Fragile (4 page)

“Therapy only works when the patient is a willing participant,” said Dr. Willough. “That’s true with adults and adolescents alike. The patient
has to
want
help. And we have to recognize our limitations. Our boundaries.”

Abused kids almost always wanted to go home. Sometimes you could stop it, sometimes you couldn’t. Marshall’s father was a cop. He was without a job after his arrest, of course, but not without friends. The judge who’d allowed Marshall to go home was Travis’s longtime drinking buddy. Sitting in the courtroom, Leila, Travis’s sister, had cried in Maggie’s arms.
We’ve lost him
, she’d whispered. Maggie had hoped she was wrong. She still remembered the nasty sneer Travis had tossed back at them as he left with Marshall.

“Okay,” she said. “So, if not studying, then what
were
you doing last night that kept you up late?” She measured her tone; light and easy.

“I was helping my dad.” Marshall sat up a little straighter. There was a hint of a smile on his face. It’s what every boy wants; to be close to his dad. She felt a little twinge about Jones and Ricky.

“Helping him with what?”

“He’s a private investigator now, you know?”

“I heard.”

Henry Ivy had told her during one of their frequent lunches that Travis Crosby had hung out his own shingle, though neither of them could imagine who would consider hiring him.

“I was helping him paint the office,” said Marshall. “When I graduate, I’m going to be his partner.”

There was so much pride in his voice; she wanted to feel happy for him. But she just nodded, staying neutral. He was a sensitive kid, picked up on her lack of enthusiasm. She saw his right leg start to pump. Anxiety. A second later his thumbnail was in his mouth.

“What about college?” she asked. “Mr. Ivy told me that, with your SAT scores, you have a shot at some good schools—Rutgers, Fordham.”

He lifted a dismissive hand. “My dad says there’s no money for that.”

She tried to quash her own anxiety, stay level. She wanted to yell,
Get out of this town, Marshall. Get away from your father. Get an education. It’s the only chance you have
.

“There are scholarships, grants, financial aid,” she said instead. “We can help you with that.”

His eyes dropped to the floor. She decided to change the subject. “How are things going with your mother?”

“My mother’s a whore,” Marshall said. His tone was mild, but the rise of color in his cheeks was telling.

“Why do you say that?” A low-level anxiety caused her to inch forward in her chair a little.

He pulled his mouth into a derisive sneer. “She has a new boyfriend.”

Maggie forced herself to breathe in and out before answering, hoping the silence would let the exchange echo back at him. The sneer dropped, and he just looked inconsolably sad.

“That doesn’t make her a whore, Marshall. When’s the last time you talked to her?”

Maggie heard her son’s car rumble to life in the driveway, then speed off.
Too fast. The kid drives too fast, and that muscle car doesn’t help matters
. She got lost in her own thoughts for a second and almost didn’t hear Marshall’s response, something about his mother leaving him a message on Facebook.

“Said she missed me.” He gave a bitter little laugh. It sounded bad on him, too old, too jaded.

“But no visits, no phone calls?”

“She said she doesn’t have time. Too busy.”

Maggie didn’t know if that was true or not; it could have been that Marshall was avoiding her. Five years earlier, Angie Crosby had left Travis after a brutal beating (for which Travis was never charged, because he, too, had taken some blows from Angie). They then engaged in a vitriolic divorce and custody battle. In The Hollows, where they all lived—where they’d all grown up together—it was legendary. The rumors and gossip were endless; there was no function—not the precinct Christmas party or the annual pancake breakfast at the firehouse—where someone wasn’t whispering about it.

“You were getting along really well, weren’t you?”

“I guess.”

When shared custody had been awarded, Angie disappeared. She was eager to leave Travis behind, and it seemed she felt that meant leaving Marshall, too. If she couldn’t keep him away from Travis, she’d admitted to Maggie recently, she hadn’t wanted him. She’d refused to attend a session with Marshall but had sent Maggie an e-mail explaining “her side of things.” At age nine, Marshall had already been prone to violent rages, had hit Angie twice and regularly invoked the vicious names Travis had for her, she claimed. I have always been afraid of Travis, even when I loved him. I am sorry to say that I feel the same way about Marshall. I want a life where no one hits me, where my son doesn’t call me a bitch and a whore. Does that make me a monster who abandoned her child? Maybe.

Maggie had been pleased to see them approach a tentative reunion while Travis was away and Marshall was doing so much better. But maybe when Travis came home and Marshall chose to return to him, Angie withdrew again. Maggie made a note to call Angie and find out what was really going on.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

Marshall nodded. She wasn’t sure she believed him.

Maggie didn’t always agree with the medication of children. It was, as far as she was concerned, a last resort. She lost a lot of young patients in her practice as a family and adolescent psychologist because she wouldn’t quickly call Dr. Willough for a referral prescription. But at nearly seventeen, Marshall wasn’t exactly a child anymore. And on his first visit to her, he’d been severely depressed. Not bipolar, not ADHD, not borderline—he’d had as many diagnoses over the years as he’d had therapists. But she’d seen him as so clearly in the throes of a clinical depression that she’d prescribed a mild antidepressant, wary of the risks.

He seemed to have the right kind of supervision—an aunt who loved him, an uncle who appeared equally fond of him and concerned for his well-being, and, maybe most important, his cousins Ryan and Tim, who were healthy and well-adjusted, and who were inclined to take an interest in Marshall—bringing him to ball games, letting him work on the old car they were trying to restore, coaching him on how to
approach a girl he liked. She’d educated them on the risks of a depressed teen on medication, what signs to monitor. But he’d responded well.

“Been in touch with Ryan and Tim?”

“Yeah, we hang.” He looked above her now, not at her, still avoiding her eyes. He seemed to notice his bouncing knee and got it under control.

“Come on, Marshall. Let’s cut through it, shall we? What’s going on?”

He seemed to study the ceiling. When he looked back, he was smiling. She’d always liked his smile, sweet and boyish, as unexpectedly bright as a ray of sunlight through thunderheads. But this smile was ugly, sent a slight shiver through her.

He leaned forward suddenly, staring straight at her. “You know what, Doc?”

She gave him a tolerant, slow blink to show him that she was neither intimidated by him nor impressed by his shift in tone. It was striking, though, how his voice had gone from the dead, flat teenage monotone to something deeper, like a growl.

“What is it, Marshall?”

He issued a strange little chuckle. She fought the urge to shrink away from him, squared her shoulders and sat up. “I’m not sure I want you in my head anymore.”

She put on her best cool smile, held his eyes, mineral green like a quarry lake.

“Whether you come here or not is, of course, your choice,” she said.

Some kind of battle took place on his face, the acne on his chin and forehead blazing an angry red. The corners of his mouth fell in a pantomime of sadness. His eyes went wide, as if he was about to cry, then narrowed down, ugly with distrust and anger.

“Talk to me, Marshall.”

She tried not to sound desperate, pleading. The mother in her wanted to sit close beside him, wrap him up and hold him tight. But she couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t be able to accept that kind of love, even if she could offer it to him.

He stood quickly then, raising himself to his full height, unslouching
those perpetually hunched shoulders. She’d never realized how tall he was, always thought of him as a lean, lanky kid—never big or powerful, as he looked now.
He must be nearly six feet, close to two hundred pounds
, she thought with surprise. Involuntarily, she pushed herself back in her chair to rise. Her surprise must have registered on her face, triggering another battle on his. A nasty grimace won the war.

She’d never witnessed the tendency for violence in him, was startled by what she saw this session. What had happened? What had changed?

He bent over and picked up his battered backpack where it had rested near his feet, exiting without a glance back and closing the door quietly behind him. She sat for a full minute with her heart a turbine engine in her chest before she got up, walked over to her desk, and picked up the phone.

4

R
odents. They were everywhere. People didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. He’d seen colonies of mice, rats, squirrels, raccoons in attics, basements, inside walls, under toolsheds. Colonies that had lived beside humans, separated by an inch of drywall, for years. Living, breeding, dying, decaying to dust. There was a kind of beauty to them, their slippery bodies, their savage natures, their sharp little teeth and black eyes. The babies were cute, like the babies of every species. Tiny pink balls covered in downy gray fur, blind and squeaking.

The rat he had in his trap, a full-grown male, was definitely
not
cute. He’d died ugly, all bared teeth and reaching claws. He was big, too, maybe inches from nose to rump, weighing nearly half a pound if Charlie Strout were to hazard a guess. He’d seen them bigger, as big as a small cat. He’d seen them mean. He’d been bitten twice, once in an elderly woman’s attic—she’d bandaged up the web of his hand and made him some tea. Ambushed. Once, he’d been bitten removing an animal he thought was dead from a trap. Careless. Mainly, they just ran from him, wanted to be left alone like everyone else.

He tossed the trap into the flatbed of his Ford. It landed with a
thunk
, and he covered it, along with two other bodies, under a thick canvas tarp.

“Catch anything?”

He turned to see the woman who’d hired him standing at the end of the path that led to her door. He was used to the look of revulsion, the wrapped-up body language. She had her hands firmly tucked in her pockets, her arms pressed tight to her sides, her shoulders hiked up. She
squinted at him in the bright, late-afternoon light. It caught on the gold of her hair, glinted off the diamonds in her ears. She was pretty, a youngish forty-something. Women stayed attractive and girlish so much longer these days; he didn’t remember his mom or her friends looking so good when he was the same age as his client’s kid.

“I did, ma’am.”

“Maybe the last one?”

“I started sealing off the exits. If there are any left, they’ll get nervous, be more likely to go for the food in the traps when they get hungry and can’t escape.”

Her squint deepened. “But they can’t get
in
the house?”

“No, ma’am, not likely.” But they could. Of course they could. They were smart, stealthy. They’d come in holes she didn’t even know were there, behind the entertainment center, maybe, up through the toilet if they could, through the central air vents if they found an opening and smelled food. “Just don’t leave anything out. Make sure you take the garbage to the outdoor bin at night.”

She nodded uneasily.

“We’ll have you clear of this soon.”

She gave him a grateful smile and walked over to hand him a folded-up ten. She was a good tipper, polite and friendly with him. “Thanks for all your help.”

“No problem. And don’t worry.”

He felt a little bad; there weren’t as many rats up there as the sales guy who made the first visit had probably led her to believe. He would have used words like
infestation. Well, I’m sure there aren’t more than thirty up there
. Then he’d have talked about how bacteria from feces and decay could make its way into air vents and cause respiratory problems. The sales guy would have asked something like
Have you or your kids been getting more colds than usual?
By the time he was done, she’d agreed to two thousand dollars’ worth of work for their “three-phase plan”: trapping and removal, entry sealing, and cleaning up decay and feces, with their “patented formula” cleaner, which was really just some cherry-scented stuff they sprayed around. It was a total rip-off; most jobs took him about three hours—set the traps, remove the corpses, plug up a few
holes, and spray the cleaner around. He’d space out his visits over a couple of weeks so it looked like more work than it was. But people would pay
anything
to be rid of rats, especially if they had kids. They all wanted humane trapping for the raccoons, moles, or squirrels. But no one cared about the rats, how they died. They didn’t like to hear the snap of the trap or the squealing that might follow. Still, few asked for the rats to be removed alive and relocated.

He supposed it had something to do with the Black Plague—a bad history, over centuries and continents. Rats were regarded as the bringers of pestilence and death. In the projects of New York City, rumors abounded that they crawled into cribs and bit babies as they slept. He’d never seen anything like that in The Hollows. To him they were no different than the other animals people didn’t want around. They were just critters, trying to get by.

He got into his truck. It was one of the nicer vehicles in the fleet the company he worked for owned. Wanda was working dispatch today, and she liked him, thought he was a gentleman, so she made sure he got one of the newer trucks with good air-conditioning and XM radio.

He cranked the air. October and it was still hot as a bitch. Global warming: that’s what people needed to be worried about. They spent thousands for him to crawl around in their attics. But how many of those people had given a dime to save the rest of the planet? Not that he was any philanthropist. But he was making fifteen dollars an hour, not living in some 4,500-square-foot McMansion.