Learning Not to Drown (23 page)

It's Luke.

His eyes are sunken. He is thin, dirty. My nostrils burn as he nears us.

I freeze, my fingers curling around the counter edge. Why is he here? He can't be here. Then a thought crashes into me so hard, I feel dizzy.

I'm supposed to call the police.

“Ma! Squeakers!” Luke calls out. “I'm home. Just like I promised. I hitched all the way here, just for Thanksgiving.”

Mom puts down the wooden spoon she was just using to stir the pie filling. She steps from around the counter, taking Luke into her arms. How can she hug him?

“Hitchhiked? All the way from Tennessee?” It's my voice? It's my voice, responding to him. Asking him a question. Trying to find normal.

“Yeah, that's really the only way I get around,” Luke says. “I'm gonna leave after Thanksgiving, cuz I need to go back to my girl Chastity. She's really great. She cares a lot about me. I wanted to bring her, but she's got this little girl, and no way could we hitch with her, you know. But I'm here now. Like I promised.” Luke scratches his face, pinches his nostrils, scratches his arms.

“Luke, you must be exhausted. Why don't you take a nice hot shower? There are clean towels in the bathroom, and I'll find some of your old clothes for you to change into.” Mom steps back, her face uncontrollably grimacing from his odor. She attempts a smile to hide it. “You'll be ready just in time for dinner.”

“Okay,” he says, walking to the bathroom.

When the door closes, Mom and I face each other.

“Sit down, before you fall and hurt yourself.” Mom pulls a chair behind me. Plop. I'm sitting.

“We need to call,” I say. But I'm not moving toward the phone. Mom's not moving toward the phone.

“We will, Clare. After he's had a shower and something to eat. You don't worry about that. I'll take care of it.”

I can't ignore that Luke is in the house. I can't pretend that we are going to have a lovely homecoming dinner for my brother. I'm not risking the rest of my life.

I breathe in deeply, exhale slowly. I understand that Luke will be arrested when the police get here. I have to do what is right for me.

I pick up the phone, start to dial the detective's phone number I've memorized.

“What are you doing?” Mom asks sharply, pulling the phone from my hand. “It's the day before Thanksgiving. Are you really going to put your brother in jail just before a holiday?”

I stare at her.

“But we have to call,” I say.

“You don't need to worry about this. I told you that I will take care of it. End of story. Do I make myself clear?”

I nod. She's not going to let me call. She'd sooner smash all our phones with a sledgehammer.

But Mom will take care of it. Mom will. She'll call after he's had a shower and a meal. Or maybe she'll hide him here until the day after Thanksgiving, so she can have her perfect holiday. Then she'll call. She'll do what
we have to do legally. She won't choose letting him be free over me going to jail, right? She'll choose me. She
has
to choose me. I haven't done anything wrong.

She hands me a glass of water.

“Drink,” she tells me. “You're as white as a ghost.”

I sip the water slowly and look at the wall.

“Maybe you can help me,” she says, this time softly, “and put the pie crust dough into the pans.”

I nod.

“Do you remember how to make the lattice top after you add the filling?”

I nod again, letting my fingers press the dough.

“Now, I need to get those clothes for your brother. I can trust you, right?” she asks.

I nod. She leaves the room.

Luke is in the bathroom. Mom is in the attic. I can call now. I have to call now. I look at the phone. But my hands won't pick it up.

Pick it up! Pick up the damn phone and dial! The police will arrest you, too, if you don't.

My hands won't listen. After everything Luke has done. After everything he's cost me.

Instead my fingers, on autopilot, have prepared the bottom of both crusts, poured in the filling, and are now making the strips to make the lattice top.

Luke and Mom join me in the kitchen as Peter walks in through the back door. “Peter, come say hello to your brother,” Mom calls out. And Peter stops, midstride, staring at Luke. “And don't go off to your room. I need you to set the table.”

“I'll do it, Ma,” Luke says, his huge pupils surrounded by blood vessels, red and swollen.

“How about you all set the table together. Dinner should be ready in fifteen minutes.” Mom closes the oven, places the mitts on the counter. She smiles at the three of us. Peter gapes at me, and I know what he is thinking—how can she be acting like Luke has just come home from a day at work instead of months on the lam?

Maybe she's just faking it. Just acting normal for Luke. Pretending.

“I'm going to go wash up for dinner,” she announces as she leaves the room.

Peter and I look at the phone. He shakes his head and drops himself down in a chair.

I abandon my pies, wash my hands, and pull the plates out of the cabinet. Turn around to see Luke heaving Peter out of his chair.

“Get up and help,” Luke says, his hands digging under Peter's armpits.

“Okay, let go. I'm up.” Peter hits Luke's hands off him. “Fuck off.”

“No. You fuck off, you little shit. Have a little respect for your mother and help us set the table like she asked.” Peter glares at him, so Luke leans close to his face. “Don't make me say it again.”

“Stop. Just stop,” I say. Look at Peter. Look at the phone. Hand Luke the plates and reach into the cabinet for glasses.

“I don't know why you are always helping him, Clare. Call,” Peter says quietly into my ear while taking the
glasses out of my hands before setting them on the table.

“What was that?” Luke snaps from the table.

“Nothing,” Peter and I say at the same time.

“Luke, can you get the forks and spoons? I don't think we'll need knives tonight,” I say. Large bubbles break the surface of the stew, splattering broth onto the stovetop. I give it a quick stir, turn the heat slightly down. Then grab the bowl of salad out of the refrigerator. Peter sets the last glass down and turns just as I'm about to put the bowl on the table; he crashes into me. The salad flies into the air, falls to the floor. The bowl shatters into a million pieces on my bare feet.

“Fuck.” Peter pushes past me, holding out his shirt covered in dressing.

“Did you just hit her?” Luke asks, his voice angry loud.

“No. I— We just bumped into each other.” Peter stops midway to the bathroom, looking at his shirt, then looking up. Looking in the past for the chronological order of events.

I stand completely still in the shards of glass, my eyes down at the pieces stuck in my feet. Looking at the red droplets pooling.

Broken glass, broken bones, broken trust, broken home, broken family, broken heart, broken, broken, broken, broken.

Skeleton puts his hand on my shoulder, backbones curving forward, posture limp and sad. He's done. He's had enough too.

Each muscle is tensing up, tensing up. My heart, my lungs. I can't breathe.

It's a whimper. A slow whimper that comes out first. I can't do it anymore. I can't do blood and broken glass and broken bones. I can't do sleepless nights, and fights and whispers. I can't not cry.

Peter turns, he sees my feet, sees the blood. “Oh, shit.”

Luke runs to me, the five forks in hand.

“Are you okay, Squeaks? Are you okay?” But Luke doesn't wait for an answer. “You shit. You little fucking shit!” Luke heads toward Peter, huge strides. He's left me standing in the glass.

Peter laughs. An uncontrollable laugh with hints and hiccups of fear.

“It was an accident! I didn't see she was cut.” His facial muscles spasm as he tries to placate, tries to smile. “Look. Clare needs help. Get her some Band-Aids. I'll clean up the glass.”

“I warned you to stop hurting Clare. You broke her arm. I told you to never lay a hand on her again. Remember?” Luke is getting closer to Peter. “You know what you are? You're a fucking loser and a bully. Taking out all your shit on a girl who is four years younger than you.”

Luke drops all the forks to the ground. All except one. His fist tightly wound around it. Peter steps back. His face drained of color.

“Come on, Luke. Don't get upset. I'm sorry. Okay? Clare, I'm sorry.” Peter looks to me. No, Peter! Don't take your eyes off Luke.

The fork goes into Peter's arm. Luke pushes it hard, letting go as it breaks the flesh.

Stew boils and pops, glass crunches under my feet. I'm walking? I lean forward to look at Peter's arm. I'm curious. I'm not horrified? I don't scream. I don't run out of the house for help or for safety. Silent, intrigued. I wipe my tears to see the fork sticking out of Peter's arm, straight out into the air, as if it were in a piece of steak. Little blood comes out. Italian dressing and simmering stew in the air. It's a comfort scent; it doesn't make sense with what I'm seeing. With that smell there should be a family sitting around the table, laughing, passing dishes, sharing. Not a fork hanging out of my brother's arm, and a girl cocking her head to the side, leaning in closer and closer, like a scientist instead of a sister.

“What is going on here?” Mom yells as she rushes into the room.

“Ma.” Luke is calm? Talking to her like this is all okay, all normal. “It was an accident. A mistake. He hit Clare. He hit Clare, and then the fork I had . . . slipped.”

There are bloody footprints on the floor. Mine. Peter's eyes wide and hurt, tears filling the bottom lids. He is looking past me, past Luke, past the walls, and past the sky beyond the house. Mom looks from one of us to the other. It's like she is trying to decide which side she'll take.

We hear sirens. Police sirens. Mom called. She must have.

“It was an
accident
.” Luke's face is blank. Isn't he supposed to be crying and shouting? “You don't want me to go to prison for an accident. Tell her, Clare. Tell her
it was an accident.” Luke smiles at me. He smiles at me?

My voice is broken.

“Tell her, Clare!” Luke insists. Now anger is there. He's angry at me?

The fork is in Peter's arm. Peter, stone, rock. Peter has both his eyes closed, but tears stream out anyway. No one pulls the fork out.

“You know what, fuck all of you!” Luke snarls. “You don't love me. That's why I'm this way.” Luke runs out the back door. Runs as the sirens get louder.

•  •  •

Later that night, while Mom finishes the apple pies, Dad sets me up in Peter's room, on the lower bunk. I'm afraid to be alone. I have my pillow, my blanket, my cell phone. Hoping I can trick my mind into thinking I am safe and letting me sleep deeply, no dreams, no nightmares, only uninterrupted nothingness. It's not likely, but with Peter so close, maybe it's possible?

I'm not sure why we all weren't arrested for not calling the police when Luke showed up. It turns out Mrs. Brachett was the one who saw Luke arrive, was the one who called. Mom didn't. She didn't choose me.

When the detective arrived at the hospital, he asked me why I hadn't called. I told him the only real reason I could think of, because Mom had said she'd take care of it. My parents were pulled aside. The only thing I know they said was “No, we aren't interested in pressing charges. And Peter will not be pressing charges either.”

Peter climbs up to the top bunk.

“You all good down there?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“How're the feet?”

I wince. Six stitches total: four on the right foot, two on the left. Countless cuts too shallow to sew. “They hurt. Probably about as good as your arm.”

“Ha.”

“Do you think they found him? Do you think he's back in jail?”

Peter is quiet for a moment.

“No. He always calls Mom first thing. We would have heard from him by now.”

So he's still out there.

“Peter?”

“Yeah.”

“He won't come back tonight, will he? Or for Thanksgiving?”

“No. He wouldn't risk getting caught. Just go to sleep and don't worry about it.”

“I'm not worried,” I lie.

“I guess that makes sense, since he's always so nice to you, little Squeakers.” Peter's voice has turned edgy. This is not the way I want this conversation to go. Turn it around, Clare.

“He's nice to you sometimes. Like when he used to play catch with you.”

“He broke my nose with the ball when I was ten.”

“But didn't you miss it?”

“Nobody throws a ball that hard when they are just playing catch.”

Okay. Good point.

“C'mon, Clare. Don't forget all the other ways he's hurt us. He's always taking something.” Always? “He stole my camera second-to-last time he was out.” True. “He's written checks to himself from Dad's checkbook.” True. “He stole our piggy banks. Who steals from little kids?” True. “And, you know, he made you an accessory to theft.” True, true, true, true. He steals. He steals because he needs money. Addicts need money. But it's not like he's
really
hurting people.

I think of the fork dangling from Peter's arm, and I have to ask, “Do you think he's hurt other people? I mean, physically?”

“I
know
he's hurt other people. Thieves don't get locked up in a maximum-security prison for four years.”

“What?” I sit up and bang my head on the bunk above me. Nobody had told me that Luke was in maximum security. Oh, my God.
Maximum
security?

Maybe this morning I'd have thought that there was no way it was true. But watching him stab Peter . . . It could be true.