Stick (27 page)

It took Dahlia a good half hour to settle down. I told her I wasn't hungry, but she insisted on cooking bacon and eggs for me. While she rumbled about in the kitchen, cursing her toaster for burning one side of the bread, I brought my suitcase into the bedroom that Bosten and I had shared. I guess I stayed in there for a while, thinking about things: about Bosten, about how this suitcase was in the same house where people had been murdered; and then Aunt Dahlia appeared in the doorway, like she still couldn't believe it was really me, and she grabbed me by the hand and took me in to sit at her table.

“Now, Stark,” she said, “you have to      tell me what's going on.”

Just like that, I could see in her face that she had some idea about things. But there could be no way she knew even half of the bad stuff that had happened to Bosten and me.

I sat down and began to eat, and Aunt Dahlia covered my left hand with hers.

“I don't know where to start, Dahlia.”

“There were police here, two days in a row, looking for you and     Bosten,” she said. “Where is your      brother?”

I put down my fork and looked directly at her. “I don't know. I thought he would be here. I hoped he would.”

Aunt Dahlia's eyes were wet and heavy with concern. “The first day    it was a detective from Oregon, asking only about Bosten. On the next day, when he came back, there was        another detective from Washington. Then he started asking about you, too.”

I didn't know what to tell her. I felt guilty, even though I didn't do anything wrong.

She said, “They told me     that     someone got killed. It scared me so bad                        I thought I was going to die. I thought it was you            or Bosten.”

I shook my head.

“They didn't tell you who it was?”

“No. They didn't say  anything else, except there had been a killing                              in Oregon, and they needed to          find you boys.”

I pushed my plate away. I couldn't eat.

I must have sat there for five minutes, just looking at the food Dahlia had made for me.

It was so quiet.

“Some people got shot. It happened on a boat. I was hiding inside a room. I didn't see who did it or why they started shooting. When I came out, there were two people dead and whoever did it was gone.”

I felt Dahlia's hand shaking on top of mine. Then she stood up and squeezed me and said, “Oh.”

Aunt Dahlia stroked my hair and kissed me on the top of my head. I think she was crying.

“I need to tell you about me and Bosten. And why I'm here.”

*   *   *

I suppose that in most ways
memories are like the sounds that get trapped inside my head. They just swirl around at their own pace, making their own order, doing the math by themselves. Because as we sat there and I tried to tell Dahlia the whole story—everything—I would find myself at times backing up as something forgotten rose to the surface and became important.

And none of what happened to us would ever make sense if I didn't let the biggest monsters that swam in my head come up and reveal their teeth—
there is no love in our house, only rules.

But there is this room.

I told her about our name and Saint Fillan and how I believed the story to be real and she said there is nothing wrong with you.

When she said it, it sounded true

it sounded like chains coming loose

*   *   *

my little window

and our secret way out

all Bosten and me ever had was just us

*   *   *

I told her about Ricky Dostal

I told her

every detail

about what happened to us in the Saint Fillan room

about our bucket

what Dad did

to Bosten

what Dad did to Bosten

what our goddamned father

did

how I dreamed one day

I would be brave enough to kill him

but Bosten was smarter and stronger than me

and he left

*   *   *

and then I told her
what happened with Buck

I had to

I knew it wouldn't make a difference to her

but it sent Dad over the edge

Buck tried to kill himself with scissors

then they sent him away

so I took the car

to save myself

and save Bosten, too.

*   *   *

Dahlia patted my knee.
She waited until she was certain I'd finished.

“Your brother            told me about it. You remember that evening,   you made me go outside for a walk with you?”

I nodded.

“That night, Bosten told me         why you took me outside while he was on the phone. He told me about the          boy             back home in Washington. He said that's why he loves you so much, too, Stark. Because      none of this        other stuff ever came between you two. It doesn't make us    change how we feel about each other.”

“I need to find him.”

“I know. We will.”

*   *   *

On Monday,
the Strand was deserted of all the kids I'd usually see out in the water.

Normal kids go to school.

I slept in too late to catch Evan and Kim before their school bus came; and I felt bad about that, but Dahlia told me she'd rather watch me sleep than wake me up.

As I sat there eating the breakfast she cooked before I opened my eyes, Dahlia said we had plans to take care of.

“It starts with a shower,” I said. “I think I smell bad enough to curdle milk.”

The last time I took a shower was after April cut my hair, on my birthday.

“And maybe when I'm in there, I could throw my stuff in your washer. I don't have anything to change into.”

Dahlia looked surprised. “What's     in your suitcase?”

“Our wetsuits, one set of clothes for Bosten, dirty socks, jeans, and underwear, and a newspaper clipping with a picture of a UFO.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“What            am I going to do     with you,       Stark?”

*   *   *

She took me to a Sears
in Ventura and bought me all the clothes I'd need for a few days, even socks. And underwear and T-shirts that weren't all white. I changed in the men's room at the shopping center.

Then she drove me across Oxnard to Anacapa Junior High School, and parked her Dodge in a space in front of the office that said
VISITORS.

“What do you     think?” she said.

What was I
supposed
to think? I wondered.

“It doesn't have hallways.”

That was the first thing that struck me about the school: All the classrooms had doors that opened onto the outside, and instead of hallways, there were sidewalks.

The second thing I wondered was if they were going to put me in the mentally retarded class.

I think Dahlia saw the nervousness that came over me as we sat there in front of the school. I was never a natural fit into any situations involving new kids; and I dreaded the thought that somewhere, on the other side of the stucco wall we were facing, was a PE coach who was ready to start recording as much as he could about my life, my measurements, what I wore, and whether or not I took a shower.

Aunt Dahlia put her hand on my arm. “Let's just see     what the people inside are like. Then we'll talk about things. But, you know what,    Stark? This means I intend that you're going to be staying here with me. I think they're going to have to put me        in jail        before I'll let them send you back up to Washington.”

I never knew anyone who'd stick up for me like that, with the exception of Bosten, and Emily. So it made me feel safe and lonely at the same time. I didn't know what I would do if I couldn't see Emily Lohman again.

I felt small and so far away from her.

I gulped, and said, “Okay.”

And I was terrified that they were going to take me directly from the office and deposit me in some hostile class—probably gym—right on the spot. But after we talked to the school registrar, she gave Aunt Dahlia an enrollment packet that listed all the things we needed to provide before they could do such things to me; and that meant I was off the hook, at least for a few days.

When we stepped outside, Aunt Dahlia said, “That was better than    I thought it would be. I have a feeling things are going to work out just fine for us. Of course, this is all up to you, Stark. I just want you to be sure that you're       safe here.”

“I know that. Thank you, Dahlia.”

The strange thing was how much it seemed to me like I was really home, maybe for the first time in my life.

*   *   *

After we left the school,
we drove into Oxnard, to a grocery store. Aunt Dahlia said she didn't think she even had a stale cracker left in her house, and she was afraid I was going to start eating her furniture if she didn't stock up on provisions.

On the way there, I thumbed through my new school's registration packet and found the page I dreaded the most: “Boys' Physical Education Participation Requirements.” It had all the same important words that the Mr. Lloyds in the world kept precise records on: “daily showers,” “deodorant,” “hygiene,” “athletic supporter.”

School.

I wondered how long it would be until I had to punch one of Anacapa's “key guys” in the face.

Because things were different now.

*   *   *

In the afternoon,
Aunt Dahlia phoned my mother. I pretended to be sleeping in my room. I even got undressed and slid under the sheets. My new T-shirt and underwear had that chemical smell that I always liked. And anyway, I wasn't going to talk to Mom. I didn't believe she really wanted to hear anything from me, either.

They were making arrangements. Mom was going to send down the papers the school needed so I could start going to classes. I kept my eyes shut, but I could tell by the way the conversation went Mom didn't mind at all that Aunt Dahlia was planning on having me move in with her.

Mom was always doing the math, and I guess things were finally starting to equal out to zero for her.

Not more than twenty minutes after that phone call, as I was still lying quietly in my bed with my door open, four policemen came to Aunt Dahlia's front door, asking if I was here and could they come in.

The police probably had some special guidelines that required them to always arrive when the guy they were looking for was in bed, in his underwear. I mean, what are you going to do in that situation? The only worse possible time would be if you were at a urinal, holding your dick, like when Ricky Dostal started that shit that got me here in the first place. I honestly did think about running, even if I didn't really understand what I could possibly be running away from.

I sat up. I could see the door right from where I was in my bed.

Two of the cops had on uniforms, with shining badges and guns; and the other two, the ones standing in front, wore suits, neckties, and expressionless, bored faces.

They were there for me.

Just like that.

*   *   *

So there I was,
sitting at Dahlia's kitchen table, barefoot, in my new T-shirt and underwear, talking to Detectives Adam Berkowitz from Portland and Guy Sheehan from Seattle. I wondered why anyone would name a guy Guy, but that thought went right out of my head as soon as Berkowitz said my own name.

“So,     you're Stark McClellan?”

It sounded like something a sheriff in a Western would say, just before he shot the guy he knew he was going to shoot even if he didn't ask his name, anyway. It was part of the plan.

“Um. Yeah.”

The two uniformed cops—from the Oxnard Police Department—waited outside with their car, in front of Dahlia's house. I guess they knew the stories about how the surfers on the Strand did things like leave dead rats under the windshield wipers of unattended patrol cars. At least, that's what Evan told me, and I believed him.

Detective Berkowitz sat right in front of me, so close that he actually had to spread his knees apart so we wouldn't knock legs—kind of like he was getting ready to apply a scissors- takedown if the wanted guy facing him made the slightest wrong move. Aunt Dahlia sat on the other side of the table, looking alternately at me, and then at each of the detectives, with an expression on her face that plainly said she was ready to kill either one of them if they had any ideas about taking me away from her.

“A lot of people      have been looking for     you.” Berkowitz's voice sounded grim.

“Oh.”

I swallowed spit.

I looked at Aunt Dahlia. She wasn't budging.

Then Guy Sheehan from Seattle said, “Your father's car       was found outside of Fresno. A man named Willie Purcell fixed it at his service station in Oregon. And your           father's been at home in Kitsap County for the     past two weeks.”

And all at the same time, I said, “I'm too young to drive,” and Aunt Dahlia said, “Stark       didn't        steal anyone's car.”

Then Guy Sheehan nodded his chin at Detective Berkowitz and pointed at his right ear. It felt like all the blood was draining out of my body. I just stared at Detective Berkowitz's enormous mustache.

“Nobody said you          stole anything, son,” Berkowitz said.

Sheehan's mustache wasn't as intimidating. He had zits, too, which kind of took the edge off his scariness.

But I didn't like the way Berkowitz called me “son,” and then he leaned forward, so his knee actually pressed against my bare thigh. “You know a        girl      named April Van Hecht?”