“Hmph. If I’m so brave, then why does everyone pick on me?”
“Sometimes being brave isn’t about how loud you can shout or how big you can stomp your feet or even how unafraid you are. Sometimes, it’s just about sitting still and getting through it. No matter how hard it is.” She tucked my hair behind my ear and lifted my chin with her knuckles. “You’re the bravest girl at the Port. One day you’ll see.”
When she said it, I could almost believe it.
“So, about that song…it’s the story of the murder of a woman, Laura, and her baby. They thought Tom Dula did it—he was her boyfriend—and they hung him for it.” She lowered her voice and brought her face next to mine. Her scar—waxy and brown as an earthworm—was close enough to touch, and I wondered about the rumors. That her own father had done it with a broken bottle when she’d stepped between him and her mother. Now that was brave. “Just between you and me, Tom Dula didn’t do it. It was another woman who was jealous of Laura, but Dula took the fall for her.”
“Why would he do that? Let himself get hanged if he was innocent?” The injustice burned as sharply as if I’d known him myself.
“He felt guilty. Thought he still deserved to be punished. Because he’d been at the heart of it all. Between two women who loved him.”
“That settles it. I am never falling in love. Ever.” I’ll make an exception for Calder though. But I couldn’t say that out loud.
Cherice’s soft laughter bubbled from her throat, velvety and soothing as the sound of a stream. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “It doesn’t always end in a hanging. Now, go on and brush your teeth and get dressed for school. You’ll be late. And you’re already skating on thin ice after that little stunt you pulled Wednesday.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I blurted, desperate to keep talking to her. I couldn’t have said why—not then—but looking back, she made me feel cared for. Mothered. Loved, even. Besides, I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. I’d seen a guy pick her up from the Port a few weeks ago, and I’d heard Wally teasing her about it. At twelve that seemed like proof of an epic romance.
“Evie. School. Now.”
Minutes later, I stood in the mirror, baring my sudsy teeth and mulling over Cherice’s story. Mid-floss, I realized I didn’t believe it. Tom Dula was guilty as sin, just like that old song said. I knew it.
I let the memory creep in, just for a minute. What Trey had told me the day after they’d incinerated my mom’s body—since we couldn’t afford a funeral—and presented her to me in a small wooden box. The day he’d shown up with a new tattoo on his wrist—RIP—red and raised as a blister above my mother’s name. I’d walked to the edge of the water at Oakland Marina and dumped her in fast, horrified at the tiny shards of bone that sank like pearls in the murky ocean. Then, Trey had driven me to Port in a Storm, his lips loosened with Jack Daniels and the white powder he’d snorted up his nose.
“Your mama . . .she just ended it, Evie. Just gave up on you. On me. On life. She saw me out with my new lady friend. And she was always real jealous. You remember that, right? But you were at school. You didn’t hear us fightin’ about it. You didn’t hear us fightin’ about nothin’. She wouldn’t have wanted you to hear that. And you didn’t. You didn’t.”
He’d paused then, putting his pothole eyes on me. I didn’t look, but I could feel them making their demands, telling me to believe their lies.
I didn’t, I’d said, hoping that would satisfy him. As if the devil was ever satisfied.
“Them pig cops might say somethin’ different. Might try to convince you. But you listen to Trey now. She just slammed too much this time. Enough to kill a goddamn horse.” He’d laughed then, sudden and sharp like the cry of a bird. “Guess life just ain’t worth living without me.”
****
I remember everything about the first time I hitched a ride. After the school bus dropped me off at the Port, I’d walked to the underpass and stuck out my thumb like I’d seen people do in the movies. I tried to feel brave. The sky was as blue as a jewel that day, and the clouds that floated by took the shape of turtles, dolphins, elves. All happy things. Good things. Because I had pure intentions—to rescue Cassie—and fate was on my side.
I didn’t wait long. The car that stopped for me smelled like French fries, and the man inside offered me one dipped in ketchup from the bag on his lap. He wore a blue mechanics jumpsuit with the name Elmer stitched on the pocket, black smudges down the front from the cars he worked on every day at the shop. He told me he was a dad to two boys, grown now. And a husband, though he’d lost his wife a year before. Breast cancer. So really, he was alone. Like me.
Elmer knew the Blue Bird. He’d stayed there a time or two when he was down on his luck. And he took me right to it, letting me out just where I’d asked. A block away.
“Do me a favor,” he said, before I got out. “Don’t hitch any more rides. It’s not safe. Especially at your age.” He reached in his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and forked over a twenty-dollar bill. “Take a taxi next time. This should cover you one.”
I shook my head at him. “Keep it. There won’t be a next time.” I fully intended on riding shotgun back to the Port in the ’Cuda, the wind catching my hair and Calder grinning at me from the driver’s seat with that smile of his. The one that could make me forget just about anything. And Cassie would be there too. Wedged into the space between us. Or she’d sit on my lap, and we’d laugh the whole way back.
“Take it anyway,” Elmer said. “Just in case.” So I did. And that was that. He drove away—probably to his empty house—and I strutted to the front desk at the Blue Bird, a girl on a mission.
The day shift clerk lifted her eyes from Cosmo magazine and waved at me. “Hi, Nanette,” I said, waving back. “I like your hair. You’re letting it grow long again.”
She flipped one of the magazine’s articles toward me—Top Ten Ways to Get Him to Notice You—and pointed to number five. Toss your hair over your shoulder.
“Can’t flip it if it’s too short. And Mac likes somethin’ to grab on to when we…uh, well…never mind. How you been, Evie girl?”
“I’m okay. I’m actually looking for Trey. Have you seen him?”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “You mean you want to find him? Most people that come through here are trying to lose him. Can’t say I blame ’em for that. I’d rather pet a rattlesnake.”
“I think he’s here with a friend of mine. Cassie. She’s in trouble.”
“Well, if she’s mixed up with him, then I’d say you’re right. He checked into 157 a couple days ago, paid for two weeks. That’s the one on the corner. You want me to come with you?”
“I can handle it.”
“You go, girl.” She chuckled as she directed my eyes to number one on the list. Act confident even when you aren’t. “Call me if you need me.”
Trey’s car wasn’t in the lot. Neither was the ’Cuda. But Cassie opened the door when I knocked, keeping the chain latched so all I could see was a sliver of her face. Impossible as it seemed, she looked older. Like a woman. Or maybe, just sadder. Like something behind her eyes had deflated, had lost its color.
“What’re you doing here?” she asked.
I came for you, dork. I figured you might need rescuing. But I’m still mad at you, in case you were wondering. That’s what I’d planned to say, but it didn’t come out that way. Not at all. “My boyfriend lives here. In 145. Calder, remember?”
“He’s not your boyfriend, Evie.”
“How would you know?”
“I just do, okay. For one thing, I’ve seen him. And he’s at least eighteen. And you’re twelve.”
“I’ll be thirteen in seven days, and you’re one to talk. Do you even know how old Trey is?”
“Thirty-one,” she fired back, sticking out her tongue at me. And I felt my heart crack
just a little. Like a fracture on the surface of the ice. “Besides, I’m almost fourteen and way more mature than you.”
“Seriously? How?”
“I’m not a virgin.” The crack in my chest widened and ached.
“Congratulations. I’m sure it was a beautiful experience. Trey’s such a romantic. Is he your pimp now too?”
“He doesn’t do that. Not with me. He wants to take care of me. He gave me this.” She held her hand up, and my whole heart broke in two. It was the same kind of ring he’d given my mom. A band of fake gold crowned with a fake diamond and wrapped in fake promises. I imagined he had a whole drawer full of them. He’d probably gotten a discount for buying in bulk. “When I turn fourteen, we can get married in Utah.”
“Did he say that? Did he ask you?”
“He will.”
“You’ve known him five days, Cass.”
“Whatever.” She waved me off. “By the way, Trey wasn’t my first.”
“Oh really. I didn’t realize you were so experienced. So who was the lucky guy?” The moment I saw her face, I wanted a take back. She was broken too. More broken than I was. Her outer shell was brittle as an egg’s. How had I missed it?
“Dave something. I don’t even know his last name. He was my mom’s boyfriend before I ran away. But now I have Trey, and I don’t have to run anymore.” She shut the door softly. It barely made a sound. I wished she’d slammed it. That would’ve made it easier to leave her there. In that room, five down from where Trey ended my mother.
I stood outside Calder’s door for thirty minutes waiting for his ’Cuda to come roaring into the lot. Waiting for my rescue. I even practiced my hair toss in the window’s reflection. But no one came and nothing happened. And the clouds that floated by looked like snakes and devils and diamond rings. Finally, I gave up and called a cab from the pay phone, thankful that Elmer had insisted.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Butch
January 17, 2017
Tuesday
I watch Sebastian scuttle out of Evie’s office and down the stairs like a prickly little insect, and I follow, seething. Young Butch is at the helm, the screwdriver wedged in my back pocket. The last time I got this angry, I’d nearly blown it all up. My reputation. My twenty years of clean time. My goddamn parole date. I’d been walking a tightrope with a stack of fine china balanced on my head. Because that’s how it feels when you’re in Folsom, ten days pre-release—with 7,843 days behind you—and even breathing feels like a gamble. I’d been minding my own business in the chow hall when this young skinhead, Rusty, had smacked me from behind.
“Heard you got a date, asshole. I didn’t realize they were lettin’ out sickos too…girl killers like you going free. Imagine that.” I’d scrambled to my feet with rage coursing through me, thick and hot as my own blood. “Now what?” he’d said, stepping toward me, his jaw jutting like a bulldog. He’d been strapped, the shiv glinting in his boot.
The whole place got real quiet. And I’d felt the world grind to a halt. This was it. My defining moment. I’d like to tell you I’d heard Gwen’s voice or caught a flash of the anguish in her parents’ eyes or even used the deep breathing I’d been practicing to get right again. But in truth, it had been Rusty himself who’d saved me. I’d stared at the nick on his baby face where he’d probably cut himself shaving with the safety razor. Saw the muscles in his neck tense like a snake swallowing its prey. Followed his eyes to the brand-new, biggest, baddest SOB on the block, perched on a table with his cronies, watching it all with cool disinterest. And it hit me.
How Rusty was me. Then. Scared shitless.
How I was different. Now. A man.
The circle of life, prison style.
“If you’re gonna shank me, go on and do it, Rusty. But unless you kill me, I’m gonna be out there in ten days.” I’d pointed toward the barred windows, so grimy you could barely see the sky. “I’ll be sinking my teeth into the fattest, juiciest steak you can imagine. I’ll be a free man. And you’ll be spending the next twenty-five to life in Folsom. Gobbling the slop that passes for food, tattooing swastikas on your forehead, and whittling weapons in your spare time. So, go ahead, stick me. Add on another twenty-five. Either way, I win.”
I won, I mutter, tossing the screwdriver into the bushes at the edge of the parking lot with disgust. I’d won my freedom, and there was no way in hell I was going back. I repeat it to myself again and again and again, slowing my pace until I’m just standing there. Motionless. With my heart racing and my head spinning ninety miles a minute. This is one of those high-risk situations the psych doctors were always talking about. “What are your triggers, Mr. Calder?” Rejection. Abandonment. Inferiority. Powerlessness. Fear.
And I have to admit it, I’m afraid of Sebastian. He’s halfway across the parking lot when he stops on a dime and spins around.
“Are you following me?” He’s so far away it’s hard to tell if he’s angry or scared or just amused with himself. I close the distance between us but leave myself an out. Enough room to think twice before I do anything stupid.
“It depends,” I tell him. “Did you take something that belongs to me?”
He cocks his head to the side, scrunches his face in put-on confusion. “Does it? Belong to you?”
The nerve of this guy. “I’ll take that as a yes. You did take it, didn’t you?”
“Well then, I’ll take that as a no, Butch. It doesn’t belong to you.”
It’s a damn good thing that screwdriver is out of my reach. Because this—Sebastian’s mocking, his smug little voice—is beyond high risk. It’s a four-alarm fire. “Doesn’t belong to you either. So why’d you take it?”
“Insurance. CYA, you know?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I know good and well what it means, but I want to hear him say it. I need to see him squirm.
“It means I keep it until you do something for me.”
“Oh. I see. Blackmail. That’s a great way to start your parole.” And I brand myself a hypocrite. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
His eyes dart around the lot, but it’s still early and mostly empty. Evie’s car is parked back by the stairs, the ones that lead straight up to her office, and I wonder if she put it there—close like that—because she’s still on edge, thinking Danny is after her. That he has her name. That he has her license. That he can find her. My fault, goddammit. And I can’t let her down again.
“Go on. Say it.” With the thought of Evie, the urge to throttle Sebastian subsides, and I allow myself a small step forward.
“If anybody asks—and by anybody, I mean the cops—I was in my bed the other night. Friday night. I need you to do that for me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll have to explain to Dr. Maddox how her driver’s license ended up under your mattress. Now, there’s a real non-starter.”
“How do I know you didn’t tell her already?”
He shrugs, one side of his mouth smiling. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Now, that’s a non-starter. No way. I’m not lying for you.”
“Alright. Have it your way, but…thieving isn’t such a great way to start your new job either, is it? I wouldn’t want you blamed if anything else goes missing. Say from Evie’s office. After thirteen interviews, it’d be a shame to get fired.”
I let out a long, slow whistle. Because cojones like that demand respect. Even if Sebastian is a few cards short of a deck. My first cellie, Jimmy, was just like that. J-Cat, they’d called him. Which meant a special kind of crazy. The straight-up 5150 kind. He’d snitched on the shot caller for the Mexican Mafia and told him so right to his face. Mendez was so shocked, he’d waited a whole day to toss him over the tier. They’d ruled it a suicide. And in a way, they were right.
“Damn, Sebastian. I’ve gotta
hand it to you, man. You’re not what I expected. I’ll consider it on one condition. You tell me the truth about where you were. I’m not covering up for a murderer.”
He shakes his head rapid fire—like he’s trying to free himself from something—but he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything. And Mr. Vinetti’s voice stops us both.
“Hey, Calder. I’m not paying you to shoot the breeze. Get up here. And bring the mop and the Super-Sorb. A kid puked in 55B.”
Sebastian shrugs at me. “Sounds like the call of duty.”
****
When the day starts with barf and blackmail, it can only go up from there. Or at least you’d think so. But by five o’clock, I’d tossed three dead mice, their spines snapped in two, and hammered my thumb…twice. Not to mention, I reek of vomit. So it figures, I run into Evie on my way out.
“Rough day?” she asks, following me down the stairs into the parking lot. The sky is the gloomiest shade of gray, the exact color of Folsom’s walls, and a cool drop of rain splashes onto my forehead.
“Is it that obvious?” I wipe my face with my sleeve, catching an unfortunate whiff of myself.
“Gary told me about the incident at the clinic. Projectile vomit? That sounds awful.”
I groan, reliving it all again. “Yeah, it was exorcist level.”
She laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all day. Like the tinkling tin-can wind chimes my mom hung on our front porch. They’d always given me butterflies. The good kind. “So I take it you won’t be heading straight to Chicken and Waffles then?”
“I’ve gotta hit the showers first. Unless you think Brenda likes the smell of day-old puke.” It strikes me then—dumb ox that I am, dumb ox twenty-three years out of practice. Is she asking me out?
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 51
