by Rick Jones
Lots! Like Carmen lots! If I don’t have a means to make payments then I’ll disappear too, perhaps sharing the same hole they pitched Carmen into.
“Johnnie?”
Johnnie looked detached and stunned, his mind going in several different directions at once. How will I provide for my family? There was no life insurance policy---could never afford one. What will happen to my family? Would Cooch go after them for the balance? Questions just seemed to roll.
“Johnnie?” the executive asked once again. “Are you all right?”
Johnnie looked at the man with a vacant air about him. “What?”
“I said, are you all right?” His voice sounded distant and hollow, as if spoken from the end of a long tunnel.
“I’ll be fine,” he lied. He stood from the chair, still looking lost. “I’ll clear out my locker.”
“I’m sorry, Johnnie. If there was another way.”
Johnnie gave the young executive a benign stare. But there isn’t, he thought. You just condemned me to an early grave.
No! You condemned yourself because of your weakness for the fast buck. You did this. Not him.
“I did this to myself,” Johnnie offered in monotone.
The executive appeared satisfied with that parting answer as he watched Johnnie Deveraux exit the office and close the door behind him with barely a noise.
CHAPTER TEN
The heroin fix got them through the night. The high Becki and Dennis were feeling had carried them to non-caring heights. But when morning arrived and the world became less euphoric as soon as reality hit them like a cold slap in the face, worries mounted. Their stash had been halved by use, leaving them with a single night of false pleasures. Money was non-existent. And out there somewhere Vinny Cuchinata salivated for his next payment, which was due on the following night.
“We can run,” said Becki.
“With what?” Dennis asked rhetorically. “You need money to run. Even if we had a thousand bucks it wouldn’t get us far. Not in todays’ world, anyway.”
Becki started to cry.
Dennis ignored her as he raked a hand nervously through his hair.
They had painted themselves into a corner with the paint still wet, a landmine for sure. But need outweighed necessity with necessity their downfall.
“You could work for some and borrow the rest,” he told her as if suddenly struck by inspiration. “You could work the streets for a couple of hundred, and ask your aunt for the rest.”
Becki nodded. “They won’t give it to me,” she said. “My aunt’s married to a dick. Besides, they wouldn’t give me money because they know it would go right into my arm.”
Dennis swore. Then: “What about your cousin? He’d give it to you.”
“I don’t think Kimball has that kind of money,” she said.
“How do you know unless you ask him, right?”
They looked at each other for a long moment. And for a moment she reflected. She had the world in her hand and dreams to take her wherever she wanted to go. She had school and scholarships, hopes and fantasies that weren’t too far out of reach, goals to strive for. Then she looked around the room of their studio and saw the heaps of trash bags and the mounting dishes that had gone unwashed for weeks. She looked at the tracks along her arms, the sickening brown lines that marred her once porcelain skin.
The world was once within her reach.
And she let it all slip away.
She looked at Dennis. “I can’t,” she said.
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both.”
We he approached her she took a step back, waiting for the backhand. But it never came. Instead, Dennis implored her. “Do you understand where we are right now?” he asked her. “Do you have any idea what Cooch’s people will do to us if we don’t come up with the money? Any idea at all?”
“I’m ashamed,” she told him. “I don’t want my family to see me like this.”
“We’re talking about your cousin here,” he returned vehemently. “Forget your aunt and uncle. Ask him.”
After several moments that seemed like a lifetime to Dennis, she relented.
She would go to her cousin Kimball Hayden.
And he would help her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Travys D’Orazio walked into school that day, he did so with all the pomposity of a person of privilege because he was the star running back and captain of the team, and was like Teflon, which meant that nothing terrible ever stuck as long as his legs carried Malden High to a state championship.
When he took his seat at the beginning of the third period, his Algebra class, he noticed that a seat in the rear of the room was vacant. It was Paula Howard’s chair. And she was nowhere to be seen.
No one had seen her at all.
But Travys simply shrugged it off as if the entire encounter was her honor to be with someone of his caliber in the social order. He saw nothing wrong with his action of pressing himself upon her, his right to take her against her will. He felt no sense of wrong, no sense of guilt or remorse. But he did feel justified.
Ten minutes into the class, Paula Howard was all but forgotten by Travys D’Orazio.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kimball Hayden had been yelled at by his father with threats that repairs to the wall would ‘come out of his hide.’ But Kimball let it roll off his back until his father started to call him Kimmie, which seemed to have struck a nerve. So instead of concentrating on school, Kimball stewed. His father was starting to discover his sore spots and worked them well.
But as the day wore on, as Vicki Pastore entered and vacated his thoughts, everything became tolerable. Kimball studied. He listened and took notes. And he daydreamed.
When the bell rang to end the final period, he left the building. Outside waiting for him was Becki Laurent. She looked rail-thin and wasted. And there beneath her eyes were gray half-moons. When she saw Kimball she smiled and gave him a wave.
Kimball walked over to her and gave her a hug. He could feel the bones of her ribs and spine, then he pulled away. “It’s been a while,” he told her. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Her smile faded as shame eclipsed her. She knew Kimball was telling her that she had wasted away to something grotesque. And in her shame she brought her hands to hide her face and began to sob.
Kimball swept an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, and began to walk her away from the school. “What’s the matter, Becki? I know you’re here for a reason.”
“I’m so sorry, Kimball. I’m so ashamed.” She continued to cry.
“Is Dennis hitting you?”
She lied. “No.”
“Then what?”
“I need money,” she said.
“Becki, I’m not going to help you support your habit.”
“You don’t understand,” she told him. “It’s to pay somebody.”
“For what?”
She didn’t answer him.
So he intuited. “It’s to pay somebody off for drugs, isn’t it?”
She nodded. Yes.
Kimball still had reservations, however.
But his silence prompted Becki to respond. “We need to pay off Vinny Cuchinata,” she said.
Kimball stopped in his tracks. “Cooch?”
She nodded.
“Are you kidding me? You got mixed up with a guy like him?”
She started to cry harder. “I know. I’m so sorry, Kimball. You know I wouldn’t ask unless I had to. You have no idea how embarrassed I am right now.”
“What about Dennis?”
“He’s doing what he can,” she lied.
But Kimball had the ability to cut right through the subterfuge and see through the lies and secrets of people, a preternatural sense. “He’s working you to make money, isn’t he?”
She nodded her head almost too fervently for her to be truthful. “No. Of course not.”
You’re lying to me. That animal is making you work the streets.
<
br /> He took her into an embrace and kissed the crown of her head. “How much do you need?” he asked her.
“Five hundred. Or as close to it as you can get.”
Kimball’s eye flared for a brief moment. That’s a lot of money.
“I can get you about three, maybe three fifty. How’re you going to come up with the rest?”
“We can get it,” she said demurely.
He held her out at arm’s length and looked her squarely in the eyes. “How?” he asked.
“Dennis will buck up.”
Kimball sighed. Another lie. And when she cast her eyes away shamefully, he knew the truth: she would work the streets to make up the difference.
“If I do this, if I get you the money, promise me that you’ll get cleaned up.”
She fell into him, pressed her face against his chest, wrapped her arms around his waist, and began to weep. “Oh, yes,” she told him. “I will.”
And to Kimball there was a ring of truth to what she said. She was not in a good place and she knew it.
“I’ll get the money,” he said softly.
I’ll get the money.
He held her close.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time Connor Deveraux returned home from school, his father was sitting at the table nursing a beer. His left cheek was badly swollen and bruised.
“Dad?”
Johnnie offered Connor a shallow smile, one that was hard to cultivate. “Hi, son.”
“What happened to your face?”
“Just a little accident at work, that’s all.”
“Does mom know?”
“She’s not home from work yet.”
Johnnie sounded drained, the measure of his tone straight.
Connor took a seat at the dinner table beside his father. “Dad, what’s going on? I’m not stupid.”
He reached over and placed his hand on his son’s forearm. “No,” he said. “You’re not. But I am.”
Connor looked at the bruise. “That wasn’t an accident, was it?”
Johnnie deliberated a moment before answering. Then: “No, son. It wasn’t.”
“Dad---” He let the word trail, not knowing what more to add or what to ask.
“I lost my job today,” Johnnie offered as he looked out the window. Then in a whisper that was more to himself, he said, “I lost my job.”
“Dad---” Again, Connor cut himself short.
Johnnie patted his son’s forearm. “We’re going to be all right,” he told him.
“Dad, I need to know the truth.”
But Johnnie continued to speak out as if reciting a mantra. “We’re going to be all right,” he kept saying over and over in the same even tone.
We’re going to be all right.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
That Evening. After the Game
The Golden Tornadoes of Malden High readily defeated Quincy 38-31, a colossal win against a superior team that ranked well in Boston, and a huge threat to go all the way. But on the efforts of Travys D’Orazio, who acquired 206 yards running on twenty-three carries, Malden High went on to a much needed victory and a run toward the championship.
At the end of the game it was---at least in the minds of teenagers---always a celebratory moment to partake in all matters of partying at the Mount, a spot located at the top of Waites Mountain, the highest point in the city.
A bonfire was lit within a ring of stones. Cases of beer were mounted high. Cheer leaders, girlfriends and football players celebrated, becoming rowdy and loud---all screaming their vanities and fist-pumping. The males were chest-pounding. The females watched and smiled and doted. And Travys D’Orazio was the centerpiece of it all.
He sat by the fire with Vicki, who leaned against him. In his hand was a beer. One of many already consumed. In her hand was a wine cooler, her beverage of choice. As time went on the cases of beer became six-packs, and the six-packs to single cans, until the entire treasure trove of alcohol was gone. Nothing was left of the stash. Voices quieted as fatigue started to take root. Others left for home. Others stayed, watching the fire burn down to its last embers. But Vicki remained by Travys’s side, her lids growing heavy as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Come on, babe. Wake up.” He shrugged his shoulder to galvanize her. “The night’s still young.”
“I’m tired, Travys.”
“I guess it’s time to take a walk then.”
When they stood Travys reached out his hand, took her hand in his, and led her away from the fire and into a copse of trees. Beyond the trees was a landing that overlooked the city. In the distance were the lights of Boston.
“It’s nice,” she said, sitting on a boulder beside Travys.
“Yeah, it is,” he commented.
Then Travys pulled her close, placed a hand beneath her chin, and directed her lips to his. The kiss was long and loving. Passion brewed. Loins were stirring. Then Travys allowed his hand to fall to her breast, which Vicki immediately rejected.
He pulled back. “What?”
“No, Travys.”
But Travys grabbed her again, this time harder, his grip pinching.
She fought against him, striking blows against his hands. “I said no!”
“Come on, babe. You know you want it.”
“No!”
Her struggles turned into all-out punches, striking Travys in the chest to little or no effect. “No!”
Then Travys coiled his arm back and thrust it forward, striking Vicki on the chin with a blow so hard that it knocked the fight right out of her. Her eyes rolled, showing nothing but whites, and her arms moved errantly through the air for something to hit, the movements governed by sheer instinct alone.
He removed her top, then inched down her pants. “Yeah, babe. You want it for sure.”
She tried to fight him off, but her efforts were weak. Whenever she got a hand on his to push it away, he broke off and struck her again in the face, taking her to new levels of consciousness which were vague, at best.
A gibbous moon bloomed overhead. Somewhere a dog bayed. And on that landing Travys D’Orazio took Vicki Pastore because he believed he was justified in doing so.
In his mind he was untouchable.
But in the days and weeks to come he would learn otherwise.
Out there, in the city, was a man-child by the name of Kimball Hayden.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Kimball returned home that evening he immediately incurred the wrath of his father. Not because of the hole in the wall, but because Kimball had emptied his entire bank account of $425.00 without his father’s permission.
“It’s my money,” Kimball voiced in defense. “I earned every penny when I worked as a paperboy.”
“That was money for college!”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to college!”
“You give me that money right now!” his father cried. “Right now!”
“I can’t give you what I don’t have!”
Complete silence fell over the kitchen.
Then softly from one side of the table: “Kimball,” like always his mother’s voice was the calm in the storm, “what did you do with it all?”
“Trust me. It went to a good cause.” Then Kimball pointed an accusing finger at his father. “And what the hell are you looking at my account for anyway? It’s my account! My money!”
“You best get that money back, Kimmie! I mean it!”
“It’s Kimball.”
“Not until you grow up and become a man it ain’t! It’s Kimmie! Now you get that money back!”
The muscles in the back of Kimball’s jaw started to work.
“You hear me, Kimmie? You get that money back! Tonight!”
Then firmly from Kimball: “No.”
His father shot up from the table, a diminutive man who appeared no more of a threat to Kimball as Kimball was to a bull elephant. But the man was motivated by rage and moved to confront Kimball, who s
tood his ground. “I want that money . . . in my hand . . . by tomorrow,” he said. He was less than two feet from Kimball, who towered over him.
“And I said . . . no.”
Both macho postured against the other---both refusing to relent.
Then his mother got up from the table. “That’s enough!” she told them. “You’re both acting like children!”
“That son of bitch is gonna get the money and put it right back in the bank where it belongs!”
“No, I’m not!”
“Enough!” said his mother. “E . . . nough!”
Quiet descended over the kitchen for the moment.
“The money belongs to Kimball,” she said softly. “He earned it. It’s his to do with as he pleases.”
Kimball’s father gave her an incredulous look. “You’re taking his side?”
“I’m taking no one’s side. It’s his money. He earned it.”
“No way! That money goes back into the account come tomorrow!” He turned back to Kimball, his face flushed from anger. “You hear me, Kimmie? You don’t sass me, Boy! As long as you live under my roof, you’ll do as I say!”
“Not about the money I won’t.”
Apparently Kimball pulled the trigger. The smaller man jumped at his son and grabbed Kimball by his T-shirt, thereby bunching the fabric within his clenched hands until the material bled between the gaps of his fingers. The moment Kimball’s mother tried to intervene, the old man reacted by driving his elbow into her face, which sent her to the floor with a hand to her eye.
Indescribable rage bubbled and surfaced within Kimball like lava mud spewing from a cauldron. He lashed out with incredible quickness too fast for his father to see, grabbed the man by the throat, hoisted him easily off his feet, and carried him across the kitchen and against the far wall. The driving force was so hard that he pushed his father right through the drywall, which left an imprint of the man’s body against the wall.
The anger on Kimball’s face scared his mother as she was on her feet trying to quell the situation. She screamed out, but Kimball didn’t hear her---couldn’t hear her. He was too focused on his father as he tried to cram him deeper into the wall between the two wall studs.
