The Truth (8 page)

Then

Normally, we'd stop at Dairy Queen after a victory like this, but Devon says he's not hungry. Mom tries to talk him into it but only gets one-syllable responses, and eventually, she gives up. I sit in the front seat, fuming.

Devon goes right upstairs as soon as we enter the house. We hear his door close.

“Christ, you'd think they lost,” Mom says.

I march toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Mom asks.

“To talk to him.”

“Do you think that's a good idea?”

“I thought you
wanted
me to talk to him.”

“Maybe not now. He's obviously upset.”

I start up.

“Chris, it's just a game.”

“It's not just the game.”

“Chris—”

“Mom, I'm doing this!” I continue up the stairs without looking back. She gives up trying to stop me.

I find Devon on his bed, still in uniform, with his Nintendo DS in his hand, the familiar sounds of the Mario brothers coming from it.

“I want to talk to you,” I say.

His fingers keep working the buttons.

“Turn that off!”

“I'm in the middle of a game.”

“
Now
, Devon!”

Sighing, he closes the DS and tosses it on the bed. He waits, not looking at me.

“What's going on with you?”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“What were you doing in that game?”

He shrugs again.

“You weren't even trying.”

“I had a bad game.”

“
Bullshit!
” I rarely curse in front of my brother, and it makes him look at me. “That last at bat, what were you doing?” I continue, growing angrier. “They were
trying
to walk you. I saw the way you looked at me. You weren't just having a bad game. You did it on purpose! Why? If you're mad at me, then have the guts to tell me to my face so we can talk about it. Don't take it out on your teammates when they're counting on you.”

He looks away. Says nothing. I can see he's fighting tears. “Maybe I don't want to play baseball anymore,” he says in a subdued voice.

I look at him, stunned. “What? Why…?” My voice falters. “Why would you say that?”

He doesn't respond.

“You love baseball.”

“Maybe I don't anymore!” he snaps back. “Maybe I want to quit!”

I take a step toward him. “What do you think Dad would say about you quitting?”

The look on his face makes me sorry I said that.

I let out a deep breath. In a quieter voice, I ask, “Why would you want to quit something you love doing? That you're so good at?”

He doesn't answer. I stare at him. Is this part of his being mad at me? Does he think by saying this, he's getting back at me somehow? Maybe it's working. My stomach is doing flip-flops.

“I don't believe you,” I say finally.

Silence.

“Talk to me.”

“Leave me alone,” he says.

“Not until you talk to me.”

Face in the pillow again.

“I'm not leaving this room until we talk. You're ten years old. You're old enough not to hide in a pillow!” I pull it out from under him and hurl it across the room. It hits the door.

I hear movement in the hall outside. Mom coming out of her room from where she's been listening, probably. Is she coming to intervene?

“I don't believe you, Devon!” I'm afraid to hear the answer, but I push anyway. “You tell me right now what it is that's making you act and talk this way—”

“
He might have shot you!
” Devon shouts.

I stare at him.

“You could have been
killed
!
Just like Dad!
”

The movement in the hallway stops.

“Just like Dad…”

Devon is sobbing uncontrollably now, and with the pillow across the room, he cries facedown into the sheet. I stare at him for what feels like a long time before I finally sit on the bed and try to pull him to me and wrap my arms around him.

“You shouldn't have gone down there.”

“Devon—”

“You could have been killed!” he shouts. Over and over. “You could have been killed!”

And now he's hitting me, strong for his age, all those home runs he's hit, his fists pounding my chest and shoulders. It hurts. But I don't stop him.

When his punches begin to weaken, I try gathering him into my arms again. He lets me this time, and I hold him as tight as I can. “I'm sorry, Devon,” I tell him. “I'm so sorry. But it's going to be okay now. I'm safe. You're safe. Nothing more is going to happen.”

He cries, and I hold him, and we stay that way for a long time. I hear nothing in the hallway. Has Mom returned to her room, or is she listening from the other side of the door? Finally, I let go of him, and he sits up, wiping his face, wet and streaked and still dirty from the game.

“Is it true?” I ask again in a soft voice. “What you said about not wanting to play baseball anymore?”

“I miss Dad,” Devon says. Simply, quietly. “I want him here.”

My heart feels like it's breaking as I fight back my own tears. “I miss him too, Devon.”

“Sometimes I forget,” he says after a moment. “I'll make a good play or hit a home run, and I'll look for him in the stands because I want to see him cheering for me. Then I remember he's dead, and he's never even seen me hit a home run. He never will.”

“But Mom and I are there.”

“But what if you're not?”

“That won't happen.”

“Dad should have shot the man!”

I pull back.

“He should have shot the man! He didn't have to put his gun down.”

“He…he didn't want the girl to get hurt.”

“I don't care. I wish the girl were dead!”

“You don't mean that—”

“Yes, I do! Dad was supposed to play ball in the backyard with me when he got home. We were gonna work on my hitting. After I did my homework. I was working really hard to get it finished so I'd be ready when he walked in the door. But he…he never did. He should have just shot the man. Why did he try to save her?”

“It was his job—”

“I hate him!”

The twisting in my stomach grows tighter.

“You don't—”

“Yes, I do. He got himself killed and he was supposed to come home and help me!”

“Devon—”

“I
hate
Dad!”

I don't know what to say to him. My insides feel tight enough to explode. The walls of Devon's room feel like they're closing in around me, and I have to get out.

“Maybe you should just…relax now.” I fight to keep my voice under control. “Play with your DS or…something.”

“I'm going to sleep.”

Usually he fights it when it's time to go to bed. Yet here he is, before his normal bedtime, ready to close his eyes. He's still in uniform. He should get a shower.

“Sure,” I tell him. “It's okay.”

He turns onto his side and closes his eyes. Normally, I would stay and rub his back until he falls asleep. But I stand up, anxious to leave. I don't even pause to tell him good night.

Mom is waiting for me in the hallway as I come out.

“Damn you!” she hisses.

“What?” I say, shocked.

Angry tears streak her face. “How could you upset him like that? Make him say he hates his father?”

“Mom, I—”

“I told you to leave him alone. He just had a bad game. He just needed to be alone. But, no, you had to go in there. You had to
push
it—”

“I'm going for a walk,” I announce, sidestepping her.

“You do that!” she snaps behind me as I head down the stairs, trying not to run but hurrying just the same as I head out the door.

Now

“Why'd you stop?”

I'm still in the moment. The look on Devon's face. The disappointment in my mother's eyes.

“Chris.”

I had started walking in no particular direction, thinking maybe it was better if I didn't come back. Mom and Devon both better off without me.

“Chris!”

“I blew it,” I hear myself say.

Derek hesitates. “Blew what?”

“I thought I could be… I thought I could take care of him.”

“Devon? Sounds to me like you're doing a pretty good job.” He actually sounds sympathetic, which surprises me.

“I don't do enough. He needs…”

“Your father?” Derek finishes for me.

I take a deep breath and nod my head.

“Sounds to me like you've tried your best.”

“But it's not
enough
. No matter what I do—”

“You're not his father.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

I look at him. “It's my job.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have to protect him. Keep him safe. I've known that since Dad died. Mom said it herself. It was gonna be especially tough on Devon because he was only seven.”

“You don't think she meant—”

“Being there for Devon was more important. It
is
more important!”

“More important than what?”

I don't say anything.

After a moment, Derek says, “It sounds to me like your brother looks up to you. That he really loves you.”

“I let him down.”

“How?”

“I should never have gone downstairs. I should have just called the police right away. I could have been killed. And now he's worried. Scared.”

“Of what?”

“It happened to Dad. And it almost happened to me. Maybe he thinks it could happen to
him
. He's only ten; he's not supposed to worry about stuff like that. But maybe he's right.”

“Right about what?”

“What do parents say? ‘Don't worry. Nothing's gonna happen.' They promise that. But they can't promise it. Nobody can. Because we don't know. We
can't
know. We
can't
. How do I know my mom's not gonna walk in front of a bus tomorrow? Or Devon? No matter what I do.”

Derek seems about to say something more, but he hesitates and leans back instead. Neither of us says anything for what seems like a very long time.

Why am I telling him this? What is he going to do with this information? What the hell does he want from me? I'm so tired of this, and, in some ways, I feel worse now than at any moment since I woke up here. Now I'm angry, and I'm wondering why he isn't threatening me with the shears again.

“What happened when you went back in the house?” he asks instead.

Like he really cares.

Then

After going back inside, I find a note from Mom stuck to my bedroom door.

I'm so sorry. If I'm asleep when you come in, wake me so we can talk.

I glance inside her room. She's lying in bed, mouth open, snoring quietly. I start to turn away, then notice the thin trail of smoke rising up from a dish next to her on the nightstand. I walk over and grind the cigarette into the plate.

I decide to let her sleep. She has the right to lose control sometimes. It must be hard raising two sons without a husband. Devon seems to be asleep as well. From the dim light supplied by the hall bathroom, I see him lying on his side, eyes closed, his Phillies bedspread pulled up tight around him, the way he always does no matter what the room temperature.

I turn away.

“Chris?”

His voice is so soft I wonder if I really heard it. But now I see him looking at me.

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry.”

I sit on the edge of the bed. “For what, kiddo?”

“For what I said.”

I give him a smile. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I don't want to quit baseball.”

“I know that. You were upset, that's all. Hey, you're still in the playoffs. Next game, I think you'll do great.”

He doesn't say anything for a full minute. I'm waiting for that steady breathing to tell me he's fallen asleep when he says again, in a tear-tinged voice, “I'm sorry.”

“I told you, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But it was my fault.”

I feel my stomach clench. “No, Devon. It's not. I told you—”

“You told me to stay in my room and I didn't.”

“It's all right.”

“I've been mad at you for going downstairs, but I did the same thing.”

“Devon—”

“I was scared. That's why I yelled.”

“Yelled?”

“I'd been looking for you and said your name. If I hadn't done that, the guy wouldn't have turned. And you wouldn't have to—”

“That's enough, Devon!” My heart is pounding. “What happened is not your fault. Do you understand me? Look at me!”

He looks up.

Seeing the expression on his face sharpens the pain in the pit of my stomach. “Do you understand me?”

“I lied to the police.”

“Devon—”

“I told them I wasn't in the kitchen. That I stayed in the living room—”

“I know. We talked about this.”

“They don't know—”

“Devon! It's better this way. As far as the police are concerned, you weren't in the kitchen; that's why they didn't ask you about what you saw. To them, you weren't involved except from the other room.”

Tears are streaming down his face. “If I hadn't called out—”

“It doesn't matter. This is not your fault. It's
my
fault.”

Devon says nothing for a long moment. Then he looks at me. “I lied to Mom.”

I hesitate. “Devon, it's better if she—”

“Please don't tell Mom! I don't want her to know I lied. Please…”

“Of course I won't,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around my little brother, who's already had to deal with more than any boy his age should have to. Holding him as tight as I can, I know there's no way I'm going to put him through anything more because of my actions. “I won't say anything,” I tell him. “We'll keep it between us. It's over, Devon. The police aren't going to question me anymore. It's been ruled self-defense. It's over.”

I continue to hug him until he says, “I didn't mean what I said about Dad.”

I pull back and look at him. “I know.”

“I don't hate him.”

“I know you don't.”

“Do you think he knows?”

Suddenly, my chest feels heavy, and it's difficult to talk. “I'm sure…I'm sure he knows.”

“I miss him,” he says. “I miss him a lot.”

“I do too,” I whisper.

“I don't want anything to happen to you too.”

“It won't.”

“You promise?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Wiping his face, he pulls me toward him and says, “I love you, Chris.”

“I love you too, Devon,” I tell him, hugging him fiercely. And I do love him. So much it hurts. Certainly nothing could hurt more.

Except losing him.