No Saint

by Jo Raven

  Does he know he’s holding my beating heart in his palm?

  As we walk, he pulls me to the side of the street, making me stumble, then catching me around the waist and twirling me around. He startles a laugh out of me, and he turns me around again, smiling down at me.

  “You know what?” He mutters, leaning down to kiss me. “I could get used to this.”

  “God, me, too.”

  “We could go down to the river,” he says, voice growing husky. “Nobody will see us. I’ll get you naked and have my wicked way with you.”

  This time my laugh is breathless. It does sound good. “And the surprise?”

  “God, you don’t give up, do you?” he snickers. “It’s stupid. I cooked for you.”

  “That’s not stupid.” I grin at him, my heart leaping. “What did you make?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. I can’t cook to save my life. But Dad taught me this, at least, and it should be edible. Come see.”

  He drags me to the front of the house, and we stand staring down at a hole in the ground filled with rocks and burning coals, several objects wrapped in aluminum foil mixed with them.

  “Oh wow, it’s just like camping,” I say and turn in a circle, taking in the trees, the house, the lantern he’s left swinging on the porch, the glow from the coals. “I love it.”

  “Cool.” He seems pleased with my reaction. “Here are potatoes and onions and I’ll throw in the sausages now you’re here. I hope you eat this stuff.”

  “It’s great,” I insist, touched and not sure why. Or maybe I do know: he’s trying to please me, take care of me in his turn. He’s showing me facets of himself I didn’t know before. Allowing me closer.

  He goes into the house and comes out with sausages on a grill pan. Crouching down, he lays it over the coals and stones and pokes at the wrapped veggies with a stripped branch. He has an afghan laid in front of the pit, with two flat cushions of questionable cleanness—not that I mind. He’s thought this out, I realize, spent time digging out the pit and setting the whole thing up.

  He probably had to go and buy the coals, and I wonder where he got the sausages and potatoes and all that if the grocer won’t sell to him. Wonder if Stacy is back and let him inside the store. There are people who like him in the town, who see past who he used to be.

  The only thing missing is string lights hanging on the porch, but instead we have the stars. The clouds have cleared since this morning and the milky way streams over us, a mirror to the waterway below, the stars sparkling like fireflies.

  “You ever done this before?” he asks, shooting me a sideways glance, mouth quirking in a crooked grin, and I shake my head. “I thought that living with two guys you’d be camping all the time.”

  “Nah. Dad’s not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I mean, he likes cooking. His breakfast staples are fried green tomatoes and gooey butter cake. He makes a mean roast, and amazing deep pan pizza. He likes his home, his kitchen, his TV and his couch.” I grin back at him. “And Josh... he wouldn’t be caught dead in a place without electricity and internet. He’s a hardcore gamer.”

  “A place with no electricity isn’t good, huh? Yeah, he probably wouldn’t like it here.” His eyes are back on the fire pit, and I just stand there and watch him, overcome with such a wave of tenderness it takes my breath away.

  “I like it here,” I whisper.

  My boy. My man. When did he become that? So much more than a crush, so much deeper than a Summer fling.

  And we’ve sure been through some intense times this Summer, that’s for certain. He came so close to dying, and he stood up for me, he showed me the workings of his mind, the powers behind the cogs and levers of his thoughts and actions, and it made me fall all the harder for him.

  I crouch down beside him, watching the flames play across his face, then he gives me the stick and I take my turn poking at stuff, not knowing what I am doing. He laughs and puts his hand over mine, and together we shove the potatoes and onions further under the hot stones, covering them up.

  And then he takes the stick away from me, lays it down, and tugs on me until we’re sitting on the afghan and the dirty cushions, his arms around me, and there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. No palace can compare to this overgrown yard as night falls, with the glow of the fire and the rustling of the trees, with the feel of his strong body pressed to mine.

  Later, as we eat the cooling sausages, potatoes and onions with our fingers, he cocks his head at me, putting down his fare on the grill pan, a thoughtful expression entering his gaze.

  “You know... my dad wasn’t all bad.”

  I frown, not knowing what to say to that. Finally I settle for a hum, that I hope sounds neutral and encouraging.

  “He had his good sides, too.” Ross grabs the stick, stirs the ashes, revealing small lumps of coal still burning, sending sparks flying. They illuminate his handsome face in flashes—intense, brooding, wistful.

  I nod, because Ross seems to want to talk about it, not because I believe Jasper Jones has any redeeming qualities. Child abusers and serial murderers generally don’t.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he goes on and gives me a rueful smirk. Did he read my mind? Maybe I wasn’t able to hide my true thoughts so well. Or maybe he’s thinking the same thing. “He was a bastard. A violent drunk, and ultimately a murderer. But as I was growing up, he seemed to... remember me sometimes. Remember he had a son, and that he’d planned to raise me to be like him. That meant cooking over an open fire pit, shooting, cursing, working on engines. And sometimes... it was pleasant. It was the good times. The bright spots. I thought... for a long time I thought everyone grew up like me. That it was normal to have a dad who’d beat the shit out of you for saying the wrong word, but then dragged you to the garage to show you how an engine works. Or to eat greasy burgers—only to take a belt at you later, if he got bored with you.”

  I shiver. These are his good memories of the man? Christ. I hate Jasper Jones a little bit more with each passing day.

  We sit in silence for a while.

  He pokes at the coals and sighs. “I wanna tell you something. I’ve found... some letters, at least I think they are, and earrings in the shed, in a box. They must’ve belonged to the other victim, the other woman... If she’s the one my dad talked about, she had a son.”

  “What do the letters say?”

  “I haven’t read them yet.” He bows his head, but I have enough time to see him wince. “Haven’t been back inside that shed since.”

  “You should tell the police.”

  He gives me a jagged smirk and a shrug that looks defensive and angry. “The cops are just looking for excuses to lock me up again.” His gaze slides away. “But the thought that I have another sibling out there somewhere... it’s been eating at me.”

  “You don’t like the thought?”

  He gives me a startled look. “No, I... that’s not it. Besides, it’s no news to me. I’ve known about him for a while.”

  “Him?”

  “Dad mentioned a boy once or twice. Among his talk of his other bastards, all better than me. And since I found out that his mother is dead, too... I’ve been dreading finding him. Fearing the state I’d find him in. Wondering if he’s even alive. This is the first real clue I got about their identity.”

  “Ross...”

  “I like my other siblings,” he says and a red tinge comes to his cheekbones. “I’ve never told them. I’ve been so fucking jealous of them growing up. Bitter, full of envy and anger. But they’ve been nice to me. So fucking nice.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t trust nice.” He pauses, gaze turned inward. “Didn’t use to trust it. So much has changed.”

  “Tell me about them?”

  He hesitates. “I’ve been an asshole to them, Lu. Like I’ve been to you.”

  I reach out and take his other hand. “And yet they still love you, don’t they?”

  He looks away, mouth down
turned, the flush on his cheeks growing darker. “They don’t hate me.”

  Oh... I bet they don’t. But I wait for him to continue.

  “There’s Octavia,” he finally says, turning my hand so it’s on top of his. “She’s the oldest, about my age. I... blamed her for my own life. She took the brunt of my anger, but said she forgives me. And then there’s Gigi, and Merc. He’s been calling me and texting and driving me up the wall.”

  “What is he texting you about?”

  “Opening up,” he grumbles. “Accepting that we’re a family.”

  I vaguely remember the Watsons, and I like what I hear about them.

  “So maybe you should share this information with them. About this lost brother of yours? How do you want to do this?”

  He stares at our entwined hands. “You’re right. I need to talk to the cops. And first I need to check that fucking shed again, see if it coughs up anything more, any more surprises.”

  “You’re not alone,” I remind him. “Your siblings are here. I am here. Let us help.”

  He squeezes my fingers, his mouth curving in a ghost of a smile. “Maybe I will.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ross

  Everything... has changed. I’ve given in to her presence, her warmth, her insistence to see all of me, and I can’t deny it feels good, no matter how I try. There’s a part of me that still doesn’t wanna believe it, believe she’s here intending to stay, that she’s truly forgiven me and wants to have me, though—and that voice in my mind won’t be silenced.

  Sometimes I feel... like I’m holding a woman made of flowers and stars, and she might crumble away at any moment, leaving me alone again.

  Ross the poet. Hah. It sounds so stupid when I put it into words, when it’s just a feeling that fills me with unease.

  Nevertheless, life has settled in a new rhythm. Quiet. Peaceful. Even Ed and his moron pals stopped hounding me.

  I try not to worry over it, you know, the whole “calm before the storm” thing and all that. I’ve been running the ragged edge of despair for so long I hadn’t even realized how close I’d come to letting go—again.

  I thought I was okay but it only takes a moment of happiness to realize the pain you’re normally in. Being free of it is exhilarating, as much as it’s frightening. When you’ve tasted happiness, the fall back into the dark promises to be all that much harder.

  Yeah, that last thought keeps buzzing around my brain like a bee, and it’s a fucking miracle I make it through the day at work alive. I dance my way through another series of damn near accidents—a scaffold that isn’t properly screwed to the fucking construction, a slick of engine oil on the floor, a hard shove from a worker passing by, almost sending me plunging down the side of the wall I’m working on.

  When I try to tell the superintendent about it, he brushes it off as my fault, accusing me of not paying attention to what I’m doing and piling the rest on what he considers the incompetence of the whole workforce.

  That son of a bitch. He doesn’t give a damn.

  So I go back to work, wondering if he’s right. I sure am distracted, no way out of it, torn between thoughts of kissing Luna, sinking inside her, thoughts of my missing bastard brother and his dead mother, and all the other shit bouncing around inside my head.

  I wonder, is he still alive? Is he like me at all? Does his life run parallel to mine, a mirror image—does he tell stories to girls, and act all cocksure and shit, is he a fuck-up like me or did he manage to avoid the Jones’ curse?

  “Watch out, boy.” Old Ben snickers at me, showing me blackened and missing teeth as he passes by. “Don’t wanna fall on your face around here. Too many chances of breaking that thick skull of yours.”

  I grunt at him. He’s carrying buckets of concrete that seem way too heavy for a skinny, old guy like him. He’s strong and has been working construction for as long as I’ve known him, but today, seeing him makes me wonder whether he’s down on his luck or if he chose this life.

  Sometimes circumstances choose for us. We make our choices where we can, I think as I go about my business, hauling sacks, building walls, hammering and welding and checking measurements and reading levels. It’s routine work. I manage to avoid a loose brick that happens to fall straight on top of me as I take a smoke break (a lucky sidestep saved me), and to avoid tripping over some loose iron rods (good shoes are a must, guys), and I decide that I really need to move further away from the site for my breaks.

  It’s on one of those breaks that I notice Old Ben slipping on a patch of oil on the concrete floor we only poured two days ago. His skinny arms flail and I’m running toward him before I know I’m doing it, my boots thumping on packed earth. I manage to catch his arm as he’s going down, and though his ass hits the ground, I bet it’s nothing like cracking your skull open on hard concrete.

  I find myself on my knees, holding on to him, and déjà vu hits me, of myself on my knees in Little River, Luna’s arms around me. A shiver hits me so hard I almost fall over.

  Damn. Stop it, brain.

  “Here, careful, old man.” I help him sit up properly, not hauling him to his feet just yet. “You okay?”

  “Who you calling old?” he grumbles but accepts my help. Not that he has much of a choice. “I’m fine.”

  But he doesn’t demand I take my hand off him and fuck off, so I stay there, watching his face for any sigh of pain. “Need me to tell the superintendent? Call a doctor?”

  “Nah. My ass will be black and blue but I’ll live.”

  “Yeah. You’re indestructible, aren’t ya?”

  He chuckles like a hyena. “Nobody is, boy.” Then he casts a suspicious look around. “Be careful. They have it out for you,” he whispers.

  Like it’s a secret.

  But it sort of confirms that it’s not all in my head, for all the good it does. Like it’s any better knowing that they really want me out of the game. Man, it was actually nicer thinking it had all been in my head.

  Hey, at least out here things are the same as before. No pending disaster, no more than usual. No tsunami waiting to hit the calm shore when you have to keep an eye on everything that might get you killed. No time to sit and obsess over it, either.

  I let go of Old Ben to get up. My knees burn. Betcha I skinned them real good, even through the thick denim. I reach a hand down for him. “You good, then?”

  He grips my hand in fingers of steel and barely winces as he finds his feet. “Groovy.”

  It makes me snort.

  “You’re not a bad sort, Jones,” he says.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Never thought you were.” He gives a sad roll of his shoulders. “I go with the flow. But I knew your dad. He was a demon, that one.”

  “Knew him, how?”

  He seems uncomfortable. “Well... we used to drink and gamble together, in the old days.”

  His pre- or after-murder days? I think, but don’t say a word. Awesome, one of Dad’s buddies.

  “What I’m saying is,” he goes on, “you need to prove it to them, boy.”

  “Prove what?”

  “That you’re the good sort. Not your dad’s clone.”

  This time my laugh is short and empty, catching in my throat. “I don’t need to prove anything to these assholes. Besides, what if I am Dad’s clone?”

  “You’re not. Believe it. Show them who you really are, like you did just now. Minds can be changed, you know, when repeatedly faced with the truth.”

  “You could keep bashing their heads into the truth like it’s a wall every day and it still wouldn’t make a lick of a difference.”

  He chuckles and turns to go. “I’m serious, boy.”

  “Yeah. So am I.”

  Show them who I am. As if it’s that fucking simple... Then again, once hope takes hold, it’s hard to shake it off, dammit.

  ***

  Hope or not, I find it strange that nobody bothers me on my way home. The absence of my own personal real-life demons i
s bewildering. I walk down Main street, fists cocked, ready for a fight, but I see not one of them.

  Yeah, definitely strange. Vowing to find out what is going on, I head on home—to the house, dammit, the house, not home—because I’m on a mission.

  I’ve started cleaning up the place, scrubbing floors, stripping beds, wiping down counters, taking out old trash. I wanna prove myself to her. Prove that I’ve changed, I’ve understood, I can be good for a girl like her. Good enough.

  And pigs can fly. But hell, I’ll do my best.

  Anyway, that’s not the mission. Well, not the one on my mind right now.

  The mission is to turn that shed inside out, see what else I find about my mysterious absent half-brother and his dead mother. The thought strikes me to call John Elba, ask him what the police have found about this—he did tell me to call him if needed, right? Tell him about the earrings and the papers.

  I should. But first I want to check what there is.

  Thoughtlessly I reach deep inside my pocket for the swan pendant, and can’t find it. I stop and dig into all my pockets.

  It’s not there.

  Opening up my stride, I hurry to the house. I must’ve left it in my other pair of jeans, or else it fell. I can’t lose it. I can’t fucking lose this pendant, it’s all I have left.

  Somewhere in my mind, a little rational voice is trying to point out to me that the pendant shouldn’t be important. it’s just a piece of metal, and it’s not all I have from my mother. I have photos, I have memories, I have letters and the echo of her laughter.

  I have her mouth, Dad said. He hated that. I touch my lips, and frown at the memory, then I’m finally at the house and I pound up the porch steps and shove the door open.

  Squelching the urge to yell “honey I’m home!” to nobody in particular, just because this house has never seen humor in its long murky years, I rush to my bedroom to check for the pendant. A search of the pockets of my other pair of jeans yields nothing at all, and neither do my two shirts and my jacket.