Anything You Want (17 page)

I was only gone from the suite for a couple hours, but that was enough time for Darius to turn into a destroyer. As I walked up the block to the house, I sensed something was wrong. The front inside door was wide open.
Has Darius gone stupid? He knows how much that heat is going to cost!
I thought.

I burst in through the screen door all ready to lose my mind at Darius for leaving the interior door ajar, but what I found was that Darius had already lost his. He sat in the middle of the floor in the living room. Behind him, Dad's old recliner had been turned over. In front of him was a giant pile of ripped up paper and photos. He had a bottle of Jack Daniel's to his left that was two-thirds empty. He must've been chugging. He also had scissors and a steak knife lying on the carpet on his right. He held up an old photo album, and he was tearing out the pages.

“Shit, man!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of this crap,” Darius said. “Bullshit is holding us back. I really do got bad blood in my veins, dude. Comes from these bad people.” He pointed at a picture of our young Mom and Dad.

I rushed across the room and grabbed the album out of his hand.

“No! Stop that!”

The album was an old one from Mom's parents. I stared at its wreckage for a second. Then I threw it like a Frisbee across the room to get it away from him. I fell down onto my knees and swept up a pile of trashed pictures from in front of him. “Crap. Shit,” I said, looking at the ripped-off heads of my relatives and my parents. “Why?”

“Why, pie, sky, fry,” Darius said, smiling. “You ass face.”

He'd already ruined Mom and Dad's wedding album—the one that had all the dead people I loved pretty much like I remembered them, the one I looked at when I felt sad or sometimes when I felt happy because it made me feel warm and full of love to see my parents and Grandpa and Grandma and Dad's dead brother so happy and dancing and eating cake while dressed up like it was a royal occasion. “Oh shit. You idiot!” I cried. I showed him a ripped picture of our grandma. “You assassin!”

Darius paused and blinked at me. “Aw, come on, Taco,” he said. “I'm doing this for you too! Got to take care of our little boy!”

Clearly jail hadn't done Darius any good. It made him worse. Not just a drunk. A psycho.

He reached for the album that I'd tossed away from him. Adrenaline exploded in me. I jumped into the air and landed on him, catching his arm at an awkward angle on the couch. There was a crazy popping noise, and Darius started screaming.

“Oh shit.” I pushed off him so I wouldn't kill him more, but my shove just made him screech louder.

“Stop! Don't hurt me! Ahhh!”

I rolled onto my knees and hovered over him. “Darius, I think you broke your arm or shoulder or something. We have to take you to the hospital.”

“Don't be nice to me. You weren't even in Taco Bell, but I wanted you dead! I was so mad,” Darius cried. “I'm sorry!”

“What?” I couldn't believe it. Did Darius really just say that? Did he mean it?

“It's not you. It's them!” He pointed at the pile of photo albums. “They gave me my bad blood. You didn't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Darius sobbed and rolled up into a ball.

“I'm going to call the ambulance.”

“Don't!” he bellowed. “I can't be drunk! They'll call jail! I'll go back!”

“Oh Jesus,” I said. “You need help, Darius.”

“Don't call Dad!” he cried.

I took a deep breath.
Hold on
, I thought.
Hold on. Hold on.
“Okay. I won't call Dad. But we need a real adult.” I got up as calmly as I could and called Nussbaum's cell from the suite's landline.

By the time Nussbaum got to our place, it was getting close to midnight. He said he had to take care of a couple things before he came over. He was slurring when he said it, and I figured from the background noise that he was playing cards at the VFW when I called. He still smelled a little like cigars when he arrived, but he didn't slur. He held a cup of QuikTrip coffee in his hand. I almost hugged him.

Darius lay on the couch, passed out cold. In between my call and Nussbaum's arrival, I held a trash can to catch Darius's barf and tried to tell him stories from books I'd read for English. I almost called the ambulance twice because of all the barfing. But he begged me not to. “Don't make me go back there,” he cried. I was so relieved when he went to sleep, but I slapped him every five minutes to make sure he wasn't unconscious. He'd had so much of that stupid whiskey.

“Well, well, amigo,” Mr. Nussbaum said when he arrived. “I wasn't expecting to see you until our doughnut breakfast. Looks like things took a turn for the worse?”

“No joke,” I said.

“Huh. The county's putting petty criminals and drunks back on the street as fast as they can. Looks like Darius could've used a bit more lockup time to consider his options,” Nussbaum said.

“Can jail really fix a guy like that?”

Nussbaum stared at my broken brother. “No, my friend. Darius needs something different than jail.”

“Like serious prison maybe?” I started to lose it because Nussbaum being there meant I could. “Maybe he should just be locked away forever. He's a lost cause. I think he was trying to kill me when he ran into the Taco Bell,” I said.

Nussbaum said really quietly, “Can't let that happen, amigo. No murders. Well, what's next?”

Nussbaum stepped over to Darius and slapped him a couple times on the face—sort of like I had before, not hard.

Darius said groggily, “Stop doing that, man. Okay?” Then he lolled back asleep.

Nussbaum turned to me. “Doesn't seem to be in danger of dying from booze at the moment, although his time's coming if he doesn't get straightened out.” Nussbaum stared at the ceiling for a moment and then continued. “He's had repeated alcohol-related trouble, growing in severity. Not good. I've seen this before, you know? Joys of being a lawyer. The kid needs some chemical treatment, some real rehab, and mental health counseling.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He has adult problems but a kid's brain. He's not prepared for any of this shit, Nussbaum.”

Mr. Nussbaum nodded. “Sound familiar by any chance?”

I nodded.

“You get some sleep, amigo. I'll take first shift, making sure your doofus brother doesn't choke on his own puke. We'll take him to the hospital when he's sober so he doesn't get slammed for breaking the conditions of his early release. Sound like a plan?”

“Uh-huh. Okay. Great,” I said. I almost told Mr. Nussbaum that I loved him, which would've been super weird. Instead I went back to the master suite and passed out cold because I was destroyed.

Mr. Nussbaum's “first shift” lasted the whole night.

I slept hard. And I think I had a dream with a Tibet baby or maybe about my mom tucking me into bed, but it was all hazy when I woke up, so I can't really tell for sure.

A weird smell woke me. The morning light slid in through the window as I pried open my sleepy eyes. Light? In January in the state of Wisconsin, that meant it was already past seven in the morning.
What about my shift to watch Darius? Was Nussbaum asleep? Had Darius choked on his own poison?

I rolled out of bed fast, heart accelerating, and ran out into the living room. Nussbaum sat there in Dad's recliner, smoking one of his stinky cigars. His shoes and socks were off and so was his tie. Darius slept on the couch.

“Oh, you're making that stink,” I said.

He ignored me. “Taco, goddamn it, there's not a stitch of food in this whole house. How in the hell are you staying alive, kid?”

“I really don't know,” I said.

Nussbaum nodded at me. “Sit down for a few minutes, would you?”

I sat down on the love seat. It's my favorite chair. Love seat means a two-butt couch, and my mom bought it right before she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, so I think of it as Mom's love in a seat. “What's up?” I asked.

“Your brother was awake for a while. We had a nice chat,” Nussbaum said. “He really was thinking about you when he hit the Taco Bell. How about that?”

“Why didn't he just hit me?” I asked. “Would've cost less.”

“Because he doesn't actually want to hurt you, so he got loaded and then took out his anger on the Taco Bell.” He paused. “I don't think Darius can do outpatient treatment. I'm familiar with different levels of alcohol use.”

“Right. Because you're an expert about… Because you're a lawyer,” I said.

“Well, I'll be honest with you, son, I've got a bit of a reputation as a drinker myself. I enjoy my cards, and my wife's been dead for twenty years.”

“You're too young to have a dead wife for that long,” I said.

“She was far too young when she died, Taco.” Nussbaum took a deep breath. “Anyway, I drink a little. What else am I going to do?”

“Take a walk in the woods? Go to a movie? Take a trip to Tibet?” I suggested.

“Yeah, sure. Alone? My only family's at the VFW. That's where I go. And the people who count know I enjoy myself, but I'm safe and smart. I don't drive unless I'm sober, and when I work, I work like a dog.”

“Hound dog,” I said.

“Right you are,” Nussbaum replied. “But this kid?” He pointed with his thumb at snoring Darius. “This kid doesn't want to exist right now. He's not safe. He said the only thing he could think of while he was in jail was drinking himself unconscious. He needs help, but he won't make it through outpatient treatment. He'll leave a meeting and go right to a liquor store. I guarantee it. Getting treatment and getting healthy is a hard business, and this kid's as soft as dough.”

“Okay?” I said.

“Not okay,” Nussbaum said. “I don't know what kind of insurance your waste of a father carries, but I'm guessing it's no good. Inpatient treatment could run you fifty grand or more, if we're talking three months of it, which is what I expect Darius needs.”

“Oh Jesus! Where am I going to get that kind of money?” I asked. “Darius already owes a boatload in fines and crap for trying to kill Taco Bell! And I make three hundred dollars every two weeks at the hospital!”

Nussbaum swallowed hard. “Three hundred dollars? Is that right?”

“Yeah. It's a lot, but it doesn't add up unless I can get more shifts. Maybe I can get some more shifts?”

Nussbaum sighed. He shook his head. “Taco?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you know I have your best interest at heart, but I'm going to say something you might not want to hear, all right?”

“I don't need any more bad news, okay?”

“You have to hear this right now,” Nussbaum said.

I sighed. “Fine. Go for it.”

“You are not in any way ready to be a daddy.”

I looked down at the floor. “I know that,” I said. “But is anybody ready? Craig at my birth class just wants to have sex all the time, not be a dad.”

“Who the hell's Craig?”

“You know that roller-skating guy? Kind of old?”

“You mean Craig Colstad? Owns Roller World?”

“He owns it? He's a dipshit. He's definitely not ready for a baby.”

“Probably true. But he has money. He also has an adult wife,” Nussbaum said.

“That was his wife?”

“That's right, amigo. And Connie Colstad has inner resources. Craig Colstad has money. You don't have either. Taco, three hundred dollars isn't anything. Three hundred dollars won't even keep
you
in food. What about the baby's food and diapers and heat and electricity and rent? And there's medical and dental and toys and clothes… You can't believe how fast those little buggers grow out of their clothes! Sometimes in a week. Boy, I'll tell you—”

“Wait! Do you have kids, Mr. Nussbaum?”

“Well, yeah. A daughter.”

“Where is she?” I couldn't believe it. Why didn't she talk to him? Did he do something terrible to her? Was this why some people think Nussbaum's a bad person? “You never mentioned her.”

Mr. Nussbaum sighed. He seemed to get two sizes smaller, dingus. He swallowed hard. “She died in the same wreck that took my wife. Back in 1995. It was snowing. Truck slid through an intersection on 151. Took them both in a blink. That's why I won't drive until the roads are plowed. Makes me sick even now.”

I could barely talk, I felt so bad. “I didn't know that. I'm so sorry, Nussbaum. I didn't know any—”

“That's not what we're talking about, amigo,” Nussbaum said. “We're talking about you and your life and how you're going to get enough money to send this brother of yours to treatment.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“First, Taco, you need to think like a real father. Protect that kid the best way you can. You need to sign that paper, sign away your parental rights. Your baby should grow up with capable parents who have resources. Do you understand?”

Even though I did, it hurt to say it. It felt like getting stabbed in my heart. “I do,” I whispered. “I agree.”

“Good,” Nussbaum said. “Secondly, we need to deal with your brother. You don't have enough money to take care of him.”

“No,” I said.

“Now listen to me, amigo. You're going to sign that paper because you love your baby, right?”

“Right.”

“The Corrigans will pay a lot of money for you to sign that paper. You can use that money to save your brother.”

“But…I can't sell my baby.”

“You aren't selling your baby. You are saving two
babies
.” Nussbaum nodded at Darius. “This brother of yours needs you.”

I looked at Darius. He was one beat-up baby. My mom's baby.

“Darius was your keeper after your mom died, correct, amigo?”

I nodded.

“Now it's your turn to take care of him.”

I squinted. I thought. Nussbaum had piled the albums Darius hadn't destroyed in the corner. Those albums were all filled with people I loved—true. Those albums were filled with people who were gone. Darius snored on the couch. He was here. He had tried so hard for me. “I'm the keeper now,” I said. “We need money for my brother.”

“Okay,” Nussbaum said. “You're in, Taco? You want me to get that money?”

“Yes, please.”

“Good. Good thinking, kid. Now get your ass to school. You have a deal to fulfill with that principal of yours, correct?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“I'll work the Corrigans through their lawyer. Don't say a word about this to Maggie. Don't say a word to her about anything. You understand?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

Darius shifted on the couch, groaned. “I have to go to a doctor,” he mumbled. “My arm, man.”

“I'll take care of him too,” Nussbaum said.

It was only eight in the morning, but it didn't feel like my best day. I would really rather dance on a stage or go running through the park or go to the pool for a good swim because that stuff doesn't hurt. But I wanted to make sure my baby and my mom's baby, Darius, would have good days, great days.

In the end, maybe that is what a best day looks like? Making hard decisions so that the people you love are okay?