I move to follow him, but he stops me. “I’ll catch up with you, okay?” He kisses me and jogs away before I can protest. At the door to the lounge, though, I see him hugging Emma, the little girl missing an eye. She giggles at something he says and hops into the shuttle. He doesn’t turn until she’s out of sight, and I duck inside so he doesn’t notice me.
Over our lunch of Ramen and vending machine candy bars, I finally ask what I’ve wanted to for weeks. “What happened to Emma?”
Silas hesitates, staring into his noodles. He takes a sip of soda. “Her eye, you mean?”
“What else would I mean?” I correct myself. “It’s just really obvious, is all.”
He clears his throat. “When she was a baby,” he says slowly, his voice low, “one of her parents was drunk, left the stove on, and passed out. Their apartment caught on fire. Emma….” He pauses. “Emma got burned pretty badly. She lost her eye. All the doctors could do was close the socket and repair her skin with grafts from her leg.”
“Oh, my God.” I lower my fork and stare at him. “Are you serious?”
He nods gravely. “She has some brain damage—the fire deprived her of oxygen for about ten minutes. The doctors didn’t think….” Silas takes a deep breath. “She almost didn’t survive.”
I glance towards the window, at the shuttle stop where he and Emma were standing just a few minutes ago. “That’s awful. I mean, my mom had her selfish moments, but that’s…. Her parent must have been a monster.”
“Yep.” He pushes away his bowl, still half-full. I think I see tears in his eyes, but he blinks them away before I can be sure. “But people can change. Parents make mistakes.”
I think back to yesterday, when he said those same words. I wonder who he’s really trying to convince.
“You know what?”
“Hmm?”
I push my bowl away too. “I just realized I’ve never heard about your mom. Hell, you met my mom, you were there when she died, you went to her funeral—but you’ve never mentioned yours.”
“I haven’t? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Silas finishes his soda, thinking. “Typical mom, I guess. A middle school math teacher. My stepdad's an accountant. They live in New Hampshire now, close to my mom’s parents.”
“Are you an only child? For your mom, I mean.”
“Yeah. My dad and her wanted more, but it just didn’t happen, and Hank—my stepdad—didn't come into the picture till about five years ago.” He stands, stretches, and holds out his hand to me. “You can come with me next time I visit them. Probably this fall.”
“That’d be nice,” I say, and for a second I really mean it: New Hampshire in autumn, the trees just beginning to change. Cozy sweaters and hot chocolate, sneaking out of his parents’ guest room in the middle of the night and crawling into bed with him.
But then I remember. I’m an orphan with no job, stuck in community service for 3 more weeks, with no money to my name. Running off to New Hampshire with your boyfriend isn’t the kind of thing girls in my situation can do.
Silas gets ready for the next shuttle of kids, while I set to work dragging hay bales into the barn for tomorrow. It’s a humid day, and when quitting time finally rolls around, my shirt’s glued to my skin.
I’m at the shuttle stop before anyone else, listening to old Irv rattle that shuttle at a stunning speed of 5 miles per hour, at best, when I notice the high school girls from my first day across the road.
They look only a few years younger than me, but something about them makes them seem older. Maybe it’s the glaring overconfidence, the way they flip their ponytails off their tanned shoulders. They laugh like a pack of hyenas, and I know it’s about me.
“Is it true?” one of them calls out, suddenly. The other two gasp and dissolve into giggles.
I look at them like I’m only answering because I’m bored. “Is what true?”
“That you’re here for stealing a shit ton of electronics.” The other girls keep giggling and whispering, but the main one keeps her gaze steady.
“Yep.” I glance behind me; the ranch employees are heading down from the lodge, only a few yards away. I look back at the girl. “So you and your two bitches there can stop the fucking whispering and snickering.”
They look stricken, trying to disguise it with eye rolls. When the shuttle pulls up, I make sure to sit where they can see me. Silas puts his arm around my shoulders, and I settle in for the ride.
“Shit. Erin, call the cops.”
I watch Silas flip open a switchblade he pulls out from beneath his seat. “Maybe it’s Jane. Or Pierce.”
We study the garage door. It’s been pried open, the metal dented a little, and it’s up about twelve inches from the ground. Inside, I hear metal clanking.
“Jane's gone. Besides, she has a key,” Silas reasons. “And Pierce already got his stuff from the will.”
My heartbeat stutters. “I guess you’re right,” I tell him, unbuckling my belt as he quietly parks in the street, in front of the neighbor’s house. My hand touches his, the switchblade closed now, tucked away in his palm. “Silas.”
He cranes his neck, trying to see out the back window. “Huh?”
“I know who it is.”
Silas looks at me. My response is a swift pull of my door handle. I step into the dusk of summer and stride towards the garage.
This is crazy. Thoughts race through my mind; my hands are balled into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking. If I stop to think about what I’m actually doing, I know I’ll throw up. So I shut off my brain and take the blade from Silas. He grabs a fallen picket from the front porch banister.
We’re silent as we step up to the garage, one of us on each side. I nod at him, and together, we lift the door and pull it open.
I hear tools clatter to the ground. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust, but I don’t need to see him to know who he is. With the blade hidden in my hand, I step forward into the twilight darkness, take a breath, and speak.
“Get the fuck out of here, Gordon.”
Chapter Three
Gordon holds up his hands. It’s been three years since I saw him up close like this—his hair is a little gray, and he’s clean-shaven, but his cocky sneer is exactly the same. “Easy now, Erin,” he says. “I just came for my car.”
“It's not yours yet.” I stand on the other side of the hood and level my eyes with his. “You don’t get to take it until I sign the title over.”
Silas moves beside me. “We can have you arrested, you know. This is breaking and entering.”
Gordon smirks, gives Silas the once-over. “Who’s ‘we,’ exactly?”
“Get out, Gordon,” I tell him again, before Silas can respond. “I’ll call the cops.”
He looks at both of us, trying to decide if we’re bluffing, then lets his hands fall to his sides. “Fine, have it your way. Figured you’d want this piece of shit out of here right away, but whatever.” He starts gathering up his tools. “For the record,” he says, glancing up at us, “I only broke in because you guys weren’t here all day. I’ve been waiting since noon.”
“Poor you,” I mutter.
“We’ve got jobs,” Silas adds. “That’s no excuse.”
“Hey, look, I’m getting out. Don’t get all worked up.” Gordon tosses the last of his tools and parts in an oily bag by the door. He wipes his hands on his pants and kicks the Tempo’s front tire. “It runs now, by the way. Fixed it up.” His eyes lock mine and get this look, something familiar: an evil gleam. It sounds cliché, but it’s exactly what it is. He knows I’m backed into a corner here, and he likes it. “You could sign the car over right now,” he says. “Never have to see me again.”
Silas looks at me, unsure of what to do next. I narrow my eyes at Gordon, pause, and then hand Silas the switchblade. “Wait here,” I tell him, and head inside.
My hands are trembling as I open the fire safe under Mom’s bed. The title to the Tempo is at the
bottom.
I grab a pen and slam my way back to the garage, keeping up my anger. I can’t let Gordon see how terrified I am just to be in his presence. I can’t let him win.
“How do we do this, exactly?” Gordon asks, spitting from the side of his mouth. Silas and I glare at him again as the spit hits the concrete.
I answer, but speak towards Silas. “Mr. Meegan said Mom transferred the title over to me when I was seventeen, but I never signed it—she didn’t tell me.”
“Okay,” Silas says, pushing his hand through his hair, “so you sign here…then sign here. Write ‘buyer’ beside your name.” He coaches me through it, and with his free hand at the small of my back, in the cool shade of the garage, I feel my fear give way to sureness. I don’t know how he does it, but as always, I’m grateful.
“Uh….” Silas sighs. “Now…you have to write ‘gift’ at the top.”
“What?” I slam the pen down. “It’s not a fucking ‘gift.’ It’s a bequeathment.”
“Don’t matter,” Gordon grunts, brushing a smear of oil from his arm. “Unless you want to make a trip to the DMV tomorrow to specify that, you gotta write it off as a gift. Technically, it’s your car—not Anna’s.”
My pen is poised over the paper. I’m about to form the G. Then, something hits me. I let go of the pen; it rolls off the hood, clattering to the concrete before Silas can stop it.
“Her will said you get this car if it was still her possession when she died,” I tell him. Now it’s me who’s smirking. “My mom put it in my name after her will was written. That means that portion of her will no longer applies—it’s the most current document that matters. And that’s this title transfer.” I hand the paper to Silas. “Right?”
Silas looks it over, checks the date, and laughs. “Shit,” he breathes, laughing again as he waves it at Gordon, “she’s right.”
“Well, now, wait a damn minute,” he bellows, “this car is mine. Even after I sold it to your mama, it was my money going into it—my parts, my time. Hell, I just spent two hours getting it running again.” He takes a step towards us, but Silas swings his makeshift bat up into the air and slams it, right on the hood. I can see a dent form as he does it.
“You’d better get off her property, you piece of shit,” he growls. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry. “You’ve got five seconds—and if you ever come near her again, the police will be the least of your worries.”
Gordon takes a step back, but his expression doesn’t change. He spits again, this time on the car. “Keep the piece of shit, then,” he barks, “see if I care.” Snatching up his toolbag, Gordon heads for the door. Before he leaves, he nods at Silas. “Hope you got a good lawyer, boy—this girl here, she’s quite the tease. Likes to make up stories.”
“You son of a bitch!” I don’t even realize I’ve crouched and picked up one of Gordon’s forgotten wrenches until it’s already spinning, end over end, towards him. It strikes his forehead and leaves a deep rent. For once, the sight of blood doesn’t make me dizzy.
Because it’s his, it makes me feel strong.
Gordon curses and makes a move towards me, but Silas is between us faster than I can react. He shoves Gordon, hard, and pushes him right out of the garage. “This is the last time I’m going to warn you,” he says, voice low. “Get. Out. Now.”
“Call the police,” Gordon challenges. “She attacked me.”
“After you broke into her home. To steal her car.” Silas pulls out his cell phone. “Let’s see who they wind up arresting, huh?”
Gordon stares him down, jaw shifting. Finally, he gives me one last dirty look, grabs his toolbag again, and leaves.
Silas puts away his phone. We stand there in the thick of the night, silent, as the sound of Gordon’s engine thunders into the distance.
“I see what you meant,” Silas says, finally. He sighs and throws his picket onto the floor, then slips the switchblade into his pocket. “That guy’s just about the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”
I don’t say anything in response. My anger has given in to the fear, and my hands start shaking again. Then my arms. My entire body shivers. I can’t stop myself when I finally burst into tears.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Silas whispers, gathering me up. He kisses my head, smoothes my hair. “Don’t let him get to you, Erin. He won’t dare set foot in here again.”
“I thought that before,” I manage, through uncontrollable sobs. “But he still showed up.”
“Let’s go inside. Hang on.” Silas closes the garage door, then observes the dent in the metal from Gordon’s prying. “We’ll fix it tomorrow,” he says, “maybe look into a home security system. Yeah?”
I still can’t stop crying. I feel wild, weak, ungrounded. Even Silas, my tether, can’t bring me back now.
In the living room, he hands me some lukewarm tea. He waits for me to take a sip, but I just pretend until he lets me hand the mug back. “Erin,” he says, in a sweet but firm voice. I know what he’s about to ask—and I know that this time, I have to tell him the truth. “What happened with Gordon?”
I shut my eyes. It’s the only way I can keep the tears in; after all these years, the dam’s finally broken. Silas takes my hands and holds them tightly, but even he can’t stop the shaking.
“I was fifteen,” I whisper. My breath is raspy. When I speak, I don’t even recognize my own voice. “He—he took…advantage of me.” I shake my head. This time, I won’t give Gordon the benefit of an understatement. And if anyone deserves the truth, it’s Silas.
I open my eyes and lock them with his. “Gordon raped me.”
* * *
I was fifteen. Two weeks away from sixteen.
Mom and Gordon had been fighting lately, more than usual; they liked to drink and pop Mom’s prescription painkillers together. I’d hear them giggling like teenagers as the high kicked in, their laughter like steel wool through the heating grates.
Then, a few hours later, the laughing stopped. One of them would scream first, maybe throw something. Every time was the same.
Except for that night.
Usually, it was Gordon who left, always making a scene. “You make me go through that door and I ain’t coming back in,” he’d threaten, and Mom would shout or throw something in response, and the door would slam shut. I’d finally start to drift to sleep, the house heavy with silence.
Then, slowly, my bedroom door would open. Mom stumbled in and climbed into my bed. “Just you and me,” she’d whisper, crying. “Back to how we were. Just us, baby girl. We’ll be all right.” Most nights, I’d pretend to be asleep already, my body limp as she pushed me to one side, making room.
But that night, it was Mom who left. I don’t know how he made her leave, or why she let it happen. And at first, I didn’t know she was gone.
When my door creaked open and the footsteps came towards me, I thought it was my mom. I feigned half-sleep, scooting over for her. But when she climbed into my bed, the mattress leaned too much for her weight. My body rolled back, and in the darkness, I could feel it. His erection pressed against my spine. His hands worked their way to my wrists.
“You think I don’t notice,” he breathed, his breath sour and hot against my ear, like a rag soaked in old milk. “You walk around here with them tiny dresses. You give me those looks. I notice.”
My clothes ripped away easily in his grip. When I freed one hand and managed to scratch him across the face, he seethed with pain and hit me. I could taste blood for a few seconds, before he stuffed something into my mouth. It was my own underwear. The elastic was snapped, one frayed edge hitting my throat like needles.
“You little slut,” he grunted. I cried out in pain; it felt like I was being ripped in half. My underwear stifled the screams.
“This is what you wanted.” He dug his thumbs into my wrists, pressing hard on my pulse points. I wished my heart would explode, killing me before the memory could form. But I was still alive. The memory was carving itself into s
tone.
So I blanked out my mind. I pretended I was anywhere but there, and when my legs stopped pushing and my arms stopped twisting—when I stopped trying to fight—he stopped. I couldn’t tell if he was done or just bored.
“Fucking slut,” he hissed. “Keep your mouth shut if you don’t want a bullet through the head. You think you can lead me on then throw me in jail?” I barely felt the next punch, though I’d have a black eye the next morning; I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My brain and body disconnected themselves.
When he left my room, I got up and pushed my bureau in front of the door. I knew he could still get in, but it was all I could think to do. I sat on the floor of my closet, in the dark, and held a pair of scissors like a knife.
I waited.
Part of me wanted him to come back in, just so I could summon the courage to push the scissors into his eyes.
Instead, I heard silence. The occasional pop and hiss of a new beer, or the clink of ice cubes in my mom’s whiskey tumblers. Canned laughter rumbled up from the television downstairs.
At dawn, my mom came home. She and Gordon made their peace.
I didn’t come out of my room till I saw Gordon’s car crawling out of the driveway. Mom smiled and handed me some orange juice, but when I entered the kitchen, my bathrobe pulled tightly around my body, she gasped.
“What happened to your eye, baby girl?” she wailed. She grabbed my face with both hands. “Did you fall?”
This was the first time I would feel it: the truth, bubbling in my stomach, crouching in my throat. It was almost so easy to let it out, but I just couldn’t.
She should know, I thought, suddenly angry. She should be able to tell right now, without me having to tell her.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I fell.”
Mom sighed. “Let’s get some ice on it, try and stop the swelling.”
For the next two weeks, I stayed in my room. I didn’t go to school, I didn’t eat. I drank just enough milk and water to survive, though part of me didn’t want to.
THIEF: Part 2 Page 2
