Breaker (10 page)

Why everything is bubbling up to the surface right now, I don't know. But I don't like it. What else is out there, suppressed, forgotten, pushed down and locked away?

My mother was a big believer in natural remedies, she was always sending away for some plant or another, and she made sure to not only give us fresh fruit and vegetables every day, but also make us take our vitamins. On the nights that my father would visit me, sitting on the end of my bed, sometimes quiet, sometimes crying, my mother's shadow would often drift past the doorframe, and she'd lead him away, back to bed. Sometimes she'd give me a glass of water and a pill, or a powder, telling me it would help me to sleep. Sometimes in the morning when Stephanie and I would sit at the breakfast table with shadows under our eyes, she'd give us something else—a cup of tea, extra vitamins, you name it. It seemed to help with the anxiety, to relax us, and often I'd find these dark memories slipping away, no longer worrying me, no longer a black cloud hanging over me—just gone.

I'm beginning to wonder what she gave me. What she gave
us.

It's late morning and I'm sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee and thinking about the upcoming fight. Natalie has been training, with me and without me, working on her conditioning, the basics of combat, and she has her backpack of tools and weapons, as well. I don't worry quite as much anymore. I feel like she has a chance now.

There's a knock at my door and I get up slowly and head over, expecting it to be Natalie. Nobody else comes to see me, really. When I open it up she's standing there with an armload of mail, grinning.

“Speak of the devil,” I mutter.

“Dude, your mailbox won't even shut anymore. Don't you ever check it?”

“I guess not. Hold on a second.”

I head to the kitchen and grab a large wicker basket and return to the front door.

“Here, just dump it all in here.”

She drops the stack of envelopes into the container.

“You training? Is it going well?” I ask.

“Peachy,” she says, making muscles, flexing her biceps.

“There's more mail down there, just so you know,” she says, sounding like my mother.

“Thanks, Natalie, I'll go get it later.”

“I mean, it's everywhere, all over the floor, people are stepping on it and…”

“I'll get it, Natalie, I promise.”

She closes her mouth and squints at me.

“Okay. Just trying to help.”

“I know,” I say, sighing, taking in a deep breath. “I appreciate it.”

She grins.

“Okay, see you later, alligator,” she says, heading next door, and slipping into her apartment.

I have to answer, right?

“After a while, crocodile,” I whisper, and head inside.

I set the pile on the coffee table and lurch into the kitchen to get my coffee. Might as well look through this stuff while I have a moment.

Bill, bill, advertisement, junk mail, political flyer, bill, and then something from the Bank of America, over on Diversey Avenue—it looks important, so I open it up right away. I don't have an account there, but the big red stamp on the cover of the envelope, reading
OFFICIAL
and
TIME SENSITIVE
, gets my attention.

It turns out my mother had a safe deposit box, one that was paid for in advance, for many years now, long after her death. But now the money has run out, and as the next of kin, one of two names listed on this letter (Stephanie being the other), it's my responsibility to stop by the bank and deal with this issue or they'll destroy what's inside the box, auctioning off anything of value to the public. They say Stephanie can't be found, that letters to both of us have gone unanswered, and that doesn't surprise me. Stephanie moves around a lot, evicted for not paying rent, shacking up with a guy for a few months, then moving out, or getting kicked out, when things don't go well. And as Natalie pointed out with the pile of mail downstairs in the foyer, I'm not great about reading my correspondence.

I contemplate all of the items that might be in that safe deposit box—bars of gold just waiting to be claimed, sheets of stocks and bonds that have finally matured, a collection of old Barbie dolls, a pile of Beanie Babies, pictures from our childhood, an old diary, diamonds and other jewels, important documents—really, it could be just about anything. I don't know what would surprise me.

I have to go to the bank tomorrow, Monday, if my memory is correct. Before the fight, just in case anything goes wrong. Which should be interesting. These things rarely go well, some buttoned-up suits all clean-shaven, with their shirts pressed, ties knotted just right, a crease in their trousers, women in blouses with pearls and their hair done up all nice, a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume filling the air. I stand out in a bank like a sore thumb, all eyes on me, even when I clean up, shave, wear something nice, and move slow, hands out of my pockets for all to see. If I had a nickel for every guard that has stopped me, asking me what I needed, asking me for ID, following me around the marble floors to the wooden display cases with their forms to fill out, pencils snapping in my swollen hands, pens bending, leaking ink. I feel like a bull in a china shop, bumping into people, never negotiating the space correctly, the lights too bright,
could you take your sunglasses off, sir,
said with one hand on a pistol, the other held out as if to protect the guard from my reaction.

Sigh.

So it goes.

Natalie sees several very different people when she looks at Ray. For a long time she has been watching him, partly out of boredom—at least, in the beginning; partly to keep her eyes peeled, because she was scared of him; and lastly, lately, because she has become more and more worried about him. The walls are thin, and she hears him muttering and cursing under his breath; she hears him working out, the entire apartment rattling with push-ups and sit-ups and other exercises. She hears him crying in the darkness and it breaks her heart.

What happened to him?
she wonders.

She sees in Ray the good, the way he protects her from the bullies in the neighborhood, how he is training her to fight, to defend herself—and the other things he does when nobody is looking. She has seen him walk past a bike with the lock open, vulnerable to thieves, and click it shut. She has seen him stroll past a parking meter and drop in a few coins as a meter maid approaches from up the block, the red turning back into white, no longer a ticket. She has heard other girls in the neighborhood saying mean things about him, and then one or two looking down and away, and she knows that these girls have also seen the true spirit lurking within, the one that uses his physical abilities for good, not for evil. And yet she says nothing. She is protective of him, and likes to keep him to herself.

She also sees the violence in him—the way he snapped the neck of the cat, the poor creature writhing on the ground in pain, an act of mercy, but violent nonetheless—when he gets angry, when he lets his emotions boil over, the rage running up to the surface. She sees his eyes change from light brown to black, tinged with red. She has seen him come home from his fights, bruised and cut, limping, bloody at times, exhausted. She knows he has secrets, they are written all over his skin, but what exactly they are she isn't sure. His family, no doubt; she has hazy memories of her neighbors, long gone now, back when she was maybe five years old, the father dark and quiet, the mother much the same. The sister, she has always been broken, the rare appearances sending chills up Natalie's spine, much like a rabid dog, no longer the sweet pup, out of control and dangerous—to herself and others, spreading her disease, infecting others with her madness.

She sees what he is becoming. And that terrifies her the most. He is so distant lately, easily distracted; there've been visits from the sister, from the old man Ray called Edson, or Eddy. A sensation washes over Natalie that things are changing, that something is coming. She's unsure if it's good or bad, but a change all the same. She worries that one day he will simply be gone, and that she'll truly be alone. She has nightmares about the police showing up, pounding on his door, kicking it in, shooting him dead for his crimes against humanity, things he has done in the dark of night—the beast finally slain.

She sees him as an ancient tree, with branches stretching out to the sky, a massive trunk, the top of the tree filled with greenery, bearing fruit perhaps, or simply flowers, shade cast out over the land, a hill, a field, swaying in the breeze, bending, never breaking. She sits under this tree and speaks to it, listens to it, and when she is particularly attentive, she notices the creeping fungus over the bark, winding up and around the tree, the leaves turning brown at the edges, whatever misshapen fruit it once bore now falling to the earth below, rotten, spoiling, leaking poison into the dirt beneath it. She sees it spreading, the branches dying, cracking and falling to the ground, splitting, a sour sap running out of the open wounds, sticky and sweet, an underlying sourness growing in intensity.

What to do?

Is his sister all bark and no bite? Or will her teeth leave a residue behind, infecting this man who towers over most, reclusive and ghostly in his fluttering presence? Is he already sick, dying inside, just waiting for the disease to spread—to liver, to lungs, to brain?

To be seen and then unseen, that is her greatest fear. That whatever Ray has given to her—the lessons, sharing his true feelings—one day his eyes will simply go dead inside, no longer recognizing her as special, no longer recognizing her at all.

She will keep an eye on him, watching his every move until something breaks, something changes, and the good, or evil, is finally revealed, finally released. She will sneak into his apartment and make sure there is nothing there that can get him in trouble, because she feels the world closing in. She knows whatever he does at night must attract somebody's attention; it's just a matter of time. She will protect him, because in all of the lessons and wisdom and brute strength she sees the little boy that he used to be—not Raymond, not Boom-Boom, not the Ghost Killer, or Casper, the White Mamba, or whatever the locals sneer at him, call him in the dark when he's not around. To her, he's simply Ray, a little boy that has been lost for some time now. She will leave a trail of breadcrumbs, from one place to another, and help him find his way home.

I pick up the cellphone, the laptop, and bring them over to the coffee table and set them down, blowing off the dust, wiping them down with paper towels, spritzing them with a light cleaner, booting them both up, remembering how this all works.

The cellphone comes back to life first—there are several text messages, and a few voicemails as well. The texts come first:

Call me.

Ray, get back to me.

I need to talk.

Where are you?

I'll stop by.

I have to tell you something.

Raymond? Please answer.

We have to talk.

It's urgent.

Something happened.

I don't know what to do.

All of the text messages are from Stephanie, all of them over the past couple of weeks, before and after her recent visit. I've seen her recently, but then again, the messages continue—are things okay now, or has it escalated? I text her back:

Phone is on.

Get back to me.

I don't even know where you live.

The voicemails are a series of clicks, no voice, and no messages.

On to the laptop and the email.

Mostly junk and spam.
Here's a Groupon. I have your millions. Donate to LIVESTRONG. Buy costumes. Solar installation quote. You've won. Penis enlargement. Penis reduction. Hey baby I saw your picture online. I am a South African prince. Subscribe to Oprah magazine. Subscribe to Better Homes and Gardens. Subscribe to Cosmopolitan. Have arthritis pain? PERSONAL. Breaking news. New low prices on meds. Young and ready. PETA is accepting donations now. Stop global warming. Can you believe this? HELP US NOW!

And then, an actual email from Edson—it's short.

Big fight Tuesday. Come ready. All or nothing. Hope you get this. Bring one weapon.

That's new.

The fight, Stephanie, Natalie, or the bank—which is the most important? Even though the day is slipping away, it's still Sunday, so no bank today. I'm ready for this fight, whatever twist it may have, but the weapon—that's interesting, I will have to think about that.

Stephanie. But where the hell is she? She's not responding to my texts.

Work—stop by Target? Maybe I'll catch her.

Coat, hat, gloves, and out the door. Wind blowing, no snow yet, but it's not that far away. I place one boot in front of the other, heading up the sidewalk north, my head overflowing with images and emotions.

Cars and buses, what few people are out in the cold step off the sidewalk when I get close, the earth reverberating under my feet, clouds of cold air bursting from my mouth.

I look up, and I'm there: Target. The big red circles glowing on the storefront, red spheres out in front of the store like three boiling planets—ellipses continuing some thought or conversation, off into a never-ending silence.

In the door, and to the left,
CUSTOMER SERVICE
, in big letters, a line in front of me, impatience carved into my face like hieroglyphics. Returning a sweater, large for extra-large.
Unable to return the lipstick, it's been used already, almost half,
the lady starting to get loud about it until I clear my throat and stomp my feet, blowing on my hands. She turns around and takes one look at me, muttering
never mind,
and then she's gone. I step up and the girl's head tilts up at me, her mouth opening up a bit, blinking as if staring into the sun.

“Um…um…sir, yes, what can I help you with?”

“I don't know if I'm in the right place, but I'm looking for my sister. Stephanie Nelson. She works here?”

The girl continues to stare, eyebrows furrowed, probably shocked that I have a sister, a human relation of any kind.

“She's tall, skinny, with dark hair?”

Nothing.

“Pale, always late, tends to curse a lot…”

“
Oh,
yeah, right,” the girl says.

She continues to look at me, no more words forthcoming.

“Is she working today?”

“Oh, let me look.”

She turns to look at the computer, back to me, and then to the screen, unwilling to take her eyes off of me for even a second.

“Um, no, she's not in today. Sorry.”

“Maybe you can help me out. She moved recently and I don't have her new address. Is there any chance you could look it up for me?”

“Oh, sir, I'm sorry, that's not…”

And she squints at me, wrinkling her nose.

“What's your name again?”

“Ray.”

She turns her head to one side and I close my eyes.

“Do you know Natalie?” she asks.

I smile.

“I do.”

The girl smiles back.

“Heard all about you, big fella,” she says, suddenly warming up. “Hold on.”

She clicks a few keys and grabs a scrap of paper, writing something down.

“You didn't get this from me,” she says.

I take the paper.

“It's not far, just down the street,” she says. “And yet, she still…”

“…comes in late all the time. Yeah. Not surprised.”

The girl beams at me. “Yeah…always late, that one,” she laughs.

“Thank you,” I say, leaning over to read her name tag, “Meredith.”

“My pleasure. Have a great day.”

I step aside and read the address. No time like the present.

Out into the cold again. It's six blocks east to her apartment, and I run the text messages over and over in my head. There's nothing to worry about there, right? “Urgent” to Stephanie could be a spider in the living room, a clogged toilet, out of money. But urgent could also be something else—a man causing her trouble, or maybe she's strung out again and in need of help, a debt she owes that needs to be collected. Above and beyond being her little brother, I have always been two things to my sister: muscle and cash. As much as that hurts to say, it's true.

I find her apartment and buzz the door, but no answer. I buzz it again, shake the knob, but no entry. Hell, her building is more secure than mine. I look up toward the windows, and all of the lights are out. She may not even be here.

I suppose it can wait.

I text her again:

I'm here. You around?

I stand in the cold for a few minutes; maybe she's asleep.

I look inside the front door to the apartment complex and there are a few pieces of mail on the ground, but nothing like my foyer. It looks relatively clean.

Her last text to me was a few days ago.

Maybe she's okay, and she took care of it.

I'll come back after the fight. Give her some money, and we'll talk.