Painted Boots

by Mechelle Morrison

  “Ouch,” I say, adding up my junk. “Twenty-seven points plus gin. Fifty-two.”

  Angella leans on her elbows and sips coffee from her oversized mug. “We’re playing a spade,” she reminds me.

  “Oh yeah. Seventy-seven.” I look up, meeting her gaze. “I fret about Em, sometimes. If you really want to know.”

  Angella takes another sip of coffee. “That girl is not how people are here. Maybe that’s why I never once suspected her.”

  “She’s obnoxious at school,” I say.

  “She kept that side of herself hidden, at least when she was around me. Still, sometimes I wonder how I lost sight of Kyle enough not to notice what was happening to him. The signs were there. The trips to the doctor. The stitches. Every time he got hurt I bought his explanation without question. I owe you for him, Aspen. If you had never come to Gillette he’d still be under that girl’s claw. He might have ended up like . . . like . . .”

  “He won’t end up like Evan,” I say softly. My face flushes with heat. I gather the cards and return them to their box. “Sorry. I don’t know if it’s okay to say his name. But Kyle told me about him. We emailed, when he was in Salt Lake. And I feel bad, because this morning I woke up early and instead of heading for the kitchen I hung out in my room, and I got. I mean I should tell you—”

  “Ray’s a good man,” Angella says suddenly. “A loving man. For a while there I thought I’d lost him too, right along with Evan. Kyle struggled after Evan died. But Ray was drowning. Grief devours your energy, you know?”

  “I do,” I say.

  “I could barely drag myself from bed in the morning. Ray was drinking too much. Our lives were crumbling. I had to make a choice and I chose my husband. After two years, Ray’s learned to be happy again. He’s almost himself. But Ray and I shut down, for months. We made safe harbor for each other, but we weren’t there for Kyle. Not really. I thought Kyle was okay, or at least coping, but I was wrong. He needs his friends to know his brother. He needs you to know. He’s barely started to talk things out, but. Ray will never be there for him. Not when it comes to Evan. I don’t know how much I can be there for him. It still breaks me, to have lost my son. I’m suggesting they’ll be times Kyle needs a shoulder. If you’re willing.”

  “We’re each other’s shoulder,” I say. “We talk about everything.”

  “I like knowing that. Kyle can be stubborn. I mistook his stubbornness for being okay. I should have known different. Behind his will, he’s always been a gentle boy. Articulate. Thoughtful. He has a poet’s heart.” Angella smiles, but it doesn’t dull the tears sparkling in her eyes. “Evan was different. His was a wild spirit. Always pushing boundaries. Ray loved that about him, but he felt a need to rein it, too. He made rules. What Evan could do. What he couldn’t. I supported Ray’s parenting. But our expectations buried Evan, sometimes.”

  I watch Angella as she watches the sunlight spread across the roof of the snow-covered barn. I don’t know what to say.

  “Lord, we pressured him.” Angella’s voice cracks. “It haunts me. The battles we fought seem worthless, now. All those words strung between us like barbed wire, and for what? I don’t know how much of all that played into his death. I’ll never know, I guess.”

  “I have stuff like that,” I say. “With my Mom.”

  “I’m so sorry that you do.” Angella dabs her tears with her fingertips. “But your Mom, she’d understand.”

  “I hope so,” I say.

  “It’s dangerous, to be wrapped up in the past. It blinded me to the present. I didn’t realize Kyle was miserable until I saw who he became with you. You’re there, Aspen. In his eyes. He’s nearly grown and, well. I support his feelings for you. His commitment is sweet. The second he heard what had happened there was no option. He packed our bags and we left. He drove through the night. Twelve hours, and stopping only for gas. The whole time he talked about you. How he cares for you. How you’re his one. At the hospital he fell asleep holding your hand. Do you remember?”

  “No. I wish I did, but I don’t. I’m glad you told me.”

  Angella touches my arm. “I’m glad he found you. I’m so pleased to see he’s happy.”

  My eyes sting with tears. My feelings for Kyle ache to be given words, but I don’t know if I’ll say things right. I mean, Dad sort of laughed when I tried explaining myself to him. He thought I was infatuated. “Kyle’s pretty much all I think about,” I say. “Being around him so much makes it tough to want to go back home with Dad.”

  Angella watches Ray drive a four-wheeler, pulling a trailer filled with hay, into the barn. “I’ve been thinking on that,” she says quietly. She takes a sip of coffee and turns to me, just as the doorbell chimes. We both twist toward the sound.

  “Stay here.” Angella tucks her hair behind one ear. “Please.” She sets her coffee mug on the table then scoots from the seat, tightening the sash of her robe. Her slippers pad like kitten paws as she walks toward the door.

  The entry echoes with the sound of metal, like a bolt sliding into place. In the moments of silence that follow, I imagine Angella standing on the stone slate floor, adjusting her robe before she opens the large oak door. But when she says, “What brings you here, Deb,” her tone isn’t welcoming. Her words are brittle, like sharp sticks falling on a steel drum.

  I’m curious, now, about Deb. I wonder who she is, and why she’s not welcome and what made her stop by unannounced. I scoot to the edge of the window seat, thinking I’ll creep toward the door and listen or even steal a little peek. But before I can move someone appears outside, at the place where the window meets the house.

  A girl stands there, pressed against the glass. She’s wearing a long white coat. Blonde hair fans from under her white crocheted cap. She turns toward the house then pauses, her face in profile as she stares at the barn.

  Em Harrelson.

  I melt beneath the table like hot wax, ignoring the sharp burst of pain in my side as my body contorts over the seat and onto the floor. Huddling there, I tuck my feet close to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees.

  Em takes a step, and then another, her movement betrayed by the rock salt Ray Thacker spread along his porch while I helped with breakfast.

  The storm door latch makes a single, pinging click. Its hinges creak faintly, a complaint I’ve never noticed until now. The chain at the top taps against the frame, a quiet shss shss shss. My heart beats like a moth trapped too close to light. Cold air rushes up my calves, as unwelcome as a tsunami.

  The back door quietly shuts.

  23

  EM TIPTOES ACROSS the kitchen floor, her boots hardly making sound. I squeeze against the base of the window seat and watch the swish of her white down-filled coat. I’d clamp my eyes shut against the sight of her, but I can’t seem to even blink. She stops at the counter’s edge, fingering the wood of the butcher block and giving me an all-too clear view of her. If she turns, she’ll see me. I don’t dare breathe.

  She edges round the barstools and pauses in the kitchen doorway, staring at the fire as it crackles and snaps. She’s listening to Angella and Deb, I guess; their conversation drifts from the front of the house. Quietly, she unzips her coat.

  The back door opens suddenly. It scares me; I almost scream. Cold air rushes into the room; Em whirls around. Her coat parts like a ladybug’s shell then drops into place.

  She’s wearing my belt.

  My belt! I make the slightest noise, a sort of gasp, just as Ray Thacker yells, “You’ll get the hell out of my house.”

  Em shakes her head, her eyes wide and scared. She steps back, away from Ray. “I’m here with my mom,” she says.

  “You could be here with God himself. Get out!”

  From the hallway Angella says, “But—who let you in here?”

  “Where’s Kyle?” Em asks. Her voice quivers. She folds her coat round her body, hugging it closed. “I haven’t seen him, not for two weeks now. I heard he took up with Ret—with that new girl, Aspen. I’m
worried for him. She, like, attacked me in the hall.”

  “Good god.” Ray digs his cell phone from somewhere in his duster. He touches it, like he’s checking email or something, then I think he slides it into the front pocket of his shirt. His shoulders heave—once up, once down—as he pulls his hat from his head and throws it aside. “You’re gonna straight-faced lie? I was there, Em Harrelson. I saw you brutalize that girl!”

  “I didn’t brutalize anybody! I was defending myself! That girl’s been after Kyle from the first day of school. It was because of her that things went too far!”

  Ray shakes his head. “Get out.”

  “But—”

  “You’re in my house uninvited. You want trespassing? On top of your suspension?”

  “I’m just thinking of Kyle! That girl’s probably hurting him, you know. She’s like that, I can tell. I thought to warn him, is all.”

  Hot tears flood into my eyes. I hate this! I hate how smoothly Em paints things her way. I want to run at her, screaming, and spit in her face. I want to rip my belt from around her waist the way she stole it from around mine. But for how much I ache to defend myself, I can’t. My memories of the time I spent under the grind of her boot heel are too strong. My body grows numb. I begin to shake.

  Ray grips the counter. His knuckles fade to white. “You think I haven’t seen what you did to my boy?” he asks. “You think he didn’t show me?”

  Em blinks once, then again. Behind her, Angella and Deb crowd in like inky ghosts, featureless in the unlit hall. Angella sniffles.

  But Ray is glacier ice, in terrible control. “I’ve seen the shit you dealt my son. Now you stand here in my home, expecting I’ll listen to you blame an innocent girl for your abuse? Is that how you’re playin’ this?”

  “I didn’t cut him,” Em says.

  “I don’t recall mentioning you did,” Ray answers quietly.

  Em shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I’m just sayin’. Kyle cut himself. On accident. He fell and stuff, running. Ask him, ‘kay? It happened all the time. I’d tell him, don’t be so clumsy. I’d tell him to watch out.”

  Deb Harrelson clears her throat. “Emmy, honey. It’s time we—”

  “But I haven’t seen him!” A tear glistens on Em’s cheek.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Deb says. “Ray and Angie would have told us otherwise. Let’s go. We’ve outstayed our welcome.”

  “Outstayed?” Ray asks. He takes one step forward, and then another.

  Em’s eyes flash with panic, like she’s just awakened from a nightmare. She runs from Ray, her footsteps clattering over the entryway slate. Angella Thacker slips into the kitchen.

  I erupt in tears.

  Ray shouts, “A person can’t outstay what was never offered in the first place,” and he slams the door. The house shudders, as though his fury is infectious.

  My fear boils over then, knotting my body with tension and renewing the bruising ache in my side. It hurts to cry, which only makes me cry more.

  24

  FOR THE FIRST time since leaving the hospital, showering feels good. I stand with my back to the water, wetting my hair and thinking. My stitches tug as I move—a feeling more irritating than painful—though they ached all morning thanks to my unexpected dive under the kitchen table.

  I was there for a while.

  As Em left, I wrapped my arms around the table’s post as though it was salvation. I wouldn’t come out, even when Angella begged. She finally dropped to her knees, crawled in next to me and pried me away from the furniture. Then she held me like an infant. I let her, because at first what she did reminded me of Kyle all those weeks ago in his truck. But Angella didn’t feel like Kyle or smell like Kyle or say the things Kyle would say, and my thoughts turned to Mom. I cried even harder. I missed her then, so much.

  While I cried Ray paced, the heels of his boots too loud against the floor. He punched the air and said things like, “Damn-it Angie, we’ve got it all on record, a right fine confession.” When Angella didn’t acknowledge him he stooped down, peering under the table. “Listen up,” he said, and thrust his cell phone toward us.

  Hearing Em blame her abuse on me again only made my crying worse. Ray boosted the volume. So we could hear, I guess, over my hard-core tears.

  That’s when Angella yelled, “Lord, Ray, just go on!”

  I smooth my fingers through my hair; a torrent of water gushes down my back. Thinking on how I cowered while Em stood there, wearing my belt and blaming me for hurting Kyle is, well, embarrassing. It stings—in some ways worse than being kicked. She’s looking to frame me with her truth. I need to do better than cling to a table leg and bawl.

  And anyway Em’s bullying feels harder to face than it did before. I don’t like the way it defines me—as a victim. A part of me can’t believe it, even with the proof of stitches and bruised ribs. I know my silence protects Em. But I can’t help it. It’s like by keeping quiet I somehow keep the truth less real.

  Going verbal seems confrontational, like I’ll just make things worse. Now I guess I have no choice. I’ll have to talk, starting with the principal. After him, maybe I’ll open up to my crisis counselor. Maybe I’ll give the history of my run-ins with Em to the police. But if all that talking doesn’t work I’ll need to be ready. I mean, Em is wearing my belt. I’m going to get it back.

  I turn and sigh, allowing the warm water to splash across my face. Right now I just want to relax. I want to think of nothing. It’ll all be easier to deal with once I’m better. I’ll talk to people then.

  I reach for the shampoo, groping along the tiled ledge to my left. A draft rolls over my body and I shiver.

  “Aspen.”

  My eyes fly open.

  “Hey, girl.” Kyle holds the shower door just wide enough for one smiling blue eye to peer through. “You’re looking good. Just a bit yellow-green.”

  “How’d you get in here?” Wringing my wash cloth, I dab the water from my face. I’d cover up, but he’s already seen all of me there is to see.

  Kyle grins, opening the shower door a little wider. “I picked the lock.”

  “Naughty boy,” I say.

  “My parents went into town and I’m wonderin’. You feeling well enough to let me in?”

  “The shower?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is your house locked?”

  Kyle laughs. “People in Gillette don’t lock their doors.” His dimple flashes. “Though I guess that doesn’t count the girl showering in my bathroom.”

  “Didn’t your parents tell you? Em came here today. She snuck in through the kitchen. Your dad threw her out.”

  Kyle’s gorgeous eyes darken. He frowns and says, “They—I’ll be right back.”

  I scrub myself then, like a maniac, top to bottom. I’m finishing my feet when he returns. He shuts the bathroom door and locks it, too—at least I think I hear it click. Through the frosted glass of the shower door, I watch him pull his shirt over his head. He yanks off his boots and socks. He steps out of his jeans and boxers.

  “Still good to go?” he asks.

  Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh.

  “Sure,” I say.

  He steps in and closes the door. We stand still as sculpture, staring at each other. Steam wraps around us like fog licking a rugged coast. Water collects in our lashes. It drips from our noses and chins.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Kyle says.

  I bite my lip and smile. He’s the beautiful one.

  He touches my stitches. “I need to kiss you, girl,” he says. “I need. To feel you.” His fingers travel to my stomach then trail upward.

  I make a little sound, a sort of oh-y “Ah.” My lungs can’t get enough air. Something, maybe adrenaline, replaces the blood in my veins.

  “I’ll be careful,” he continues. His touch wanders now, slow and warm on my skin. “I know you’re still healin’. You tell me, if I hold you too tight. You tell me if you hurt.” He cradles my face in the palms of his h
ands, lifting my chin until our mouths meet. I close my eyes and reach for him, my fingers clumsy on his waist. Beneath the warm layer of water, his skin is still cool from being outside. I swear I’ve never felt anything better in my life.

  Kyle’s heartbeat is everywhere—in his thighs and arms. It races in his chest. I want to ask if he’s okay but he’s kissing me, harder this time, his tongue tasting my teeth and filling my mouth. He has never kissed me like this before—like he’s starved and I’m his sole source of everything. But it’s more than that. His kisses wipe away my fear. I feel sure of him, of me. Of us.

  I break away and whisper, “Promise you’ll kiss me like this forever.”

  Kyle pulls a clinging strand of hair from my face. He rubs his thumb across the crest of my cheek. When he looks into my eyes, I see all the way to the corners of his soul. “I promise, girl,” he says. “I will.”

  25

  Journal Entry eleven | Aspen Brand | AP English

  I’ve been staying at the Thackers’ all week, healing while my dad works and probably spends his free time with Jesse, his new girlfriend. It bugs me that I haven’t seen much of him lately, though he calls me from work. This morning he picked me up and we went to the hospital. The doctor clipped my stitches then pulled them out with small sharp tweezers, one at a time. Soon a little pile of spiky black threads, looking sort of like a beginner’s try at tying flies, sat on a nearby white cloth covering a steel tray. The doctor said ‘Are they your first stitches? Do you want to keep them?’ I said HELL NO.

  It’s been good for me, this week, writing about what Em did. The ‘play-by-play’, Kyle calls it. It’s been better, though, talking with Kyle about how I feel. At first I didn’t think I could tell him. I felt embarrassed, and anyway, at first I didn’t have the words. I don’t know how it is for other people, but for me there’s this big gap between feeling something and verbalizing it and the bridge between the two requires time and translation. It’s not like that with Kyle though. He makes me feel safe. He waits, until I’m ready. Talking is easier, with him.