He sees nothing strange about being in a house with a man he doesn’t know. He’s already asked if that big guy plays the drums.
They did something with Boyd’s body and the Jeep. Now they’re discussing whether Rick has to leave town. Zeb thinks Rick has no choice, but Rick keeps saying no. If the cops come by, he can lie his way out.
“Mama, I don’t wike this show.”
I whisper, “It’s the only channel out here.”
“I don’t wike this motel.”
“Ssh,” I tell him. I think I hear something outside.
“I want that,” Willie says, pointing to the screen. My
ears are straining to make out the sound. It’s tires, I’m sure of it. Someone is coming.
Rick hears it too. “I’ll take care of it,” he snaps. As he walks to the door, he tells me to keep my mouth shut. He nods at Willie. “Trust me, you don’t want this to go bad.”
When he flings open the door, I can tell from the way his shoulders loosen that it isn’t a cop. But then he takes out his gun, points it straight ahead, and says, “You have exactly five seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing here.”
“Patty’s mother is worried about her. I told her I would come here and see if Patty was all right.”
It’s Jonathan. I can feel my stomach in my throat. Willie heard him too. He’s leaning over, trying to see, babbling Jonathan’s name.
“Is that right?” Rick steps back and lets Jonathan inside, but he takes a long look at him. “And how did Patty’s mother know where I live?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s obviously telling the truth. Rick is standing still, probably thinking, like I am, that Boyd must have given Mama the address when she called for the phone number. I flash to a few hours ago, when Boyd was standing on the porch and Rick called him GB. It’s still impossible to believe that Rick did this. I can hear Mama screaming “the killer.” It feels different now, knowing she was right.
“Why you?” Rick finally says, and takes a step closer. His voice is a hiss. “Why would Sylvia ask for your help, piano player?”
“I’m a friend of Patty’s.” Jonathan sounds matter-of-fact, as if Rick wasn’t holding a gun on him.
“Oh yeah?” Rick says. “A good friend?”
“I don’t want her to be hurt.” Jonathan is facing Rick. He hasn’t looked in my direction, even though Willie keeps calling him. “If you feel the same way, I think you should let me take her home.”
My lungs feel tight; I can’t catch my breath.
Rick laughs a short, harsh laugh. “You do, huh?” He puts the gun in his pants, but then he pushes Jonathan by the shoulders, hard. “Do you know who you’re talking to? Didn’t they tell you how close I came to blowing your brains out?”
