Kin

by Kealan Patrick Burke

  “I said is there a problem here?”

  Louise glanced to her right, into the face of Robbie Way, her manager. He was at least ten years her junior and seemed condemned to use his authority to compensate for his lack of good looks, charm, and physique. His skin was pale and supple, slack around the dull gray eyes, and speckled with angry red pimples around the chin and nose. Now those eyes were narrowed, and fixed on Louise.

  “There ain’t no trouble.”

  “What?”

  “I said there ain’t no trouble here.”

  Robbie turned his attention to the men at the table. All but Ty had resumed eating. The manager watched them for a moment, then sidled up to the big man. “Everything all right, sir?”

  Louise felt her guts coil.

  Ty, armed with his most winning smile, nodded once and held up a flaccid cheeseburger seething with grease. “Sure is,” he said, beaming. “We were just asking Miss Daltry here if she could get us some A1 sauce. Not sure she heard me properly though. It’s what I get for eating with my mouth full, I guess.” He chuckled, and Robbie smiled. Nobody seemed compelled to point out that the burger was untouched, and that there was no food in Ty’s mouth.

  “I’ll take care of that for you right away,” Robbie said, and turned, his thin fingers squeezing Louise’s arm as he led her away from the table toward the counter. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothin’,” she replied, sourly.

  “Didn’t look like nothing.” They reached the counter and he plucked a bottle of A-1 from beside the cash register, then looked squarely at her. “This can’t keep happening, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “No… I don’t think you do. This isn’t some sleazy bar where you get to back-talk the customers for ogling you, or get up in their faces because they were staring at your tits. This is a restaurant, Louise. We serve food. We get kids and old folks in here. Last thing we need is for the place to be in the newspaper because a waitress decked a regular. Case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly roping them in as it is.”

  Louise felt like a child, but couldn’t summon the will to raise her head and look the manager in the eye, opting instead to just stare at the floor, and the still-wet boot prints from whomever had come in last.

  “Problem is,” Robbie went on, “Half the guys we get in here only come to look at you anyway. We all know the food is crap, and Elmo’s Pizza is only two blocks from here, but have you seen the waitresses over there?” He shuddered. “They’ve got some kind of faux Italian thing going on, which would be fine if their ancestors didn’t all hail from Montreal.”

  She smiled at that, and nodded. Robbie chose to take it as an encouraging sign. “You’re a good looking woman, Louise. You gotta expect to have to take some shit from these guys, and learn to let it go right over your head. It’s the only way you’re going to last in this business.”

  Louise sighed and offered him the smile of understanding she knew he was waiting for. Unfortunately, Robbie was another dreamless wonder. He assumed anyone who worked under him entertained the same grand notions of one day opening up a restaurant of their very own as he did. Somewhere along the crooked road of his life, the young man before her had considered his options and found but a single route still open to him. He’d hurried down that road, his mind fixated on the one thing that would allow him to retain his pride, and had done so with such veracity that it had brainwashed him, consumed him, and now anything beyond that single well-trodden path seemed incomprehensible, perhaps even threatening to him because it was a facet of life of which he would never get a taste. Louise imagined his apartment dark, damp and empty, with Robbie in the bathroom, still dressed in his trademark white shirt, red tie and black pants with the razor sharp creases, practicing the many expressions of authority and stern speeches he needed to excel at his job.

  It was this summation of his character in Louise’s mind that negated his words to her now. Everything he told her was trite, pulled straight from The Idiot’s Guide to Diner Management or some other textbook dedicated to showing you what you already knew but needed to see in writing.

  “Thank you,” she said, and exhaled heavily.

  “You’re welcome,” Robbie replied, obviously pleased with himself. “Now bring this bottle down to that gentleman’s table.” He slid the A-1 into her palm and watched her carefully.

  “Okay.” She started to turn, then paused and looked back into his expectant face. “Can I take a five minute smoke break after that?”

  Robbie frowned, shirked back his shirtsleeve and checked his watch, then sighed. “Five minutes. But do it around back. I don’t need smoke blasting in on people while they’re eating every time someone opens those doors.”

  Louise nodded and headed away. As she approached Ty’s table, the large man looked up, mouth stuffed with cheeseburger, a smear of cheese on his lower lip.

  Dead eyes, she thought.

  “About time, sugar tits,” he mumbled around his food and reached out a hand for the bottle.

  Breathing hard with anticipation, she grabbed his wrist with her left hand and quickly yanked it aside.

  The men froze.

  Ty’s eyes bugged. “The hell you think you’re d—?”

  “Hey!” Robbie called, and she heard his perfectly polished shoes slapping the tiles.

  “Sorry,” she said, aware it would not be clear to whom she’d been speaking as she swung the sauce bottle into the side of Ty’s head.

  * * *

  Later, she would wonder if it was possible that her thoughts had somehow summoned him, pulled his likeness from the ether, a mixture of memory and yearning designed to torment her further.

  But he was real.

  She took the long way home after spending three hours in a cafe, nursing a cup of scalding hot coffee and feeling sorry for herself until it was close to the time she’d normally be clocking out at the Overrail.

  She felt no satisfaction from what she’d done to Ty Wilkinson, though she didn’t regret it. The son of a bitch had it coming, and God alone knew how many battered women in the man’s life she had struck a very literal blow for today. And yet she felt nothing but emptiness. Ty had been a victim by proxy, a piñata for all the pent-up anger, frustration, and self-hatred that had been gathering within her over the past few months.

  As she turned the corner on East Pleasant Avenue, the hair prickled on the nape of her neck. She tugged up the collar of her fur-lined parka and shivered. It was cold, the sidewalks like polished glass, the wind dragging its ragged nails across her cheeks.

  What the hell had she been thinking coming to Detroit?

  It was a silly question of course, one she would have been better not asking herself again, for the answer never failed to further darken her thoughts.

  She had come here because of Wayne, whom she’d loved, whom she feared she still loved, despite realizing long ago that every second word that spilled from his mouth was a lie, his promises glass birds destined to shatter sooner or later against the cold hard surface of reality. And the worst truth of all, the black knot in her heart that she couldn’t unravel, was that for this life, for this misery, she had abandoned with hardly a second thought a man and a child who had truly loved her, dumped them for a yellow brick road that had led her straight into a wasteland. She’d shut the door and driven away without looking back at the sad weathered man and his simple-minded boy, who would never understand the lure of her dreams, the hunger for ambition that drove her. Into Wayne’s car and out of their lives, headed for a recording studio in Detroit, where Wayne’s cousin Red was as eager as he to make her a star.

  700 miles later, she’d realized her mistake.

  There was the cold, a development she had anticipated but which still came as a shock to her system. Even so, her spirits held. She was prepared to make sacrifices for the sake of her career, and if singing her heart out in an icy room while the whole world got buried under six foot of snow outside was what it took, then so be
it.

  But there was no studio, and for all she knew never had been.

  According to Red, he’d been forced to sell his studio a month before when the bank threatened to take his house for failure to make mortgage payments. From the look of the man—shifty eyes, shiny red leisure suit, hair in cornrows, smile so full of gold it made her wonder why he hadn’t sold them instead of the studio to save his house—they’d been had. Wayne would tell her later that he thought Red had a drug problem, that he was a habitual user and a compulsive liar. Three months of ever-worsening misery would pass before Louise would lose her cool enough to tell him that maybe he and Red had the latter attribute in common.

  And Wayne would stun her, figuratively and literally, by responding with his fists, breaking her nose and two of her teeth in the process. It was the first time he’d hit her, and wouldn’t be the last.

  And still she wouldn’t leave him. She couldn’t. Despite his infrequent bursts of violence, she was drawn to him by the other part of him, the part that held her in bed at night and sang songs in her ear, the part that told her everything was going to be all right and that she should never doubt that he loved her. The tender side of him that promised someday everything would work out, that he never meant to hurt her. It’s just that sometimes you shoot your mouth off a little, that’s all…

  She supposed that today she had proven how hot-headed she herself could be. After all, didn’t what she had done to Ty for his ill-chosen remarks make her no better or worse than Wayne?

  He was her anchor. That was it. Her anchor in a hurricane, the tether that kept her from being swept away in an ugly wind that might destroy her in a maelstrom of loneliness, of isolation and fear, a fear that was infinitely worse than her fear of him when his moods turned black.

  He was all she had left.

  Wayne, and the dreams that stubbornly refused to leave her be.

  Dreams, hope, and her memories of better times.

  Wincing against the bitter sting of the cold, she pictured Jack and his son standing at the door to their rundown old farmhouse, the red dust swirling about their feet then rising behind the tires of Wayne’s car to obscure them from view, leaving nothing but dark crooked smudges amid that cloud, over which the eave of the sagging roof cut a red triangle from the clear blue sky.

  She blinked away tears, and stepped over a mound of slush to cross the street. Her apartment was close now, and a dull pang of unease passed through her. Wayne would not take too well the news of her being fired, and though Louise had no doubt she could pick up something else soon, he would be sure to make a production out of it, as if berating her was a ritual he had a religious obligation to fulfill. But she knew his tirade would be nothing more than a means of avoiding reality yet again. She had lost her job; he’d never had one, and probably figured if he gave her a hard enough time about getting fired, she wouldn’t think to point out his own insufficient contributions to their survival. He smoked too much, drank too much, and frequently vanished on late night walks she had long ago ceased believing were as benign as he made them out to be.

  Sighing heavily, she told herself that at least Ty hadn’t pressed charges today, a development that had surprised her until she realized having her arrested might mean word would spread about what had precipitated the drama between them, and he would be understandably leery about such details hitting the streets where his wife might hear it. It was about the only positive she could find in another dismal day.

  Someone was standing outside the apartment.

  For a moment, she thought it might be Wayne, but as she drew closer, she saw that the body was too thin and a little too short. Only the jacket he wore looked the same. The man stood there, staring up at the windows on the second floor, alternating between stamping his feet on the sidewalk and blowing into his cupped and ungloved hands. She felt sorry for him being out here so ill-equipped for the harsh cold, but had no notion of stopping to tell him so or to offer him charity, which in this part of the city, was most likely what he wanted. The streets were too dangerous here, and if he wasn’t a bum hoping for a handout then chances were he was waiting for some unlucky sucker to rob.

  Louise surreptitiously reached for her purse and unzipped it. Inside was the can of Mace Marcia at the Overrail had given her on her first day, after Louise told her she wasn’t driving home, but walking. Girl, Marcia had said, with a disapproving shake of her head, Around here, no one walks anywhere unless they’re carrying a gun. The threat was worse at night, which was why Louise had requested the day shift, but in winter, when the light faded early, there was little difference.

  As she approached her building, stepping off the curb to avoid having to pass too close to the man, he stopped his bouncing and turned. His lower face was hidden by a threadbare black scarf, a wool cap pulled down almost to his eyes.

  She saw that he was young, the visible part of his face unlined by the wringer through which all young men were passed as the dark secrets of life were eventually revealed to them.

  Louise ducked her head and moved past him.

  He mumbled something to her.

  “Sorry,” she said, nerves jangling, and quickened her pace. It was not a question, but an apology that she could not stop to listen. She hadn’t been able to make out the words, but it had sounded like he’d said “Wanna sleep.” Trying hard not to think too much about what such a cryptic message might mean, she trotted up the steps of the building and quickly snatched her key from the jumbled guts of purse, her hands trembling from the day’s ardor as she drove it into the lock and turned. When the man spoke again, his voice was clearer and this time his words made her freeze, every hair on her body standing on end.

  You’re dreamin’.

  Eventually, she turned.

  The man—the boy—had pulled down his scarf to reveal an uncertain, yet hopeful grin, and with him came a tsunami of emotion that crashed down on Louise, sucking the air from her lungs.

  “Oh God.”

  Her past approached her in small careful steps, wreathed in the smells of dust and leaves and forgotten warmth, but it was only a memory, as she feared was the boy standing before her.

  It had to be a memory. Or a ghost.

  His eyes were wide, and alive, as he came to her. “Mom… it’s me.”

  -15-

  Finch was there when they brought her home, though he tried not to let himself be seen.

  The Lambert House was modest but attractive. A white-tract home with brown decorative shutters and dormer windows, it was set just far enough apart from its neighbors to avoid looking like part of a subdivision, which is exactly what it was—just one of thirty-nine buildings of similar design. The house was relatively new, had not yet conceded defeat to Ohio’s scorching summers or freezing winters. The roof looked pristine, the windows polished, the lines straight, the angles sharp. The lawn was neatly tended. But Finch knew that if there were any validity to the claim that houses absorbed the emotions of their owners, the Lambert home would soon begin to sag. The windows would darken even in sunlight, spots of dirt would speckle the siding, the bones beneath the skin of the house would weaken, and cracks would appear. There would be too much hurt and misery for the house to remain standing proud.

  He watched as a gray SUV slowed and turned into the driveway. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see the passengers, only a darker version of a sky pregnant with rain, but he knew the car, had seen it many times before. It had spent its fair share of time in his own driveway over the years.

  There were no reporters at the house. They had kept vigil there like hippies at a folk festival since the day the news broke about the murders, but as soon as the murderer was named and his death announced, they started to lose interest. Killers were always popular in the news, particularly one this savage, but dead ones weren’t worth the hassle, not when the space could be filled by the latest atrocity in the Middle East. Even at the height of the frenzy, coverage of the Alabama murders had paled in comparison
to that of beheaded engineers and assassinated politicians in Iraq. Now, the farther away from the epicenter of the massacre you went, the further into the paper you had to look to find mention of what had happened in Elkwood. It was a different world these days, Finch realized. Since 9/11, society’s gaze had shifted outward in search of blame, to places unseen and seldom heard of except in grainy pictures on the news. Everyone was looking for the boogeyman. The worries of a nation were with their soldiers, no longer on their own stoops. And every day there was more cause for grief as word was sent home of another casualty. The internal corruption and strife of America went unnoticed, its troubles measured only by the amount of bodies and flag-draped coffins.

  Finch sighed, shifted in the car seat and lit a cigarette. The smoke filled the Buick and he waved a hand through it.

  He had been there, at the core of the unrest in Iraq, and had seen Hell firsthand. It had infiltrated him, possessed him, destroyed him, and they’d sent him home, promising he would be fine. But he hadn’t. He’d taken Hell home with him. The army, the government, some faceless son of a bitch in an expensive suit chomping on a cigar a thousand miles away from the conflict, had put him there and hadn’t been able to exorcise it from him when he’d returned. Despite the pride and strength he’d always claimed were his biggest assets, his turmoil was so great he’d sought assistance, but a series of stops at the VA center and hospital in Columbus yielded little help. He was put on a six-month waiting list and told to sit tight. And in that time, he read the papers and watched the news, and saw his fellow marines die of neglect, turned away by the very administration that had made so many promises. Die over there, or die at home, seemed to be the consensus, and in that respect, they held true to their word. Finch turned to alcohol, and briefly to drugs, but they only fed the horror inside him, fortified it, allowing his demons a legitimate stage from which to torment him. More marines had died. He quit watching the news, quit listening to the world.