Gemini (33 page)

Raney tried to see his face, but the light from the hall only cast him in more shadow. “What happened?”

“He’s insulted us. Our family.”

“Was it Jerrod? Tom told you?”

David took a long drink from the beer. “Tom accused Jake.” He paused. “He said Jake has been selling those pills at school. The Adderall. That he badgered Jerrod to join in—that Jake started the fight.”

“That’s crazy! Jake is too shy to even dream that up.” But she tried to remember the last time she’d actually witnessed Jake taking a pill, how many times she’d refilled them. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe.”

“Did you quit?”

“Raney, if you think about that question after what I’ve just told you, you will understand that staying was not a choice.” His anger sounded closer to belittling sarcasm now, attacking her along with everyone else. He picked up the beer and walked into the kitchen, where she heard him dump it down the sink and rinse the bottle. He came to the doorway, took a folded envelope out of his pocket, smoothed it out, and put it on the hall table. “Here’s your pay. You should get Jake up and pack some clothes. We’re leaving here in the morning, as soon as it’s light.”

“Today? This will blow over. You’ll find work in Port Townsend. Or Sequim. At least we have this house. We can’t just run away—you know it’s a lie. We’ll fight it. Legally, if we have to.”

“Like you and Cleet fought his lawsuit? Look at Jake’s face and tell me you want to stay in this town.” He looked around the living room, at the water-stained ceiling and rotting window frames. “We can’t keep the house anyway. We can’t afford it anymore.”

“What did you do, David?”

“This town is toxic, Raney. I want a new start.”

“Tell me. What did you do?” Her jaw clenched so that it was hard to say the words. The entire night seemed separate from her life, a cartoon bubble misplaced in time—an event she was remembering or foretelling but couldn’t possibly be living through. “Are you in trouble with the law?”

His face was a stone. “I know too much about Tom Fielding’s business to be in trouble with the law. He would never risk it. But he’ll be hot for a while.”

How could she tell Jake? Walk in there at four in the morning, take the ice pack off his bruised face, and say,
Pack a bag! Pack your clothes, your pictures, your childhood! We’re leaving everything you’ve ever known. The house your father, your real father, raised you in for seven years before he decided in a moment of madness that you were better off without him?
“Shouldn’t we know where we’re going before we leave? Have some plan?” she asked David.

“I’ll land on my feet. I always do. If I don’t find good work we’ll come back after this blows over.”

•
18
•

charlotte

It was after five by
the time Charlotte and Eric reached Port Angeles. The house, a one-story wood frame painted blue with white-trimmed windows, was on a small street near the end of town; there was a Cyclone fence around the perimeter. The yard was cluttered with plastic trucks and push-toys, a seesaw with smiling frogs for seats, all originally bright yellow and orange, now faded from the sun. The toys looked tired and dirty, but at least more kid-friendly than anything Charlotte had seen at the trailer.

An older woman answered the door. Not the face Charlotte had anticipated, but only then did she realize that she had, ludicrously, been expecting some facsimile of Jake’s own mother, Raney. The woman introduced herself, “Louise, the mom around here,” and showed Eric and Charlotte through a cramped entry hall to a paneled room that combined dining, TV, and games and stretched the full width of the house. One entire wall was a bulletin board covered with crayoned and finger-painted pictures of houses and cats and bubble-shaped trees; stick-figure families held hands on stripes of green lawn, but few of them showed the classic arrangement of two parents and three children in graduated height. The shelves were filled with puzzles and DVDs and books—
World Book
and Harry Potter, Goosebumps and Judy Blume. A dozen children from ages two to fifteen could live here, but the rooms above and around them were silent.

Louise offered them lemonade. They declined. She took a chair opposite the sofa where Charlotte and Eric sat side by side, settling herself calmly as if no words were necessary and they might all spontaneously begin a hand of cards, or were awaiting other guests. The sofa smelled faintly of fermented juice and baby lotion. Louise was a heavy woman. It was difficult to read her expression; her eyes were embedded deep in her full face, lines erased by full flesh. The great bulk of her thighs pushed her knees apart, and her skirt planed into a wide, shallow bowl. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence Charlotte began to wonder if Louise understood why they were there.

Finally Louise readjusted herself in the chair and said, “This young man, Jake, is a curious soul to me.”

“How do you mean?” Charlotte asked.

Louise cocked her head a bit and Charlotte knew she was being assessed, the untested boundaries of trust established. “He says very little, but what he says is well worth paying attention to. More than I usually encounter in a child this age, and I have known a lot of children.” She leaned forward and opened a glass candy jar on the coffee table, held it up for Eric and Charlotte to accept or refuse, then took out a strawberry-wrapped piece. She put the jar down and dropped the wrapped candy into a deep pocket on the side of her skirt. “Deputy Simpson tells me that you are Jake’s mother’s doctor, over in Seattle. I called him after I heard from you, of course.” She waited for Charlotte to acknowledge this with a weak smile before she went on. “He tells me Jake’s mother is not doing well, and I find myself thinking that perhaps you’ve driven all the way here from Seattle to tell him difficult news.”

It began to make sense to Charlotte now. Louise was the wall of defense here. Drawing her line in the sand before she would allow Jake to be damaged one more time. “Ms. . . .” Charlotte realized Louise had never given her last name. “No. That isn’t why we’re here.” And then Charlotte looked at Eric, lost for words that might explain why they
had
come all the way from Seattle to see a boy they barely knew. “When we saw Jake in Queets he told me that Raney, his mother, wanted him to see a doctor—about his back pain. If I can help out . . . Well . . . with all that’s happened I was concerned about him. We just want him to know someone else cares.”

Louise gave this a long moment of consideration, then heaved to her feet and lumbered to the bottom of the staircase, where she called for Jake. When he came into the room he had the same cautious, observant expression Charlotte had been struck by when she met him in Queets. He wore a faded Mariners T-shirt that looked way too big—likely from Louise’s shelves.

“Hi, Jake. Remember us? Charlotte and Eric?” Charlotte was unsure whether she should offer Jake a handshake or whether that might be enough to send him running back upstairs.

He looked solemnly from Charlotte to Eric and back to Charlotte, as if he were trying to recall their faces, or perhaps deciding if he should tell them
anything
he did or did not recall. Louise stood between Jake and the sofa, far enough away to let Jake be in charge, close enough to intervene. After a while Jake nodded and Louise met his eye, then gestured for him to sit in the chair she had occupied. She leaned over him, her great bosom a deep black crevice. “Jake? I’m right here in the kitchen, son. Makin’ your dinner. Pigs in a blanket.”

The silence became awkward again after she left the room; Charlotte could feel Louise watching them through the open kitchen door. Charlotte smiled and asked if Jake liked Port Angeles all right; if he’d met any other kids here. He studied her quietly with his arresting eyes. Now that he was directly across from her, now that she’d allowed herself to consider the impossible, Eric’s features were blatant in Jake’s face. She felt foolishly exposed, as if Louise, Boughton—anyone who saw both Eric and Jake—must know the truth immediately—only she had missed it. She glanced at Eric, and even in the poorly lit room he looked too pale, too solemn. After a while she stopped trying to draw Jake out with her pointless questions, and as if he had been waiting for that sign of respect, he asked her, “Is my mother still alive?”

“Yes. She’s still very sick, Jake. She would come herself if she could.” Still, he looked so cautious, so skeptical. Was it anger? Doubt? A mistrust of all adults after what he’d been through? She leaned closer. “She wants to be here with you, Jake. You believe that, don’t you?”

She heard Louise clear her throat. Jake glanced over his shoulder at her in the kitchen and Charlotte saw her stop in her work, wait for a sign from him that all was okay. He looked straight at Charlotte again and said, “Tell my mother I was on my way to Seattle when they caught me. I’m not going back. I won’t live with David.”

“Okay, I will.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Jake? Did you leave because David hurt you?” Charlotte knew she was stepping near a line, and for a moment she wondered if Louise might suddenly loom up and snatch Jake into her great arms, carry him out of the room, tall as he was.

But Jake had an answer ready. “He’s too smart to hit me. If he had, the police wouldn’t make me go back.” Charlotte’s throat tightened, but Jake’s face didn’t change—still composed and preternaturally wise. Indeed, he looked so undisturbed it seemed peculiar, given where he was, until she realized that here, for the first time since his mother disappeared, Jake had some hope that his life might change.

The smell of broiling sausage drifted into the room. Somewhere a faucet dripped, or perhaps it had begun to rain. After sitting silently through it all, Eric leaned forward on the sofa so his face was closer to Jake’s. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you something the other day, but I’d like to tell you now.” Charlotte could see Eric trying to smile, to keep this easy despite Jake’s wariness. “I knew your mom when she was a girl. Not much older than you. We used to play together down in the ravine near where your great-grandpa lived. I knew him too. One time—when I first met your mom—she tricked me into looking for seal pups in a cave under the bluffs. When the tide came in I was stuck. I spent half the night in that cave!” He looked down at his hands for a moment. “She’s a special person. She was a wonderful friend to me. You look a little like she did, back then.”

Jake was fixed on Eric’s face, more engaged than Charlotte had seen him all evening, the color and light in his eyes brightening and darkening. She could see him turning Eric’s story over, calculating the likelihood of such an event. If Jake decided it was a ruse to gain his trust, would he walk out? She wished Eric had waited until Jake seemed more comfortable with them—if they had to leave now, there would be no second chance. She was about to change the subject, hunting for something light to say, when Jake tilted his head and asked Eric, “Did my mom used to call you Bo?”

—

Louise walked in with a stack of plastic plates and set the table for four, including Eric and Charlotte without any apparent invitation or question. She brought out an enormous platter of sausages wrapped in biscuit dough, baked to gold, followed by potato salad, pickles, and snap peas. Jake got more talkative as dinner progressed, asking Eric to tell him more stories about his mother when she lived on the farm—he, too, it turned out, had snuck cigarettes from the bunker, at the shy age of eight, and been required to eat one when his great-grandfather caught him, which appalled Charlotte but made both Eric and Jake howl in commiseration. Every time he laughed he seemed younger, less precociously guarded.

It was nine fifteen by the time they finished eating. Jake yawned a few times. Louise got up to make some tea and Eric started clearing the dishes. Only Jake and Charlotte were left at the table. She could hear Eric and Louise talking in low voices through the open kitchen door. Charlotte leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “I brought a treat for you, Jake. Something small.” She rummaged through her purse and pulled out the white envelope and packages of gum. “I didn’t know what flavor you like, so I bought two kinds. Grape and bubble gum. You can try them both and tell me which one is the best—I’ll bring more the next trip.” She unzipped the plastic tape from the grape pack and shook one piece up for Jake to take. He slid it out, unwrapped its white paper sheath, and crumpled the entire piece into his mouth. “Chew it some before you decide. They lose their flavor pretty quick.” After he’d given it a good go she opened the second pack. “Now try the bubble gum—my favorite.” She took a stick for herself and Jake unwrapped his own, rolling it into a tight curl before he started to put it into his mouth. “Wait,” Charlotte said, taking a clean napkin from the wire rack on the table. “Spit the grape out first or you can’t tell.” He spit the gum neatly into the napkin Charlotte held open across her palm, a silver trail of saliva included. Then he put the second piece in his mouth and chewed with concentration worthy of a sommelier. Charlotte emptied the contents of the napkin into the clean white envelope and folded it closed before slipping it into her purse. “You can keep both packs if you want.”

Louise and Eric came back into the room. “Jake, you and I need to hit the sack, huh?” Louise said. She looked at Charlotte with an expression more grave than her words sounded. “Dr. Reese told me she might be able to help you with your back pain, son. Case it’s a while before we get you to the doctor. How about you let her have a look?” She helped him pull the Mariners T-shirt over his head with a static crackle, his hair clinging to the neckline so it stood straight up for a moment. He seemed unself-conscious about partially undressing, relaxed around them now.

Charlotte asked him to walk toward the far wall and back, then she had him lean over and touch his toes. The curvature was more obvious to her this time, his pelvic crests clearly asymmetrical in height. She wished she knew more about the problem and could give Louise specific advice, if indeed Jake was allowed to stay here. It had been fifteen years since she’d studied either orthopedics or pediatrics, but something about Jake’s clinical picture nagged her. Was it the degree of the curvature? The rapidity with which it must have developed, given that no prior doctor or school nurse had caught it? She picked up his shirt and crinkled it into a sleeve to go over his head. “Thank you, Jake. I know some doctors in Seattle who might help you feel better. Would you be willing to talk to them? If Louise and Mr. Simpson said it was okay?”

“If they can make it stop hurting.”

He put his arms up for his T-shirt but Charlotte stopped when it was halfway over his head. “Just one more part of the exam, do you mind?” She placed her hand softly against his rib cage and turned his body so the lamplight illuminated him from the side. With her fingers, she parted the fine pubescent hair just beginning to grow in the hollow of his armpit, and there in the deep golden cove she saw a scatter of dark freckles. The dermatologic signature of neurofibromatosis. Just like Eric had.

—

Charlotte felt drained. They checked the ferry schedule and realized they were likely to miss the midnight sailing back to Seattle from Bainbridge; it would be quicker to drive around through Tacoma. After an hour and a half on the long stretches of empty highway Eric was sound asleep and she drifted into a half-formed dream of Raney pulling her IV lines out, rising from her ICU bed dressed in jeans and a Mariners T-shirt, looking no more than twelve years old. A light flashed—a car passing—Charlotte jerked awake and swerved hard to the right in a panic. The wheels dropped onto the gravel shoulder and spun with no traction; Eric cried out when his shoulder struck the door. The Saab ended up facing backward on the opposite side of the deserted highway; the headlights sparked on fragments of broken glass, glittering reminders of past tragedies.

They found a motel outside Tumwater and checked in. The room felt damp and close, the carpet uncomfortably nappy. Eric used the toilet and rinsed his mouth, then stripped to his shorts and slid under the bedcovers. He lay on his back with his hands crossed over his chest. How could someone sleep in that position? And yet she knew he would hardly move the rest of the short night. She didn’t take her shoes off until she was sitting on the edge of the bed, then tucked her feet up before they could touch the carpet. She was exhausted but wired, too fatigued to drive or think clearly and too agitated to sleep. The streetlights over the parking lot cast a yellow glow through the windows, and in her buzzing semiconsciousness the room was a television set, she and Eric and Jake and Raney inside while David watched—the one in control was the one least invested.