The Buried Book (10 page)

CHAPTER 18

Did they ever leave bruises or marks?

Pain pounded his temples with each beat of his heart. A steady vibration hummed all around him. Jasper blinked his eyes open and saw nothing but black. The smells of cigarette smoke and gasoline worked their way into the back of his mouth. A beam of yellow light passed overhead, and he felt his body lurch forward as the rumbling beneath him slowed. He must’ve dozed off.

Jasper tried to sit up, but the pain in his head kept him on his back. The brakes squeaked as the vehicle pulled to a full stop. He was curled up on the bench of the truck. Down on the floorboards, his father’s worn boot let off the brake and stepped on the gas.

The truck picked up speed again, and another streetlight blew by. The shadow of his suitcase sat on the floor beneath him.

“Just sit and wait here,” his father had told him after dragging him to the truck. They were the first words either of them had spoken since it happened. Jasper had sat in the front seat too dazed to even cry until Wendell came back with the bag. He set it down at the boy’s feet without a word.

The suitcase lurched forward as his father’s boot laid on the gas.

Jasper was leaving the farm. He’d been praying for it for weeks, but now it wasn’t clear where they were going. His father still wasn’t talking. He might not ever talk to him again.

Tears welled up as the horrible scene replayed in his head over and over again. The words he’d screamed. His father’s furious eyes. His father’s hard smack, rattling his teeth. He didn’t have to reach up a hand to feel the swelling around his left eye. His father had hit him. He’d screamed in his father’s face, and the man had hit him hard.

His father had never hit him before.

Afterward, his father had just stood there gaping at him. That look. That deflated, disappointed, utterly devastated look brought tears to Jasper’s eyes as he lay there next to the man.

A chill clung to his inner thigh. Shame washed over him when he realized his pant leg was wet. He wanted to die.

The truck lurched to another stop. His father cut the engine. Wherever they were going, they’d arrived. Jasper feigned sleep as his father opened the driver’s side door. Wherever it was, he didn’t want to go.

A panicked thought ran through his head.
Orphanage.

For a few blessed moments, Jasper was alone in the truck, hoping against hope that his father would change his mind. He’d said terrible things. He’d accused the man of hitting his mother and doing God knows what else. He’d gotten him so angry his father had revealed a side of himself Jasper hardly knew was there.
You think you’re the only one’s ever lost somethin’?

Wendell Leary was an orphan. Jasper’s mother told him that once after one of their fights. His father had lost
both
his parents when he was just a boy. She’d been drinking and muttering that they were meant to be together because of their broken hearts, but Jasper didn’t understand what that meant. His father had never spoken of it before.

No doubt his father hated him now. He would be happy to be rid of him. Jasper rolled onto his side and buried his face in his hands. His left eye felt like a ripe plum about to burst. It was the eye of a monster.

Jasper fought back a sob and prayed that his father would forgive him. The passenger side door wrenched open.

“Time to get out, Jasper.” His father’s voice was hoarse.

Jasper shook his head, still hiding his face in his hands.

“Stop foolin’ around, Son. Let’s go.”

His father pulled him by the elbows until he was sitting up in the seat. A wave of nausea came and went at the sudden movement. Jasper tried to blink his eyes straight. His left eye didn’t match his right. Everything pulsed with red.

Out the window, he saw a familiar sign. “Carbo’s Bakery.” He blinked twice, but it was still there. They were home.

Home.

Jasper leapt out of the truck. “Are we—?”

“Easy, kiddo.” His dad reached out a hand to steady him.

“Are we going home? Is Mom . . . is she here?”

The pained look in his father’s eyes was his answer. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

His dad led him up the stairs and down the narrow hallway to their three-room apartment. The door to 2B swung open, and it was all Jasper could do not to run through the dark living room straight to his bedroom and his pillow and his books and his few treasured toys. Wendell set the suitcase down by the front door and flipped on the lights.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” his father whispered.

The apartment was in shambles. Piles of clothes and books and dishes were scattered across the floor. The cushions of the couch were torn open, and white and yellow stuffing was scattered across the rug. Jasper sucked in a breath and checked the number on the door again.

Wendell pushed past Jasper and waded into the mess. The kitchen cabinets and drawers all stood open. All the books on the shelves had been thrown on the floor.

“What happened?” Jasper gaped at it all from the doorway.

His father didn’t answer him. “Althea?” he called out, crashing through the living room. He ran down the short hall to their bedroom, calling again, “Althea?”

“Is she here?” Jasper whispered and took a timid step into the room.

“Goddammit!” his father bellowed from the bedroom. “I’m gone one day. One goddamned day, Althea. What the hell have you done now?”

He stormed back to Jasper in a fury. For a terrifying second, Jasper thought he might hit him again. He staggered back, falling over a broken lamp with a crash.

“Christ, Jasper!” his father barked, but then he saw the look on his son’s face. He held up his hands. “Hey, Son. Relax. I’m not gonna . . . Oh. Jesus.”

Wendell crumpled onto a chair and put his head in his hands.

Jasper stayed where he’d landed, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe.

All the color had drained from his father’s face. After an agonizing minute, the man cleared his throat loudly and straightened himself. “You alright, Son?”

Jasper forced a nod and whispered, “Is she here?”

“Nope. Looks like a pair of burglars just paid us a visit . . . Why don’t you . . . uh . . .” Wendell shook himself as if to wake up. “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up and head down to Mrs. Carbo’s. I have to do some things here. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I just have to get . . . something.” Jasper pulled himself up off the ground where he’d fallen and staggered into the mess that had been their home. Broken dishes covered the linoleum floor in the kitchen. His mother’s favorite flower vase had been shattered.

Passing the bathroom, he could see the contents of the medicine cabinet had been dumped onto the floor. At the end of the hall, the door to his room stood open. Clenching his fists, he forced himself through it and saw that everything he owned had been thrown from its shelf. His bed had been stripped bare.

Who would do this?
Jasper wanted to scream. His eyes darted from the open closet to the corners as if the perpetrator might still be there, lying in wait. His father was right. He had to get out of there.

Jasper snatched a clean pair of pants off the floor. As he ripped the wet ones off, he remembered the book he’d stuffed into the pocket. He pulled it out and tossed the wet overalls into the garbage can in the corner. By some miracle the diary was dry. He hugged it to his chest and scanned the wreckage again. His father had shouted,
Althea!
But there was no possible way she would’ve destroyed his room. She got angry if he left a sock on the floor.

“Jasper! It’s time to go,” his father’s hoarse voice commanded.

“Yes, sir.” Jasper shoved the book into the waist of his clean pants and hurried down the hallway. As he passed by his parents’ bedroom door, he glimpsed the mess inside. His mother would have died at the sight of it.

His father sat slumped near the doorway.

“Tell Mrs. Carbo we had a break-in. It just ain’t safe here tonight. Okay?” Wendell’s pale face contorted into what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. He patted Jasper on the head. “It’s going to be okay, Son.”

“Yes, sir.” Jasper knew better than to question it, even though his father didn’t look okay at all. He picked up his suitcase and headed down the corridor to 2A.

Mrs. Carbo threw the door open on the second knock. “Jasper!” She pulled him into her apartment. Her housecoat smelled like oatmeal cookies as she wrapped her arms around him. “Where have you been, my little lamb? I’ve been so worried!”

His spine went limp as she held him, and he had to fight not to cry. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her.

“Let me take a look at you.” She held him out and studied the bruise on his face. “Sweet Jesus, Jasper! What has happened to you?”

“No—nothing,” he stammered, avoiding her eyes. He knew he’d have to do better than that, but he couldn’t admit what he’d done to his father. “I, uh, fell roller-skating.”

“Roller-skating?” Her lips pressed together as though she wanted to share his pain. “You should be more careful.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, you silly boy.” She kissed him five times on the cheeks. “Come inside. Let’s get you some milk and cookies.”

If she noticed his suitcase, she didn’t mention it. He set it down by the door and followed her into the kitchen. She didn’t ask him any more questions until he’d had three oatmeal raisin cookies and a tall glass of warm milk. He ate them slowly, knowing the questions were coming.

“Where have you been staying, love?” she finally asked in a gentle voice. “I’ve been looking for you these past few weeks. I even knocked on your door.”

“My uncle’s farm,” he answered with a mouth full of cookie. He quickly swallowed and could see by the worried look on her face that he needed to tell her more. “It’s really neat. I have a cousin there, and there’s cows and chickens . . .”

“Wow. That sounds exciting.” She handed him a napkin.

Jasper took it obediently and nodded. The clock on the stove read 11:05 p.m. “Um, Mrs. Carbo? Do you mind if I sleep here tonight? I’m really tired and . . .” He let his voice trail off. He didn’t want to have to explain about the apartment. Or his mother.
My father will fix it,
he told himself.
In the morning everything will be fine.

“Of course, love.” She patted his hand. Her eyes were sad as she smiled. It wasn’t just sadness. It was worse.

CHAPTER 19

How did you get those scars?

Yellow sunshine streamed in through the window sheers. It took several blinks for Jasper’s aching head to focus in the light. He was lying on the blue couch in Mrs. Carbo’s living room. He rolled onto his side but recoiled as his face hit the pillow. The bruising around his eye had become an alien thing stuck to the side of his face. His fingers traced the edges of the swelling, half expecting to feel it move.

Jasper could still see the look in his father’s eyes right before the blow landed. It wasn’t just an angry look. It was more like something had snapped loose. The eyes didn’t even look like they belonged to his father at all. They belonged to some other man.

The fight replayed again in his head.

He sat up. He had to go find him and say he was sorry. His father would never hurt his mother. The sun hung high in the sky out the window. The morning was half gone. A panic swept through him that it was too late. He jumped up from the couch only to find his pajama pants were wet. There was a small circular stain on the couch cushion. He punched himself hard in the leg and looked down the hallway leading to Mrs. Carbo’s bedroom door.

The door was shut.

He stripped off his damp pajamas and tried his best to soak up the stain with them. Mrs. Carbo would be furious, but he couldn’t face her. He tiptoed to his suitcase at the front door. He threw on clean clothes and clicked his bag shut as quietly as he could.

Jasper was carrying his balled-up pajamas to the kitchen trash can when he heard a muffled voice behind him. It was Mrs. Carbo. He turned toward her closed bedroom door at the other end of the hall.

“. . . yes, Officer. You told me to call if I heard anything new . . . Right. Well, he came home last night . . . Mmm-hmm. He’d been gone for weeks. Then there was this knock on my door around eleven o’clock. He looked terrible . . . Yes, it’s worse than I feared.”

Jasper stopped breathing.

“Oh, goodness! Gunshots? . . . No, I didn’t hear a thing. I was down in the bakery all day yesterday, and you know how loud the delivery trucks can be . . . Yes. Sergeant Kilburn stopped in for his usual coffee around nine a.m. . . . I thought he just went back to his stakeout or whatever it is you fellas are doin’ outside here . . . He didn’t say anything about a break-in . . . Maybe he just left early. You don’t think . . . No. Wendell couldn’t possibly have . . . But what will happen to Jasper? I’d hate to see that boy in an orphanage. You hear such terrible things . . .”

The word
orphanage
sent Jasper running to the apartment door. He stuffed his feet into his boots.

Mrs. Carbo’s voice murmured from down the hall. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Detective. Okay. I’ll see you then.”

The faint click of a phone handset made him freeze. She’d probably scream if she saw him standing there, about to sneak away. He heard a dresser drawer open and close behind the bedroom door. He couldn’t risk another second. Jasper silently pushed the security chain out of its slot and pulled the door open. It creaked, stopping his heart for a beat as he waited for Mrs. Carbo to burst out of her room. Nothing happened. He picked up his suitcase and eased the door shut.

The lights in the hall glowed burnt yellow. Jasper slipped under them and around the corner to his own apartment door. The brass number still read “2B” but there was a piece of paper nailed right under. It read “Crime Scene—Do Not Enter” in big black letters followed by a bunch of smaller ones he didn’t bother to read. It was like he was standing outside someone else’s door.
Do not enter,
he read again, but Mrs. Carbo would be leaving her room any second. She would soon see he wasn’t lying there on the couch. He looked down at his empty right hand and realized she’d find the wet pajamas on the floor of her hallway. Cheeks burning, he tried the handle and was relieved when the door swung right open.

“Dad?” he called out softly, closing the door behind him.

There was no answer.

Jasper set his suitcase down and threw the dead bolt. His mother had always told him to keep the door locked when he was home alone.
Don’t open it for nobody. Not even the president of the United States,
she’d say.

Jasper turned and faced the room. It still looked like a storm had torn through it. He swallowed hard. “Dad?” he tried a little louder this time. He didn’t leave the safety of the doorway for a full minute as he listened for an answer.

A delivery truck lumbered down the street outside. The apartment felt deserted.
Crime scene.
The familiar smells of brewed coffee and his father’s cigars had been overpowered by the putrid aroma of dirty dishes and trash. It didn’t even smell like home anymore.

He took a few cautious steps away from the door. “Hello?”

No one answered.

Growing braver, he picked his way down the dark hallway past the bathroom to his parents’ room. Their bedroom door was shut. He reached out for the handle but couldn’t help but remember the time he’d opened it and caught his mother changing her clothes. She’d snatched her robe from behind the door but not before he had glimpsed a long, angry scar running down her stomach. It matched several others on her arms. She grabbed his chin too hard.
Closed doors should stay closed!
she’d shouted and slammed it in his face. A few minutes later, she’d emerged to find him balled up in the corner of his bedroom.
Sweet, sweet, Jasper. No. No. No. Don’t cry. Mommy loves you. Some things are just private, baby. Some things you should never see . . .

He’d looked at his parents’ door with suspicion ever since, but he’d never tried to open it again. Until now.

Jasper pressed his ear to the door and listened for the familiar sound of his father’s snores. He couldn’t hear a thing. He raised his fist to the wood and took a long pause before rapping it lightly with his knuckles. Nothing. He knocked harder. Still nothing.

“Dad?” Jasper called out again, then turned the handle and peered inside.