Coldwater

by Tom Pitts

  When she was too tired to take him, he got to stay home. Sometimes she’d tell him he was sick, even though he wasn’t. He didn’t mind, though. He got to pretend he was sick, an entirely new game. Staying on the couch, watching cartoons, and eating soup. The art of convalescing. It was a fine way to spend the day. And when Mommy woke up, she’d play along, really take care of him. They both knew he was fine, but they never said it out loud.

  Today was one of those days. He gorged on animation, show after show, the half-hour slots tumbling like dominos into the afternoon. When the sun was high and the shadows across the TV room floor shrank away, he got up and slathered peanut butter and jelly on two pieces of bread and ate it without cutting the sandwich or using a plate. He stood alone in the kitchen, letting the crumbs drop on the linoleum floor, and listened to the silence of the house. A sensation of utter loneliness settled in, unlike any he’d felt before. Usually, while his mother slept, he felt her presence, buoyed in some far-off place, not always in sight, but detectable, consistent. It was the first time he was without that pulse, that ghost of company. His seven-year-old mind couldn’t discern what was absent, only that what’d he come to expect wasn’t all there.

  He set down his half-eaten sandwich on the kitchen counter and crept upstairs. There was no real reason to keep quiet, he rarely was able to wake his mother, but trepidation settled and he tried not to kick up its dust.

  When he reached her bedroom, he stepped into the musky dark and softly spoke her name. She was still, and even in this light, her skin appeared waxen and light blue. “Mommy? Mommy?” He sat down on the bed beside her and folded her hand into his and squeezed; it was cool, limp, and heavy. “Mommy?”

  He sat beside her for an hour, weeping softly, not sure what he should do or how to wake her. A granite force inside him pushed back the bad thoughts, the ones telling him she was gone forever, so he stayed, squeezing the hand harder and harder. After a time, he began to whither, and recoiled into a fetal position, working his back into the crook of her posture, and he lay there, still and silent.

  “Baby,” she rasped, barely audible. “You’re hurting my hand.”

  He must have fallen asleep. He woke but didn’t move before he felt her warmth behind him, her hot breath on his neck. For a fleeting moment he considered her a ghost, then realized ghosts would never complain about their hand. He sat up quickly and kissed her, feeling life in her cheek with his lips. Her breath was sour and her hair smelled dirty but familiar. She was there, home, with him. She moaned as a way of asking him to get off her and he did, standing now at the edge of the bed. She flopped onto her back and moaned again, a low crackling sound that started deep in her chest and rose like static to his ears.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  Jason said, “Are you rubbin’ your dick? What the fuck, Bomber? We’re sitting right here.”

  “I’m not rubbing it. I’m scratchin’ my balls. What the fuck? I can’t even have an itch around you two?”

  “Hey, man, these are cramped fucking quarters. You need to respect your friends, dude.” Jason looked at the kid in the back seat and smiled. “We may be the last ones you’ll ever have.”

  Bomber grunted. “Fuck you, man.” And slumped toward the passenger window.

  Jason used two fingers and jabbed Bomber hard on his ribs, right below the armpit.

  “Ow! What the fuck?”

  “Say you’re sorry.”

  “To who?” Bomber wasn’t sure if Jason was playing with him or not.

  Jason held the two fingers out again. “To me, motherfucker.”

  With a tone that Bomber had been using since childhood, he said, “Fine. Sorry, man.”

  Jason was grinning, but it wasn’t a playful grin, it was icy. “You tell me ‘fuck you’? Really? Fuck me? The guy who’s been looking out for you? The guy that took care of that cunt for you? The guy that shares his fucking drugs with you, his money, his beer? Fuck me?”

  In the back, the kid was shifting from side to side. He’d seen Jason get like this before, he’d seen that grin. When Jason found him running with that older man in San Francisco, the sick bastard hobo the kid had to partner with to survive, he’d seen that grin. Right before Jason cut the old man’s throat. It was an act that bonded the kid to Jason, a debt he could never repay.

  “I still got some of that blunt,” the kid said. “Almost half of it, I think.”

  Jason and Bomber were at a standoff in the front seat, Jason glaring at Bomber and Bomber not knowing what to do. It wasn’t in his nature to back down, but Bomber knew he couldn’t win this one. No good reason to push this. Jason was right, he had looked out for Bomber. Finally, he put up his hand in mock surrender and said, “Seriously, I’m sorry. Let’s get high and when we’re done, I’ll go into Safeway and steal us some food.”

  “Get high on what?”

  “The kid just said. He’s got that blunt still.”

  Jason made a pfft sound with his lips. “You don’t got any real drugs?”

  Bomber made a show of digging deep in his jacket. He pulled out a small baggie of crystalline white powder. He held it up with pride. “I got a little speed.”

  Jason reached over and flicked the bag out of Bomber’s hand. The plastic baggie sailed into the sea of garbage covering the floor of the Impala. “Fuck that shit. I fucking hate speed. You know I hate it.”

  Bomber immediately bent forward to find the drugs. “You don’t want it, fine. I’ll do it myself. Me and the kid.”

  “You fucking give the kid any of that shit and I’ll cut off your ear. I’ll fucking slice that useless piece of fat from your head before you can get a pipe to your lips. I mean it. I’ll wear it around my neck like the Marines used to do in Vietnam.”

  Bomber found the bag lodged in between a coffee cup and a Styrofoam hamburger container. He tucked it back into his pocket. “All right, all right. Jesus, you don’t have to get weird about it. I don’t have any pills. You know I don’t have dope.”

  Jason started the car. “Let’s go get Juliet.”

  “I thought you didn’t know where she was,” the kid said. “Doesn’t she have the phone?”

  Jason said, “I don’t need no phone to find her. I know where she’s at.”

  After a short sprint on the freeway, they exited on J Street, downtown. Sacramento on a Wednesday night is a quiet place. Plenty of cars in the fast-food drive-through lines, but the sidewalks were empty even though the nighttime air was pleasant and cool. They rolled past the Safeway on Alhambra and turned east into a neighborhood where the houses were old but expensive. Craftsman and ornate brick homes stood back from streets lined with oaks and citrus trees, cars in driveways shiny and well-kept.

  Bomber said, “Where the hell are we, dude? You sure you don’t want to circle back to the supermarket? I can yank a couple of forties out of there, no problem. Only take me a minute. Or I could get some vodka maybe. Some juice or somethin’ to go with it.”

  Without taking his eyes from the road, Jason told Bomber to shut up. He was searching for a house he knew. A place he’d been before but was having trouble finding in the dark. He slowed the Impala and crept along the side streets, driving a wide figure eight over four blocks. He was sure he was close.

  The kid stayed quiet in back and Bomber began to stare intently out the passenger window, even though he had no idea what they were looking for. Jason widened their search and, after reaching a block they hadn’t been down before, braked.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “What’s it?” Bomber asked.

  “The house where she’s hiding.”

  The kid said, “Hiding?”

  Jason turned around in the front seat, his face serious and dark. “Kid, you stay here, in the driver’s seat. Keep the engine running. Bomber, you stand off by those bushes near the front door. If anyone comes out, fucking pop ’em and push ’em back in. I’m gonn
a go in through the back and get her.”

  “Pop ’em with what?”

  Jason furrowed his brow and held up a clenched hand in front of his face. “Your fists.”

  The kid spoke up. “What is this place?”

  “I just said. It’s the place where she’s at.”

  Jason got out of the car and shut the door as quietly as he could. Without waiting for the other two, he worked his way through the yard, through the bushes and high hedges and around the left side of the house. Bomber followed suit. He climbed out and pushed his door lightly shut before moving into position by a mulberry bush off the front walkway. The kid watched them disappear into the darkness before crawling over the seat and getting behind the steering wheel.

  Jason surveyed the house from the backyard. Lights glowed both upstairs and down. No shadows, no movement. He looked for a water bowl or pet toys in the yard. No signs of a dog or any pets. Stooping low, he found what he needed: a big rock, part of a row of decorative pieces that lined a walk leading to a brick barbeque and picnic table. He worked the jagged stone out of the lawn and, when it was free, felt the weight of it in his hands. A brick would be better, but this would have to do.

  Jason stepped onto the back patio, a wooden deck, trying not to make any noise as he eased across the boards. He waited a few more seconds to see if his presence instigated any movement inside. There was only still silence. Except for all the lights being on, the place seemed empty. But Jason knew it wasn’t. She was in there, somewhere.

  With both hands, he hefted the rock over his head and threw it against the sliding glass door.

  The glass shattered, turning white in a chaotic pattern of spider webs, hung for a moment, then crashed to the floor in a heap of coin-sized shards. The cacophony did not go unnoticed. A man’s voice called out, “What the fuck?” from somewhere within the residence. Jason stepped over the broken glass and inside the house.

  Footsteps sounded from the floor above him. Jason found the carpeted stairway and started up, two steps at a time.

  A man appeared at the top. Barefoot and wearing a short white robe. His right hand held a gun. A big gun. Jason guessed maybe a .45 semi-automatic.

  The man said, “You son of a bitch, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Jason kept moving up the stairs.

  The man held the gun up, pointing it at the intruder, but it was too late.

  Jason reached the top of the stairs and grabbed the barrel with his left hand and, with his right, punched the man hard on the bridge of his nose. The man stumbled back but didn’t let go of the gun. Jason heard a click. The fucker hadn’t even racked the slide. He hit him again. This time the man let go of the gun and fell on his back. Blood started to stream from his nostrils as Jason stood over him.

  “Where is she?”

  “Fuck you,” the man said.

  Jason racked the slide of the man’s weapon and pointed it at his head. The man didn’t speak, he only stared back at Jason. Jason kicked him in the crotch before stepping over his chest and heading down the hall toward the master bedroom.

  Four doors in the hallway. Two were closed and one was a bathroom. The last one, the one at the end, was open. Jason heard a TV playing inside the room. When he reached the door, he saw Juliet atop a king-sized bed with the duvet peeled back and a white sheet pulled up to her neck.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “What the fuck, Jason? What are you doing here?”

  “Get up. Let’s go.”

  Juliet threw back the sheet. She was wearing a black bra and panties that contrasted against her pale and pocked skin.

  Jason stuffed the man’s .45 into his belt at the small of his back. “I should be asking what the fuck you’re doing here.”

  As she pulled on her jeans she said, “You know what I’m doing here. I’m trying to make sure we all stay well. What the fuck? I told you I’d be back. Where’s my other shoe?”

  Jason stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. “Get what you need from this piece of shit and let’s go.”

  Jason returned to the hallway. The man had crawled to the stairs and was trying to pull himself up by the banister. Jason pulled him back by the hair so the man was kneeling with his neck craned back, so his face would peer into Jason’s upside-down grin.

  “Whatever deal she made with you, it’s off. We’re taking what we like and you ain’t gonna do nothing about it. You just sit here and watch her go.” With the fistful of hair, he banged the man’s head into the banister railings. Three times. Then he let the man drop back to the carpet.

  By the time Juliet reached him, the man had several large welts growing over his forehead and a smashed and bloody nose. Jason was going through the other bedrooms.

  Juliet leaned over the homeowner. “I’m sorry. He gets this way. I’ll give you a call in a few weeks.”

  The man, now thoroughly broken, said, “No. Please. Don’t call.”

  Bomber was already in the car when Juliet and Jason slammed their doors shut. Jason shoved the kid over and the kid scrambled over the front seat into the back. Jason started the engine and the radio came on. The beat crackled and the vocals strained and he flicked off the volume.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Juliet said.

  “I fucking hate that song.”

  “No, I mean come here. You didn’t have to beat him up. I don’t need rescuing.”

  Jason turned the corner and headed toward downtown.

  “I was getting shit for all of us,” she said. “Kent is a good guy. Now that bridge is burned.”

  “The bridge was on fire as soon as you walked across it,” Jason said.

  Juliet fixed her attention out the passenger window. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  They sat in stony silence for blocks. All their ears peeled for sirens or any other sign their deed had been discovered. They worked their way down to the quiet hotels around 15th Street. Big-name chains like Hilton and Hyatt sat seemingly abandoned among the silent state buildings.

  “It’s like a fucking ghost town down here. How do these places stay in business?”

  They pulled up to a stop light and the kid popped open the back door and sprinted toward the hotel. A sand-filled waist-high ashtray stood with several long butts sticking out like branchless trees. The kid plucked them out two at a time and stuck them deep inside his jacket pocket. Then he ran back to the Impala before the light changed to green.

  Juliet turned around in the front seat to scold him. “What the fuck? Don’t do that. For fuck’s sakes, I’ll buy you smokes…” Juliet stopped. “I still don’t even know your name.”

  The kid was sullen in the back, sliding his newly found treasures into his beat-up Camel box. “Rusty,” he said.

  “Rusty? Who names their kid Rusty? That’s a dog’s name. What’s your real name?”

  The kid looked up with the longest of his butts clamped between his teeth. “Russell.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nearly a week rolled by and Gary’s life returned to normal. He struggled with the new system at work, met Linda for lunch more often than not, and went about his days focused on the moment, trying not to think about what had gone on in the Perkins’ house. And what had happened in his own bedroom. He kept the deputies’ business cards close by and entered their numbers in the contact list on his phone. He did the same with Calper Dennings’ number too. He tried to settle back into a routine he realized he’d taken for granted, watching TV with Linda and doing basically nothing. He was glad to be bored and happy to be lost in the innocuous dramas of fictional television characters instead of his own life.

  The house across the street stood as it was. The big sheets of plywood nailed to the front door by the police appeared untampered. The windows stayed dark at night reflecting only the streetlights. And the lawn grew steady and unmanaged, slowly marking the time that’d pas
sed since the Perkins left.

  Then, early one morning when he got up to let out the barking dog, Gary saw a light. He couldn’t believe it. He rubbed his eyes. No doubt about it, there was a soft glow coming from the kitchen window of the Perkins’ house. A cold pit formed in Gary’s stomach and the saliva in his mouth dried to a paste. The fear that gripped him the day he faced off with Jason now returned.

  He waited for Barney to finish his business then walked back to the bedroom and pulled open the top drawer of his dresser, the one where he kept odds and ends. He took out two business cards. One was Calper Dennings’ and the other was Officer Delphie’s. He looked at both cards in the pale morning light filtering through the bedroom window.

  Linda stirred. “What are you doing up?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” Gary took both cards and made his way out to the kitchen table and sat down. He peeked at the microwave clock. 5:55 a.m. It was probably too early to call either number. He got up and started a pot of coffee. And while the coffee maker gurgled to life, he watched the light in the window across the street.

  An hour crawled by. Gary worked his way through several cups of coffee and four cigarettes, not bothering to go outside or to open a window to vent the smoke. As soon as the microwave digital display read seven o’clock, Gary picked up his cell and dialed.

  Someone picked up on the fifth ring and a groggy voice said, “Yeah?”

  “Officer Delphie? My name is Gary Carson and you were at my house last week. We called you about some people squatting in the house across the street. They broke into our home. You remember?”

  Delphie cleared his throat. “Of course. How can I help you, Mr. Carson?”