Broken Identity (15 page)

Drake ignored him, or at least tried to, and went on mowing as if he never even noticed Ronnie’s presence. He couldn’t put a finger on why the kid bothered him so much. Andrew was easy to get along with for the most part, but Ronnie was someone he did
not
like and couldn’t explain why. He had never liked kids to begin with, but sharing a house with one who was always in his face asking questions only heightened the issue.

He pulled the mower left, wishing he didn’t have an audience. Maybe it was Ronnie’s age that hassled him. Maybe it was his undying curiosity of anything and everything around him.
Maybe it’s because he’s staring me down like a hawk watches its prey before it goes in for the kill.
He quickly pushed the mower past Ronnie without making eye contact. He didn’t even blink, for that matter. Still, he sensed that Ronnie was following him with his eyes.
What could possibly be so interesting about a sweaty guy pushing around a half-broken lawn mower?
he wondered.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Ronnie stand up and move to the other side of the yard where he reached down and picked up something.
Good grief, what’s he doing now?

Ronnie reached down again and took hold of something in the grass.

Drake killed the mower and marched over to where Ronnie was standing. “What’re you doing?” he said irritably. “Inspecting my mowing or hunting for last year’s Easter eggs?”

Ronnie looked up and opened his hand, revealing two small rocks. “Just trying to help. Sorry.”

Drake gulped. He had completely forgotten about what Andrew had told him concerning the rocks. Looking around him now, there were probably ten or twelve more still buried in the grass. If he had mowed over them without remembering, he might have damaged the mower’s blades and possibly even sent a couple of rocks soaring toward the house. Feeling like a complete idiot in front of a 7-year-old, Drake said meekly, “Oh, uh…thanks.”

Worst part was, Ronnie didn’t even try to rub it in or make a smart remark back. He simply bent over and began picking up more.

Drake waved awkwardly at Ronnie as he took a few steps backward and started the mower again. Just a little longer, and he would be done. He just hoped the kid wouldn’t come back out to watch when he used the weed eater later. What a thrill that would be.

Drake ran the mower over the last strip of grass and paused to survey the work he had done. Not bad, minus the few chewed geraniums he hadn’t seen until it was too late. But that was on the backside of the birdbath and would doubtlessly even be missed. Besides, he had managed to cover most of the ravaged petals by bending some of the untouched flowers toward the front. Couldn’t even tell the difference…sort of.

He shut down the mower and walked it inside the shed, noticing for the first time how tired and wobbly his leg and arm muscles felt. Overall, it was a good feeling, though. Hard work felt like medicine to his blood, just what he needed. He locked the shed door behind him and turned to see Ronnie holding a glass of iced water. He pointed at the glass and said, “That for me?”

“Yep,” Ronnie said, handing him the water.

Drake, with Ronnie trailing behind him, walked to the back porch and slowly lowered his sore body down on the steps. Wood had never felt more comfortable in all his life. Andrew had been right—this may have been a small yard, but when he was the one pushing the mower over every inch of it, it suddenly became noticeably bigger. He could feel the nerves in his legs bouncing as he nursed the cool glass in his hands.

Ronnie sat down beside him and rested his chin in his hands. “Tired?” he said, letting a yawn escape from his mouth.

Drake gulped down the icy water, ignoring the sting it brought to his parched throat. He exhaled forcefully through his nose and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “More’n you know.”

“Still like it here?”

“Absolutely.”

Ronnie bit the inside of his cheek. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Ah, you just don’t know me that well yet.” Drake glanced over at him and could tell that he didn’t buy it. “What do you do in this yard anyway?”

“Not really anything yet. I just moved into Uncle Andy’s house a few days ago.”

Drake looked at him curiously as he fanned his shirt. “Is that so?” He tossed the rest of his water in the grass and stretched his legs out in front of him. “I figured you’d lived here awhile.”

“Nah.”

Drake suddenly remembered that first night he had spent here when Ronnie had said something about his parents not wanting him. He hadn’t paid much attention to it then, but now he found himself filled with concern. It was then he realized what a jerk he had been. “You OK? I mean, you wanna talk about anything?”

Ronnie pursed his lips and bent over to tie his shoe. “Not really. I’m fine.”

Drake stared out into the yard again, wondering why he even cared about the kid’s past. So the kid had problems. Who in this world didn’t? A broken heart and shattered life was no new concept to Drake. He had been there and done that, but you didn’t see him crying or whining to anyone about it. He had to remind himself, though, that Ronnie was only 7 years old. He had a reason to be upset.

Trying not to let the conversation get too silent or depressing, Drake changed the subject. “So, back to the yard. What do you plan to do out here? Build a tree house? Plant a garden? What?”

“I’d like to have a dog,” Ronnie blurted.

“A dog? I thought you just liked panda bears.”

Ronnie frowned and looked away.

OK, cut the sarcasm.
Drake nudged Ronnie’s shoulder. “C’mon, man. I was just kiddin’ ya. No, really, a dog? What kind of dog?”

Ronnie looked back at him undecidedly, fearing that Drake would only make fun of him more. “A beagle,” he answered faintly.

Drake whistled loudly. “A beagle? From what I’ve heard, beagles are a lot of money, pal.”

Ronnie stared down at the grass. “Yeah, I know. I asked Mommy for one before, but she said no.”

“Well, hey, your uncle’s got a lot of money, right? I mean, just one look at his house says that much. He could buy you a beagle.”

Ronnie tried to smile. “I dunno.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Have you asked him?”

Ronnie shook his head. “He’s already done so much for me already. It doesn’t feel right asking him for anything else.”

“Yeah, I see your point.”

“I have about twelve dollars so far in my piggy bank, though,” Ronnie said, his intonation rising. “I probably have close to enough, huh, Drake?”

Yeah, like a few hundred dollars short
. “Maybe you could ask for one for your birthday,” Drake suggested.

“It’s still eight months away,” Ronnie said miserably, resting his chin on his knees.

“You could sell lemonade.”

Ronnie made a face and shook his head.

“OK, maybe as a Christmas present, then.”

Ronnie took Drake’s glass from his hand and stood up to leave. “Yeah. Maybe.”

All the yard work was behind him. Flecks of grass clung to his legs and shoes, and his skin felt like it had just been baked in a hot oven. Drake wanted to collapse as he walked through the front door, but as soon as he caught sight of the beautiful grand piano in the adjoining living room, he headed straight to it in spite of his fatigue and sat down on the smooth, glossy bench. He couldn’t let this day pass without his fingers feeling these keys again.

Only at this specific time in the afternoon did the sunlight permeate the delicate curtains and strike the piano at a certain angle, making the polished wood glisten like refined gold and giving the keys a light orange tint. He lightly ran his fingers over the ivory keys as a song slowly trickled into his head. He found the right key, positioned his hands, and began playing softly. The delicate music was a much-welcomed change from the harsh, grating sound of the lawn mower, and for a few moments, he forced his mind away from the subject of his fears.

After the song ended, Drake continued to play his own made-up melody. He could never remember the same tune the next day and had never even thought of writing it down to play later, but the wealth of ideas stored within the deep recesses of his brain never seemed to run dry. Besides, he couldn’t read music off a sheet because he had never been taught that way. He merely heard the song from inside his heart and let it come out through his fingers. It wasn’t difficult for him to play, though some people seemed fascinated by his skill. It was just something he did—almost without thinking sometimes. Andrew called it a God-given ability. Drake called it a song. Nothing more.

“Whatcha playin’?” Ronnie said, ambling up to him from behind.

Nosey again, I see.
“Oh…a song I made up just now.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Nope.”

“Oh…sounds sad.”

Drake continued playing, gradually moving into the lower keys for a greater effect. “Story of my life, kid.”

“Is that its name?”

“Sure. I don’t care.”

Ronnie watched him intently. “What’s the story about?”

Knowing that he would get nothing done this way, Drake gave up and faced Ronnie. “It’s a story about a guy who lives a lousy life. It stinks. He hates it.
Comprende?”

“Huh?”

“Forget it.”

Ronnie sat on the edge of the bench with his back to Drake. “Why don’t you like me?”

“What are you talking about?” Drake said, though he could have answered that question in one sentence. “I just got through talking to you out there.”

“You didn’t act like you wanted to talk.”

“Well, I did, didn’t I?”

“I don’t mean to make you so mad. I just…sometimes I talk too much, don’t I?”

“You didn’t want to say two words outside, and now when I’m trying to play, you wanna carry on a conversation. I just wanted a few seconds alone to think, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Ronnie agreed, tilting his head down. “That’s what Mommy and Daddy always said. That I talked too much, I mean. I think that’s why they got mad at me a lot. I’m sorry.”

Drake fell silent, wanting to kick himself for being so stupid and inconsiderate. It hurt him to see the kid hurt. “Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ronnie stood to leave.

“Ronnie, just…stay. You don’t make me mad.”

“I don’t?”

“Course not. I’m just not used to the company, I guess. No one ever really talked to me before now.”

“Really? I would have thought you had a lot of friends.”

“Why’s that?” Drake said, now somewhat amused.

“Because you’re cool.”

That got a laugh out of Drake. “Cool? Hardly.”

“I think so. You can play almost anything on the piano, and you can mow the yard out there faster than anyone I know.”

Drake grinned and shook his head. “I’m probably the only one you’ve watched mow a yard, so how could you compare me to anyone else?”

“Well, still. I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad you don’t think I talk too much.”

Chapter

9

P
HONE
C
ALL

Drake Pearson went to bed early that night after complaining of a headache. After a lingering evening of grilling hamburgers and watching Alfred Hitchcock’s
The Wrong Man
starring Henry Fonda—which Andrew had to pause several times to answer Ronnie’s unending questions about the plot—Ronnie brought up the bright idea of playing a board game. Ronnie sped Drake through the rules, which basically consisted of taking all the marbles around the board and back home again by rolling a pair of dice. Pretty lame concept to Drake, but Ronnie seemed to love it. And on top of that, it took over an hour before the game finally ended—Ronnie being the winner, of course.

Drake couldn’t remember the last time he had played a board game. The more he thought about it, he wasn’t sure if he had ever even played one at all. Most of his memories as a kid had to do with the outdoors; but as he had grown into his teenage years, he had spent nearly all his time watching television and playing video games at a friend’s house or browsing the Internet at the library. Some days, he actually found himself missing the small things again, like listening to the rope creak around the branch overhead as he rocked slowly in the tire swing, or shouting “Pow! Pow!” at the invisible bad guys he relentlessly harassed in his backyard. Spending time around Ronnie seemed to dredge up all those forgotten memories. He had been so consumed with the bad side of his life lately that he had neglected to remember the good, innocent child he used to be. Kind of like Ronnie.

Drake’s legs felt like lead as he staggered up the stairs. He dreaded the nightmares that would invade more of his precious sleep tonight. He was tired of hearing the muffled noises in his head, seeing the surreal images every time he closed his eyes, double-checking the shadows because he thought he saw a face, fighting the darkness that seemed to threaten his very sanity. One false move, and his entire life had catapulted itself into an abyss that could never be escaped. His dad had taken his mom’s life, he had taken his dad’s life, and now he was slowly snuffing out his own. Maybe it would be better if he were dead. That was a new concept. He wanted to live, to fight his way out of this mess he had created and start a new life, but he wasn’t kicking out suicide entirely yet. He wondered if life was really worth living if this was what every second of his would entail.