Fathers

by Matt Rogers

  ‘I think I’m about to go to war with your dad’s gang.’

  Tyrell didn’t really understand that.

  ‘Out,’ Slater said again, then pushed his door open and stepped down into the wind.

  As Tyrell followed him across the road to the rental car spot, Slater used his phone to pull up directions to Mass General.

  28

  Alexis knew what was happening.

  She hadn’t built up the courage to tell Violetta or King.

  She stood in the lobby, trying her best to get her hands to stop shaking. It was ludicrous when she thought about it. In the Bahamas she’d beat down two criminals who’d tried to rape her, but ruining this moment for the new parents was somehow more stressful.

  Then she reconsidered. Both Violetta and King had dealt with a whole lot worse than an unexpected guest. In comparison to what they’d seen in their lives, this was nothing.

  She kept reminding herself of that as Slater walked into OB-GYN with a twelve-year-old boy by his side.

  The kid was hurting, she realised, as soon as she saw him.

  Hurting in his soul.

  Suddenly all her concerns fell away, replaced by motherly instinct.

  She stooped slightly to get on his eye level, which didn’t take much. Only a slight bend in the knees. He was only an inch shorter than her. He’d be a tall man after a couple of growth spurts. Bigger than Slater. She met his gaze and noticed his pupils twitching, like he didn’t know where to look, and his eyes darted to the left. He was pretending his attention was captured by something else. Looking someone in the eyes was impossible for the boy right now.

  Maybe that was an indicator of where he’d come from. Looking someone in the eyes meant getting to know them, trusting them, and maybe he’d been hurt by everyone he’d ever got close to.

  She said, ‘Hi, Tyrell. I’m Alexis.’

  ‘Hi,’ the boy said. A weak voice. No confidence.

  He locked himself into a staring contest with the floor.

  He didn’t like the exposure of the lobby, she realised. All these people around them, flowing this way and that, the general din of a dozen murmured conversations, that quiet hustle and bustle of a hospital ward.

  Slater was on the same train of thought as her. ‘Why don’t we find somewhere a little quieter?’

  She was already ushering the boy through the waiting area, down a couple of long corridors, so white and stark they almost had to squint against the glare of the overhead lights. Tyrell inched behind them, shoulders hunched, which put her alongside Slater.

  ‘You okay?’ she muttered in his ear.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Doesn’t matter about me.’

  She understood. He’d told her what had happened, and as shocking as it must have been to witness it, actually doing it was a whole different ball game. And Tyrell wasn’t even a teenager.

  Slater pulled her into a half-hug, more for the reassurance, and when she squeezed his midsection he spoke low into her ear. ‘I told him he could stay with us. Just for a few days. The alternative … won’t be good.’

  She didn’t even have to think it over.

  She just nodded.

  Again, that instinct, from somewhere deep within. They could give up on the boy, because really, why shouldn’t they? There were thousands of poverty-stricken kids in Boston alone, and they couldn’t save all of them. But something about it being right in front of them made it different. She knew this was the tipping point. If they let him become someone else’s problem, the rawness of what he’d been through would drown him. He’d live an awful life, riddled with trauma and addiction. It was almost guaranteed. Foster care would give him all the time in the world to dwell on what he’d done, and he’d collapse inward. Or, they could give him their time, their care. Not forever. Just long enough for it to be made right.

  The sacrifice seemed worth it.

  And what were they sacrificing? Superficial comforts? Tyrell had been forced to fatally shoot his father.

  There was only the problem of King and Violetta being kept in the dark, but somehow that didn’t seem so important anymore.

  Violetta was still in the birthing suite. She hadn’t been moved to the postpartum ward yet. Right before they went inside, Alexis said softly, ‘Are there people looking for him?’

  ‘Probably,’ Slater muttered.

  ‘Bad people?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They went into the suite.

  29

  In an armchair at Violetta’s bedside, King cradled his son in his arms.

  As late morning transitioned into early afternoon everything had quietened down. Alexis had slipped out to get Slater. They still weren’t back. Violetta was awake and happy, on a low dose of painkillers. She lay on her side, facing King and Junior, hands under the side of her head.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she murmured.

  It snapped him back to reality. He hadn’t realised he’d zoned out, transfixed on the little pink face, the tiny hands, the tufts of thin hair.

  ‘It’s different to how I thought it’d be.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘In a good way?’

  ‘Better than good.’

  They barely noticed Rebecca enter to check in on Violetta and the newborn. King looked up from Junior when he heard her toe scrape the foot of the bed. Her eyes were pretty, but sunken.

  ‘Shift nearly over?’ he asked.

  She smiled, but it was somehow sad. ‘Almost. Seven to seven.’

  ‘A.m. to p.m.?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s not so bad. I have tomorrow off.’

  ‘Sleep in,’ King said. ‘You’ve earned it.’

  She sighed. ‘Yeah.’

  He figured there was something going on in her personal life, but it wasn’t the right time or place to delve into that. He veered back into the comfortable realm of mindless small talk and was about to ask her if it had been a busy shift when Slater and Alexis stepped into the suite.

  They weren’t alone.

  King took in the sight of the lanky boy with the sad, wide eyes and looked straight at Slater. ‘Who’s this?’

  Slater let his eyes do the talking, making sure he latched onto King’s gaze and held it to communicate what he couldn’t say out loud.

  It was something like, Trust me on this. I had no other choice.

  King recognised it was because of Rebecca’s presence and nodded his understanding. ‘Hey. I’m Jason.’

  ‘Hey,’ the boy mumbled. ‘Tyrell.’

  Alexis looked like she’d been about to introduce Tyrell, but she clammed up at the sight of the nurse and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting.

  Rebecca got uncomfortable. She seemed to sense that the boy was an outsider and the dynamic was strange, so she hastily finished her checks, gathered her clipboard and shuffled out of the room without a word.

  Violetta’s eyes were half-closed, but there was a soft smile on her face. She flashed it at Tyrell, said, ‘Hi,’ quietly. No animosity, no questions. The motherly instinct, recognising his trauma, trying to soothe whatever was the problem.

  Alexis said, ‘Okay. That’s that. Tyrell, you want a soda?’

  ‘I guess, yeah.’

  ‘I’ll take you.’

  She led him out of the room with a hand on his upper back. She didn’t need to reach down. He was almost as tall as her.

  When the door closed behind them, King said, ‘What the fuck?’

  Slater exhaled, crossed the room toward them. ‘It’s been a fucking morning, man.’

  But he didn’t explain it yet. He had priorities. He reached King, put a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder, and squeezed. Then he leant down and looked into the clear blue eyes of Jason King Jr.

  ‘Hi there, pal,’ he whispered. ‘I’m your uncle.’

  King said, ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘If he had an uncle, it’d b
e me.’

  King shrugged. ‘True.’

  Slater squatted by the bedside in front of King, putting him on eye-level with Violetta lying on her side. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Good,’ she mumbled with a puppy-dog smile. ‘Just happy.’

  He squeezed her arm. ‘You’re a warrior. You managed okay?’

  ‘I managed,’ she said. ‘Would rather have been shot, though.’

  Often people said that without meaning it literally, but Violetta had the experience to substantiate her claim.

  King said, ‘We’re all caught up. Who the hell’s the kid?’

  Slater told them everything. There was no chance he wouldn’t have. He’d refined the story after giving it to Alexis, cut out the unnecessary parts, so he conveyed it succinctly. Within five minutes they had the key details.

  Violetta allowed herself a soft opiate-fuelled sigh, and she rolled onto her back. It seemed like nothing could bother her. ‘You’re a goddamn piece of work, Will.’

  ‘I don’t know how to take that.’

  She said, ‘You did the right thing. With all of it.’

  It softened him a touch, and it was like he didn’t believe it himself. ‘What if this catches up to us?’

  King said, ‘How?’

  ‘I killed some big shots, I think. All the parts added … it looks bad. Like a coordinated hit on an entire faction of dope dealers.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They’ll come for us, if they can find me. Could be war.’

  Again, King asked, ‘So?’

  Slater half-grinned. ‘You’re itching to pull a trigger, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. But if my hand’s forced…’

  Slater glanced sideways at Violetta, noting her facial expression. She was unreadable. Staring up at the ceiling, blissed out.

  Slater asked, ‘You good with that? Your man going off to war?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘God, you boys are dramatic. Take a break from yourselves.’

  King stifled a laugh.

  She said, ‘Whatever happens, happens. Junior will be safe. I can guarantee that. What you should be worrying about is what to do with Tyrell.’

  ‘Haven’t quite figured that out yet.’

  ‘Well, get those cogs turning. You made him your responsibility this morning, whether that was your intention or not. So it’s on you now. It’s all on you. Are you good with that?’

  Slater had to think, but the truth he came to was reassuring.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I am.’

  She looked at him, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her this serious. ‘Then you do whatever the fuck it takes to keep him safe. Because blood be damned, he’s yours now. Maybe he won’t be for long, but you’re going to run through every last scumbag that comes for him like they’re subhuman. That’s how it has to be, dealing with the world you stepped into this morning.’

  Still squatting, he didn’t look away from her. Many would, dealing with that sort of intensity. He stared into her eyes and didn’t blink and said, ‘Roger that, ma’am.’

  ‘I appreciate you coming,’ she said, her voice still soft. ‘It means the world. But Tyrell needs rest. I could see it clear as day in his eyes. Take him home. We’ll be home with Junior tomorrow, I’d say. One night’s stay here should be enough. Then we can sort out the mess you’re in. Together.’

  She looked to King for objections. He shook his head. He had none.

  Slater glanced between them, reached out and put a hand on each of their shoulders again. ‘Sorry for dragging you both into this.’

  King straightened Junior slightly in his arms, bringing him more vertical than horizontal. ‘Did you hear that?’

  Slater looked over. ‘What?’

  ‘Junior,’ King said, motioning to the dozing newborn. ‘He’s telling you to stop apologising, go home, and do the job you signed up for.’

  Slater rolled his eyes before he got to his feet. ‘See you both back there. And congratulations. Excited to see what a little terror he grows up to be.’

  ‘I can only imagine,’ Violetta muttered, then nestled into the pillows and drifted away.

  After Slater was gone, King sat there and realised he felt nothing but warmth. He didn’t judge Slater for any of it.

  Roles reversed, he wouldn’t have done it different.

  30

  Slater pulled the rented sedan into Pleasant Street, hoping the neighbours didn’t notice the enormous downgrade in vehicular taste.

  It wasn’t that he gave a shit about status or ego, only that minimising unwanted attention was top priority. Alexis sat in the passenger seat, and Tyrell was in the middle seat behind them, leaning forward on the centre console so he could pretend he was up front. The strange episode at Mass General had made him draw into a shell, but as soon as they’d set off for what was going to be his temporary home, he’d come alive again. He’d spent the drive to Winthrop firing questions at them, one after the other, with the total lack of subtlety that most preteen boys possessed.

  As they pulled up in front of their beautiful Dutch Colonial house, Tyrell said, ‘Damn. Everyone for sure gonna notice you’re driving a piece of shit now.’

  Alexis couldn’t hide her laugh.

  Slater said, ‘A while back they invented these things called garages.’

  Tyrell shrugged. ‘I know that, but I dunno how it works in these rich-ass neighbourhoods. Ain’t your neighbours always spying on you?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘A brother with a white woman who looks like you?’ Tyrell said to Alexis. ‘Yeah, they spyin’ on you.’

  ‘Tyrell,’ Slater snapped.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Alexis said.

  Slater hid the sedan in the garage and let everyone into the house. As soon as Tyrell got into the kitchen, it was like someone had pulled an invisible power cord out. He got heavy-eyed, suddenly stooped and dejected.

  He said, ‘Hey, Will, Alexis?’

  They’d never heard him speak that softly. It made them stop in their tracks.

  ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘And … I don’t feel so good.’

  Alexis said, ‘The spare room’s all yours, honey. You want me to show you?’

  He nodded. It was meek. The next few days, maybe weeks, wouldn’t be good for him. There’d be traumatic memories. He’d jolt awake in the night, dreaming of gunshots and blood and glassy eyes. But maybe this was the best place to go through that. Slater and Alexis, at the very least, could understand. They’d been through all of it before.

  Alexis took Tyrell down the hall, and Slater was alone for the first time since he’d gone to get that damn coffee machine.

  He slumped forward on the kitchen island, rested his elbows on the countertop. He took stock. Physically unhurt. Emotionally unchanged. He’d killed six men that morning. Most people went their whole lives without laying a finger on another human being in anger. To them, he’d seem a monster, but he felt nothing. He’d snuffed out six useless sacks of shit. That’s how he looked at it.

  But as he stood hunched over in the empty kitchen, he realised “emotionally unchanged” might not be the right way to put it.

  He didn’t care about taking lives. By now, that was monotonous. He didn’t know if that was healthy or not, but it didn’t really matter. Those men needed to die. What had changed him, or at least might have, was Tyrell.

  He couldn’t figure it out. Not yet. But there was something indescribable in his head, a sensation he’d never had.

  Something protective.

  Paternal.

  He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. He couldn’t afford to think about that right now. What he had to worry about was Marcus and Jeremiah’s associates, hunting him with a vengeance. If they sniffed a lead, they’d think he’d taken the boy. Killed his whole family and kidnapped him for reasons unknown.

  Wouldn’t go smoothly.

  Of that much, at least, he was certain.

  31

 
Rebecca Templeton clocked off at seven p.m.

  It had been a largely uneventful twelve-hour shift, but she still smoked a cigarette out the front of Mass General before she got in her car. By now it was habit. She used to only smoke when she drank, then she evolved into a social smoker, then she’d add the occasional nicotine hit on her lunch break, depending on how stressful her shift was. Now she was up to half a pack a day, but it was only temporary. She’d quit any day now. She wasn’t like those problem smokers, not hopelessly addicted. She could stop whenever she wanted.

  Just not tonight.

  She ground the butt out under the toe of her trainer and beelined for the staff carpark. Her old Honda Civic was there in its regular spot. For a car with a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it, it looked pretty good. She took care of it.

  She lit another cigarette as she wound down the driver’s window using the manual crank. She drove all the way home like that, soothed by whatever they crammed into the death sticks. She usually limited herself to one cigarette on her evening commute home, but she lit another when she pulled into her neighbourhood. She almost stopped herself short, considering there was no reason for it, but she looked around and thought, Who’ll know?

  Not Myles, and he wouldn’t care anyway. He had too much on his plate to be concerned about what she was sucking into her lungs.

  She finished the northward drive to Mattapan and pulled into the little bay in front of the brown brick building that housed thirty or so apartments, one of which was theirs. Together she and Myles had pooled together enough for a down payment, but they’d had to borrow more than ninety percent, and the interest was destroying their finances. Nursing didn’t pay anything special unless she worked a crazy amount of overtime, and Myles was still only a first ranking officer with Boston PD. Hopefully soon he’d be a Detective or a Sergeant, and then they could get on top of the predatory mortgage they’d bound themselves to for thirty years with two little signatures on a piece of paper.

  The building was a walk-up. She hustled up the stairwell and let herself into the small apartment on the third floor. She already knew Myles was home based on the soft yellow glow under the door before she opened it, but that was nothing to get excited about. She used to practically jump for joy when she found him waiting for her after work — Boston PD worked him egregiously for dirt cheap, but it was only a temporary thing until he climbed the ranks. Now she felt her core tightening involuntarily, because he was sprawled on the sofa, out of uniform, eyes locked on some shitty television show with that hazy glow she knew meant he’d been drinking.