Learning Not to Drown (19 page)

The paint glides on, thick like honey but as smooth as oil. Luke did a good job blasting the wood evenly. Working with the direction of the sun, we paint the shaded side, moving along to another when it gets too sunny, west to east.

Granny makes sandwiches and brings them to us when the church bells chime noon. We silently chomp in the shade, sitting on grass and ignoring the beast still sleeping on the couch, just as we left him that morning.

At the end of the day, I gather trash to add to the pile. Mom leans down, the sun at her back, sinking, sinking into the surrounding fields. She lights the pile in one little corner, her hand, surprisingly, trembling.

“All this junk,” she whispers. “My father used every little thing until it rotted or rusted . . . and even then he wouldn't get rid of it, because he saw promise in turning it into something else.” Her tiny flame bursts across the newspaper, to a plank of wood, quickly taking over the whole pile.

A pair of hands rests on my shoulders. Luke's hands.

Mom silently looks at him, her jaw set, her eyes dull with exhaustion.

“Ma, Squeaks. Granny and me just finished making dinner. Come inside and eat. I'll watch the fire.”

Mom simply nods and heads for the back door, her footsteps slow and steady.

“Luke, can we talk?” I want an explanation. An excuse.

“What about, Squeaks?” What about? Like he doesn't know.

“We were all worried about you this morning,” I start.

“Oh, yeah. That. Sorry. I got carried away last night. I was in the store and ran into one of the guys from the bar and he invited me out to party. I just lost track, that's all.” Luke wraps his arm around me and constricts. “Don't worry about me.”

“But I can't help it. The way you were sleeping, like you wouldn't wake up.” My mind imagines drug-induced comas. Him vomiting in his sleep and choking on it.

“I'm fine, Clare. Don't worry about me.” He folds his arms over his chest.

“But I do.”

“Don't.” His voice is suddenly edgy.

“Hey, you know, maybe you should stay with us
tonight. Not go out and see your friends.” A suggestion. Just a suggestion.

“Maybe
you
should leave me alone.” He turns and lights a cigarette, drawing in a deep breath, letting the smoke out slowly, controlled. His eyes have gone hard. Hard and glassy, bloodshot from the night before.

“I love you,” I say. Please hear me, Luke. Please.

Silence.

I leave him alone with the fire.

He's gone before we finish dinner.

At the end of my eighth-grade school year, my honors English class took a field trip to see the musical
Les Misérables
. Selling candy bars gave us each a ticket and the school bus ride down to the theater.

Early in the play—was it the first or second scene?—the main character was released from prison, his sentence for stealing bread so his family could eat. Everyone in the audience felt sorry for him—sorry that his family was starving, sorry that he had to resort to stealing, sorry that he had to serve a prison sentence. I could feel the audience's pity. It wasn't fair. Should stealing bread if your children are starving be considered a crime?

Out of prison he found sanctuary with a clergy member, who took him in, fed and cared for him. In the middle of the night, the main character decided to steal from the kind man. He was caught, but when the police brought him back to the bishop, the bishop not only did not press charges; he gave him the stolen goods, as well as additional items.

From there the main character changed course,
became the unlikely hero. Compassion saved him.

I left the play running those scenes over and over in my mind, thinking, Maybe all Luke needs is more compassion. Maybe I can provide the compassion that will cure him.

Compassion will cure him. That thought rolls over me as I sit in the pew while the priest drones on about the prodigal son and forgiveness. It's one of Mom's favorite gospels. Maybe because it justifies all the chances she gives Luke. The parable ends with the welcome home for the son who squandered all of his inheritance. But what I want to know is what happens later. After the feast is over. Does he spend the rest of his life working hard and staying out of trouble? Does his father's compassion cure him? Or has his father given him his trust only to find that his son can't change? I look at Luke. He blends right in with the church crowd, in his khakis and collared shirt. Looking at him, no one would be able to tell that he's been out nearly all night almost every night. I don't know where he goes, and I wish I didn't care. At least he's up every morning with the rest of us, ready to work.

I shift uncomfortably. Three more days and we'll be on our way home. Then what? We'll just be taking Luke back to Dan.

•  •  •

From the backseat of the truck, I see the barn from a distance. Damn, it looks good. It stands straight and tall, no trash or weeds to obstruct the view, the new coat of paint making it shine in the sun. I know up close how rickety it still is, how it creaks when the wind blows and how none of us dared go into the certain-death hayloft. But now at least someone might be willing to work on it some more. Give it another chance.

For a second I feel happy. Proud of the work that Luke and Mom and I did together—something good. But then Luke says something that rips it all away.

“So hey, Squeaks. I've decided to stay in Tennessee.”

“What?” He's not coming home with us? “Why?”

“I made some job connections in Chattanooga. This guy I met has a brother who lives near there, so I'm gonna crash on his couch,” Luke says. “They're even looking for a welder. And I took those metal classes, so maybe they'll hire me. I'll bet there's some good pay for that too.”

My emotions are splitting in a million different directions. He's leaving us again? Without us, there will be no one to check in with. Nothing to keep him from drinking, using, falling even deeper into old habits.

Then there's the other part of me, a selfish part. The part that's a little relieved. Glad that when we left California, he was still on his best behavior; he hadn't done anything to start gossip. Or at least, if he had, he hadn't gotten caught.

“Hey, I'll be home for Thanksgiving, and Christmas,” Luke says. “And we'll keep in touch. Don't worry.”

•  •  •

The next day Mom and I drop Luke off at the bus stop.

“I wish Peter and your father were here,” Mom says as she hugs Luke. “Wish I'd gotten one more family photo before we left. I guess I just didn't expect you to end up staying here.”

“I'll be back before you know it,” he says. Then, “I love you guys.” Luke hugs the breath out of me. “I'll be good. I promise. I'll write or call once I get settled.”

I hold him as tight as I can for as long as I can, trying to let every sense take in Luke—how his arms feel around my back, his smell, the sound of his voice, the way his eyes are glowing with hope. I hold back a sob and convince myself this is not the last time I'll be seeing him.

“Hey, Squeaks, don't cry,” Luke says as he lets me go. “Thanksgiving. I promise.”

When I was fourteen, the women's council decided to do family photos for the church directory after Christmas mass, the theory being that it would be a great success, since almost everyone had attended service that morning, looking so nice in their holiday best.

Mom, Dad, Peter, and I waited in a long line out the front of the church door in the freezing cold while a photographer arranged each family in front of the poinsettias around the alter. “Okay, line up. Look toward me. Smile. One. Two. Three. And thank you. Next.”

The Jordan family was in front of us, complete with both sets of Mandy's grandparents, visiting from New York and Florida.

“Isn't it wonderful to have the whole family together for Christmas?” Lucille gushed to Mom.

“Yes, you're very fortunate,” Mom politely replied.

I couldn't tell if Lucille was blind or just being a bitch. I wanted to say, “What whole family? I don't see my oldest brother here. Go be merry with your whole family somewhere else.”

We waited in line silently, an uncomfortable tension rising as we listened to Lucille drone on and on about having a full house and how wonderful this family photo would be as a treasure.

•  •  •

Our picture appeared in the mail on the same day we got letters from Luke.

Mom sighed irritably. “Why do they insist Luke write the name of the prison and his number on the return address? It's an embarrassment!”

I raised my eyebrows. Luke in prison was no secret, so how could that be an embarrassment? I knew she really meant that she didn't like the reminder. That without that prison number, she could pretend he was just off somewhere else, living a normal life.

“Do you want me to frame this?” I asked Mom, holding up our new Christmas family photo in one hand, the old framed one in the other.

Her face distorted a little. The old photo was from three years before. I was eleven, with braces, and my haircut looked suspiciously like a mullet. It would have been nice to have an updated family picture in our living room. Even if Luke wasn't in it.

“I don't think so,” Mom said, crinkling her nose at me. “It's not really a family photo.” Then, her voice lighter, she added “Here's yours” as she tossed me a letter from Luke.

It didn't matter to me that Luke was in jail because he'd been found guilty of stealing. I was excited to hear from him.

Dear Squeakers,

Thanks for your letter and the care package. I can't tell you how much I needed that stuff. Clean T-shirts, boxers, and socks are a luxury here.

This time of year is so hard for me. I just want to be home with you guys. It's lonely. All I can think about is snow, crackling fires, Ma's cooking, and the Christmas tree with our special ornaments. All I can think about is everything I'm missing.

What I did was wrong. I know that, and I'm paying for it.

Don't ever do anything that will land you in jail. It's miserable here, worse than you can imagine.

I promise that when I get out of here, I will never ever make any more mistakes like that. I will get a good job. I will buy a house. I will find someone really nice to have a family with.

Everyone has abandoned me except you, Ma, and Pop. I don't know what I'd do without you. Don't give up on me. Please. Your letters mean more to me than you will ever know. Keep writing.

Love,

Luke

After reading it, I grabbed on even harder to the idea that my letters were making a difference. That they had some sort of power not only to help Luke get through his prison sentence but also to change him forever. A fear crept inside me that if I didn't continue to support him, all hope for him to lead a normal life would be gone.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Dad called from the house.

Said that the police had asked to search my car.

Then there was Mom, sitting me down on Granny's couch, grabbing both my hands and questioning me, over and over: Was there something she should know? Had I done
anything
illegal? Anything at all? I told her no, but I know she doesn't believe me.

•  •  •

Dad is at the airport with the police when we land in LA. They're wondering if I might be able to answer some questions for them.

So now I am in the police station, sitting upright in a hard chair next to my mother—who has to be present because I am under eighteen—waiting, waiting, waiting to find out what questions they have. Skeleton is sitting in the corner, legs crossed, reading a trashy tabloid. He's been here before.

The man who comes in to interrogate me looks like a nice guy. He probably has a nice family, with well-behaved kids, who are possibly playing tag in their backyard,
waiting for their hard-working dad to get home.

He says that he just wants to talk to me a little bit, that I'm not under arrest, but it's still policy to let me know my Miranda rights. It doesn't feel at all like they portray it on TV. His voice is relaxed and he rattles them off in a tone of voice like he might be offering me something to eat. When he gets to the part about a lawyer, he pauses and looks up at me, saying that if I didn't do anything wrong, I don't need a lawyer. I didn't do anything wrong. I think. So I shouldn't need a lawyer, right? But
do
I need one? If I ask for one, I'll look guilty, right? But if I don't, could I end up doing or saying something that will get me in trouble?

He asks if I understand everything, and I say yes. Then he says it's time for me to answer some questions. I look to Mom. Wondering if she'll cut in and ask for a lawyer, but she just nods. Maybe she does believe me.

But maybe, maybe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Wrong place, wrong time. My heart starts to pound. Wrong place, wrong time. My vision blurs for a second, and all I can see is Skeleton, pointing at the receipts on my car floor. My eyes focus as the detective starts talking again.

He says he knows I am a good student. He knows I have plans to go to college. He knows that I've never ditched school, never gotten a ticket, and that I volunteer sometimes as a lifeguard at the kids camp that the school organizes. He says he also knows what kind of car
I drive, and that on one particular day I drove to three different stores with my brother Luke.