by Penn Gates
The girl glares, but she answers. “Connors.”
“Who's your friend, Brittany?”
“My sister, Emma—and she's scared to death so don't be mean to her. She's just a kid.”
“Jason, why were you guys sneaking around my house?” Nix asks, turning back to the first kid. “You looking to steal something from me?”
Nix is disgusted to see that this six foot two specimen of young manhood, clearly a football player, starts to cry.
“We've been walking for days. You don't know what it's like closer to the city. There's guys who—they’re taking whatever they want." He swallows hard, fighting to regain control. “I saw them shoot a kid because he wouldn't let go of his Game Boy. His face just exploded." He stands there breathing hard. “It wasn't like in the movies,” he whimpers.
“No, it's not,” Nix answers. “They've peddled that bullshit for years, and you paid plenty for the fairy tale. Bang-you’re-dead, but, hey, nobody dies unless they deserve it.”
“So can we have something to eat?” Brittany pleads. “We're hungry and we're scared. You can't turn us down. You just can't!”
“I can do whatever I want,” Nix says. “My house, my rules. I bet mommy and daddy never said that to you, did they, princess?”
She hears Michael crawl from behind the wood and come to stand behind her. “What do you want to do, Nix? Say the word.”
Emma begins to sob. Nix feels bad for her. She's the only one who hasn’t made demands and generally acted like it’s her obligation to take care of them.
“What is happening here?" George pushes past Michael and Nix. He holds out his hands to the bedraggled teenagers. “You are safe now,” he says in a soothing voice. “No one is going to hurt you.”
“Get out of the way, George,” Nix snarls. “You’re not the one in charge here.”
He turns on her and says furiously, “Is this the way Englishers treat strangers who need help? Remember the Good Samaritan in the gospel.”
“In the house now, George! You and I are about to have words!" Nix looks over at Michael. “Keep 'em right where they are." She relents a little. “Well, maybe they can sit down on the steps, but they better not move an inch after that!”
George is hissing like a tea kettle left on the fire too long. “You cannot do this, Miss St Clair! And you are teaching Michael to behave like a brute, too.”
Nix leans against the edge of the kitchen table. “Cut the crap, George. If you seriously think I'm going to hurt those little shits, then you really are delusional. But I do need them to have a healthy respect for my word from the beginning.”
“So—you will be letting them stay?”
“What the hell else am I going to do with them?” She's so jacked on adrenalin she wants to smack George, make him cry like a baby. She restrains herself with difficulty and says in a flat voice, “Get the kids upstairs to bed, and then you and Margaret come help with this mess.”
She trudges outside again and stands looking down at the refugees huddled at the bottom of the stairs—because that's what they are. They're refugees fleeing a war zone, and I don't have to like them, and I can wish they hadn't picked my place, but I have no choice but to help them.
Aloud, she says, “You will come up here, one at a time. I'm gonna pat you down for weapon—” She looks pointedly at Freddie Krueger. “—and drugs. When you enter the house, sit down at the kitchen table. Do not speak, do not even move, until I've joined you.”
Nix is vaguely aware of Michael, still standing stolidly behind her, rifle cradled in his arms. She motions to the big one—Jason. He stands passively until she's done and then moves like a sleepwalker toward the back door. The runt doesn't do as well. He moans to himself, and he can't stop shaking. She wonders what he’s on, but now isn't the time to ask. She motions for him to follow Jason.
The princess stands glaring up at Nix. “Why are you treating us like criminals? We're victims!”
“Stand still while I search you,” Nix says briefly.
Brittany complies, but with a lot of eye rolling and a couple of yelps, as if Nix is sticking pins in her. She refuses to go into the house until her sister has passed inspection. Emma herself seems undisturbed by the search, maybe because the others have survived it without harm. Or perhaps it's because her older sister stands nearby waiting for her. Nix already knows Brittany is going to be a royal pain in the ass, but she has to respect her for standing by her kid sister.
As the door closes on the last of them, Nix takes a huge gulp of cold air and wills her pulse back to normal. “Well done, Michael,” she says. “You handled that like a pro.”
Michael gives a curt nod, but he seems frozen to the spot. And suddenly it dawns on Nix that he's still on high alert. She steps closer to him and whispers, “Hey, you realize this whole thing was an act, right? We were never gonna shoot 'em.”
“Then why?" He looks at her like he doesn't know her. “They're scared out of their minds.”
“Exactly. I want them to be afraid of me.” She motions for him to follow her into the darkness of the yard. “I know these kids." She holds up a hand before he can speak. “Oh, I don't mean I know them personally, but I know their type. They're spoiled suburban kids who think it's their birthright to be waited on hand and foot. I guarantee you, none of these little bastards have ever lifted anything heavier than an iPad.”
“That one guy looks pretty strong to me,” Michael says in a strangled voice.
“He probably has a letter in football. They'll tolerate discomfort to play sports, but only because the payoff is to be a star and get special treatment." She makes a face, which Michael can't see in the darkness. “They're big fish in the little suburban pond, and all because they can run the length of a field without dropping the ball they have tucked under their arm.”
“What exactly is a suburb?” Michael asks.
It's like I'm living in a foreign country, Nix thinks, and every time I turn around I have to explain what I mean. “What is a suburb?” she repeats. “It's a place where all the houses look alike, all the cars look alike, but the people all want to be better than their neighbors. They can't be, of course, because they all want exactly what their neighbors have." She takes a deep breath and winds up her tirade. “To live in the suburbs is like being locked in an empty room with white walls and a white floor and no ventilation. After awhile you lose all sense of perspective. Then you suffocate.”
“Nix, most of the time I only understand about half of what you're saying.”
Nix is starting to feel giddy with relief. She gives Michael a playful punch on the shoulder. “It's not just you, Michael. Lots of people have told me I'm crazy. But hey, once in a while I do say something useful—so keep listening.”
Michael is so rigid she almost knocks him over. He hasn't relaxed at all, and the full reality of what has just happened washes over her. She's put a thirteen-year-old with a loaded rifle into a potentially explosive situation. Desperate as she is for back up, she's managed to ignore the fact that while Michael knows his way around a gun and can hunt deer, he isn't an adult with the experience to assess danger and use deadly force only as a last resort. Suddenly she's sweating. If one of those kids had gotten stupid and made one false move, Michael could easily have shot a human being. And it would have been her fault!
“I'm so sorry,” she stutters, grabbing his arm and holding on to it. “As soon as I realized I was dealing with a bunch of dumb kids, I should have let you know. Kids like that have no concept of obeying authority. I wanted them to be too afraid of me to screw around. That's why I was so tough on them.”
Michael remains silent.
Nix removes her hand from his arm. “I take a solemn oath I will not do that to you again—ever. Do you accept my apology?”
She can barely see it, but he nods. “All right,” she says. “Then let's go see what we've caught.”
Margaret is already dishing up hot soup when Nix and Michael come in out of the cold.
<
br /> Brittany eats a spoonful and then makes a face. “I don't really like vegetables that much. Do you have some lunch meat, or something, so I can make a sandwich?”
Before Nix can pounce, Emma puts down her spoon and says, “For heaven's sake, Brittany! These people are sharing their food with us. Show some manners—and some gratitude." She pushes her glasses back with one finger like a little old lady. Nix sees they've been broken and repaired with what looks like a gob of chewing gum.
“Shut up, you fucking little bitch!” Brittany snaps. “Don't you dare quote Mommy and Step-daddy to me! Their stupid rules got buried with them.”
Uh-oh! Nix thinks. Gotta nip this in the bud. But she can't help glancing around to see George's response. He is staring at Brittany as if she's a victim of demonic possession and he's wondering how to exorcise it.
“Hey princess,” Nix says aloud. “Speaking of rules—I, personally, am not that shocked by your dinner conversation, but there are folks here who find that language off-the-charts offensive."
She claps her hands to get everyone's attention. “So House Rule No. 1: As long as you're here, you will not use profanity or vulgarity. If you don't really know how to tell, don't worry. I do, and I'll let you know immediately.”
Brittany looks outraged that she's been singled out for criticism. She tosses her long blonde hair over one shoulder. Nix has a sinking feeling that this is just the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
“Which brings up another question,” she says, hoisting herself up to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter. It was a move that never failed to annoy her grandfather and earn her a reprimand. “How long will you be staying?”
The question hangs in the air. All four of the new arrivals suddenly find their soup bowls fascinating. They stare into them as if the answer to her question is swimming around with the cabbage.
Finally Jason clears his throat and says, “We—uh—we don't really have any place to go. We were just running as far away from the trouble as we could get. We didn't really have a plan, or anything.”
“So, you're thinking—this is a nice place to crash, warm, dry, food. Even a little armed security." Nix gives them a hard stare. “House Rule No. 2: Every one carries their own weight. Nobody here wants to work twice as hard to feed a bunch of loafers.”
“Just show us what to do, and we'll do it,” Jason says.
Nix learned a long time ago that the spoken word isn't nearly as important as the body language that accompanies it. Jason holds his body stiffly, as if bracing against an offensive rush. This guy will do an end run if he gets the chance.
Brittany remains silent, content to let Jason speak for everyone. Nix wonders if the two have had sex yet.
She hops down from the counter. “One more rule,” she says. “No romances, no hooking up, no sexual activity of any kind. There are more than enough problems around here without further complications.”
“You can't dictate peoples' private actions,” Brittany says.
I just love this girl, Nix thinks. She and I are gonna have so much fun. Aloud, she replies, “If your cell is still working, you can call the ACLU, but until you can get a lawyer lined up, my rules are the only rules if you want to stay here." She smiles at Brittany, who scowls, but has the sense to keep her mouth shut. At least for tonight.
“Michael, could you take Jason upstairs. He can sleep in the guy's room tonight.”
The brows come together. “We don't have an extra bed in there,” he replies.
“We have some extra blankets and pillows somewhere,” Nix answers.
“You don't mind sleeping on the floor, do you Jason?" She holds up a hand. “Never mind. It was a rhetorical question. Just follow Michael and do what he tells you.”
The gangsta kid, Freddie, looks like he's made of undertaker's wax, and he's having trouble keeping his balance on a kitchen chair. They've got to get him down somewhere while he can still walk.
“Mary, take the two girls up to your bedroom and get them settled." She turns to Brittany. “If you end up on the floor, just think of it as a sleepover. It's too bad you didn't pack your Disney Princess sleeping bag, but you can't think of everything when you're running for your life.”
If Brittany has an opinion to express, Nix doesn't hear it. She's already wondering again what Freddie is on. Not that it matters. There's not going to be any IV's spiked with demerol to keep the patient sedated until the worst is over. Freddie is going to experience his drug withdrawal to the very last twinge. It's kill or cure time.
“Can I speak with you for a second?” Nix asks Margaret.
The girl pulls her eyes away from the twitching young man at the table and joins Nix in the short passage between kitchen and dining room.
“You know something about treating sick people, don't you?” Nix asks in a low voice.
Margaret nods.
“I'm sorry to bring you into this situation at all,” Nix says. “But this kid is going through drug withdrawal, and he could go into convulsions.”
“Oh my,” Margaret murmurs. “It is not something I have seen before, but I will do what I can.”
“I gotta warn you. It's gonna get ugly. Real ugly. And he'll thrash around a lot—but I'll be right there with you. I know how to subdue a perp who's out of control.”
“Who is getting violent?” George asks, making Margaret jump and then start smoothing her apron obsessively.
“That kid in there is withdrawing from drugs,” Nix answers. “You know, the one you invited into the house." She gives him a gallows smile. “If you think I’m capable of corrupting you, you're in for a real treat with this crew.”
Margaret is uncharacteristically direct once she decides on her response. “There is no time for this nonsense now, you two. You can continue arguing with each other later.”
“I was not arguing, Margaret,” George says in outrage.
“I do not care what you are calling it, George,” Margaret says shortly. “Please help us to get this young man into the—”
“—the office,” Nix finishes. “He's liable to be sick for a few days. We want him somewhere the kids aren't going to see him.”
“That is a good plan,” Margaret says. “And if he is laying on the floor, he will not fall and hurt himself.”
“And it'll be easier to pin him down,” Nix adds, just to poke George a little.
By the time they get Freddie on his feet, it’s obvious that he's past walking, even with support on either side. George grabs him under the arms and Nix and Margaret each take a leg. As soon as they lower him to the floor of the office, Margaret orders George to get blankets while she dashes to the kitchen for a basin.
Nix crouches by Freddie while they're gone, ready to hold him down, if necessary, but the only movement is the shaking and twitching that Nix fears will become convulsions before morning.
“What a stupid little shit you are,” she says to him in a low voice, because she's pretty sure Margaret would not approve of mistreating a sick person, even verbally. She studies the blood trickling from his nostrils and reaches out to feel his pulse jumping erratically. “You're a huff head, aren't you? If you survive this, I will light your breath on fire if I ever see you near a can of spray paint!”
It's near 3 AM before Freddie is quiet. Nix is pretty sure he's unconscious rather than sleeping, but she doesn't share that with Margaret, who refuses to leave Freddie's side. Nix sits huddled in the old office chair with her feet up on the desk, and thinks of how much she's growing to hate this room. But no more than she's beginning to hate the life she sees taking shape daily. She'd taken an oath a long time ago 'to protect and serve’—but this is ridiculous.
Chapter 9
Eggs, eggs, and more eggs! Eggs for breakfast every day. Nix finds herself dreaming of a bowl of hot oatmeal—something she’d always loathed as a child. Why hadn't she thought to ask Mr. Forrest? Next time she'll trade eggs for oatmeal. But short of stuffing the eggs in her ears, she can't block out the cacop
hony of multiple conversations carried on around the table.
The younger kids are excited about the snow that fell overnight, not an unheard of occurrence in the third week of December, but apparently a dream come true for them.
“We're gonna have snow for Christmas!” Martin announces, excitement making his voice shriller than usual.
“Don't count your snowmen before they're made,” Nix advises him. “And turn the volume down. You're at the table, not out in the field.”
“What?" He stares at her like she's speaking Japanese.
“I mean—just because there's snow on the ground now, doesn't mean it won't all melt in the next few days. December is a funny month, weather wise.”
“That is true,” George comments. “But it is bitter cold out there and the clouds are heavy. Perhaps you can say a prayer and ask for more snow, Martin.”
George goes for another biscuit, easily extending his long arm halfway across the large table. Gramps used to chastise Nix for the same move, calling it a boarding house reach and cautioning her it was always bad manners.
“I am hoping this winter is a cold one,” George says. “It will kill a lot of insect eggs so we may eat our harvest next year before the bugs do.”
A memory of a seething mass of maggots at a crime scene causes Nix to lay down her fork and sip coffee instead. The one thing she had never quite been able to conquer was a certain queasiness in the presence of the stomach-turning crap she had to look at as part of her job.
“Hey, how do you guys celebrate Christmas?” she asks, forcing a change of subject.
“We have church services,” George says briefly.
“It is a time of visiting and a big meal with many friends as well as family,” Margaret adds.
“We get presents,” Elizabeth chimes in.
“And candy!” Peter and Paul say at the same moment.
“A Christmas tree,” Martin says wistfully. “My grandma and I decorated our tree on Christmas Eve. It wasn't a real one, though.”
“We do not have Christmas trees,” George tells him. “They are a waste of time. All that effort for a few days. Besides, they are showy. Not plain.”