Stop Here (9 page)

He gazes at her with opaque eyes.

“What is it, Tim?”

“Remembering living here.”

“Not as long as you could have.” Does she want to rake up old ashes? Will there be anything new beneath? A difficult child who slept little, wouldn't play by himself, clung to her with such tenacity she froze.

“I was in your way,” he says simply.

The boy knew. The boy felt her impatience. Be honest. Own up to it. But she can't. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, right, ridiculous, that's me.”

“Are you hungry? I have chicken. I can order Chinese. Whatever you want.”

“Any beer?”

“No.”

“Call Ava, ask if she has any?”

“I'd rather not.”

“That too much trouble?” A slow grin spreads across his face.

“I'm glad to see you. I'll cook something. I'll wash what you're wearing. What else can I do?”

“Nothing, Ma, nothing at all.” But she doesn't believe him.

• • •

In the kitchen, taking the defrosted chicken from the fridge, she knows as if it's written on the wall that this time she's not to be spared. Well, okay, what more can happen? He'll want money. She'll go to the bank, take out a few hundred. He's her son, who else can she give it to? And she remembers that winter morning returning from Ava's, rushing him so she wouldn't be late for work. He became recalcitrant, moving ever more slowly. Finally, she told him she was leaving. He could get himself to school. “But I'll be late if I have to walk there.” “Not my fault,” she said, striding toward the door. “Ma,” he called over and over, but she wouldn't turn around. That afternoon he disappeared. “I'd sure like a beer.” He pokes his head in the kitchen.

“Go to the market.”

“I'm hiding.” His sullen words a cold fist in her belly.

She searches his face, the dark blue eyes with their long lashes, the beauty of them wasted like the rest of him. How could he be so stupid? “I'll go. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

• • •

Once again she finds herself in the car heading toward the mall. Was it a bank? A robbery gone wrong, a teller wounded, blood on her son's hands, on his soul? Stop it, she tells herself. Until he shares what happened, she can't know. Years ago she made herself quit planning for his future, which hurt more than his demanding visits.

In the brightly lit market she hopes not to bump into Shelly, who works here. Any other time would be fine. Only two days ago they stood beside the colorful produce stands chatting. Shelly's a talker, said her youngest is in Iraq, which gives her nightmares. Poor Shelly.

She strides down the aisle, picks up a six-pack of Beck's and hurries to the cashier, no time to waste. Around her, people fill their carts as if today is just another day. She envies their indifference. Then consoles herself­—no one really knows what goes on in another person's life.

• • •

The double-locked front door upsets her, makes her feel sneaky in her own house. He's right there waiting for a beer and follows her to the kitchen. She hands him one, puts the remaining bottles in the fridge. “Why not take a shower while I prepare dinner? Some of your clothes are in the dresser.”

He twists off the cap, flips it in the sink. “Yeah. Good idea.”

His narrow frame lopes easily out of the room. When he was little he'd curl up on her lap. The gentle weight of him against her breast, the grassy smell of his hair, imprints that never disappear. She begins breading the chicken the way he likes it.

Hearing the shower loud and certain, she switches on the small counter TV as she often does while preparing food. She surfs for news of robberies, murders, whatever. Nothing. Tomorrow's papers may enlighten her. Is that what she wants? Isn't it better not to know? A moment of uncertainty stills her: cook dinner, serve it, pretend everything's normal, then retreat to her bedroom. Or she could confront him. She takes a bottle of Beck's from the fridge and twists off the cap, the cold beer bitter in her throat.

• • •

He bounces down the stairs in a too-big pair of khakis and a faded black T-shirt she could've sworn she'd thrown away ages ago. His bare feet leave damp prints on the wood-slatted floor. A fringe of wet hair drips past his forehead.

“I bet the shower felt good.” Some neutral ground has to be found.

“I forgot to close the curtain for a minute and got a little bit of water on the tiles. I threw down a towel.” His voice matter-of-fact, but a challenge in his eyes, as if daring her to run up and fix the damage. The spilt juice, loose jar tops, left-out food, unlocked doors, half-open drawers. She tried to teach him, believed she could, but his habits never changed, and neither did her frustration.

“The floor will dry,” she says crisply, and returns to the kitchen. Through the window she sees Bobby walking up the front steps carrying some boxes. Damn. She strides to the door to head him off.

“Hey sweetie, what's that you've got?”

He walks past her.

Tim salutes him. “Bobby, my man. You're a big guy now.”

“Oh wow, I had no idea you were home.”

Bobby deposits two boxes on the table. “One is a Scrabble game. My mom has two. The other is blueberry pie she brought home from the diner. Did your mother tell you she gave me your baseball mitt?”

“That's cool,” Tim says.

“Want to play catch?”

“Not tonight. How's your mom?”

“She's out with Nick, her boyfriend.”

“You like him?” Tim's voice deadpan.

“He's okay. His daughter's hilarious. She has a million funny stories. She won at Scrabble the other night and no one beats Mom. We have a marathon planned. The winner gets twenty dollars. I thought I'd practice with Dina.”

“We can all play.” Tim goes in the kitchen and returns with a beer. “Still too young for one of these, I guess.”

“When is your mother expected home?” she asks.

He shrugs.

“Eat with us,” Tim offers.

“I'm sure his mother has dinner for him.”

“She can save it.” Again Tim's voice gives nothing away. Why does he need Bobby here? She doesn't like the feel of it.

“She can save it,” Bobby echoes Tim.

“Does she know you're here?”

“Where else would I be?” Bobby looks at her as if trying to figure out something.

She returns to the kitchen, dumps frozen broccoli in a saucepan of water, and waits for it to boil. A watched pot, Howie would've quipped. A man who liked his homilies, kitchen towels that read
home sweet home
, welcome mats, his-and-hers towels. She thought it a waste. They rarely had guests, not with her hospital shifts, but she saw no reason to squabble. Tim, however, wanted her to struggle, tried to engage her on a daily basis. She refused, had neither time nor energy. Sick people awaited her attention. Now she wonders if Tim needed her to fight. Children want to know they're important enough to stir up a ruckus. The water begins boiling. Early dinner, she thinks, then send Bobby home. An evening alone with her son, that's what she'll aim for, what she'll tell them both. She puts the ketchup bottle on the table.

• • •

As soon as they finish the game of Scrabble she suggests Bobby go home.

“Stay over. Why not? We're having fun, right, kiddo?” Tim speaks directly to Bobby.

“I'll call Mom.”

“Where will he sleep?” she mumbles, confusion muddying her thinking.

“He'll share my room,” Tim says.

Bobby looks at her, waiting for approval. The boy's not stupid.

“Sweetie, do me a favor, take the Scrabble up to Tim's room.” She watches him run up the steps, then whispers, “What do you want with him?”

“Insurance policy. Don't worry, nothing will happen to him.”

“I am worried.” She stares at the hollows and planes of Tim's face, a replica of hers. “Why involve anybody else?”

“Bobby's a member of the family. He's the good boy.” And Tim looks at her, mockingly.

“Tim, I'll have none of it. He's a neighbor's boy and should be sent home.”

“In case of trouble?” An edge to his voice.

“Will there be any?”

“Depends.” Is he toying with her?

“Let him go home, Tim. We can work out things without him.”

“What things, Ma?”

“I don't know yet, but if you need to take someone, take me.”

“That's a joke, right? You wouldn't know how to leave this place.” She flashes on the times he begged her to take him somewhere, away, and always she had a reason—a good one, she believed—not to do so.

“Whatever happens, I'll help you. It'll be easier if it's just us.”

“You may regret what you're saying.” His eyes steady on her.

“I won't.” The room seems darker though the lights are on.

“Okay. Listen . . . if my ride doesn't show, it could mean one of two things: He took the money and ran. Or he was picked up and gave me away. There'll be no way to know which.” Tim speaks quickly and quietly.

If his ride doesn't show she'll have a felon under her roof. Still, he can't hang out here forever. It's the first place the police will look. She can't say so, can't have him believe she wants him to go even if she does. “We'll have to wait and see,” her tone reasonable, even reassuring, though his face has gone a little blurry.

“Done,” Bobby calls, bouncing down. Tim meets him at the foot of the stairs and in a low voice delivers some cockamamy story to send the boy home. Tim's good at that.

• • •

She wakes with a start. Squints to decipher the red digits on the new radio clock, nearly three. Dim voices reach her from downstairs. Did his partner arrive in the middle of the night? Her ears pick up the faint creak of the downstairs closet door. What does he want in there? A coat? Now Tim is climbing the stairs, maybe coming to say goodbye. No, he goes to his room. A minute later footsteps pad down again. Would he leave and not say a word? Let him. Yet she's out of bed peering through the slatted blinds at nothing more than velvet darkness. Slipping on a robe, she carefully takes the steps down.

He's on the couch, the TV volume low, the closet door ajar.

“Do you want a cup of hot chocolate?”

“I just finished the last beer. Go to sleep.”

She sees the photo album he's tossed aside.

“I heard voices. I thought your partner showed up.”

“I doubt he's coming. I shouldn't have left everything with him, too tempting,” his face a screen of regret.

“What will you do?” Every visit ends with the same question.

“Maybe Canada . . . anywhere far from here.” He gives a short laugh, almost a bark.

“You don't have a car.”

“I'll switch buses till I get there. Can you dye my hair and cut it, too? Buy me a blazer, pants that fit, shoes, socks, and a pair of sunglasses. Can you do that?” The last words a childish plea.

She remembers a stormy night. Crashing thunder, lightning, wind rattling windows. It sounded like the roof would fly off. Tim toddled down, his eyes wide with terror. She picked him up, dragged an old sleeping bag into the living room along with a flashlight. She zipped them in, hunkered there till he fell asleep. There's nowhere to hide him now.

“Yes. I can do that. I'll take out cash too,” she says. With whatever maternal influence she still has, she orders him to go to his room and get some sleep. He takes the stairs two at a time.

Switching off the TV, she replaces the photo album, shuts the closet door. She wonders if aiding his escape makes her a felon, too. It's against her nature to thwart authority. He's done something illegal; she's clothing him, giving him money. He's her son for heaven's sake. She'll shop and go to the bank early. If his partner shows up, the clothing and hair dye will be useful. Stretching out on the couch, she can't help feeling she's doing the right thing for the wrong reason.

If his father were alive, he'd pressure Tim to turn himself in and get him the best lawyer possible. She hoists herself off the couch, climbs upstairs.

“Tim, if I hire a lawyer, would you give yourself up?” The suggestion offered through his door. He doesn't respond.

“Are you asleep?”

Nothing.

“Tim?”

“Ma, that'd be easier for you than me, okay. So forget it.” Again the childish voice, the boy who hated discomfort, feared difficulty. If Tim were caught red-handed on some video camera, jail would be inevitable. There's no way he'd survive in jail. With faint relief, she descends the steps.

• • •

The morning sun wakes her. Problems sometimes dissipate overnight, but the weight of Tim's needs is immediate. Tiptoeing upstairs, her back aching from the narrow couch, she listens at his door, hears nothing. In her room, she dresses quickly. She phones Bobby to say Tim isn't well and can he manage breakfast without her.

• • •

In the ATM vestibule of the still-shuttered bank, she averts her face from the video camera in the corner. Maybe his partner will show up. But maybe not. Tim should've taken his share of the money. What strange thoughts. She isn't used to all this intrigue. It's unreal, scary. Some people take risks for the fun of it—bungee jumping, mountain climbing, sky-diving—none of it anything she ever wanted to do.

The department store opens for business and she goes directly to menswear, no other customers in sight. That, too, feels eerie. Guessing at sizes, she chooses two pairs of pants, two shirts, a blazer, loafers, and socks. She piles the clothing on the counter. “My son won't let me shop for him anymore. They grow up and that's it,” the cashier quips.

Taking the escalator to the basement pharmacy, she picks out a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Then she locates the hair dye, two bottles of brown-black color.