She shudders, tries to shake it off, but she can't. She breaks. "He made me feel like I did." Sobs.
I tentatively touch her shoulder. I don't know much about comforting people, certainly not a young girl like Frankie, and certainly not the platonic, sibling-like relationship I've got with her. Do I hug her? I don't know. She might not want that.
"You didn't. It's his fault, Frankie. The only mistake you made was spending time with a piece of shit like him in the first place."
"He's popular at school, and I'm--I'm not."
"I don't know shit about high school politics or whatever--I've always been a loner. But you ask me, it ain't worth it. Those assholes, the popular ones, they won't matter in a few years. Being popular in high school, it ain't worth shit. Just be you. Do what you do, and be the best at that. Fuck everyone else, fuck all the drama bullshit." I sigh. "Point is, it doesn't matter who he is. What he said, how cool or popular he is, what you wore or didn't wear. He showed his colors the first time he put his hands on you in a way you didn't like."
She nods, and she's quiet for a long time. "It...it sounded like you hurt him pretty bad."
I don't know how to answer. "I did," I say, eventually, because the truth is usually best. "I'm a rough guy, Frankie. I'm not nice. And pieces of shit like him, there's only one way to handle 'em. But Frankie, please...just know this: I'd never, ever hurt you. Don't gotta be afraid of me. You're my friend, and nobody fucks with my friends. So someone hurts you, threatens you, yeah, I'll fuck 'em up. Send 'em out in an ambulance."
Once upon a time, Heath might have been hauled out of that party in a body bag, but I've gentled a bit, lately.
"You are kinda scary." She glances at me, at my knuckles, which still have the asshole's blood on them. "But I'm not afraid of you."
"Don't ever date anyone like me. I'm no good. Find someone good, someone who'll treat you right."
She leans her head back against the headrest, glancing sidelong at me. "I don't know. Someone like you seems better than someone like Heath."
"Maybe. But there are guys out there better than both of us. Find one'a them."
It's quiet again, until I'm pulling up to Tilda's house and turning off the engine.
She puts her hand on my wrist. "Thank you, Colt."
I just nod. "You ever need me, I'll be there."
We both get out, but before we go in Frankie touches my arm. "Colt? Don't tell Grandma. She'll tell Mom, and I'll get in trouble, and--"
"Frankie," I interrupt. "I won't say anything. I think they deserve to know, but it's your call. I won't lie, though, if anyone asks."
She nods. "Thanks."
I walk her in, make sure she's safe on the couch, and go into my room.
...And promptly have an anxiety attack.
I don't know why. I got there in time. She's not even any relation to me. Just my landlady's granddaughter.
But Tilda is more than a landlady to me, and Frankie is my friend. They've taught me a lot, between the two of them.
And through it all, for one of the first times since I came to New York, I'm thinking of home--of Michigan.
Fuck if I know why.
Seven a.m. rolls around, and I'm awake, tired, sluggish, and thinking of my family. Mom. Kyle. Kyle, mostly.
Some strange impulse has me dialing a phone number I've never forgotten, the little-used landline in the house I grew up in.
Mom answers. "Hello?"
Panic hits, but I have to say something. "Um. Hi."
"Who--who is this?"
"It's...it's me, Mom."
"Colton?"
"Yeah."
"Oh my god. I wasn't sure--I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from you again."
"I didn't think you would, either. I don't even know why I'm calling."
"I--a few months ago, I flew to New York. By myself. Your dad doesn't know I went. He was in Washington, of course, and--well, I...I looked for you. I spent the entire weekend walking around, looking for you."
"You did?"
"Yeah."
"That's crazy, Ma. How could you expect to find one person in all of New York?" A pause. "How did you even know I was in New York? I could be anywhere."
She's quiet. "I know, but you mentioned it, the day you left, you mentioned you might try there, and I--I don't know what I thought I'd accomplish. I just...I had to do something. But...I should never have let you go. It was wrong. Your dad was wrong. And for what it's worth...I'm sorry, so sorry." I hear her sniffle. She sounds so heartbroken. "You were right, you know. I look back, and--I regret letting him treat you the way he did."
"Thanks. I guess."
"Will you ever come back?" She dares to actually sound hopeful.
I hate this. I don't know why I fucking called. "No, Mom. I've got nothing there to go back for. I've got a life here."
"Have you--have you been okay?"
I laugh. "I'm fine." There's no way I could ever tell her even a quarter of what I've been through.
"You're a bad liar, Colton."
I laugh again. "So I'm told." A non-answer is the only answer.
A long silence and then she asks, "Can I call this number? If I have to get hold of you?"
"I guess. But I'm gone a lot. You won't get me most of the time. So..."
"So what you are saying is don't call unless it's really important?"
"Pretty much."
"I'm sorry things have turned out this way, but I am so glad you called, Colton."
It's weird to be called that: no one ever calls me Colton. I don't think most people even know Colt is short for anything. "I need to go now. Bye, Mom."
"Bye, son. I love you."
"Yeah, uh--you too."
Do I? Do I love her? I don't know. I honestly don't know anymore. She let a lot of things slide when I was growing up and she let some things just happen. Do I love her in spite of that?
Just before we disconnect I realize I never even asked about Kyle, and he was the reason I called in the first place. "Mom, wait. How--how is Kyle?"
"Kyle?" She sounds surprised to hear me even say his name. "Um. He's eighteen, and...he's about to graduate high school. He was named valedictorian, and he accepted a football scholarship to Stanford. He and Nell Hawthorne have been dating for a while now. You remember her, I'm sure. They're pretty serious, I guess. Why do you ask?"
"I...something happened today that made me think of him. I don't know. It's what made me call in the first place. Sounds like he's still the golden boy, huh?" That sounded bitter as fuck.
"Colton--"
"Never mind, Mom. Sorry. I'm glad he's doing well."
The call ends, then. I hang up first. A little abruptly, because I don't know what else to say. I don't even know why I called. I just stirred up old memories, things I don't want to think about.
Work that day is weird, busy but strange. I'm full of odd thoughts, a desire to not just...subsist anymore. I'm thinking about wanting to live the way India and I talked about--normal and ordinary, reaching for dreams.
Chapter 13: Another Kind of Grief
You don't know the meaning of terror until you sit on a bench outside Central Park in Manhattan, playing music for complete strangers. Frankie dared me to busk--to play music in public for tips.
I never back down from a dare, so I'm trying it.
And I suck.
But it's exhilarating. So I come back week after week, every Saturday and Sunday, all day. I sit on the bench, the same bench every week, case at my feet, a few bucks on the red velvet for bait, and I play, and I sing. I get better. People actually stop and listen after awhile, and eventually some even put a few bucks in the case, although I'm guessing they do it as much for the spectacle of a huge, muscle-bound, tattooed thug doing Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald, and Billie Holiday as for the actual music. But it's something, and it makes me feel good.
I grow to love it--almost as much as I love my work at the garage.
As promised, Carl gives me more and more responsib
ility, lets me take on clients myself, do some restoration work as well as the boring-ass repairs that really pay the rent. He pays me well, and lets me use the space on the weekends for my restoration work when he's closed.
I've got a shitload of money saved in a bank account. Tilda helped me get my duffel bag full of cash deposited and earning interest, and now I've almost got enough to think about finding my own garage. I've even got a few leads.
I've almost forgotten my bizarre, one-off call to Mom. And then, early on a Monday morning, as I'm getting ready for work, the landline rings. Tilda, who is frying eggs for the both of us, just stares at it.
"Who could be calling this early, and on that phone?" Tilda asks, puzzled.
"Dunno. I'll get it," I say. "Hello?"
A sniff. "Colton?" Another sniff. "It's...it's Mom."
"Hey. So, um...What's up?" I don't want to sound rude, but it's weird that she'd be calling at all, much less at seven thirty on a Monday morning.
"I--something happened, Colton." Mom sounds...broken.
My heart sinks. This isn't good.
"Mom--what happened? Talk to me."
"I--" She sniffs again, breathes out shakily, as if barely holding back the sobs. "It's Kyle. There was an accident, and Kyle--he's...he's dead."
I'm so stunned that for a moment I can't speak. "Are you shitting me?"
"Colton, no. He was up north with Nell and...it was a freak accident. There was a big windstorm and a tree fell on him. He's gone. He's gone. My baby--my baby is gone..." She's sobbing now. Hysterical.
"Jesus...no way." I let the phone slide out of my hands. It dangles by the cord, and I slump into a chair. Tilda takes the phone, speaks briefly to my mom, and then hangs up.
"Colt?" She puts a hand on me. "I'm so sorry."
"I barely knew him. He was a lot younger than me, and I--I've always had problems with my family. My dad, mainly. My own brother, and I--never even knew him. Not really. I--I was so...and now he's dead. Jesus. I don't even know what to think."
"Your mom said the funeral is in two days. I wrote down the address for you." She rubs my back. "Is there anything I can do?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I barely even knew Kyle."
Even as I say those words he's all I can think about. I hated being around him when we were growing up because he was always the golden boy and he set a standard I could never measure up to. So I stayed away from him. Kept to myself. Especially since Dad always seemed worried my stupidity would, like, infect him or something. I don't know. So I never really knew him, but he was my brother, after all, and I must have cared more than I wanted to remember, or I never would have called home in the first place.
I ran away to New York, and never looked back. Barely spared him a thought.
And now he's gone.
I don't know what I feel.
I just know that I have to go to the funeral. I don't really want to, but I have to. I have to do it for Kyle--it may be the only positive thing I can ever do for him.
I call Carl right away and explain the situation. That I need few days off. He offers me the use of his truck, which I didn't even know he owned; he always takes the bus to work. But, whatever, I have to get to Michigan and he's offering the perfect solution. So I take the truck and make the long drive back home.
*
It's fucking weird as hell to be back in Michigan. I never thought I'd come back here. I drove straight through, eleven hours without stopping. I'm at home--well, what used to be home. New York is home, now. This is just my parents' house, the house I grew up in. Last night I crashed on the couch in my old room and tried not to think too much. My old room is a man cave now with a big flat-screen TV, surround sound, thick leather couches, a pool table, mini-bar, the works. Nice. They probably changed it the day I left. But now they're letting me sleep on the couch in there. They don't pester me, at least not until the next day.
But the next morning, it's awkward. I'm in jeans and a tank top, and both Mom and Dad are staring at me like they've never met me. They don't hide the fact that they're blatantly examining all my new ink, and the various scars I've got on my arms and shoulders. They're staring at me like I'm an alien, is what they're doing. Mom is haggard, red-eyed, broken. Dad is just...tired. As if Kyle's death has sapped him of all his energy. It's so tense. So much is unsaid between us.
"Colton," Dad starts. "Now that you're back--"
I cut him off. "I'm not back. I'm not here to talk about old bullshit. I'm here for Kyle's funeral, and that's it. So you can take whatever you were going to say and shove it up your ass. I don't want to hear it."
"Colton, at least hear him out," Mom says.
I shake my head. "Fuck that."
I walk out. Take Carl's big, tricked-out F-250 and cruise the old neighborhood. I stop at a liquor store and buy a twelve-pack of beer, a bottle of Jameson, and some smokes. I don't know how else to mourn Kyle, how else to cope with being back here.
I stopped cutting months ago, ever since I've been living with Tilda. Don't even smoke pot anymore, now that I'm not around Split and Callie quite as much. It's just too hard to be around them--reminds all of us of too much bad shit, I think.
My only vice left is booze and, even then, I don't use it that much.
I remember, as I'm headed back to the house, that I don't own a suit. Can't very well show up to a funeral in jeans and a wife-beater, can I? So I hit a Men's Wearhouse and buy a suit. It is a little tight in the shoulders and biceps, and too long at the heels, but whatever. I'll never wear it again, most likely.
He's fucking dead, so it's not like Kyle gives a shit what I wear to his funeral.
Jesus.
It hits me every time I think about it. What a shitty brother I was. I mean, really, I wasn't a brother at all. He might as well have not even had a brother. He was, what, eleven when I left? Something like that. Just a damn kid. Not even in junior high. Been what...? Six, seven years or more since I left? He's eighteen, or was when he died. And that makes me twenty-three, going on twenty-four. Damn. Time went quick. I hate that I abandoned my kid brother. But I wouldn't have done him any good, even if I'd been around. I'm nothing like he was. He was smart, good, talented. Full ride to fuckin' Stanford University for football, damn near perfect grades. Had a girl he loved, a good girl, from what I hear. I remember Nell Hawthorne being a sweet, skinny little thing in red-blond pigtails with these freckles across her nose. Skinny legs flashing in the sun as she and Kyle ran around in the backyard while I studied.
Me? I mean, I'm getting there. Making something of myself. Out of the gang, out of the ring, working an honest job, living with a sweet little old lady. Shit, I'm even becoming something of a musician. Who'd'a thought?
Not like Kyle, though. Kid could have been something. Owned a company like Mr. Hawthorne, or a senator like Dad. President. Football player in the goddamn NFL. Who knows?
But he won't be anything now, all because of a freak accident.
And I don't know the first fucking thing about him. His favorite color, favorite band, favorite food. Was he funny? Serious? Shit, I don't even know what he looked like. Haven't seen a photo of him since I've been back. There are some on the mantel at Mom and Dad's, but I haven't been able to bring myself to look at them too closely. I just have an impression of a tall, dark-haired, good-looking kid.
Dusk comes and I'm rumbling down dirt track roads somewhere far from anything. It is a beautiful summer night, warm, the air is soft and the stars are out. I pull Carl's crazy, big-ass truck over, just lie in the bed and stare up at the stars for a long, long time. You don't see stars like this, back in New York.
It's damned peaceful and I could almost forget why I'm back here.
Almost.
When I get back to the house, sometime well past midnight, all the houses on the street are dark. There are no lights on except one at the Hawthorne house. The blinds are drawn, but a dull yellow glow lights up a patch of perfectly manicured grass between our house and theirs. The win
dow must be open, because I hear music. Mumford and Sons.
And someone is crying.
'Crying' is not the right word--shit, that word isn't even close to the reality.
Someone is sobbing.
Gut-wrenching, soul-wracking sobs.
A grief that could rip the world apart.
It's the most god-awful tragic sound I've ever heard in my entire life.
And I know exactly how she feels.
I still feel that grief, every day, for India. It never goes away. The razor edge of grief is always sharp, but time has a way of making you numb to the agony of it.
I want to climb up the side of the Hawthornes' house and pull that poor girl into my arms and let her cry, comfort her somehow. Do something. But I don't know her.
And it's not my place.
Besides, I'd probably just scare the shit out of her.
So I go inside, sit on Dad's fancy leather couch that costs more than I make in a month, and drink whiskey and chase it with beer until I'm dizzy and numb enough to sleep.
Chapter 14: A Dock, a Kiss, a Mistake; a Beginning
Dad stands in front of Kyle's casket and clears his throat. "Kyle--ahem. God, this is so hard. Kyle--" Dad has to blink, stare at the ceiling then clear his throat again. He starts over. "Kyle was my son. He was--he had so much potential. Not just in terms of athletics, you know? I mean, he was great at football. So talented. Such a natural leader. But...in who he was as a person, he had such great potential. Smart, charismatic, compassionate. Such a great kid. So much potential, cut short way too soon. I'll miss him."
And then he has to sit down, pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders shaking.
I'm standing in the back of the church. I don't dare sit with everyone else. I've been gone so long, they'll all probably wonder who the hell I am. I'm better off back here.
Some kid goes up to say a few words. He's on the shorter end of medium height, stocky, blond, good-looking. "I'm Jason Dorsey. I had the exceptional privilege of being Kyle's best friend. And I do mean privilege. He was the best friend anybody could ask for. He'd do anything for you. He'd be there, no matter what you needed. He was funny, but never at the expense of others. He was just...cool. I know that sounds stupid or whatever, but he was. He was truly just a cool guy. Everyone wanted to be around him, wanted to be his friend. He'd light up a room, you know?" The kid pauses, breathes deeply, composes himself admirably. I don't know this this kid, but I like him. "And I got to be his best friend. I'll always be grateful for the time I had with him. I'll mourn him. But also, he'd want us to celebrate how awesome he was in life. At least, that's what I'm going to do."