Property of the State (5 page)

1.8: The Rapist

“Joey, your interest in sexual imagery is normal.”

Wednesday, four p.m., and we're back to the porn.

Now it's Reid Brooks, my therapist. This is his opening, the first words out of his mouth after the empty pleasantries. We only have twenty-eight minutes together, so he likes to get right on it. But calmly. Once I said, “Therapist is just the rapist with a college degree.” I thought I was being hilarious. His response: “Plus I bill insurance.” Nothing ruffles Reid. If I jumped on his desk and hooted like a monkey, he'd offer me a banana.

His office is in an old brick building on Belmont about five blocks from Katz. Third floor, quiet, good light. In addition to his desk, there's a tall bookshelf, two leather chairs, a low table with a box of tissues, a credenza full of games and toys. Each of the four walls has a clock on it, presumably so he can track the time from any direction without looking like he's clock-watching.

“You're uncomfortable. I get that. This is an uncomfortable topic to discuss with adults.”

I examine the books on his shelves.
Abuse and Neglect: A 21st-Century Reconsideration
…
Clinical Approaches To Attachment Disorder
…
DSM-V
. I doubt Reid has trouble falling asleep at night, but I wouldn't want his nightmares.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

My mind flashes to Trisha. For a moment. “No.”

“What were you just thinking about?”

“I was thinking how creepy your books are.”

He doesn't sigh. Mrs. Petty would, but he simply gazes at me.

“Mrs. Petty says you implied Wayne was the one who used your laptop inappropriately.”

“I never mentioned my laptop.”

He gives me the Look. The
You're Avoiding the Issue
look. Him and Moylan.

I say nothing.
Never admit to anything
—something I learned the last time I was falsely accused.

“You know what I mean, Joey.”

“It was a joke, Dr. Brooks.” I smile, but he knows better. He doesn't ask me not to call him doctor, even though he doesn't like it. He has a wall of framed degrees, but not one of them is for doctor of anything. Master of Social Work and Master of Clinical Psychology are the two biggies, but there are plenty more. Reid went to school for a long time. It's one of the reasons I don't say much to him. The man knows his shit.

“Mr. Cooper suggested a review of your IEP.”

An Individualized Education Program isn't supposed to be about behavior. It's meant to be about accommodations for students with learning disabilities. But they always shovel behavior stuff in there.
When the velocity of Joey exceeds X, the school reacts with force Y to knock his ass back into a lower-energy orbit
. Officially the IEP is intended to address my lapses into what Reid calls dissociative fugue. He says it means I lose awareness of myself and my surroundings. I say boring shit is boring.

But right now, I'm not bored. Because I didn't expect Reid to open with the porn. You ask me, events have advanced beyond the browser history on my Katz laptop.

When I first sat down, Reid had asked about my nose, but I could tell he wasn't really interested.

“Botched trepanation.”

He made a wincy face, muttered something about how I should be more careful. Then, “Oh, Mrs. Petty called. Something came up, so she won't be joining us today. But she briefed me on what happened.”

Here it comes
, I'd thought. Mrs. Petty decided to let Reid break the bad news to me. New school. New placement. Medication, maybe. Juvenile detention also a possibility. Except he went right to the porn. No Wayne, no where was I all night? No secret laptop compartment.

Porn.

I don't get it.

These are the facts as I understand them:

Wayne chucked me face-first into furniture after I suggested he masturbates loud enough to be heard over the engine of an old-school muscle car.

I fled the Boobie Hatch and haven't returned.

There is no three.

“Why don't you tell me about school today.”

“It was just school.”

“We both know better than that.”

“You mean Duncan?”

“You're his friend.”

People keep saying that. Trisha over donut crumbs, Harley May Jones when she stopped me outside her classroom to say she understood why I skipped Day Prep. Even Mr. Cooper, who marched me into the corral after the assembly. “I know you're his friend.” Why do they think that? Because we still talk to each other after the Fight of the Century? The favored myth seems to be we're rivals who found brotherhood on the field of combat. That it's détente, not friendship, is a fact which eludes most observers.

“Did you talk about the accident?”

“Did who—?” I remember where I am. “Sure. Some.”

“Joey.” The Look.

I sigh. It's 4:12. Not even half done.

“The police don't know anything. Duncan hasn't regained consciousness. No witnesses have come forward. At the assembly, some cop asked us to call a number if we knew anything. He said it would be confidential.” I can't keep the derision out of my tone.

“Sounds like you don't believe that.”

“You know how you can tell a cop is lying?”

“His lips are moving?”

I don't want to reward him, so I stare out the window. The afternoon sun stings my eyes.

“Not all cops are Sergeant Yearling, Joey.”

“Yes, they are.”

Zachariah Yearling was my foster oppressor when I was eleven, a cop they dumped me with after the aptly named Quittners dropped out of the system. There was a wife, too, a beige woman I remember only as
The Missus
—dead now. Sergeant Yearling was the one who taught me about cops.

Reid's lips pooch out. Normally, he would challenge me, but today he's got other things on his mind.

“Where were you when it happened?”

“They found him during fifth period.”

“Which is…?”

“Directed Inquiry.” Harley May is both the Katz official hippie and my DI advisor so I got a double-dip of her wet-eyed concern today.

“That meets in the library, right?”

No, but he knows that. He's fishing. “I didn't see it happen, Reid.”

He folds his hands and smiles. “I don't think you did.”

At the assembly, in addition to Cooper and the cop, Harley May gave a little speech about honoring our feelings for Duncan. One-on-one counseling with a district grief specialist would be available for those who wanted it, or we were free to talk with her any time. Harley May is one of the school guidance counselors. The budget only allows one-point-five, so she has to double up as teacher a couple periods a day. Definitely not a nun. She dresses like she's twenty-two, but her purple hair has gray roots.

“Joey, we both know I don't need to explain to you the goal of these sessions.”

“No.”

“Why don't you tell me what you think we're trying to accomplish here.”

This is one of Reid's techniques. We run through it every month or so, usually when I'm being difficult. I don't mind, because it's easy and uses up time.

“Our goal is to redirect my destructive impulses into productive behaviors. We focus on the positive benefits of honest communication, and the constructive expression of feelings. You encourage me to open up about my needs so we can find appropriate ways to meet them, and discourage my habit of sabotaging my progress with poor decision-making.”

“You express yourself well when you want to.”

I was reciting from memory. “It's a gift.”

He smiles again. “So use that gift now. How do you feel about what happened to Duncan?”

A more important question is why haven't the Boobies called out the Marines?

Wayne wouldn't come looking for me himself. Not the Boobie style. And Anita couldn't if she wanted to. But they would let Mrs. Petty know, and probably the police.
Teen runaway! Be on the lookout!
Not that cops give two craps about runaways, but if I got picked up in a sweep,my name would be flagged in the computer.

If Wayne hasn't called Mrs. Petty, it's not because he's afraid of what I'll say. History always works against me; all he needs is a plausible yarn. “The boy went mad!” Whatever he's come up with, we all know I'm in a final straw situation. My days as ward of the Boobies will end. Except Wayne apparently has decided not to rat me out.

Only one reason I can think of why he might want me around.

Money.

I don't know what a foster parent stipend brings in. Enough to cover my food and day-to-day needs, allegedly. Not that the Boobies spend much. I eat subsidized breakfast and lunch at school. I pay for double shots and my cell phone out of my Huntzel income. Hell, I even bought my last pair of shoes. How much can creamed chipped beef and toast cost?

“Joey?”

Reid is talking. “Sorry. What?”

“We were discussing Duncan.”

“What about him?”

“Where'd you go just now?”

“I'm sitting right here.”

The Look. “How about Duncan? Are you worried about him?”

A lose-lose question. If I say no, a checkmark goes in one column. Mrs. Petty's oversight tightens, maybe I find myself in a compassion development group: eight weeks of sitting around a table with cat burners and Dexter-wannabes. If I say yes, Reid will want to explore my feelings.

I stand mute.

Reid waits a moment. Someone out in the hallway is crying. A voice makes comforting sounds. A door closes and it's quiet again, except for the faint rumble of a bus in the street outside. I sniff and for the first time since last night don't taste blood. I can even smell a little bit now: furniture polish. All I want to do is keep my head down. Show up at school. Graduate early. Escape. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently.

“Joey, do you know when you get to stop coming here every Wednesday?”

“When I turn eighteen?”

“It can be sooner than that.”

I don't say anything. This is an old ritual too.

“When you prove you're capable of trust, we're done.”

“Nothing's ever that easy.”

“Joey, if that was easy, you'd have been out of here years ago.”

I glance at the clock. 4:19. Not enough time to get cornered. “I hope he's…okay.” I
do
hope he's okay. Doesn't mean I want to share on the subject.

Reid nods. “Let's talk about that.”

Nine minutes later, I step out onto Belmont, bemused. The sun is dropping fast toward the West Hills, the chill pushed by a cold breeze out of the Gorge. All I can do is catch the next bus heading east. I get off just short of I-205, walk the last few blocks to the Boobie Hatch. I can feel my pace slow as I near the house, but then I let out a long relieved breath. Both cars are gone. All I want to do is slip inside, snarf some cold chipped beef, and go to bed. Tomorrow morning is soon enough to face the Reckoning of the Boobies.

But when I get to the door, my key doesn't work.

That bastard changed the locks.

1.9: Housework

When I ring the bell this time, Mrs. Huntzel comes to the door.

“Joey.” Not a greeting, a statement of fact. “It's Wednesday.”

“Well, yesterday got messed up, so I thought I would catch up today. I know it's late, but I had my thing after school.” I don't use the word therapy with anyone but Reid and Mrs. Petty.

“Oh.” She smiles like she's not sure what to make of my arrival, but then she turns and waves me in past her. I cross through the mudroom into the kitchen. Bread, deli meat, and vegetables are spread across the center island.

“Are you hungry? I'm making a sandwich. You should have one.”

“I have a lot to do.”

“Nonsense. You and Philip are exactly alike; you never eat enough.” She puts her hand to her forehead like she's checking for a fever, then offers me that smile again. “Go. Sit. Do you prefer mustard or mayonnaise?”

“Mustard, I guess.” I don't really care. But I haven't eaten since lunch. I shuffle over to the nook where Philip eats his breakfast, slump into one of the chairs. I'm tired, not in the mood to work. But that's not why I'm here anyway. The job is just my way into the house.

Mrs. Huntzel busies herself at the counter, knife blade tapping the chopping block as she slices tomatoes. Outside, I watch Caliban climb the hill above the laurel hedge. Off on adventures. My phone vibrates in my pocket. My first thought is Mrs. Petty, catching up at last. But when I check, it's Trisha.

how was schl? call if u want.

I'm trying to decide how to respond when Mrs. Huntzel sets a plate down in front of me. Artisan bread, aged cheddar, fresh greens, paper-thin tomatoes, and what would be a week's ration of smoked turkey if Wayne was doling it out. Kettle chips on the side.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“Just water. Thanks.”

“I'll get you some milk.”

She pours milk for both of us and joins me at the table. But rather than eat, she stares out the window. Her eyelids are heavy and her breath whistles through her nose. For a second she reminds me of a girl I knew a few years back: a compulsive shoplifter who would cut herself every time she got caught. You meet all kinds in the system, and you get used to most of it after a while. But cutters always freaked me out. When I bite into the sandwich—mayo, not mustard—my chewing roars in my ears. I follow Mrs. Huntzel's gaze. Sunlight plays through the trees up the slope above the hedge. She seems to be watching the dance of light and shadow. At the Boobie Hatch, the TV would be on full volume in the background.

“Where's Philip?” Breaking the silence.

“Did you see him today?”

“Just for a minute.” The only class we share is Trigonometry—Philip is a grade behind me, and miles ahead in math brains. But Moylan doesn't allow chatter. Philip sat alone at the back of the Commons during the assembly. He was wearing the plastic mask Trisha told me about. I thought about going to talk to him, but people kept interrupting me until finally Cooper called for quiet. Afterward, he clonked into Trisha as he raced from the room, sent her phone flying. His fault from where I was sitting, but he called her a clumsy zebretta—whatever the hell that means—then bolted. There was no sign of him during lunch.

“You've been hurt as well.”

“I fell.”

That's good enough for her. Philip looks worse, but maybe it's the mask.

“You should be careful.”

“Me and Philip both.”

Her lips press together as if she wants to blame Duncan for my face too, but can't work her way around his coma. She shakes her head at last, and glances toward the door. “Philip went up to bed.” I wonder if he's looking at his pictures of Bianca Santavenere. “I appreciate your company for supper. Mr. Huntzel is away again.”

She still doesn't eat. Something is on her mind, but the last thing I want her to do is tell me about it. Nothing good ever comes of knowing other people's secrets. I finger my chips. The tension in the kitchen could crack teeth.

I say, “I noticed the heads in the basement need dusting.”

“They do?”

“I can take care of it tomorrow, maybe.”

“Whatever you think is best.” She picks up her milk at last and drains the glass. Then she stands and pushes her fingers into her eyes. “You'll excuse me. It's been a long day.”

God only knows what made it so long; she wasn't at school for the first time in the history of forever. She pads out to the main hall and is gone, leaving me alone with two sandwiches and a double helping of chips.

My sandwich and chips are down before the soft echo of her footsteps fade. Then I wrap her sandwich and put it in the fridge, pour her chips back into the bag. Rinse our plates and glasses, stick them in the dishwasher. And listen. The house is dead quiet. The thing I like best about Huntzel Manor. Time to get to work.

Tuesday on Wednesday: living room and library, dust and vacuum. I note my start time on the clipboard in the mudroom. The vacuum cleaner and other cleaning supplies are kept in a storage room in the basement next to the boiler room. It would be a hassle if not for the one-man elevator that goes from basement to second floor, up the middle of the spiral staircase. I start in the library because when you dust, you start at the top and work your way down. Maddie the Mad Chess Woman drilled that lesson into me in first grade.

It's a big job, but I've been doing it since April. I've never broken any of the ceramic figurines on display in the living room: poodles and fat-cheeked girls wearing poofy dresses. The library is easier, even though I have to use a stepladder to get at the highest bookshelves. I work alone, the way I like it. Feels weird to run the vacuum cleaner with the house so dark and empty, different from the afternoons when Philip or Mrs. Huntzel might wander through. I try to hurry, but it still takes me more than two hours—longer than usual, probably because my face is pounding the whole time. Mrs. Huntzel won't question the time. She never does.

I'm rolling the vacuum cleaner onto the lift on the first floor when Philip appears at the top of the spiral stairs. The transparent plastic of his mask warps his elf face. “Why are you here?”

“Just catching up from yesterday.”

Mrs. Huntzel views me as Philip's protector, someone to look out for him when she's not around. Philip hates it, even if he does seem less jumpy when he knows I'm nearby. All it took was me knocking Duncan sideways one day to make a friend, I guess. Reid would ask me how I feel about that.

But something is different now. When Philip reaches the first floor, he stops. “Your face is grotesque.”

“At least I don't have to wear that terrifying mask.”

I can't read his expression, but there's something vaguely hostile in his stare. I wonder if he thinks I'm trying to one-up him.

“Caliban knocked me down the hill.” The explanation sounds absurd and I laugh a little.

“That's stupid.”

He heads for the kitchen and I take the lift to the basement, stow the vacuum cleaner and dust rags. When I come out, I can hear him climbing the stairs again. I wait until his footsteps fade and I hear the distant click of his door closing. For a second, I feel strangely unsettled, but I shake it off.

The moment I've been waiting for.

I move quickly through the rec room, salute the dusty moose as I pass, and climb the corner stairs up through the now-pristine living room to the second floor. I'm the only one who ever uses the library. Next to it is Kristina's bedroom. The door no one ever opens.

Until now.