Bloodroot (33 page)

We did as we were told, stubbing our smokes out on our soles. The line about my mother and her flowers was bullshit, but the old man felt better giving orders.

Out in front of the house, Danny and I lit up and walked to the curb. We chuckled at the rippling curtains across the street. Danny spat on the asphalt and leaned on his new car.

“The old man,” he said, running the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “That’s another reason I bought this lame car. I showed up in a Porsche, he’d call the FBI on me.”

“Could you really afford a Porsche?”

Danny kicked at the crabgrass under his feet “Doesn’t matter. I’m sinking my money into real estate, anyways.”

“Go easy on Dad,” I said. “Especially after you sandbagged him with the grand Curran homecoming like that. Nice work, that.”

Two houses down on our side of the street, an older man in slippers and a bathrobe stepped out onto his porch. He pretended to fiddle with his porch light while staring straight at us.

“You believe this shit?” I said. “We grew up on this block.”

Danny pried himself off the car and started walking down the street in Porch Light’s direction, calling out to him. “Yo. Hey. Buddy.”

For about two seconds, the man stood his ground before dashing back into the house. Through a crack in the door he let his dog outside, a filthy, mop-like beast that pissed on a corner of the stoop and then fell asleep in the driveway with a heavy, world-weary sigh. I heard the dead bolt slam into place and the chain guard rattle from where I stood.

“You call that toilet sponge a dog?” Danny yelled. “That’s right. Get back inside and mind your fucking business. It’s a free fucking country.”

The dog lifted its hairy head and grumbled at Danny, who held up his hand. “My bad, I take it back about the toilet sponge.”

When the curtains across the street fluttered again, Danny raised his middle finger high as he walked back to me.

“The neighborhood tomcats probably take turns ass-fuckin’ that mutt. That ain’t even half a dog,” Danny said, standing in the center of the street, his arms open wide. “You know what these people are?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “They’re fucking old, is what they are. That’s all there is for our folks on this block, getting old.”

“Dad wasn’t kidding when he said he’d kill you,” I said. “This Brooklyn thing really raises the stakes.”

“What’s he gonna do?” Danny said. “Kill me twice?” He lit another cigarette off the first. “Been there, done that.”

“We oughta get back inside,” I said. “Mom’s been waiting three years for this night.”

“In a minute.” Danny reached into his jacket. “I brought something I need to show you.” He handed me a copy of a black-and-white photograph.

Seated on a metal bench set against a tile-covered wall were half a dozen shirtless, barefoot children. Their misshapen heads turned every which way, as if they’d all heard a noise but none of them knew its source. Only one of them, the smallest one, seemed aware of the camera. I looked up from the picture at Danny.

“This afternoon, after you went to teach,” he said, “I went over to the college library. Hell of a research section. Quality copy machines. I was impressed.”

I looked down at the paper in my hand. It was hard to figure their ages. Most looked four or five, maybe a little older; discerning their sex was impossible. The mongoloid contortions of their smiles hid a lot, but not enough to distract from the rest of their bodies. There was no hiding the timid slump of their shoulders, the long, white fingers of their clawed hands, the stark topography of their ribs, their bare, matchstick legs. The children looked like bags of broken sticks. Except for one. One boy stared right into the camera, his eyes burning with unveiled, unembarrassed hatred. That boy looked like he knew everything bad that had ever happened in the world and had decided the blame landed wherever his gaze did.

His ordinary hands, fingers spread wide, rested in his lap. He had his bony ankles crossed. He alone wore a shirt, a torn T-shirt stained so filthy that he looked like he’d puked up a Rorschach test. Clumps of sweaty, dark hair stuck to his forehead. Just as they had that night in the car three years ago. Like they had for most of his life.

“Control Group Six,” I heard Danny say. “The Devil’s hand-me-downs. My roommates and me. The ones I left behind.”

That fierce-eyed boy in the picture was my brother. A year, maybe two before he became a Curran. It was impossible to deny. In the house my folks had a dozen old pictures where Danny had that same fury in his face. He looked cleaner and healthier, sure, but no less angry. I’d always thought he just hated having his picture taken.

My parents had lied to me, badly.

Danny took the picture by a corner between his forefinger and thumb and plucked it out of my hands.

“How many . . . ?” I stared at my empty hands.

“All of them,” Danny said. “Except for me. In that graveyard. Somewhere.” He folded the paper in half, closing the picture. He tapped the paper against his thigh, staring at our parents’ house. “Still think I’m misremembering things?”

“Jesus Christ.” I wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt. I glanced at the house, then back at my brother. The first curl of a grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Danny, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.” I held up my hand, pointer and thumb half an inch apart. “Please. Don’t do it to her. We’re
this
close. I’ll take you to Whitestone’s office tonight. I’m all in on the brownstone. Anything. Everything.”

“Stop,” Danny said. He unfolded the paper and held it up. I looked away. “I know you’re in with me. I knew it all along. This is not a threat.” With his free hand, Danny dug into the pocket of his jeans. “This is just proof. Let Mom and Dad believe, let them remember whatever they want. I don’t care anymore. The future’s gonna be hard enough for them. As long as
you
know, I can forgive them. It only takes one other person knowing to kill a secret.”

He held out his hand, a lighter resting in his palm. “Say you believe and we never have to talk about this again.” He tilted his head at the house. “Any of us.”

“Danny, I . . .”

My brother tapped his finger on the photo. I looked.

“That puddle there?” he said. “On the floor? That’s piss. We go back, that stain is probably still there. They stuck his face in it.” He moved his finger to touch one of the adults. “The motherfucker that hurt that kid? I bit his leg so hard I drew blood.”

“Danny, what do want me to say? Jesus, this is gonna give
me
nightmares.”

“Say you believe me.”

“Of course I do,” I said, one hand over my eyes. “Of course. I did when you took me to Bloodroot.”

“Look at me when you say it. I need to know your heart is in it. And I’ll know if it’s not.”

Above the paper all I saw was his eyes, the same eyes as the ones in the photo. No shame in them, only an animal fury barely restrained by bitter patience.

“They fed us each others’ diseased shit to test their vaccines,” Danny said. “Because it saved money on hypodermics. Shooting heroin was a step
up
for me.”

“I believe you, Danny! I
believe
. Fucking Christ.” I didn’t want to hide my eyes again so I covered my ears. “Stop this.”

“Funny, I often had the same thought.” He wiggled the lighter at me until I took my hands away from my head. “Overpowering feeling, isn’t it? Like hysteria, like madness. That
need
to make it all go away.”

I grabbed the lighter from him and struck a flame. I held the fire to the bottom edge of the paper. The flame raced in both directions for the corners, acrid chemical smoke rising into my eyes. But I couldn’t look away from the photo. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I’d ever forget.

“See the black kid?” Danny said. “Third from the left? Look quick, before he’s gone.” I found him on the page. Fire crawled up his shins. “See the bandages on his hands? Infected fingers.” The flames climbed into his lap. “He wore the tips down to the bone trying to claw his way out of our room. The nurses poured alcohol on his hands. That was their idea of first aid. You wouldn’t believe the screams.”

The fire consumed the boy’s ruined hands and scampered up his chest toward his throat. I looked up at my brother. The flames threw light and shadows across his face, racing for his fingertips. He didn’t seem to notice or care.

“It’s over now, right?” I asked. “We’re at the end of this?”

“In my sleep I still hear that boy,” Danny said, “scratching at the walls.” He tossed the last of the burning photo into the gutter, spit on it. “The end? It’s gonna take a lot more than one little fire. But don’t you worry; we’re gonna get there.”

I heard the front door creak open. “Boys?” My mother. “Everything okay?”

“Outstanding,” Danny said. “Sorry to make you wait. Kevin and I had some catching up to do.” He smiled at me and raised a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhhhh.”

DANNY AND I STOOD OUTSIDE WHITESTONE’S OFFICE DOOR AT
half past midnight, dressed in the same clothes we’d worn to the Curran family reunion. Having spent half the night watching the history building from the trees, we knew we had almost an hour until any security guards made it back to this floor. Our only worry. Danny had seen no alarms or cameras on Whitestone’s floor. Apparently, the history department of Richmond College ranked low on Al Qaeda’s hit list. Everywhere else in the building, I was our excuse for being there.

With a gloved hand, Danny slipped a key into Whitestone’s lock.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.

“Remember that laser pointer? Digital technology, baby. It can do anything.” Danny turned the key and opened the door. “God bless America.”

“That brownstone’s an expensive fucking building,” I said. “And you know I got nothing to offer, moneywise.”

Danny eased the door shut behind us. “Except for your fat payday from Santoro.”

“Will that be enough?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Danny said. “It’s not like there’s ever a shortage of work.”

“Whoa, whoa . . .” I said.

“Listen, Santoro has his own reasons for those sex videos to hit the streets,” Danny said. “I don’t particularly care what they are. But when the dirt goes down, I know he’ll give me a line on that place, first dibs.”

I bared my teeth in a grimace. “So you haven’t actually brought this up with Santoro.”

“Of course not,” Danny said. “You think I’m gonna ask him for a favor without a couple of solids already in my pocket?”

“Bavasi?”

Danny looked at me, exasperated. He sat at Whitestone’s desk, twirling a silver disc on his finger. He turned his attention to the PC. “Trust me.”

“What choice do I have?” I said.

He tapped the mouse. The computer awoke, washing Danny in the bluish light of the monitor.

“He’ll have a password,” I said.

Danny scoffed. “So? Passwords were obsolete ten years ago. They’re an illusionary comfort that’s sole purpose is to get you trusting the wrong people. Don’t be fooled.”

“Okay, what should I do?”

“Sit and stop waving that damn flashlight around,” Danny said. “We’re gonna have jets landing in the quad.”

I plopped down into the same chair I’d occupied that afternoon. Danny fed the disc to the computer. He clapped his hands. “All right. This’ll take about three minutes.” He picked up the desk lamp, turning it over and pressing his finger into the underside of the base. “Audio? Done.”

Okay, so he’d put a microphone there. That made sense. “The phone?”

“That mike’ll hear both sides of any phone call in this room,” Danny said, “plus every conversation. It doesn’t listen as much as it
absorbs
. It’s complicated.”

Too complicated for my simple brain, I guessed, since Danny didn’t offer any explanations. Instead he steepled his fingers, fluttering the tips against one another. He hummed some song I knew but couldn’t place, bobbing his head. I tapped my flashlight against my knee in time with Danny’s head. Right before I asked about the song, the computer ejected Danny’s disc. Danny waggled his tongue at me. “
Lick it up/Liiiiiick it up
,” he sang. “Man, their middle period is totally underrated. That’s a wrap. Drinks are on me.” The head bob returned. “
It ain’t a crime to be good to yourself.
”

Standing, Danny dropped the disc into his jacket pocket.

“You’ll tell me,” I said, “if there’s anything about me on there?”

In truth, it was Kelsey I wanted to know about. Was she on next semester’s schedule? Was her letter of resignation already in Whitestone’s files? But I didn’t ask. She’d tell me her decision about Chicago when she was ready.

We left the office and Danny locked the door behind us. He held up the key. “Want this?”

“I better not. I might use it.”

We headed down the stairs, Danny leading the way, augmenting the red glow of the emergency exit signs with his flashlight.