The Silver Ring (2 page)

I stared at it, then looked back at Dorothy.

I placed my hand on her back—the hand with the silver ring that was still glowing, somehow brighter now.

I kept my hand there and closed my eyes.

And in the space of five seconds I saw Dorothy’s entire life—her childhood, her adolescence, her adult years—and I knew about her two cats at home, Mork and Mindy, I knew about her last boyfriend, a man to whom she’d been engaged, and how he’d beaten her almost every other day.

With my eyes closed, seeing all this, I also saw the growing pool of blood and slushie surrounding Dorothy’s body. I saw the blood reverse course, going against gravity and its nature to spread out, the blood instead returning to her body, her body dislodging the bullets, first the one, then the other, and the skin closing back up, repairing itself.

I opened my eyes, looked down at the ring.

It was no longer glowing.

Dorothy groaned, mumbled something, and turned over. Staring up at me, she said, “What happened?”

“A man came in here with a gun and tried to rob the place.”

“What?”

“It’s okay. You slipped, knocked yourself unconscious, and the guy didn’t know what to do, so he just bolted.”

“He didn’t see you?”

“I was still in the back. I was”—I swallowed, looked away—“scared.”

Dorothy sat up, wincing at the pain in the back of her head. She looked down around her at reddish-brown pool of slushie and shook her head. “Well this is certainly a mess, isn’t it?”

4

“Name?”

“I already told you.”

“Name?”

“David Beveridge.”

“Age?”

“I already told you that too.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

Officer Titus, a large bulky black man with a shaved head, looked away from the pad he was writing on and glanced at his wristwatch.

“It’s eleven-fifteen,” he said. “Curfew for minors is eleven.”

At this point, my dad, who had been standing idly by wringing his hands, stepped forward.

“Okay, Officer, I think my son has answered all your questions. He was in the back when the assailant entered the store and he stayed there and didn’t see the man’s face. Now are we done here?”

My dad had arrived less than a minute after I called him. After all, we lived only ten blocks away and he had hurried here in his BMW in sweatpants and an undershirt.

The police—Officers Titus and Mallory—had pulled into the parking lot about a minute after Dorothy came to. I’d just helped her to her feet when the electronic buzzer went
ding-dong
and there the two cops stood staring at us with frowns.

Officer Titus took his time marking something down on his pad. He seemed bored, like he was too good for this type of cop work, probably believed he would someday make a great detective instead.

His partner, who had been inside taking Dorothy’s statement, came out the door and walked over to us shaking his head.

“Nothing on the tape.”

“Say that again?” Officer Titus asked.

“The tape was in the player and it was recording. Right before the perp came in, it all turned to static.” He noticed my dad, smiled, and extended his hand. “Assistant D.A. Beveridge, it’s very good to meet you, sir.”

Officer Titus gave my dad another look, something changing in his face. “Oh shit, I didn’t—”

“That’s quite okay,” my dad said. “So are we done here?”

“Just one more thing,” Officer Malloy said, stepping forward and taking my arm. In a soft voice he said, “David, what I’d like you to do now is glance across the street and see if you recognize any of those people as the guy.”

Officer Titus said, “The kid says he didn’t—”

“I know that,” Officer Mallory said. “But it’s a small store. He may not have seen the guy’s face completely, but he may have gotten a glimpse. Maybe even the color of his shirt or his hat. What do you say, David?”

We were right outside the store, the police cruiser next to us with its red and white roof lights flashing. It had drawn some attention across the street, a half dozen or so people milling around wondering what was what.

“Sure, okay,” I said and gave that side of the street a quick look—some Puerto Rican kids, two old black men, a tall bald guy with a thick goatee—and then I looked back at Officer Mallory and shook my head.

Officer Titus blew air through his nose but Mallory ignored it. He reached into his pocket, dug out a card, and handed it to me.

“If you can remember anything else, please feel free to call me, okay?”

My dad took the proffered card and slipped it into his pocket, smiling at me for the first time. “So are we done here?”

Officer Mallory nodded. “Yes, sir.”

5

My dad parked the BMW a block down from our brownstone. As he shut off the car, he said, “Where’d you get the ring?”

“The what?”

“On your finger. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

I glanced down at my left hand, lost for words, then said, “Just found it somewhere.”

We walked to the brownstone in silence, the block still but the city faint with noise. As we neared the house the streetlamps along the block flickered briefly.

“Strange,” my dad said. At the bottom of the stone steps he looked at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, murmured, “I love you, son.”

I instantly felt that sudden pinprick on my finger and stepped out of his embrace. Staring up at him I studied his face, the furrows in his brow, the bags underneath his eyes.

Frowning at me, he said, “What is it?”

“You promised you would stop.”

“Huh?”

“You made a promise to Mom and me that you would never see her again.”

“David, what are you talking about?”

“You can’t even admit it, can you? You’re pathetic.”

The front door opened and my mom appeared in her wheelchair. “David? John? Is everything okay?”

I glanced back at my dad and saw him staring at me, his face suddenly tight.

“Yeah, honey,” he called. “Everything’s great.”

I turned away from him and hurried up the steps. Mom held out her arms, and I leaned down and gave her a hug.

“I was so worried,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“It sounds worse than it really was.”

My dad was still standing at the bottom of the steps, staring down the block.

I placed my hand on the door and waited for Mom to roll back so I could shut it.

“What about your father?”

“He said he needed to make a call before he comes in.”

I shut the door harder than I probably needed to, hoping he would somehow feel my anger through the vibrations.

“Easy now,” Mom said quietly. “You’ll wake your sister.”

But apparently my sister was already awake, little eight-year-old Emma dressed in her Hanna Montana pajamas rubbing the sleep from her eye as she stumbled out of the living room.

“David?” she asked sleepily. “Is that you?”

“Hey, munchkin. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Mom said, “When your father received your call he was frantic and managed to wake her up. She’s been worried ever since.”

“Well I’m home now,” I said, smiling at my sister.

“You’re not hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“That’s good.”

“Want to take her upstairs and tuck her in for me?” Mom asked.

She was thinking about my dad and why he hadn’t come in yet. I knew this just as I knew Dad was still standing in the same spot I’d left him, his eyes now closed, wondering how I’d found out he was still sleeping around.

“Sure.” I leaned down, kissed my mom on the cheek. “Good night.”

I turned to my sister, grinned, and said, “I’ll race you to the top.” She was already turning away and scrambling up the stairs. I waited a few seconds and then hurried after, my mom laughing in that singsong way of hers as she watched us go.

“I win, I win, I win,” Emma cried when she reached the top, jumping up and down.

Of course she did; I always let her win.

6

After taking a long shower and brushing my teeth, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

I thought about the silver ring.

About it glowing.

About Irving and how he’d shot Dorothy and me.

About how I’d seen darkness and then light.

About how I’d somehow healed Dorothy, brought her back to life, made her believe a different series of events.

About how I’d known my father was still cheating on my mom, even though he’d promised us he’d stop, that he was so very sorry and that he loved us so much and please please please would we forgive him?

I thought about what it all meant and what it could mean.

My mom, stricken with MS, forever confined to a wheelchair. She would never walk again.

Or would she?

I lifted my left hand up to my face so I could see the ring. Just enough light came in through the window that I could see it shine. I’d already tried pulling it off but it wouldn’t budge. It was like the thing was stuck, glued to my skin, yet it didn’t feel that way.

I’d touched Dorothy and brought her back to life.

My father had hugged me and I’d seen into his soul and the dark secret he was keeping.

I’d hugged and kissed my mother but her legs were still useless.

Why?

I didn’t know, but I planned to find out.

And lying there, staring at the ring, I realized what I needed to do next.

7

In the morning I found Mom and Emma in the kitchen. Emma was at the table, playing a videogame, Mom rolling between the lowered counter and the refrigerator making breakfast.

“Where’s dad?” I asked.

“Sleeping in.” Mom cracked open an egg, dropped the yolk into a glass bowl. “Would you like an omelet?”

“Thanks, but I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“It’s eight-thirty. What pressing appointment could you possibly have?”

“Josh invited me over yesterday,” I said, throwing one of my best friend’s names out there to give the story more plausibility. I opened the cupboard, pulled out a box of S’Mores Pop-Tarts, and slid two of them into the toaster. “He wants me to help him set up his new computer.”

“Oh honey,” Mom said. “But after last night”—she threw a glance at my sister—“are you sure you want to leave by yourself?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Still …”

I walked over to Emma. “Munchkin.”

She didn’t answer, intent on her videogame.

“Emma, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you were adopted.”

Still no response, my sister biting her lip as her thumbs rapidly clicked the keypad.

I leaned down, kissed her on the head, then turned to the toaster as my Pop-Tarts popped up.

“Your father mentioned the police officers weren’t as friendly as they could have been,” Mom said as she whisked the eggs.

“He thinks everyone could be nicer than they are.”

“Still,” Mom said, concentrating on the task at hand, and I set the Pop-Tarts aside, walked over to her, took the glass bowl out of her hands, placed it on the counter, leaned down, and put my hands on her knees.

“I love you, Mom.”

I expected a sudden pinprick on my finger, for the ring to at least glow briefly, for my mom’s eyes to widen just a little as she felt her legs for the first time in years.

“I love you too, David,” she said, and it was clear nothing had happened, that her legs were still useless, and with my teeth clenched I stood straight up, turned, and left the kitchen.

“David?” my mom called. “What about your breakfast?”

But I kept walking, intent now on grabbing my bike and helmet, my stomach so empty I was starving but couldn’t eat a thing.