Tunnel Vision (20 page)

FORTY-EIGHT

I tell her I can drive, and maybe it’s true, but right now I feel like the only place I’ll be driving us to is jail. Betty’s head is lolling on the seat next to me, and it doesn’t take an expert to see she’s in bad shape. I turn on the ignition and look in the rearview mirror to see that asshole concussed on the pavement, and then there’s someone running up the hill, probably the same do-gooder adult that was doing all the yelling.

I look to Betty for help in getting this vehicle moving, see that there’s none coming, and then mash my foot on the brake and slide the shifter into reverse. I let off the brake and the car jerks backward, and then I stomp the brake again, move the shifter to drive, and smash the gas pedal. I’ve never done this before, but there’s a hurt kid on the pavement, Betty probably has a concussion of her own, and it’s time to go.

I drive without thinking, and that’s probably for the best. I never considered that I might have to drive a car, at least not until I was eighteen, and now I’m driving under duress with an unconscious minor next to me. Sweat is pouring off my forehead, and memories from the fight start to trickle in. All I see are little flashes of it as I pilot the car, but I know I won, and that my friend Rhino would be proud of me. After all, I adhered to the basic rules of a street fight: keep moving, and don’t stop hurting your opponent until you know they can’t hurt you, or you can escape.

I’d feel bad for Jake—he wasn’t planning on seeing Betty with me—but when I think of him hitting her I get mad all over again. It wasn’t just Jake I saw in that parking lot, either. I was still reeling from talking to Claire and having seen her getting knocked to her knees, so it was easy to imagine Jack standing across from me as well. Visualizing the hospital, I take a too-fast left turn past a pair of honking and furious drivers. I give them a wave, and then hit the gas again. I want this to be over more than just about anything.

Betty is stirring as we take another left. I give her a look to see if she’s responsive, and then her head rolls to the right and I know she’s out again. There has to be something I can do, but there isn’t. All I’ve got is going with what the world is throwing at me, and keeping in my back pocket the idea that if I crash this car Betty is not going to be OK. I barely know her, but the thought of losing her makes me feel sick. She’s been the only thing making me feel human lately. I’m the one who’s supposed to be doing the work she’s doing. I’m the one Dad gave a mission to, but she’s the one out trying to make things right while I’m mired in a drug deal, so I can hold on to my life. If I’m not careful, the house and everything else could just slip away, and to avoid that, I need a cash injection.

I whip a quick right. The car’s controls are finally starting to make sense, and so is everything else. I resent myself for feeling good after a fight—it’s too animalistic, too basic—but it’s what I was born for. Dad wanted me to be a warrior, trained me up to be everything he dreamed a kid in my position could be. And it worked. He just died while school was still in session. That doesn’t matter. I’ve been my own guide for years, seeking out men like Rhino to help me forge myself into iron, and now I need to get back to making good on what Dad wanted for me.

The hospital comes into sight, and at that exact moment, Betty comes around. I want to be happy—it’s a huge release—but she grabs the wheel and gives me a drunken look. My gut says to knock her off the wheel, to get her the rest of the way there and let the pieces fall where they may, but her words have me nailing the brake instead.

“Get out,” she says.

I pull the car to the curb and throw it into park.

“I have to finish,” she says. “They have cameras everywhere.”

I’m not arguing, but I do help pull her over the center console. I want to ask her if she’s sure, if this is really what she wants, but I’m out of the car and Betty nails the gas before the door is even closed, and I watch as the road curves and she disappears.

FORTY-NINE

Betty woke in a white room. She was completely unsure of where she was, and then the moms were standing over her. Sure she was dreaming, Betty reached a hand up toward Andrea, and when her mother took it in hers, Betty knew this was no dream.

“What happened?” Betty asked, but as the words fell from her mouth she remembered everything. Nickel, the plan, Jake hitting her, and Nickel beating the shit out of Jake and then somehow driving her. Betty began to sit up—Nickel had to be in the room somewhere and she wanted to thank him—but strong arms pushed her back into place on the bed.

“You need to stay down, Betty,” said Ophelia. “You have a concussion.”

Betty turned to Andrea. Her other mother was nodding slowly. “You do. Nothing you won’t recover from, but thank God you had the sense to get yourself to safety. I don’t know quite how you did it in your condition, but I’m glad you did.”

Betty opened her mouth to tell them that she didn’t, that Nickel had, but the thought of telling her mothers about Nickel in that moment seemed like a horrible idea.

“I’m just glad that you and Jake are OK,” said Ophelia. “We’re not happy you were hanging out with him again, but we’re glad you were able to get away from whoever attacked you.”

“The police are going to want to discuss that when you’re ready, Betty,” said Andrea. “They’re talking to Jake right now. He’s in worse shape than you, I’m afraid.”

Betty shook her aching head. This was all wrong. Everything that the moms and the cops thought had happened was wrong. There hadn’t been some imaginary mugger who attacked them while Jake heroically defended her. Jake had punched her in the head and would have done who-knows-what if Nickel hadn’t been there.

“We weren’t mugged,” she said, “and I wasn’t hanging out with Jake.”

The moms shared a look above her, their faces making it quite clear that neither of them believed her. “You don’t need to try and get yourself out of trouble,” said Andrea. “We can talk about that later, once you’re feeling more yourself again.”

“You need to listen to me.” She pushed their hands aside and pulled herself into a sitting position. “I was talking to this guy I met in the park, and I never even caught his name. We were just talking about nonsense, and then I was walking back to my car and Jake must have been spying on me or something, because he was there waiting for me. He hit me hard, really hard on the side of my head, and then everything after that is really foggy. Jake hit me, not some mugger.”

Ophelia looked shocked, but Andrea’s face was pure rage, more mad than Betty could ever recall having seen her before.

“I’m going to talk to Van Endel,” said Andrea to no one in particular. “You two stay here.” Andrea was out of the room in a flash, the door banging shut after her, and then Ophelia was left to stare at Betty.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

Betty nodded. “Positive, Mom. That guy in the park might have saved my life.”

“Jesus Christ.” Ophelia crossed herself, the gesture a relic from a long-forgotten Catholic upbringing. Tears welled in her eyes. “We could have lost you. Good God, we could have lost you.” Ophelia let her go and pulled back. “No more adventures, Betty. Just finish off the school year and make it nice and boring for us, all right?”

“OK,” lied Betty. She already felt like she was escaping the fog that clouded her thinking, and judging by the clock on the wall, she’d been at the hospital for at least two hours.
As soon as I’m out of here I’m e-mailing Nickel to thank him, and as soon as I’m able to, we’re going to that house. One more little adventure won’t hurt anyone.
Betty smiled at Ophelia and her mother smiled back.
The only hard part is going to be insisting that I’m feeling better.

The door to the room swung back open and a mean-mugged Andrea strode in with a harried-looking Detective Van Endel in tow.

“Tell him what happened,” said Andrea.

Van Endel grabbed a chair and sat next to the bed. He still looked tired, or perhaps even a little hungover, but Betty could see that the kind look in his eyes from the day before had been replaced by something hard, even predatory.

“I want to know everything,” said Van Endel. “Start at the beginning, and don’t stop until I tell you I’m bored.”

The questioning in the hospital room took a little over an hour, and though both Van Endel and the moms seemed distrustful about certain parts of Betty’s account of the afternoon, by the time it was done the group agreed that Jake Norton was going to be in a world of hurt. Van Endel was unable to tell them exactly what he thought the district attorney might choose to charge Jake with, but he figured that assault with intent to do great bodily harm seemed a good starting point.

The other thing the three adults agreed upon was that Jake Norton was going to be pretty well fucked, physically as well as legally, as a result of the afternoon’s activities. Betty wasn’t quite sure why, but there was a part of her that found that to be very sad. Jake had done something unforgivable, Betty readily agreed, but the simple fact was that, as long as her condition remained the same, she would be going home in the morning. Van Endel assured her that would not be the case for Jake.

“Jake is going to be fine,” he said, “but he’ll probably be spending some time at the dentist, maybe even a plastic surgeon.” Van Endel cocked his head. “I know we’ve been over this, Betty, but are you sure you don’t remember anything about the person who helped you after Jake hit you?”

“Positive,” said Betty. “The last thing I remember is Jake hitting me. Everything from then until the time I woke up here is gone.”

“It might come back,” he said, “and if it does I want you to let your mother know.”

Andrea turned to him. “I’m not sure I’d call you even if she did remember, Dick. That boy may well have saved her life.”

Van Endel opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it slowly. After a moment he said, “You just do what you think is best, Andrea. But the fact is, that boy in there is pretty profoundly messed up. That was one savage beating. I was talking to his doctor before you came to get me, and in addition to the facial injuries he suffered, there was a good deal of damage done to his—”

“Dick, I’m serious,” said Andrea. “I don’t care how hurt that kid might be. Betty can’t remember who her savior is, and that’s just going to have to be that.”

Van Endel nodded. It was clear he was torn between his duty to his job and his loyalty to Andrea. “I guess that will be that,” he said. He patted Betty’s arm. “I hope you get to feeling better soon,” he said and then left the room.

When the door was shut behind him, Andrea cracked her knuckles and said, “Oh, that kid is so screwed.”

Betty didn’t know why, but there was something about the words that made her feel as if a part of her was dying inside. Jake hadn’t been perfect—and especially not earlier today—but he’d been a good boyfriend for the most part. She didn’t want to attempt to excuse any part of his attack on her, but at the same time, all he’d wanted was to be with her, and she’d treated him like shit toward the end.

“Just let it be, Andrea,” said Ophy softly. “He’s already hurt, and you better than anyone know what dark paths can cause something like this to happen. We don’t need to like that boy, but there’s no need to gloat.”

Andrea grunted in response, but Betty closed her eyes and lay back on the bed before she could hear what else her mothers had to say. She was sure that she’d just rest her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again it was morning.

FIFTY

Acceptance is the key, I tell myself. I can accept that I’m going to sell marijuana for less than it’s worth to a man I really don’t like because I need money.

That only lasts a second. Because what I really can’t accept is the memory of that coloring book and the child sitting on the stairs. I can’t know that the facedown woman in the kitchen is his mother, but I
know
it all the same, just like I know to look for cracks if I’m buying eggs.

It’s Nick and Eleanor from foster care all over again. It’s Sam. That poor kid on the stairs is already learning how to be a victim.

That kid could be me. It’s a lead weight in my guts, and it’s eating me alive. He could be me, and in a lot of ways, he
is
me. But, of course, the chances of him finding a man like Dad are almost nonexistent.
You can help
is the mantra in my head, and all I can think of is Nick and Eleanor.
Nick-El.
They’re still out there, somewhere, two people broken by the system and the monsters who abuse it. Monsters aren’t just in fairy tales. I know that, and so do they. All of us do, all of us forgotten children with secrets, secrets that we’re never, ever to tell anyone about. Secrets that will mold our entire lives.

I know what I should do, what I have to do, but my mind keeps coming back to it like a tongue over a missing tooth. There’s what’s right, and there’s what’s necessary, and both of them are pulling at my heart like a pair of wild horses.

I need a plan, so I make one, and then I remind myself about what’s really important. I can’t save every child, I know that, but something in me has awakened, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put it to bed before it can eat.

It was seeing Jack, talking to Claire, the fight, the ride in the car, having someone depend on me again. I know that probably sounds incredibly childish, but it’s true. I think people can stand taller when someone needs them, and that was what happened today with Betty. I wanted to run away, just like I want to run away from this problem, but the easy road is rarely the right one.

I walk to the garage and load the dope into the bike trailer. Even full, the trailer is still light. The pot might be bulky, but it’s only fifteen pounds, and the stroller can take far more weight than that.

I check my watch. It’s five to seven, but I’m wired. My thoughts are on Betty and Duke and on that poor kid at Paul’s house. They’re two separate problems, but intertwined all the same, and I know Dad is out there watching to see if I do the right thing.
I can, I know I can. It’s what I am.

The page comes through a couple minutes later, but I have to shake myself out of the fog I was in. The zero is my safe place. It’s dark, black, and bleak, but that’s the best place to go when you’re scared. Remembering you came from nothing and every day is a blessing is a fine place to be, especially in times like this. The buzzing in my pocket snaps me out of it, though, and I know I’m on the right path.

Paul answers on the first ring, there’s silence, and then words out of a dream. “Riverside Park, right now, alone,” says Paul.

He couldn’t have picked a more perfect place. I say, “I’ll be there,” and then the phone goes dead. I shove it back in my pocket, then pat the trailer twice on the roof, like I’m rewarding a loyal dog. I need this plan to work, and if I’m lucky the rest will just fall into place. Giving it one last look, I climb atop my bike, hit the clicker on the garage, and roll onto dusky streets. This is my world.

I make the park in about twenty minutes, and I’m happy to see when I hit Riverside that not only is it deserted, but dusk has turned to full dark. I’m sure that this was what Paul wanted, too: a nice quiet place to lowball me on money and make threats, but I’m ready for him. I have threats of my own, and even though he can’t see it, I’ve got a big hammer poised and ready.

Lights flicker in the parking lot where Lou picked me up four years ago with a gunshot wound in my arm, and it feels like a homecoming. I can see a van with two people standing by it. Paul said come alone, but I guess that rule didn’t cover him.

I see the lumps in their clothing as I roll up—barely concealed guns. There’s nothing I can do but ride right up to them.

“Look at this shit,” says Paul. I think he figured his friend would laugh at the joke, but he doesn’t and an uncomfortable silence fills the air. He knows there’s no joke. I brought the stuff they want, and he’s only messing around because somehow this kid rolling up on a bike for his deal makes him feel like less of a man. It’s a small victory. He keeps flogging the joke: “What, you babysitting?”

I shake my head as I step off the bike. “Not yet. Everything’s in the trailer.”

Paul nods at his guy, and the dude comes over to give the stuff a look. He fiddles with the zippers on the trailer for a minute, finally figures it out, and then pulls the door open and sticks his head in.

“Four bales,” says the guy, his voice muffled, and Paul smiles.

“Get it.”

The buddy grabs some dope, walks it to the van, and then rolls on back. No one has mentioned money yet. He’s just unloading my stuff and walking to the van, and I’m not sure if I should remind Paul this is a two-way street.

It’s Paul who brings it up, though. “We never talked money,” he says. “You know what that means?”

“It means we need a number.”

“Yeah, we do,” he says with a chuckle, and I want to punch him in the throat. I don’t, though. I just stand pat, waiting for the bad news to drop.

“I can do $5,000 on this,” says Paul, and I nod slowly. It’s not a bad price, but he and I both know the pot’s worth a lot more, especially once it’s broken down to street prices. Still, it’s a good lump sum, and I need the money for the house. “Go weigh that shit in the van,” he calls to the other man, and Paul’s crony disappears into the back of the vehicle.

“$5,000 will work,” I say. “This time. Next time it’s going to need to be more.”

“We’ll see how long this takes to move, Nickel. Might be less, might be more. Time will tell.” We turn as the other man pops out of the van.

“Fifteen pounds, man, right on the money.”

“Excellent,” says Paul with a nod. He shoves his right hand into a pocket on his jacket, and when he takes it out there’s a roll of money. Banded twenties have never looked so good. He hands it over, and I make the cash disappear without counting it. That will come later. “All right, Nickel. You let me know when you can do this again.”

“One more thing,” I say, and Paul turns to look at me, irritation visible in his eyes. “There was a kid staying at that house with you, and he didn’t look good. Will you make sure—”

“I’m not staying there no more,” says Paul. “We pulled out yesterday, as a matter of fact. Not that it’s any of your goddamn business.”

“So the kid—”

“What the hell?” Paul’s getting annoyed. “Why the hell are we talking about this bitch and her kid?”

I keep my voice even. “Because the kid looked messed up to me. The mom, too, but that’s not—”

“I’ll say the mom’s messed up,” Paul says with a toxic laugh. “Likes the nose candy way too much. Caught a bad blow-cold. That was her laid up on the floor the last time you were there.” He squints at me like he honestly can’t imagine why I’d care about any of this. “Listen, don’t worry your bleeding heart, Nickel. Either she’ll come around or the kid will eventually catch wise and head to the neighbors. All I know is I wasn’t going to stick around to hold her hand.” He shakes his head, and I force myself to stay calm. “Dumb bitch, but hey, junkies are junkies.” He’s smiling that smile that makes me want to rip his throat out. “So hey, Nickel, if our little social services talk is over, I’m going to bounce. Let me know when you want to make some more money.”

He’s in the van and gone just a few moments later, and I’m left staring into the night. The money is a hard lump in my pocket, but I don’t care about that right now.

I walk back to the bike and board it. My thoughts are on that little boy on the stairs, and on Sam and the small hole in the snowy ground. I start pedaling, the trailer behind me fifteen pounds lighter, and I’m rolling without looking back. The night is here now, but I still have one more thing to do before I can go home.

I make it to the house where I’d met up with Paul in a little under a half hour. Not bad for biking in the dark, but I’m already tired of the trailer.

I park in the driveway. It does look like Paul and all his buddies have pulled out, just like he said—at least, all of the showy cars from before are gone. I tell myself all I need to do is knock. A good, simple ending. Knock, find the little guy and his mom, either get them to go for some help or make sure some help goes to them. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, though.

Enough negativity. Enough paranoia. I knock on the door three times, try the bell, and then give the knob a spin.

The door opens, and I slide inside and walk down the same hallway Rio led me down last time I was here, doing my best to be quiet. The house is still and silent, but I’m beyond paranoid that trouble is going to roar out of the darkness. I slip into the space between the kitchen and the living room. The TV, Xbox, and everything but the mess has disappeared from the living room. When I look into the kitchen I sigh, like I really expected that woman would still be lying there.

I head to the stairs. They’re dark, but I can see the coloring book is still on the landing. My nerves feel electric, and as I head up the stairs my optimism for a happy ending is sinking. I’m just some dumb kid, I shouldn’t even be here, but I am and that’s all that matters.

There’re no lights on upstairs, either. I want to pull the flashlight from my pocket but I don’t. I’m still not convinced I’m alone. There are three doors off the upstairs hall, but only one of them is closed and that’s the one I go to, giving only the most cursory looks into the other two.

As I try the knob, I know it won’t spin, but it does, and the door swings open. It’s dark, but I can see shapes. A bed with a lump on it, a dark mass on the floor that I don’t want to look at. My heart feels like it’s going to explode when the lump on the bed stirs. The darkness makes it impossible to tell what it is, but then it all makes sense.

I take a step into the room and say, “It’s OK, buddy. Come here.”

The boy does, the boy from the steps. He’s shaking, probably starved half to death on top of everything else that’s happened. He slips off the bed and skirts the shadowy mass on the floor, and when I pick him up it feels like picking up a bunch of sticks. This is what real skin and bones feels like. I leave the room with him in my arms, and the boy is crying against my chest.

“It’s OK,” I say, but I know it isn’t. The boy’s mother is dead in that room, and he’s been sitting in there with her, probably praying that she’d wake up. I know that was her on the floor. I couldn’t help but look at her when I bent down to pick him up. Even in the darkness I can see the bruises on her face and on her throat, black ones, along with a mask of blood on the lower half of her face. I take a deep breath, absorb the rage, and then say, “I’m Nickel, what’s your name?”

“Ben,” he says, and we go down the stairs together, and then leave the house.

I’m not going to tell you what I said to Ben when I put him in the trailer, because that’s for us, the lost children, but I think he understood.

I was a kid like that, and Dad found me. I have a place where Ben can go, to a friend of mine who would be even harsher to Paul and his friends than I want to be. I get pedaling and head there. I know he’ll be there—he always is when I need him—and I know what he’ll say when I introduce him to Ben.
“Vou encontrar-lhe um lugar.”
I’ll find him a place.

Just as important, this business with Paul is now a lot bigger than money. I could have taken care of him when we made the deal, I know that, but I’ll find another way. I have to. It’s bad for business for another doper to disappear, bad for me to be attached to it, but none of that matters anymore. Sam in the snow, Ben in my arms, Dad teaching me what was right and wrong. Paul has a debt, and I’m going to collect on it.