The Distance Between Us (35 page)

Alex and Eric see me at the same time. They’re standing side by side in the corner, as far away from Paul as they can get. Neither must have had time to get dressed before Paul’s assault; Eric is only wearing jeans, and Alex is nearly naked in a pair of brown boxer shorts. There’s blood on Alex’s feet and on the floor around him; he must have stepped in some glass. The house is whirling around me, and the sight of Alex’s blood makes my gorge rise.

Paul sees the boys react to my presence, and swings around to face me.

“Oh, hi, Mother,” he grunts. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He lumbers over to the counter, and while the rest of us stand frozen, watching him, he picks up the toaster, carefully unplugs it, and flings it through the shattered window, knocking out a remaining shard.

“Stop it, Paul!” I scream as more glass flies everywhere.

“Oops,” he says in the silence that follows the explosion. “I sure hope that wasn’t expensive.”

“I called the police before I came up here.” I hide my shaking hands in my coat pockets, but my voice gives away my fear. “You had best be on your way.”

“You called the police?” He studies me, bleary-eyed. “No, you didn’t. You’re lying. I can always tell when you’re lying. Your forehead does this weird scrunchy thing.”

“What in God’s name is the matter with you?” I cry.

He jabs a finger at Alex.
“Him,
Mother. He’s the matter with me. He’s in Jeremy’s apartment, and he’s got no business being here.” He says this as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, then he opens the silverware drawer and begins flinging forks at the wall with all his might. Most of them bounce off and skitter around the room (forcing the boys and me to cower to avoid them), but the last one plunges right into the plaster, tines first, and stays there, quivering.

Temporarily out of ammo, Paul turns to Alex.

“Jeremy lives here,” he says quietly. “Not you, you little shit. Jeremy.” He faces me again. “He sort of looks like Jeremy, don’t you think? Something in the eyes.”

I shake my head at him, not knowing what to say. There’s madness in his gaze, and a horrible, wrenching sorrow that twists his features and makes him look like a stranger.

He takes a step toward me. “Here’s the deal. You don’t get to replace my little brother, Mom. Okay? You killed him, so you don’t get to replace him. That’s only fair, right? I don’t get another brother, so you don’t get another son. Period.”

There are tears on his face and in his beard, and he takes another step toward me.

“Stay away from her,” Alex warns. “Run, Hester. He might hurt you.”

“Shh, Alex,” I whisper, appalled by what I’m seeing in my son’s expression. “It will be all right.”

“No, it won’t,” Paul sobs. “It will never be all right.” He grabs the top of the refrigerator on both sides, and with a tremendous heave pulls the entire thing over onto the floor. The whole house trembles from the force of it, and the noise is earsplitting.

As Paul stares down at the refrigerator in the moment of stunned silence afterward, Alex and Eric exchange a glance. Eric nods, and without a word spoken, both boys launch themselves at Paul. Alex slips and falls, though, crying out as he lands in more glass, and Paul spins in time to intercept Eric. I step forward to intervene, but before I can reach them Paul catches Eric by the arm and shoves him toward the doorway I just vacated. Eric loses his balance and trips across the hall at full speed, unable to stop himself.
His thighs slam into the railing by the stairs and he tumbles over it, and an instant later there’s a sickening snap as his legs strike the steps on the other side. He disappears from sight with a scream of agony.

Paul stares after him with a shocked expression, as Alex cries out his friend’s name. Paul pivots on his feet to stare down at Alex thrashing around the floor, and takes a heavy step toward him.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he says plaintively. “I really didn’t.”

I look down at my fingers, and find them clutching the old black rotary phone that was on the table beside the doorway.

Eric screams again from behind me, and Paul takes another step toward Alex and then stops. He’s only two feet away from the boy, and I don’t know what he’s intending to do.

“Stop, Paul,” I beg. “Please, stop.”

He ignores me and leans down toward Alex, reaching out a hand as if to grab him.

Alex flops to the side to get away from him and kicks at Paul’s legs, but Paul is undeterred. His hand locks on Alex’s forearm, and Alex cries out in panic.

“No, Paul!” I howl.

I run forward. There’s a sound of a bell clanging, and the next thing I know Paul is splayed out on the floor in front of me. He’s not moving, and there’s a small pool of blood forming by his head.

Alex stares up at me in horror.

My chest is heaving, and I can’t seem to remember how to breathe as I stand there looking down at my son’s prone body. I glance at the old phone in my thin, frail fingers, trying to recall when I picked it up.

This used to be Paul’s phone, when he lived up here. Then it was Jeremy’s. There’s a clump of scalp on one corner of it, now.

Eric cries out again downstairs, demanding to know what’s happened. He must be in tremendous pain, but he’s asking if we’re okay.

I look down at Alex and whisper his name, and I drop the phone on the floor. My eyes fill with tears, and the last thing I see before the room spins out of control and I, too, fall to the floor in a faint, is him reaching up to catch me.

I
struck my own son.

The thought keeps repeating itself in my head, over and over, like an ostinato.

The intern finally finishes stitching up Alex and lets him return to me in the waiting room at the hospital. He walks over, limping, and sits beside me.

“Hi, Hester,” he says, trying to smile.

I know he has small cuts all over him, but the worst ones are on his feet. He’s moving gingerly, but he’s dressed again, and he seems all right.

I take his hand and squeeze it. “Hello, dear. How are you feeling?”

He shrugs. “I’m okay. You?”

I give his fingers another squeeze and release him. “I’m fine. The doctor confirmed that I merely fainted at the house. I didn’t even injure myself by falling, thanks to you.”

I struck my own son.

He nods. “Really? That’s awesome.” His voice has relief in it. “You really scared the shit out of me when you face-planted on top of me like that. I thought for sure you’d had a stroke or something.”

We’re alone in the waiting room. A young mother with three toddlers was here when I first arrived, but she left soon after, when her husband was released from an examination. The oldest child
was a boy, who clung to his mother’s neck, sleeping, as they walked past me on their way out the door.

I struck my own son.

I give an involuntary wince. Alex notices, and studies my face with concern.

“Thinking about Paul?”

I blink, and try a feeble joke. “Psychics used to be burned at the stake, you realize. Just like witches.”

He gives me a sad grin but remains silent.

I sigh. “Of course I’m thinking about Paul. It’s not every day you almost kill one of your children.”

His grin vanishes. “Yeah. But if you hadn’t done it, I might be dead, Hester. He was out of his fucking mind.” His voice is shaky. “And who knows what he would have done to you and Eric after he was done with me?”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. I want to tell him that the man who tore up his apartment an hour ago and hurt his friend was once a sweet young boy, just like him, and would have restrained himself in the end from causing further harm. I want to tell him how much Paul had loved his brother, and that losing Jeremy somehow turned all his demons loose, and it was alcohol that was really the main culprit here. I want to tell him these things, but I can’t.

True or not, they make no difference now.

I bite my lip. “I still don’t know how Eric came out of that fall with only a broken leg and a few cracked ribs to show for it. He’s a very lucky young man, considering.”

He makes a face. “Yeah, real lucky.” He nods his head in the direction of the forbidding head nurse, who’s on duty again today. “I asked that lady how long he was going to be unconscious from the drugs they gave him, and she said at least six hours or so. She said his leg was broken in four places, and he was going to be in a lot of pain when he woke up.”

I rub my forehead. “I know. I spoke to her, too, while you were being examined.”

Her, and the police.

My son’s room is being guarded by an armed officer. Paul’s unconscious,
also, at the moment, with a fractured skull and a severe concussion. But as soon as he’s well enough to travel (which may be several days) he’ll be taken to jail, where he’s being charged with assault and first-degree burglary. And possibly even attempted murder.

When the ambulance Alex summoned arrived at the house, it came with two police officers in tow, who followed us to the hospital. One of them was waiting for me the instant I was released from the doctor’s custody, and wanted to escort me to the police station to get my statement. But he finally agreed to allow me another half hour here at the hospital. I told him that unless he was prepared to grapple with a seventy-one-year-old woman, I wasn’t going anywhere until I’d had a chance to speak with Arthur and Caitlin in Arthur’s room—and that I would not do
that,
either, until Alex was finished being patched up and given a clean bill of health. (He said he needed to speak to Alex, too, and suggested he take him “downtown” while I was with my family, but I insisted Alex and I would go to the station together, after I had finished my business.)

Luckily he was a young officer, and easily intimidated. But he’s keeping an eye on me from down the hall, and he’s been glancing at his watch ever since Alex sat next to me. He’s no doubt expecting me to spring to my feet now and scurry over to Arthur’s room for a quick chat, after which he can cart us off to the police station and have his way with us.

But he can damn well wait another few minutes while I pull myself together for the conversation with my husband and daughter.

I can’t bear to speak to them until I’ve had a while longer to prepare myself, even though they’ve already been told what happened. I need to be calm before I face them. If they know how undone I am, I imagine they’ll move in for the kill.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the officer check his watch again and take a step in our direction, but I freeze him with a glare and he halts, cowed.

I turn back to Alex with grim determination.

“I have to go speak to Arthur and Caitlin, dear. And then that unhappy-looking policeman over there wants to take both of us to the station for an interview. Can you wait here for me until I return?”

He nods again. “Of course I’ll wait for you.” He tilts his head and smiles at me. “Just don’t let your family give you any shit, Hester. Don’t let anybody, okay?”

His blue eyes are surrounded by red—the whites are bloodshot, through and through, and the skin around them is raw and angry looking—and his hair is a dirty red nimbus framing it all. He needs a shower very badly, and a tremendous amount of sleep, and he looks as if a harsh word might be the end of him.

And yet, when he smiles at me with his exhausted face, my fear and anxiety lessen, and even my guilt at striking Paul abates a little.

I want to put my arms around him in gratitude, but I don’t, for fear of embarrassing myself if I can’t let go of him.

This fragile, damaged boy is so much stronger than he knows.

Arthur is propped up in bed when I walk in the room, with several pillows behind his back, and Martha is seated on the mattress next to him, holding his hand. Caitlin is over by the window, with her back to the door, staring out at the parking lot.

“So you’re finally awake.” I step to the foot of the bed and disregard the withering glare Martha gives me. Arthur’s face remains neutral, however, and Caitlin doesn’t even bother to turn around. I straighten my skirt and force a smile. “You were still sound asleep when I came to visit you this morning.”

Arthur’s voice is weary, but steady. “Yes, Martha told me you stopped by.” He’s pale as death and plugged into several machines, but his eyes are alert. “I’m flattered you found the time for me. I know you’ve been terribly busy, what with bludgeoning our son into a coma and all.”

I flinch a little, but I keep my eyes on his. “He’s not in a coma, as you well know. He was fully conscious for a few minutes when he arrived at the hospital, and he won’t even require surgery.” I take a deep breath and let it out again. “And you can believe me or not, Arthur, but he left me no choice.”

Caitlin snorts and looks over her shoulder at me. “Congratulations, Hester. This is sure to win you yet another Mother of the Year Award.”

I’m suddenly so tired I can barely stay on my feet. “What should
I have done instead, Caitlin? Given him a spanking? Sent him to his room without supper?” I sigh. “Trust me when I tell you this, please. He was no longer Paul. He was a monster.”

She looks away. “Fine,” she mutters. “But all the same, would you mind keeping your distance from the telephone? I neglected to wear my helmet this morning.”

I look around for a chair. “May I sit? I’m very tired.”

Arthur is studying me, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a great deal of concern in his face. For some reason, though, I’m having more difficulty than usual reading him.

“Of course,” he says gruffly. He points to a chair by the bed. “Sit.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Martha butts in. “Arthur needs his rest, Hester, and you being here isn’t good for him.”

Arthur pats her hand. “It’s okay, sweetheart. She’ll leave in a moment, but I think the two of us need to discuss a few things first.” He hesitates. “Would you mind?”

She stares at him in disbelief. “You’re not serious. You can’t possibly be asking me to leave you alone with
her.”

He nods and adjusts his hospital gown. “Only for a minute, darling. I promise.” He glances over at Caitlin. “You too, Caitlin. Please? I need to speak with your mother in private.”