The Last Child (3 page)

“It wasn’t his fault,” Johnny said.

“I never said it was.”

“He was working. He forgot the time. It wasn’t his fault.”

“We all make mistakes, son. Every last one of us. Your father is a good man. Don’t you ever doubt that.”

“I don’t.” Sudden resentment in Johnny’s voice.

“It’s okay.”

“I never would.” Johnny felt the color fall out of his face. He could not remember the last time he’d spoken so much to a grown-up, but there was something about the cop. He was old as hell, like forty, but he never rushed things, and there was a warmth to his face, a kindness that didn’t seem fake or put on to trick a kid into trusting him. His eyes were always very still, and some part of Johnny hoped that he was a good enough cop to make things right. But it had been a year, and his sister was still gone. Johnny had to worry about the now, and in the now this cop was no friend.

There was Social Services, which was just waiting for an excuse; and then there were the things that Johnny did, the places he went when he cut school, the risks he took when he snuck out after midnight. If the cop knew what Johnny was doing, he would be forced to take action. Foster homes. The courts.

He would stop Johnny if he could.

“How’s your mom?” the cop asked. His eyes were intent, hand still on the cart.

“Tired,” Johnny said. “Lupus, you know. She tires easily.”

The cop frowned for the first time. “Last time I found you here, you told me she had Lyme disease.”

He was right. “No. I said she had lupus.”

The cop’s face softened and he lifted his hand from the cart. “There are people who want to help. People who understand.”

Suddenly, Johnny was angry. No one understood, and no one offered to help. Not ever. “She’s just under the weather. Just run down.”

The cop looked away from the lie, but his face remained sad. Johnny watched his gaze fall to the aspirin bottle, the tomato juice. From the way his eyes lingered, it was obvious that he knew more than most about drunks and drug abusers. “You’re not the only one who’s hurting, Johnny. You’re not alone.”

“Alone enough.”

The cop sighed deeply. He took a card from his shirt pocket and wrote a number on the back of it. He handed it to the boy. “If you ever need anything.” He looked determined. “Day or night. I mean it.”

Johnny glanced at the card, slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. “We’re fine,” he said, and pushed the cart around him. The cop dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“If he ever hits you again…”

Johnny tensed.

“Or your mother…”

Johnny shrugged the hand off. “We’re fine,” he repeated. “I’ve got it covered.”

He pushed past the cop, terrified that he would stop him, that he would ask more questions or call one of the hard-faced women from Social Services.

The cart scraped against the counter at the register, and a large woman on a worn stool dipped her nose. She was new to the store, and Johnny saw the question in her face. He was thirteen but looked years younger. He pulled the hundred from his pocket and put it faceup on the conveyor belt. “Can you hurry, please?”

She popped gum and frowned. “Easy, sugar. Here we go.”

The cop lingered ten feet behind, and Johnny felt him there, eyes on his back as the fat lady rang up the groceries. Johnny forced himself to breathe, and after a minute, the cop walked past. “Keep that card,” he said.

“Okay.” Johnny could not bear to meet his eyes.

The cop turned, and his smile was not an easy one. “It’s always good to see you, Johnny.”

He left the store, visible through the broad plate glass. He walked past the station wagon, then turned and lingered for a moment. He looked through the window, then circled to check out the plate. Apparently satisfied, he approached his sedan and opened the door. Slipping into the gloom, he sat.

He waited.

Johnny tried to slow his heart, then reached for the change in the cashier’s damp and meaty hand.

The cop’s name was Clyde Lafayette Hunt. Detective. It said so on his card. Johnny had a collection of them tucked into his top drawer, hidden under his socks and a picture of his dad. He thought, at times, of the number on the card; but then he thought of orphanages and foster homes. He thought of his disappeared sister and of the lead pipe he kept between his bed and the wall that leaked cold air. He thought that the cop probably meant what he said. He was probably a good guy. But Johnny could never look at him without remembering Alyssa, and that kind of thinking required concentration. He had to picture her alive and smiling, not in a dirt-floored cellar or in the back of some car. She was twelve the last time he’d seen her. Twelve, with black hair, cut like a boy’s. The guy who saw what happened said she walked right up to the car, smiling even as the car door opened.

Smiling right up until somebody grabbed her.

Johnny heard that word all the time.
Smiling
. Like it was stuck in his head, a one-word recording he couldn’t shake. But he saw her face when he slept. He saw her looking back as the houses grew small. He saw the worry bloom, and he saw her scream.

Johnny realized that the cashier was staring, that his hand was still out, money in it, groceries bagged. She had one eyebrow up, jaw still working a wad of gum.

“You need something else, sugar?”

Johnny shied. He wadded the bills and stuffed them into his pocket. “No,” he said. “I don’t need anything else.”

She looked past him, to the store manager who stood behind a low glass partition. He followed her gaze, then reached for the bags. She shrugged and he left, walked out under a sky that had blued out while he shopped. He kept his eyes on his mother’s car and tried to ignore Detective Hunt. The bags made rasping sounds as they rubbed together. The milk sloshed, heavy on the right side. He put the bags in the backseat and hesitated. The cop was watching him from a car that angled out, less than twenty feet away. He gestured when Johnny straightened.

“I know how to drive,” Johnny said.

“I don’t doubt it.” The answer surprised Johnny. It’s like he was smiling. “I know you’re tough,” he said, and the smile was gone. “I know you can handle most things, but the law is the law.” Johnny stood taller. “I can’t let you drive.”

“I can’t leave the car here,” Johnny said. “It’s the only one we have.”

“I’ll take you home.”

Johnny said nothing. He wondered if the house still smelled of bourbon. He wondered if he’d put all of the pill bottles away.

“I’m trying to help you, Johnny.” The cop paused. “People do that, you know.”

“What people?” The bitterness spilled out.

“It’s okay,” Detective Hunt said. “It’s fine. Just tell me your address.”

“You know where I live. I see you drive by sometimes, see you slow down when you do. So don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

Hunt heard the distrust. “I’m not trying to trick you, son. I need the exact address so that I can have a patrol car meet me there. I’ll need a ride back to my car.”

Johnny studied the cop. “Why do you drive by so often?”

“It’s like I said, Johnny. There are people who want to help.”

Johnny wasn’t sure that he believed him, but he recited the address and watched him radio for a patrol car to meet him at the house. “Come on.” Hunt climbed out of the unmarked police car, crossed the lot to the station wagon. Johnny opened the passenger door and the cop slid behind the wheel. Johnny buckled up, then sat very still. For a long moment, neither moved. “I’m sorry about your sister,” Hunt finally said. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t bring her home. You know that, right?”

Johnny stared straight ahead, his hands clenched white in his lap. The sun cleared the trees and pushed heat through the glass.

“Can you say something?” Hunt asked.

Johnny turned, and his voice came, flat. “It was a year ago yesterday.” He knew that he sounded small. “Are you aware of that?”

Hunt looked uneasy. “Yes,” he said. “I am aware of that.”

Johnny looked away. “Can you just drive? Please?”

The engine turned over, and blue smoke rolled past Johnny’s window. “Okay,” the cop said. “Okay, Johnny.”

He put the car in gear. They rode in silence to the edge of town. No words, but Johnny smelled him. He smelled soap and gun oil, what may have been cigarette smoke on his clothes. He drove the way Johnny’s dad drove, quick and sure, gaze on the road, then on the rearview mirror. His lips compressed as they neared the house, and Johnny thought, one last time, of how he’d said he’d bring Alyssa home. A year ago. He’d promised it.

A marked car was waiting in the driveway when they got there. Johnny climbed out and opened the back door for the grocery bags. “I can help with that,” Hunt said.

Johnny just looked at him. What did he want? He lost her.

“I’ve got it,” Johnny said.

Detective Hunt held Johnny’s eyes until it was obvious that he had nothing to say. “Be good,” he finally said, and Johnny watched him slip into the police cruiser. He held the groceries and he did not move as the car backed into the road. He did not respond to Detective Hunt’s wave. He stood on the dusty drive and watched the cruiser rise on the distant hill, then fall away. He waited for his heart to slow, then took the bags inside.

The groceries looked small on the counter, but they felt like more: a victory. Johnny put them away, then started coffee and cracked a single egg into the pan. Blue flame popped in the iron ring, and he watched the egg turn white around the edges. He flipped it with care, then put it on a paper plate. The phone rang as he reached for a napkin. He recognized the number on caller ID and answered before it could ring twice. The kid on the other end had a scratchy voice. He was thirteen, too, but smoked and drank like a grown-up. “You ditching today? Let’s ditch.”

Johnny cut his eyes to the hall and kept his voice low. “Hello, Jack.”

“I’ve been looking at some houses on the west side. It’s a bad area. Real bad. Lot of ex-convicts over there. Makes sense when you think about it.”

It was an old refrain. Jack knew what Johnny did when he cut school and snuck out after dark. He wanted to help, partly because he was a good kid, partly because he was bad.

“This is not some game,” Johnny said.

“You know what they say about a gift horse, man. This is free help. Don’t take it for granted.”

Johnny pushed out a breath. “Sorry, Jack. It’s one of those mornings.”

“Your mom?”

Johnny’s throat closed, so he nodded. Jack was his last friend, the only one who still treated him like he was not some kind of freak or pity case. They had some things in common, too. He was a small kid, like Johnny, and had his own share of problems. “I should probably go today.”

“Our history paper is due,” Jack said. “You done it?”

“I turned that in last week.”

“Shit. Really? I haven’t even started mine yet.”

Jack was always late, and teachers always let him get away with it. Johnny’s mom once called Jack a rascal, and the word fit. He stole cigarettes from the teacher’s lounge and slicked his hair on Fridays. He drank more booze than any kid should and lied like a professional; but he kept secrets when he said he would and watched your back if it needed watching. He was likable, sincere if he cared to be, and for a second, Johnny felt his spirits lift; then the morning landed on him.

Detective Hunt.

The wad of greasy bills by his mother’s bed.

“I gotta go,” Johnny said.

“What about cutting school?”

“I gotta go.” Johnny hung up the phone. His friend’s feelings were hurt, but Johnny couldn’t help that. He picked up the plate, sat on the porch and ate his egg with three slices of bread and a glass of milk. He was still hungry when he finished, but lunch was only four and a half hours away.

He could wait.

Pouring coffee with milk, Johnny made his way down the dim hall to his mother’s room. The water was gone, so was the aspirin. Her hair was off her face, and a bar of sunlight cut across her eyes. Johnny put the mug on the table and opened a window. Cool air flowed in from the shady side of the house, and Johnny studied his mother. She looked paler, more tired, younger and lost. She would not wake for the coffee, but he wanted it there just in case. Just so she’d know.

He started to turn, but she moaned in her sleep and made a violent twitch. She mumbled something and her legs thrashed twice, then she bolted up in bed, eyes wide and terrified. “Jesus Christ!” she said. “Jesus Christ!”

Johnny stood in front of her but she did not see him. Whatever frightened her still had its grip. He leaned in, told her it was just a dream, and for that second her eyes seemed to know him. She raised a hand to his face. “Alyssa,” she said, and there was a question in her voice.

Johnny felt the storm coming. “It’s Johnny,” he told her.

“Johnny?” Her eyes blinked, and then the day broke over her. The desperate gaze collapsed, the hand fell away, and she rolled back into the covers.

Johnny gave her a few seconds, but she did not open her eyes again. “Are you okay?” he finally asked.

“Bad dream.”

“There’s coffee. You want any breakfast?”

“Damn.” She flung off the covers and walked out of the room. She did not look back. Johnny heard the bathroom door slam.

He went outside and sat on the porch. Five minutes later, the school bus pulled onto the dirt verge. Johnny did not get up, he did not move. Eventually, the bus rolled on.

It took most of an hour for his mother to get dressed and find him on the porch. She sat beside him, draped thin arms across her knees. Her smile failed in every way, and Johnny remembered how it used to light up a room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, nudging him with a shoulder. Johnny looked up the road. She nudged him again. “Sorry. You know… an apology.”

He didn’t know what to say, could not explain how it felt to know that it hurt her to look at him. He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

He felt her look for the right words. She failed in that, too. “You missed the bus,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to the school.”