“Look, no hands.” He’d waved his arms around, tipping closer and closer over the edge.
“Stop,” she’d yelled and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him onto the bridge. “Don’t joke around like that.” He’d frightened her to near tears. “You could have fallen.” She’d punched him in the arm. “You could have.” She’d pointed to the sign: JUMPING FROM THIS BRIDGE CAN BE FATAL AND TRAGIC.
“But I didn’t,” he’d said. “Race you.” He’d taken off running over the bridge to the Pennsylvania side. She’d shot after him.
Thirty minutes into their little fishing competition and neither one had a bite, although Becca wasn’t paying much attention to her line, keeping her eyes on Parker and the rapids, gripping her pole so tightly that her hands hurt. Finally, he made his way back to the water’s edge, mumbling under his breath the entire way.
“What did you say?” she asked, relaxing now that he stood next to her.
“Nothing. I wasn’t talking to you.”
She looked around. “Then who were you talking to?”
“The river.”
She gave him a funny look.
“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never talked to her before?”
“Her?”
He shrugged. “The river. I talk to her all the time.”
“What do you tell her? The river, I mean.”
“Stuff I can’t say to anyone else.”
“Like what?” Becca wondered what it was he could tell the river but he couldn’t say to her.
“I don’t know. Just stuff. She’s a pretty good listener.” He continued. “Right now, I told her I wish I could figure out where she’s hiding the shad.”
“Oh.” Becca looked down, away. She’d been hoping he was talking to the river about her, how he thought he was falling in love with her. A stupid, teenage-girl wish. “Does she ever answer you?” she asked.
“She’s good at keeping secrets. But sometimes if you listen real close, she’ll whisper what she thinks you need to know.”
“Yeah, okay,” Becca said, shaking her head.
“You don’t believe me? It’s true. I don’t know all the science behind it, but some people are convinced that water has a certain kind of intelligence.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious. Some say she’s a reflection of our souls and that she thinks and feels just like us.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do.”
After their exchange, they continued fishing in silence. Several more minutes passed without a hit. Parker put his pole down. He stared at the water, his hands on his hips.
“You know, if you miss the shad’s line by a few inches, you’re not going to catch them,” Becca said, offering a realistic explanation. Shad swam in single files rather than in big groups. If you were in the wrong spot, it was all too easy to go home empty-handed. Parker liked the challenge, but it also had the potential to put him in a bad mood.
“That’s not it. But I think I know what the problem is.” He pointed to the river. “I think she’s picking up on your sour mood, and that’s why we’re not catching anything.”
Her sour mood? She didn’t argue. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was in a bad mood. Lately she didn’t know what was wrong with her. Her emotions swung one way and then another and then back again. She laid her pole next to his. While he fiddled with the tackle box, she scooped a handful of water and watched it run through her fingers and down her arms. She thought about what he’d said about the river, how the water had a kind of intelligence, kept secrets, was a reflection of their souls. Maybe it wasn’t all that crazy of an idea talking to her, saying the things Becca felt in her heart, things she didn’t know how to say to the people who hurt her.
She checked Parker’s back was turned. She wasn’t sure what made her do it, but she put her face close to the rushing water, whispered the one secret she’d kept hidden, the truth she’d kept tucked inside: “I think I’m falling in love with him.”
When she looked up, Parker was staring at her.
They carried their fishing gear along the path, avoiding the poison ivy growing on either side of the trail. They walked up a hill, wound their way through the woods, and came to the clearing where his truck was parked. A warm breeze blew. They stashed their fishing poles and tackle box in the bed.
“Now what?” Parker asked. “Do you want to head over to the diner?”
They walked the two blocks to town. The diner on Delaware Drive was the closest restaurant around. Most of Parker’s and Becca’s classmates hung out at the counter and back booths after pep rallies or sports games to grab milkshakes and root beer floats. Families celebrated birthdays there, and couples toasted anniversaries. Truckers who traveled on Route 611 stopped for home-style meals served with a healthy dose of fat and grease.
Becca’s father’s police cruiser was parked out front. She looked through the window, catching him whispering into the ear of a young waitress, touching her, his hand lingering by her waist. The waitress leaned into him, smiling at whatever Becca’s father had said.
Becca looked away, turning her back on the diner and her father. She was about to tell Parker to take her home, to take her home this instant, when Chad, one of Parker’s buddies, pulled up next to them. Parker leaned into the passenger-side window.
“You up for a game of football? All we need is one more to make it four on four.” Chad waved to Becca. “Hey, Bec.”
Parker turned to her. “Want to come?”
“No, but you go. I can walk home.”
“I can drive you,” Parker said. “Unless you still want to get something inside.”
“I’m not hungry. You go ahead with Chad. I’ll walk,” she said, insisting.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure. I’ll catch you later.”
Parker shrugged and hopped into Chad’s pickup. Becca was left alone on the street. Sometimes she really hated living here. She couldn’t go anywhere without bumping into someone she knew, without running into her father. She kicked a pebble as she walked. The hot sun burned the tops of her shoulders.
She continued walking down the block, when she heard yelling, glass breaking. It was coming from the alley near Sweeney’s Bar. The hollering grew louder. People came out of the shops along the street to see what was going on. Becca followed the crowd. She stopped next to Mr. Dave, the butcher. Harley-Davidsons lined the alleyway. In front of Sweeney’s Bar, two Scions circled each other like boxers in a ring. The smaller, younger-looking Scion had a gash above his brow. Blood dripped down the side of his face. The larger man threw a punch. They both were swinging; some hits landed on their faces, some missed. There was something in the big man’s hand.
Becca stood, frozen, her heart like a bird’s wings flapping inside her chest. She should’ve been frightened, and she was, but she couldn’t look away. She’d never seen this side of human nature, so raw, violent.
Becca’s father parted the crowd. He was hard to miss. He was tall and broad shouldered and carried his presence as though he were ten men. The two Scions stopped fighting when they saw him. The large man dropped a broken beer bottle from his hand. Blood dripped from his fingers.
“What seems to be the problem?” her father asked. His hand rested on his gun belt, his chief’s hat pulled low on his forehead.
The door to the bar swung open. Russell and John stepped out. John had shaved the beard he often grew during the winter months, and he looked as though he’d had a recent haircut. He wore the leather cut that identified him as a member.
“There’s no problem here,” Russell said and leaned against the bar’s porch railing. He lit a cigarette, took his time blowing the smoke from his lips. “Just a couple of boys working out their differences. You remember those days, don’t you, Clint? Raising your fists to me, trying to be the bigger man.”
There was a moment when the crowd collectively held its breath as Russell and Becca’s father stared e
ach other down. Becca could feel her father’s anger toward his stepbrother as though it were a living, breathing thing.
Captain Toby Bryant came running down the alley. “What’s going on, Chief?” he asked, stopped next to Clint.
“I am the bigger man,” Clint said to Russell, turned away from him. “Take him to see Doc Reed,” he said to Toby about the Scion with the cut above his brow. “He’s going to need stitches.”
The crowd dispersed then, bumping into Becca as they passed by her. Russell continued smoking his cigarette, an amused smile on his lips. John caught sight of Becca. She couldn’t read his face. Becca’s father grabbed hold of her arm, led her down the alley and away from the bar.
CHAPTER TWELVE
John and the full-patch members were seated around the table in the back room of Sweeney’s. Hap was at the head of the table, drumming his fingers on the wood. It wasn’t typical to hold church on Saturday, or even Sunday for that matter, not their kind of church anyway. Most club meetings were held on Wednesday nights. It was a club tradition. But Hap thought it was important to have a sit-down tonight. He was troubled by what he’d seen on the news, surprised the state police had come on the scene so quickly. Hap figured the local police would’ve handled the body, at least initially.
“It would’ve been better if it had washed up on the Jersey side of the river,” Chitter added. “It would’ve taken some of the heat off us.”
“You mean off me,” John said. “I own this one. The club doesn’t have to worry. I’m prepared to take the fall.” He said what the other members needed to hear.
Hap shook his head. “We took steps to make sure you were covered.”
John wanted to ask what steps, but maybe it was best he didn’t know.
“The problem is”—Hap leaned forward—“the chief was tossed out at the scene. There’s no way he can bury evidence if he wasn’t there to collect it.”
John kept still. It wouldn’t serve him to show any emotion one way or the other. He’d done what he’d had to do for the club and for Beth, for Beth’s goddamn niece. The young buck hadn’t known what he was getting into. Was that supposed to be John’s fault? Sweat dripped by his temple, but he’d be damned if he’d be caught wiping it away and allow the guys to see him nervous or scared. And he was scared. Old man Russell wasn’t around to protect him. And although John loved Hap like a father, he wasn’t up for the job. John could see it all over Hap’s pale face, the way he touched his chest as though it hurt like hell. It wasn’t Hap’s heart that was the problem but more his liver, shot to hell from years of drinking.
John was struck by something Beth had told him not long after she’d gotten sick from the chemotherapy and the cancer. He’d been telling her she wasn’t alone, she had him, that he’d be by her side every step of the way. She’d touched his cheek, smiled a sad smile. “It’s my body, my sickness, and I’m alone with it. You can be here with me, hold my hand, wipe my brow. But I’ll still be alone with it.”
He’d argued with her, adamant she’d been wrong. She would never be alone, not while he was alive. But now, he finally understood what she’d meant. The club members would have his back without hesitation, but he had pulled the trigger. It was his actions that set him apart, his consequences to face. His life. The club was a beast of its own making. Every member was expected to sacrifice himself for the group as a whole. And that was exactly what he’d done when he’d killed the young buck. He’d sacrificed himself.
No matter how much he’d yearned to be a part of the club, a member who had fought to belong, a man who had prided himself with friends who had vowed to give their lives for him as he would give his life for them, in the end when it came right down to it, he was all he had. It was what Beth had been trying to tell him, to show him what it meant to be truly alone.
The realization cut through his muscles, slicing straight to his bones. He thought he might fall out of the chair and curl up on the floor and cry. Not for himself but for Beth. It tore him apart to imagine the pain she’d felt, how he’d been powerless to help her, how he hadn’t been able to understand what she’d gone through, how much she had really suffered.
“John,” Hap said.
“Yeah.” He shifted in his seat, pulling himself out of his thoughts. His forearm sparkled with the stripper’s body glitter. He’d thought he’d scrubbed most of her scent away, but the damn glitter was everywhere. The stuff would cling to his skin and hair for days. He rubbed his arm. The sight of it pissed him off, a reminder of another mistake.
“I asked when you think they’re going to retaliate.” Hap’s stare bore through him as though he were searching for a weakness.
“The kid was skimming off the top from everybody. If we didn’t get to him, someone else would have.”
“Maybe we should’ve let them,” Chitter said. He lit a cigarette. A skull tattoo with devil’s horns covered his forearm. His hair was a mass of dark curls except for a bald spot by his temple where he’d been struck by the handle of a gun. He’d been left with a scar, a white, raised patch of skin where the hair no longer grew. He was lucky it hadn’t been a bullet.
It had happened several years back. The club had organized a run, a party across the bridge on the Jersey side with the Crew, another chapter with whom they did business. It had been a typical event, bikes and booze, old ladies and sweeties. Chitter, being who he was and having the sixty-nine patch on his cut to prove it, had been caught with one of the Crew’s old ladies. A fight had broken out, fists and brass knuckles. When they’d tired themselves out or passed out, they’d found Chitter unconscious on the ground, with a gaping head wound but alive.
“Too much booze and women, and you turn into a bunch of Neanderthals,” Beth had said. She’d been holding an ice pack to Chitter’s skull. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” she’d told him. John had rubbed his jaw where he’d taken a punch. “Dumb asses,” she’d said and smiled at both men. John had pulled her into his arms, kissed her. It had been so long ago, but Christ, it felt like yesterday. Even Chitter’s scar reminded him of Beth.
John shook his head. “No,” he said to Chitter. “This was personal. We agreed I was the one who would handle it.”
Hap continued strumming his fingers on the table. In the bar the sound of balls cracking on the pool table filled the silence. A girl’s voice rose above the noise. The door to the back room flew open.
Chitter jumped to his feet. “What the hell?” he said.
Candy, Beth’s niece, burst into the room, pointing her finger at first Chitter and then Hap, stopping on John. She was crying; mascara blackened her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Her lip was still swollen from where the young buck’s fist had struck her mouth.
“You,” she said to John. “You did this.” She lunged at him, punching her small fists on his arms and chest. He didn’t protect himself and let her hit him. He turned his head away. She was swinging at him with everything she had, landing blow after blow and barely making an impact. She was too thin, and there were track marks on her arms. John suspected she was using heroin or maybe cocaine. Either way, she was addicted to something, and he suspected the young buck had had something to do with that too.
Chitter grabbed her by the waist, pulled her off John. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time for you to go.” She swung and kicked, trying to get at John, to break free from Chitter’s grasp.
The men in the bar were laughing. “Ain’t she a wild one,” one of them said.
“Don’t just stand there,” Chitter said, struggling to keep a hold of her. “Someone grab her legs before she kicks me in the balls.”
She was screaming obscenities, calling out names directed at John, but he didn’t allow himself to fully hear everything she was saying. “How could you? You bastard!” she hollered. Her voice carried through the bar. “Murderers! Every last one of you!”
Chitter and two other members dragged her outside before returning to the bar and meeting room. Candy raced back in, ban
ged on the door. “Uncle John,” she cried. “How could you?” she wailed. “I loved him. Do you hear me? Uncle John. You bastard!” she shrieked. “I loved him!”
“Get her out of here,” Hap said, and Chitter motioned for one of the guys to take care of it. Candy’s hollering and sobs finally stopped when she was put on a bike and driven away.
John kept his eyes on the table, his hands on the bottle of beer Chitter had put in front of him. Chitter slapped John’s shoulder. “Crazy bitch,” he said.
John took a long swallow, but otherwise, he didn’t move. He stayed in his seat across from Hap. He’d done the right thing. He’d promised Beth he would watch over her niece. He’d done it for the club. He’d done what he’d had to do. And he would do it all over again, he decided, no matter how sick it made him feel inside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Who’s Parker?” Jackie asked.
“He’s an old friend,” Becca said and turned toward the bed where her father gripped the blanket. His skin was drained of color; pain etched the lines on his face. She stepped forward, wanting to comfort him, then stopped. She didn’t know what to do. She found herself clinging to the familiar, to the angry knots in her heart that she’d pulled tight for so many years, and yet desperately wanting to show him the compassion that was inside of her too.
She reached for his hand.
He pulled his hand from hers with more force than she thought he was capable of in his current condition. “No.” He was angry suddenly. “No.” His voice was scratchy but strangely strong. He flailed his arms. If Becca hadn’t moved away, he might’ve struck her. “What do you know?” he hollered. “Why are you here?”
“Maybe I should just go.” Becca pointed to the door and quickly walked out of the room. She rushed down the stairs with Romy at her side. At the bottom of the steps, she put her back against the wall. Her cell phone, which she’d stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans, buzzed. She pulled it out, read the text message from Matt. How are you? How’s your dad? Can we talk? I’m sorry. I miss you.
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