by Alex Flinn
You were meant for me,
And I was meant for you.
I never wanted to get off the ride.
When I got home, the light in the kitchen was on. I went to turn it off
A voice stopped me.
“Happy birthday, dear stepson,” it sang.
Walker. My radar was going nuts. Walker in a good mood, his face like a big, pasted-on smiley face, and almost as real. My every instinct screamed flight. But that wasn’t the right thing to do. Instincts were all wrong here.
“Happy birthday to you,” he concluded.
I turned. “Hello, Walker.”
Did my voice shake? He stood, back toward me, by the table. He was still dressed from work, in a gray suit so expensive and clean it gleamed like a knife in the fluorescent light. Smoke curled around his balding head. He turned.
“Out late celebrating?” Still pleasant.
“Yeah.” I huddled closer to the doorway.
A frown.
“I mean, yes. Yes, sir.”
“Your mother said it was your birthday.” Like he’d meant to throw a party. “How old?”
“Sixteen.” You bastard.
“Sixteen…” Walker took a long drag on the cigarette, then released a puff into my face.
Don’t react.
“And never been kissed?” he said.
“Can I go to my room now?”
“No.” Walker took another drag. “Hey. I’m just trying to talk to you.”
“Right.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What?” But I remembered and gave in. “Yes. Yes, I’ve been kissed.”
“Wouldn’t have thought so. Mama’s boy like you.”
Which I ignored.
“Been laid, too?”
Which I couldn’t.
“No, sir.”
“Good. Women are nothing but problems. But you’ve got a girlfriend? Or maybe a boyfriend?”
I looked away. A small ant, the kind Mom called a sugar ant and said you couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard you cleaned, made its way up the door frame. Did Walker see it? Not yet. But he would. I thought about the best way to kill it without Walker freaking out.
“You dumb, boy?”
“What?” I shifted from foot to foot, and as I did, moved my hand up to cover the ant.
“You don’t like me much, do you?”
I squashed the ant, my eyes never leaving Walker’s.
He continued. “Why don’t you like me? You’re such a crybaby. You get all whiny about a few everyday arguments.”
Rolling the ant corpse between my fingers, then dropping my hand to my side. I looked at Walker, and the just-being-friendly expression on his face. I wanted to blow him away.
“You think you have it so bad here?” He swept his hand across the kitchen, taking in the dark wood cabinets, the top-of-the-line appliances. “You don’t know what bad is. I grew up in a shack. Two rooms, and my daddy owned both of them. He used to set his shotgun sights on my mama when she cleaned house, made sure she did it right. Couple times he even pulled the trigger, came this close to blowing her brains out.” Walker held two fingers up, touching one another. “Think we went crying to the authorities? They’d have laughed their asses off. We helped her clean the mess. That’s just the normal way things are.”
The normal way things are. I stared at Walker, wondering if this was a warning of things to come. Wondering if he had a gun, if he’d use it. I looked down.
“I want us to get along, Michael. I’m not a bad guy.”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Again.”
“What was it?”
“You got a girl?”
I shrugged. Before Walker, I had girlfriends. I had a life. Now my life was avoiding Walker and his bad moods, nursing dreams about leaving home, which I could not do. Staying from some bizarre idea of protecting my mother, which I could not do either. Mom and I had been close before. Friends more than parent and child, but close. Since Walker, though, I’d found myself hating her almost more than I hated him. Because he wasn’t my parent and she was. Because she didn’t understand what it was like to watch. Because sometimes my escape fantasies were so twisted I even scared myself.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.”
Walker smiled and drew a bill from his wallet. “Take her out someplace. On me.”
The bill was new. So sleek and crisp I thought it might cut me, and I didn’t want to take it, like some grateful beggar, taking his handout. But I did. A ten, cheap bastard. Still, I folded it in half, pocketed it, and started toward the door.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem.”
I opened the door, still feeling the ant corpse on my hand, the bill in my pocket, and hearing Walker’s words.
“Your mom and I could use some time together.”
I walked through the darkness to my room.
THIS YEAR
“You showed up,” Angela says Thursday morning when I walk into her office.
“Yeah, I’m a little surprised I did.”
“I’m not. You seemed like a smart kid.”
“Coming here means I’m smart?”
“Knowing when you need help means you’re smart. Also, your choice of attorney was brilliant.” She leans her chin on tented fingers. “So now, tell me why you’re here.”
I glance out the window. I can see the Rickenbacker Causeway bridge, and if I followed it, I could almost find Walker’s house. I look back at Angela.
“I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot,” I say. “All the time, really. I want to know if there’s anything I can do … to help her. Maybe talk to her attorney or the police. Can I do that without giving myself away? I don’t want to go to a foster home.”
“You probably couldn’t.”
Her words are like a door, slamming shut. I remember what she said about leaving the carnival, about not running. But I’m not sure I’m willing to give it up yet. I won’t give it up for nothing, that’s for sure.
“Will it help my mother if I talk to them?” I ask.
“That would depend what you have to say.”
I pull a newspaper clipping out of my pocket, one I swiped from the library yesterday. It’s just like all the others, calling my mother a trophy wife and a gold digger, making it sound like she married Walker for his money, then bashed his brains in to get her hands on it. The idea of my mother bashing anyone’s brains in is impossible to me. And this article says Walker was planning to leave her. As if.
I say, “Know what the problem is with being a trophy wife?”
Angela smiles. “I can think of several.”
“The problem is you get the kind of man who wants a trophy wife.” I gesture at the article. “I want to tell them this is bullshit! They’ve got it all wrong. She wasn’t the bad guy in this. He was. He beat her. He terrorized us … her. And even days he didn’t, even when he was in a great mood, there was always the threat of it, always. We never knew if he’d come home with roses or a shotgun or what.”
I remember my mother that day on the balcony, afraid to step onto the sand for fear of missing Walker’s call, because of what he’d do if she wasn’t there, waiting. Now I think if I’d only gotten her down onto the beach, I could have gotten her to leave him. But I didn’t. I’d failed. She was trapped like a minnow in a tidepool, and I never did anything to get her out.
Until now. I glance at the ocean again.
Angela’s voice interrupts me. “And do you think that will help?”
“I don’t know. You’re the lawyer. Don’t they cut you a break if you kill someone before they kill you? Self-defense or something like that?”
“If it is self-defense. But it’s hard to claim self-defense if you knock someone on the head from behind.”
“She didn’t…”
“The fatal blow was struck from the rear. You didn’t know that? That’s the big problem everyone’s having with her se
lf-defense claim.”
I look away, picturing it. “He was a monster. Killing him was a public service. No one should be in jail for it.”
“See, that’s exactly the kind of thing you don’t say to lawyers. Your mother killed a man, Michael. She freely admits she did it. Her options are limited. There’s only so much you can accomplish. You need to decide whether it’s worth putting yourself on the line.”
“She doesn’t belong in jail.”
“You may be right. And this guy sounds like a total slime. But—”
“I am right. I can’t handle… I mean, I was out of there. I’d escaped. But I can’t go on like nothing happened. I can’t stand that she’s in jail for this. She doesn’t belong there. She’s not like people think she is. She’s just … weak.”
For the first time, Angela’s face changes. She stands like she’s going to walk toward me, but she doesn’t.
“I understand,” she says.
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“Okay. That’s fair. But I sympathize. It must be hard, living with that.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about her. What’s going to happen?”
Angela sits back down. “There will be a trial. You know that. Your mother’s confession means the state doesn’t have to prove she did it. At first she tried to claim self-defense, but with a blow from behind … so her attorneys are defending her based on battered-spouse syndrome instead. That’s saving that his abuse of her was so severe, that she felt so trapped, like the only way out was to kill him before he killed her.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Exactly. But people—and juries—are suspicious of battered-spouse syndrome. We don’t want to believe a man can trap a woman like that. We all believe we would be able to leave if we were in that situation.”
“Do you believe that?”
Angela doesn’t answer, and I say, “People don’t know what it’s like. I could tell them what he did to her. I’m not the one on trial, so I could tell them.”
Angela nods. “But there are risks, Michael. You talk about escaping—that possibility would be gone. They would put you in a foster home.”
“I know it.”
“The other thing is, after you told your side of the story, they’d get to ask you questions. And sometimes they can make the story look very different, even if you’re telling the truth.”
“What would they ask me?”
Angela doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then she stands and walks toward me.
“You didn’t like Walker Monroe, did you?”
“I already told you I—”
“Did you?”
She says it sharply, and I realize she’s showing me what they’d do. Cross-examining me. I say, “No. I hated him.”
“Hated him. Did you discourage your mother from going out with him?”
“Yes. I knew from the beginning that—”
“But she didn’t listen to you, did she?”
“No.”
“She married him anyway?”
“Yes, she did.”
“And after they married, you said, they fought a lot, right?”
“I said he hit her,” I say.
“You were home when this happened? You saw it? You saw him hit her?”
“Yes.”
“Over and over?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t do anything about that, did you?”
“No. I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t.” She steps closer. “You never called the police, did you?”
“No.”
“Your mother and Walker Monroe were married for about two years?”
“Right.”
“And during that time, you’re saying they fought, what, once a week?”
“More than that. It might have been that at the beginning.”
“Twice a week?”
“Probably.”
“And you called the police how many times?”
The room is silent, and I stare at her. “I could never have—”
“I’m sorry. How many times did you say?”
I give up. “I never called the police.”
“You expect a jury to believe that you, a devoted son—and a football player—watched your mother get beaten up maybe a hundred times, and you never called the police once? You just sat and watched?”
“I didn’t watch. I tried, but I couldn’t … do anything.” I feel like I might cry, but I swallow it.
She steps away. “You love your mother, right Michael?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“You’d say or do anything to keep her from going to jail, wouldn’t you?”
I nod.
“No further questions.”
She walks back and sits behind her desk.
“That’s what attorneys do, Michael.”
“So you’re saying it’s hopeless?”
“I didn’t say that at all. I’m saying you need to be ready for it. You have to get rid of this idea that you’re going to go in there and say, ‘He was a bad guy. He deserved it,’ and everyone’s going to say, ‘Oh, okay.’ Unfortunately, the world is full of scumbags, and there are still laws against killing them. The state attorney will fight hard. If you get into it, you have to be ready to fight harder.”
I think about that. Finally, I say, “Can you get me ready for it?”
“Maybe. It won’t be a sure thing, but I can help prepare you.”
The intercom on Angela’s desk buzzes.
“Angela, Mr. Pereira’s here to sign the documents you prepared. Can you see him a moment?”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure.” To me she says, “Sorry. I have to take this—very rich, very codependent client. Just think about it a minute, okay?”
I nod. “I never stop thinking about it, actually.”
LAST YEAR
The breaking point.
Five thirty. I woke with Kirstie’s words in my head: At the breaking point. Then my mother’s from last week: He says he’ll kill us both if I leave. The words circled like turkey buzzards as I dressed soundlessly and brushed my teeth in darkness.
They circled:
…at the breaking point
He’ll kill us if I leave
…at the breaking point
He’ll kill us if I leave
Chasing each other until they merged together, becoming one sentence:
He’s at the breaking point and he’ll kill us if I leave.
I walked to the bus stop, trying not to think of Kirstie. I’d told her I’d be back that night, but I wouldn’t. It had been okay last night. No one had gotten hurt. But I couldn’t chance it again, couldn’t let my dick—or even destiny—make my decisions for me. I couldn’t go.
Yet I felt Walker’s ten in my pocket, nudging me, saying I could.
The money screwed everything up. Before the money, I’d had no choice. Now I had a choice, a bad one: Go back to the fair, see Kirstie, and leave Mom home with Walker. Or stay home and hear him gripe—or worse—about my being there.
I couldn’t go.
I walked along the seawall that separated our street from the bay. Kids around here climbed in to dip their feet, so the rocks were littered with soda cans and cigarette butts. Usually I liked walking around it anyway, first thing. It was peaceful.
But today, even before I reached the water, I heard the commotion, like fireworks below the surface. The water was leaping, churning, white and silver with something flying out of it. I stepped closer. The motion stopped, then started again a few feet away.
It was fish, dozens, hundreds, leaping to escape an unseen predator. They came out of the water an instant, then dropped back in.
I couldn’t see what was chasing them, but I knew they were fighting to survive. They swam in schools all day, but dammit, when a predator hit, it was every fish for himself.
Then it stopped. The water was silent again, so still and blue I could see my face.
�
��Michael Daye!”
Miss Hamasaki’s voice was sharp, so I knew it wasn’t the first time she’d called on me.
“Sorry.” A few snickers around me.
“What was the main theme of The Great Gatsby?”
Which, apparently, we were still reading in English class.
A few more snickers. Then some AWOL part of my brain made my mouth say:
“Destiny.”
Miss H. looked surprised, and no one was even trying to hide their laughter anymore.
“Destiny?” Miss H’s voice was far too gentle. “Why, Michael?”
Walker was right. I should have reread the book. I had no idea what it had to do with destiny—or why I’d said it. But now I was stuck.
Behind me, some joker started a low Duuuuuuhhhhhhh. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, flunking out of school. I stared at the book cover.
Then the answer came. I said, “Daisy was Gatsby’s destiny. He bought the house across from hers because he had to. He didn’t have a choice, even if he was just going to stare at her green light across the water. It was what he was meant to do.”
Miss H. was nodding. So, like nut jobs always are, I was encouraged.
“Gatsby was a pawn. He ends up taking the rap for something she did and dying for it. But it was okay. It was what he wanted, what he was meant for.”
You were meant for me,
And I was meant for you.
“Destiny is worth dying for,” I said.
No one laughed now. They stared, silent, like I’d said something scary. Maybe I had.
Miss Hamasaki was still nodding.
After class, she approached me.
“Are you all right, Michael? Is everything okay at home?”
No! I wanted to scream it. No!
But I remembered what happened when I told Mr. Zucker. I said, “I’m fine.”
“Because if you ever need to talk, I’m here, Michael.”
“I’m fine. Look, I’m late for history class—it’s all the way across the building.”
The rest of the morning I stared ahead, ignoring everyone like I did. That was until after fourth period, on the way to lunch, I ran into the one person who wouldn’t be ignored.
