The Falls (10 page)

She scowled. “What do you
think
we're going to talk about?”

I knew. I just needed to ask.

“I probably should have had this conversation with you a long time ago. I figured it was coming but I just hoped it wouldn't.”

“You figured this was coming?” I asked.

“I work in a casino. I know all about odds. And the odds were that you and I would have to have a conversation about alcohol.”

“We've had
hundreds
of conversations about alcohol,” I pointed out.

“I guess we didn't have the right conversation,” my mother said. “I need to talk to you about blood.”

“Blood? Am I bleeding again?” I asked as I reached up to my head.

“I'm not talking about what's coming out of you. I'm talking about what you have running through your veins.”

“What does that mean?”

“Alcoholism is in your genes.”

“There's nothing in my jeans except a few bucks,” I said, trying to make a joke.

“Don't be funny. It's a genetic trait. If there's a family history of alcoholism it's more likely that a child will become an alcoholic when they grow up.”

“What are you saying?” I demanded, although it was pretty obvious what she was getting at.

“The odds are increased if you have an alcoholic parent.”

“‘Odds' doesn't mean for sure. Not everybody whose mother is an alcoholic becomes an alcoholic.”

“A predisposition to alcoholism is inherited.”

“So is eye colour, but my eyes are blue and yours are brown.”

“The same colour as your father's eyes,” she said.

I hesitated. We never talked about him, hardly ever mentioned him. And the few times he did come up I always said “he” or “him.” Words like “father” and “Dad” seemed like they were from a foreign language that my mouth couldn't quite pronounce.

“I didn't know that he had blue eyes.”

“He did. Beautiful blue eyes. He also had serious problems with alcohol, although he never admitted it. You have bad blood coming from both sides.” She paused and looked away for a few seconds, like she was seeing something in the distance. She turned back. “At least your father was a friendly drunk. Not like his father, your grandfather.”

“His old man was a drunk?”

“He was awful. Loud, obnoxious, stood on the street corner yelling at people, swearing, picking fights with strangers. He'd keep that up until he eventually fell down dead drunk.”

“He sounds like an idiot.”

“It was when he was drinking. Watching it was bad enough, but to have to live with it in the same house would have been . . . would have been . . . unbelievable.”

I knew what it was like to live with an alcoholic, but my mother was never awful. She was just sort of not there, or not all there. She'd pass out, or not come home when she was supposed to, or I'd have to fix my own meal—and feed her as well—or do the laundry myself.

“Your grandfather was a big man and a mean drunk. He was abusive. I remember seeing your grandmother— your father's mother—with bruises and black eyes.”

“Somebody should have called the cops on him,” I said.

“You have to remember it was different back then. Lots of people just pretended they didn't see it. And others saw it but figured they had no right to interfere or were afraid to step in—like I said, your grandfather was mean and big.”

“If anybody hit
you
it wouldn't matter how big they were,” I said. “I'd find a way to take them down.”

“And nobody ever has hit me. My father was always pretty gentle, and maybe some of my boyfriends haven't been the best, but nobody's ever hit me.”

“Nobody should ever hit a woman,” I said.

She smiled. “That's something else you share with your father, as well as eye colour. He started stepping in to protect his mother, so every time your grandfather aimed his anger at her your father got between them. He took it on, until all the abuse was coming at him. It was awful,” she said, shaking her head, “and I had a front-row seat for all of it.”

“You saw it happen?”

“Mostly just the results. The bruises.”

“You knew him back then . . . when he was a kid?”

“Practically since I was born. He grew up down the street.”

“
This
street?”

“You know this is where I was raised.”

“Yeah. I just didn't know
he
was raised here . . . I only knew it was somewhere here in the Falls.”

“Right here. Five doors down.”

“Down?” I questioned, gesturing down the street. “There are only two other houses down before the parking lot.”

“It's a parking lot now, but not then. His mother and my mother were good friends. I guess I didn't mention any of this to you.”

What was to guess? She'd never mentioned anything to me. I knew hardly anything about him.

“I always thought you'd be more curious about your father,” she said.

I shrugged. There were things that I wanted to know, things she should have told me that she hadn't, but there never seemed to be a right time to ask.

“Do you have questions?” she asked.

What should I say? What questions could I ask? There was so much.

“Well? There must be something about him you'd like to know, isn't there?”

I started to answer when my stomach did a flip. I ran from the room, reaching the bathroom just in time to throw up the Cheerios into the toilet.

 

 

 

 

I
SNEAKED TO THE BACK DOOR
. I didn't want to talk to my mother anymore. I'd done all the talking with her I wanted to do for one day. Now I needed to talk to Timmy.

“I'm goin' out!” I yelled, slamming the door closed behind me before my mother could answer. I trotted down the street, trying to put some distance between the house and me. My legs felt better, but they were still a little wobbly. I turned through the parking lot and came to a stop. Partly because I was out of sight of my house. Partly because I felt winded. Partly just to think. I was standing right about where his house used to be.

I tried to imagine the house that used to be there. I assumed it would have looked a lot like the rest of the places on the street. I could picture the rooms, even the furniture in the rooms. What I couldn't picture was him. I hadn't seen a picture since I was little. My mother had some pictures. At least, I figured she still had them. I remembered looking at them but I couldn't remember him, really. He had blue eyes like mine. I knew that now. I closed my eyes and pictured a pair of blue eyes staring back. Eyes that looked like mine, looking back at me, like I was staring into a mirror. But I couldn't picture much else.

There was a leather jacket—he wore a leather jacket. That's what Candice's old man had said. And he was probably big. His father was big, and I was big for my age, so that had to make sense. My father was probably a big guy.

I opened my eyes. That wasn't much of a picture. More gaps than glimpses. Sort of like last night. Last night I could do something about. I started walking again. Talking to Timmy might at least close one gap.

I came up to the Donut Hole. I peered in through the window, checking the booth that Timmy liked in the back, and then scanning the other booths and the stools at the counter. He wasn't there, but a couple of guys I knew saw me and waved. I waved back. Neither of them had been out at the power plant last night—so far as I could remember—so they wouldn't be able to help fill in the blank spots.

There had to be at least a dozen different places Timmy could be, including his house. I looked at my watch. It was almost three in the afternoon. The house was probably the last place to look. Timmy slept in till noon sometimes, especially after a night that went as long as I figured the night before had gone, but then he always cleared out as soon as he got up. Maybe I should start at the arcade or the—

“Hey, Jay!”

I turned around. It was Timmy! He was waving his hands over his head. He ran across the street, barely dodging cars filled with tourists. One of the cars slowed down, changed lanes, and honked at him. Timmy blew a kiss and then gave them the finger.

“I've been looking for you,” I said.

“You would have found me a minute ago if you'd stayed home.”

“You were at my place?”

“Just came from there. Your mother didn't seem to be her usual cheerful self.” He paused. “Matter of fact, she acted real ticked off.”

“She is. That's why I left.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“I guess I can't blame her,” I said. “Coming home drunk, covered in puke and missing a shoe.”

“Your shoe, that's right. It's at my house.”

“My other shoe is at your house?”

He nodded his head.

“Why do you have my shoe?” I asked.

“Because you gave it to me.”

“Why would I give you my shoe?”

Timmy laughed. “You know, you were pretty drunk.”

“That's about the only part I do know for sure. But why would I give you my shoe?”

“You said I was like your brother, and since I'd shared my great gift of alcohol with you, you wanted to share your greatest possession with me—your shoes.”

“Come on.”

“You made a really big speech. And then you decided it would be better to just give me one shoe and you'd keep the other. You said instead of blood brothers we'd be Nike brothers.”

“Man, I don't remember any of that.”

Timmy started to laugh. “Then I guess you don't remember picking a fight with a couple of the guys.”

“I picked a fight?”

“Two fights. One with Tommy and the other with Justin.”

“But those are my friends. Why would I pick a fight with them?”

“You thought they were trying to pick up Candice,” Timmy said. “You started yelling at them, telling them that she was
only a child
and—”

“She
is
only a child. She's only twelve!”

“Yeah, I know. Everybody knows. You kept telling everybody at the top of your lungs.”

“I can't remember any of that,” I said, shaking my head.

“And then you threatened to fight people—everybody— including all the girls, and you started to call people perverts and child molesters for even thinking about being with her.” Timmy paused. “Although I thought that was pretty funny, because didn't
you
want to be with her?”

“Before I found out how young she is!” I protested. “It sounds like it got really ugly. Did I actually fight anybody?”

“I wouldn't call it a fight. One shot and you went down like a sack of potatoes.”

“Was it Justin who hit me?” I asked. He was a year older and big—real big. One shot from him would have practically put down a bear.

“No, Justin wouldn't hit you. He's your friend.”

“It was Tommy?” Tommy was my age, but so skinny that a good wind could have blown him away.

“Tommy? Tommy never hits anybody.”

“Then if it wasn't Justin and it wasn't Tommy, who hit me?”

Timmy started to chuckle.

“I'm glad you think this is so funny. Who hit me?”

“Candice.”

“Candice? Candice hit me?”

“She kept telling you to shut up but you wouldn't listen. You kept going on and on and on, telling everybody she was a kid and not to give her alcohol or touch her or anything.”

“I was drunk.”

“Yeah, I think we all know that. So finally she jumps to her feet and gives you a shot to the head and down you go.”

“No way. No way could she hit me that hard. My head is all cut up.”

“She was holding a rock. She hit you with it.” Timmy started laughing some more, like he was watching it happen again. Maybe if it hadn't been me I would have thought it was funny too.

“And then she stood over you, swearing and spitting. She even tried to kick you but Justin held her back.”

“I guess I should thank Justin.”

“You should. If it wasn't for him you would have had the crap beaten out of you by a girl . . . a twelve-year-old girl.”

“Thanks for pointing that out. At least that explains why I can't remember anything.”

“What do you mean?” Timmy asked.

“You know, because I got knocked out.”

“No you didn't. You got back to your feet, blood all over your face, and started yelling at Justin because you
thought he was hugging Candice when he was just holding her back.”

“This gets worse and worse.”

“It would have, if I hadn't gotten you out of there. That's when I took you home. Me and Tommy.”

I sat down on the curb and Timmy sat down beside me. I didn't know what to say. It would have been better not to have known any of that. It would have been better for nobody to have known, but I figured it was probably the talk of the town by now.

“Don't sweat it,” Timmy said. “It's no big deal.”

“No big deal?” I couldn't believe my ears.

“You got drunk and you got stupid and you got beaten up by a twelve-year-old girl. So what? It could be a lot worse.”

“It could? How?” I asked.

“She could have been ten years old.” He paused. “Or even worse, it could have been
me
she beat up.”

Timmy was laughing so hard now I couldn't help laughing along with him.

“So, what are we going to do tonight?” he asked.

“I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going to be staying home.”

“Did your mother ground you?”

I shook my head. “She didn't do anything. I wish she'd yelled at me or punished me or done something.”

“You
want
to get punished? Just how hard did that girl hit you?”