Dream Things True (24 page)

His uncle listened patiently. Then he sat next to Evan in a wing-backed leather chair and asked, “Son, are you still escorting your mom to all those charity events?”

“Yes, sir,” Evan replied, confused.

“And how's that working out for you?”

“OK, I guess. What's this got to do with anything?”

Evan had no idea where this conversation was intended to take them.

“I don't want to be unkind, son. But I do want you to recognize that children pay for the mistakes of their parents. That's just how life works, whether we like it or not.”

Evan didn't want to grasp the connections that his uncle was working to establish.

“Uncle Sexton,” Evan said, “my dad is a selfish ass who refuses to grow up. I know that.”

“Well, at least we can agree on that today,” his uncle replied, taking another sip.

“But I
choose
to fill in when he abandons my mom. It's my decision.” He remembered Alma sitting on that bench at school, telling her story. “Alma and Ra
ú
l, they didn't get to make a choice, and Mr. Garcia is about as far from a selfish ass as any man can be.”

“But he made a bad choice, Evan. And now he and his family have to live with the consequences.”

Evan felt the anger rising. He turned to face his uncle, who stood and walked slowly back toward the window.

“How can you say that, Uncle Sexton? It was the only choice he could make if he wanted to give his kids a future. He gave up so much for them.” Evan could almost feel Alma's body, brittle against him, after she had told him the worst part. “Alma's mom
died
in the desert for this,” Evan said, his voice rising. “She
died
. Do you have any idea how many people die in the desert trying to get here?”

His uncle turned to face him squarely.

“Yes, son. I know all too well. And I'm very sorry for your friend and her brother. But I need you to listen carefully to me. There's not a damned thing I can do about this. If I were to help your friend, the entire state of Georgia would be on that lawn outside my office tomorrow, waving their signs and yanking their votes. It would be political suicide, son.”

Furious, Evan stood and tried to speak, wanting to ask his uncle who the selfish ass was now. But Uncle Sexton held up his hand to pause Evan's interruption.

“But more importantly,” he said, “I have sworn to support and defend the Constitution of the United States and to represent the people of Georgia, Evan. It's my job to understand their interests and to make those known in Washington. And the people of Georgia want an end to illegal immigration.”

Evan's head was spinning. He slumped back in his chair and rested his forehead on his hand.

“And what about family?” he asked, unable to look up. “What about your responsibility to your family?”

Evan's uncle sat down next to him and touched him lightly on the arm. “Evan, I love you like a son. You
know
that.” A subtle trace of emotion rose in his uncle's voice. “I want what's best for you. But I also need for you to know this: being part of a political family means we sometimes sacrifice our own wants and needs for the wants and needs of the people.”

“Even when the people are wrong?”

“I don't believe the people are wrong about this, Evan. But yes, sometimes even when the people are wrong. Your mother and I have known that for a long time.”

“How?” Evan exploded. “How can you possibly not see the ugly wrongness of all of this, Uncle Sexton? I just don't get it.”

His uncle gazed out over the lake, saying nothing.

“Do you know that I went to the jail yesterday? I went to post bail for Ra
ú
l and Mr. Garcia.”

“I know, Evan. Your Uncle Buddy called to tell me.”

“And did he tell you,” Evan asked, emotion rising in his voice, “did he tell you that when I came in, he patted me on the back and said not to worry. He told me ‘boys will be boys' or some bullshit like that.”

“No, son. He told me you were upset, though.”

Evan slumped deeper into the chair. He felt like screaming and crying at the same time. He felt completely out of control.

“He told me he would get my friends out, but that was before he knew who my friends were.”

“What's your point, son?”

Evan tried again, this time cutting to the chase.

“Maybe the sacrifices you and Mom keep making, maybe they're a mistake. Maybe they're the mistakes that my mom is paying for, that I'm paying for.” He paced in front of the window. “Maybe they're just eating away at our whole family.” He stopped and looked directly at his uncle. “I mean, hell, look at your own son.”

Evan involuntarily tossed his head toward the room where Whit, messed up out of his head at noon on a Sunday, recently sat slumped in a chair, eating nothing, saying nothing.

“Listen to me, boy. I'm not sure what you're trying to say, and frankly I don't think I want to know,” his uncle almost whispered. “But I am sure about this: It is time for you to end this thing with Eduardo Garcia's daughter. It's time for our family to move past this particular set of mistakes before we have to live with some ugly consequences.”

“No,” Evan said simply. “I'm not abandoning Alma for ‘the good of the family.'”

He turned his back to his uncle and stared out the window.

“I know it must seem a hard thing to do
now
,” his uncle said, moving beside him. “But you're young, and you've got a lot of life ahead of you.” His uncle lifted a hand and placed it on Evan's shoulder. “In a few months, you'll be far away from all of this, playing soccer, enjoying college.” He wasn't looking at Evan. Both of them had eyes fixed on the horizon. “You'll forget all about this mess.”

Evan pulled away from his grip.

“It's way too late for that, Uncle Sexton,” he said. “Alma and Ra
ú
l, Whit and I—we're already living with the ugly consequences of a bunch of mistakes we never made. We can't escape them. I mean, damn, look how hard your son tries.” Evan stepped toward the door. “But I'm not Whit, and I don't want to escape them. I want to fix them, and I will.” He paused and then corrected himself. “Alma and I, we will. Together.”

He turned his back on the only real father he had ever known, and walked away.

EIGHTEEN

Terrora Power

Alma and Whit stood close, leaning over the railing to watch the water tumble into a concrete slab at the base of the dam. It was mesmerizing. There was a violence in it that Alma couldn't turn away from.

“He's not going to help you. You understand that, right?” Whit spoke, raising his voice over the thundering roar of water.

Alma didn't look up.

“You mean your dad? Of course I know, Whit. I wasn't born yesterday. But Evan and Mrs. King seem to think he will.”

“Bernice King should know better. She's in on all of our family's dirty little secrets.”

“Mrs. King is amazing,” Alma replied. “I completely blew her off when she tried to help me last fall, and she still rescued me yesterday.”

“She's good at that,” Whit said.

“Yeah,” Alma replied.

“Does she still live in that little house in the crappy neighborhood?”

“You mean the shotgun house?” Alma asked, turning to look at him. “And by the way, that crappy neighborhood is where I grew up. It was great, actually.”

Whit laughed. “Sorry, but you must admit that some of the homes in your old neighborhood are in need of attention. God, talk about rescue! She takes me in sometimes, when my father starts in on me.”

Whit's dad? Laying a hand on him?

“What do you mean?” she asked, sounding stressed out.

“Oh, God, Alma. Don't get all worked up. He doesn't
beat
me or anything. He just constantly insists that I be someone I'm not. You know?”

Whit laughed, a sort of high cackle.

“He wants me to be Evan, or he wishes Evan were me. It's exhausting.”

They both fell silent as the roar of the water started to ring in her ears, and Whit took another long swig from his flask.

“I'm sorry,” Alma replied, and she meant it.

She didn't understand any of it, but she knew just by looking at Whit that he was tired, very tired.

She decided to change the subject—to let him in on some of her own vulnerability.

“So, Whit, since you seem to be sort of a professional in the alcohol department, I have a question for you.”

“My, what a lovely compliment, Alma.”

Alma pressed on, knowing she might lose her nerve if she waited another moment.

“Friday night, while Evan was dragging your drunk ass home, I drank for the first time.”

“Really?” Whit drew out the word, almost singing.

“Yeah, really.”

He turned to face her, sizing her up with his gaze.

“I'm not surprised. I mean, look at you. You're the Virgin Mary, all dressed in blue, sweet and innocent.”

“I am
not
sweet,” Alma replied, belligerently.

“All right, maybe not sweet, but definitely virginal.”

“Yeah, I think that might be gone, too,” Alma said.

Was she about to confess to Whit that she wasn't sure whether or not she had lost her virginity to the love of her life? Until now, she wouldn't even let herself think of the possibility. There were so many other stresses in her life, and Evan had been so consistently himself with her since Friday—nothing so monumental could have happened. It would have changed things, right? But once she said the words out loud, she knew that her anxiety was real.

“Which brings me to my question,” she said. “I'm sure I only had a couple of beers. But I can't remember anything about that night, except landing on a bed with Evan.”

“So, you think you blacked out, and that precious moment that's supposed to last a lifetime is forever gone?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Alma, darling, you are tiny, but even a tiny person isn't going to black out after a couple of beers.”

“Oh, and a Jell-O shot,” Alma added, “a gooey blob.”

Whit looked at her, eyebrows arched. “And now, I presume you're going to tell me this shot was delivered by Conway?”

“Nice job, Sherlock,” Alma replied, feeling sort of confused.

“OK, then you definitely blacked out. I don't know what he puts in those shots, but it's not alcohol, and it's strong.”

“Oh, God,” Alma said. Her head was starting to spin. “Do you mean, like, drugs?”

“Yes, Alma. I mean, like, drugs. So, did you bleed?” Whit asked, nonchalant.

“What?” Alma called out, too loud.

“Did you bleed? Are you sore?”

She started to blush. She could feel it rising in her cheeks.

“I can't believe we're having this conversation.”

“You didn't, then.”

“No.”

“And this is Evan we're talking about? The one who you think may have deflowered you?”

Alma wanted to crawl under a rock.

“Of course!”

“And he was more or less sober, thanks to me?”

“Yeah, he was sober.”

“If you'll permit me to be Sherlock Holmes once more, I'd say this is elementary, my dear Watson. No blood, no soreness, and a sober boyfriend who is almost as saintly as you. Your virtue is intact.”

He grabbed Alma's arms and turned her body to face him. “Alma, there's no way Evan took advantage of you if he was sober and you were as wasted as you say you were.” He dropped his arms and shrugged. “So, you two can go on and gather up the rose petals.”

“What are you talking about?” Alma asked, both relieved and confused.

“You know,” he said, “bed of rose petals strewn across a blanket under a moonlit sky? You and Evan can do it the way everyone fantasizes it will be the first time.”

“Yeah, OK. Can we stop talking about this now?” Alma said, stepping back. “I'm
really
sorry I brought it up.”

She wasn't sorry, though. She was relieved. Whit was right. She no longer needed for this anxiety to linger amid her other, more concrete concerns.

They both leaned over the railing again and watched the waters fall.

“Wanna hear about my first time?” he asked, nudging her.

“Not really, but I don't think that's gonna stop you,” Alma said.

“It was just
too
romantic,” he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Wait,” Alma said, “was this with a girl?”

“Yes!” Whit exclaimed. “Well, let's just say a girl was involved.”

This was going to be good, but Alma wondered whether she was too much of a prude to handle it.

“Conway and I, we broke into your boyfriend's house after a party where Conway, incidentally, had been passing out those wicked Jell-O shots. He only gives them to a select few—always girls. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what he's up to with those.”

Alma stepped back and hugged her chest tight. “Wait,” she said. “You mean he's purposely
drugging
girls?”

Whit just raised his eyebrows in a gesture that, Alma thought, was meant to convey something along the lines of “Duh.”

“And you all just
let
him do this?” Alma asked.

“I don't
let
him do anything, Alma. He's not exactly mine to take care of.”

She felt nauseated and confused. She wanted to be alone all of a sudden, but she had no idea how to escape.

“I didn't even know you and Conway were, uh, friends,” Alma said quietly.

“We weren't, and we definitely aren't now. He won't even look at me.”

Whit leaned farther out over the dam, and then allowed his body to ricochet backward.