Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  Usually I long for crispy fried chicken, buttered greens, and puffy yeast rolls, but whatever Isabel’s making smells incredible.

  “Señor.” She swirls around and cups her thick hands on my cheeks. “We will have fiesta. You and baby Sam are too skinny!” she declares, brandishing the spatula like a pirate. “No food in cupboards. No food in icebox. Isabel fix this.” Hands on her hips, she sways in time to the song. Sam laughs.

  For the first time in what seems like forever, I laugh too. For real. At a Mexican woman cooking us dinner, at my brother crazy-dancing to salsa music, me about to eat refried beans, which I surely would have gagged at a week ago. Over the din of Sam’s clanging pots and mariachi trumpets, I manage to ask Isabel for her phone and tell her I have to call Ava. When Isabel turns the music down, I punch in her cell number, jiggling my leg impatiently.

  “Can you bring my comics in the blue box and my Titans cap?” I picture my room. “Um, my soccer ball and cleats. My Sports Illustrated, if it came. Some books. My bat from Dad, the new silver one. Anything else you can think of.”

  I worry that I sound greedy, a spoiled kid at Christmas. Then I start to worry about something else. Something much bigger. Dad. Ava. Here at the same time. Not good.

  “How long will it take you to get here?”

  Ava promises less than ten minutes. Phew. I hand the phone back to Isabel and pace circles around Sam, who thinks it’s a game. He grabs at my legs, beats on my shin with one hand.

  “What’s going on, big guy?” I pick him up, carry him to the living room. Sam pokes at my nose and jabbers. We plop down near the television, which seems to play a continuous loop of muted Latino soap operas. Today a spandex-skirted heroine cries silently into her shiny red pillow. Like we need more drama around here. We watch for a while, and then I click it off with the remote.

  I study my brother as we stack colored blocks. Green on yellow on orange. Another and another until the pile wobbles precariously and Sam whacks it down with a fist. He laughs and claps his hands at the mess, then blinks up at me.

  “Do it again?” I ask and start over. I can’t help but wonder if Sam knows what’s going on with our family. Whether he understands any of it. I’m not even sure I do.

  Ava’s knocking. I spring to my feet, unlock the door and swing it open. She’s balancing a box in one hand; several bags hang from the crook of her elbow.

  “Ava!” I barrel into her chest and hug. Her hair’s in a ponytail, but the wisps tickle my cheek. She smells like peach pie and vanilla ice cream. I untangle myself long enough to take the box from her arms. She puts down the bags and reaches for the Demarini bat and ball she laid on the porch.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” she says and kneels down to grab Sam, who’s in line for the next round of squeezes. When I step out of the way, I blink. Her ribs almost show through her white T-shirt.

  Before I can think of anything to say, Isabel steps beside me. She makes clucking sounds with her lips, looks Ava up and down, and shakes her black curls. “Isabel,” she announces, pressing a hand to her chest. “You the boys’ mommy? Everyone too skinny,” she scolds and gestures to the kitchen. “Come, come.”

  Ava hesitates at the doorway, wrapped around Sam like a blanket. “I can’t,” she says and frowns. “Really.” She hugs Sam tighter. “I’d love to, thank you.” Ava smiles at Isabel. “But it was nice to meet you. Dinner smells wonderful.”

  “Muchas gracias.” Isabel glows and wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand. “Come,” she says, then heads back to the kitchen.

  “Just for a minute,” I beg. “You need to see our room, Ava. Please?”

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t love to. Jack, honey . . .” she protests and glances toward the street. I know she is looking for Dad.

  “Never mind.” My lip trembles. I try not to cry. My eyes sting. I hate this. I hate everything. I tear the bags out of her hands and stalk off to the bedroom. Stupid stuff. The bags hit the wall, and I throw myself on the bed, face first.

  Of course, Ava’s voice is already calling after me. “Jack?” She’s in the hallway. I flop on my bed and stare hard at the ceiling.

  Sam toddles over toward me and pats my leg. “Jaa.” On one elbow, I prop myself up and squeeze his fingers.

  “Here’s your box.” She sets it down on the floor. “I left you some cookies, too, in the other room. Your favorite.” Ava sighs. “I’m sorry, Jack. This is hard on everyone. And I really, really want to be here and see your room and play with Sam and talk to Isabel, but I can’t.”

  “Are you trying to fix it? You promised. You said you’d try.”

  She walks over, kisses me on the head. “I am. I have to leave, though.” Sam clings to her, then screams bloody murder when she lets go. “Take care of him,” she mouths and dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

  Ava’s bawling; Sam’s a mess. I scoop him up close and rock him, not even realizing I’m crying until Isabel wipes my tears away.

  CHAPTER 28

  AVA

  TUESDAY, APRIL 13

  Full-fledged exhaustion slams me when I turn into the driveway. It’s all I can do to steer the Jeep into the carport. My head throbs from the dagger-sharp pain of leaving Jack and Sam.

  In my emotional delirium and recent acute insomnia, I think I hear a baby’s cry. Deep, low, then caustic and biting. Added to the guilt, which grew wings and followed me home. I press my forehead against the steering wheel. But the noise bleats again.

  It’s inside the house.

  I stumble from the Jeep, unsteady, throw my bag over one shoulder. My keys jangle against my leg. I reach for the knob but realize the door is already open. The air is stuffy, humid, stale.

  “Did we blow a fuse?” I wonder out loud, and press my fingers to my head. “Was I in that much of a hurry?” My voice echoes in the empty house, then the alarm pierces the silence.

  My purse makes a satisfying plunk on the ceramic tile. The oven light blinks at me, mocking my disbelief. “What in the world?” I press the digital display and shut off the oven, hot to the touch. “Come on. Am I losing it?”

  Try as I might, there’s no amount of effort that brings back any cogent memory. I am vigilant about locking the house, double-checking the oven light. And the air-conditioning. I take a few steps and glare at the defunct thermostat. Off. With the touch of a button, a blessedly cool breeze blows through the vents.

  Gosh! What else?

  Wine. I could use a glass of wine. I pull out the drawer, search for the corkscrew, which has likely gathered dust by now. There’s every imaginable kitchen tool you can think of, except what I want. My lost vegetable peeler, a cheese slicer, and a Ginsu carving knife capable of cutting through a large tree branch. I set the shiny blade on the counter.

  A heavy footstep nearly sends me into orbit. I whirl around. Mike Kennedy’s familiar face peers back at me through the glass-framed back door. Hand shaking, I turn the lock and let him in.

  “Mike, for the love of—” I clutch my throat in mock strangulation. “Are you trying to kill me? You scared me to death,” I scold him and smile.

  “Ava, I . . .” Mike struggles and swallows hard. “I need a favor.”

  “Sure. How long have we known each other? Anything for you.” I grin. “As long as it doesn’t involve a speeding ticket.”

  “It doesn’t,” he assures me, much too readily. “Not at all.” He scratches his head and cracks his neck. “Damn, Ava. I hate to say this . . .”

  I look where his eyes have landed, my hand with the corkscrew. The Ginsu knife. With its enormous silver blade glinting on the counter.

  Laughing, I set down the corkscrew, fold my arms across my chest, and lean against the sink. “Now, really, what are you doing here?”

  Mike clears his throat and adjusts his collar. “Can I take a peek around the place?” He shoots me a look. “It seems your husband thinks you might have a few things here that belong to him.”

  “Well, I have a lot of thin
gs that belong to him,” I joke. “Half of this house. His clothes, his shoes.”

  Mike holds up an arm for me to stop. “He’s serious. Did you go by his place earlier?”

  “Sure I did.” I hold my breath and count back from ten. “I dropped off some of Jack’s things.” Perfectly legitimate, since he called me and asked me for them. But I won’t say the words. Swear to myself the kids won’t be involved in whatever crazy scheme Mitchell has decided to cook up.

  “That’s trespassing,” Mike informs me.

  My brain rewinds. “What?”

  “Trespassing,” he repeats. “And he thinks you may have taken . . . I’m going to say ‘accidentally borrowed’ a few items.” He checks his notepad. “He’s willing not to press charges if you give them back.” Mike wipes his brow with a white cloth pulled from his back pocket. “Of course he won’t be so forgiving the next time.”

  Incredulous, I blink at the person I’ve known all my life. He’s acting like a stranger. Have I fallen down the rabbit hole? I feel like I’m in some crack-addict version of Alice in Wonderland. Please! Anyone! Wake me up!

  “Can I take a look around?” Mike asks. “Or do you want to hand them over now?”

  “Hand what over?” I snap back. “I have no idea what you are talking about. This is insane.”

  He doesn’t flinch at my outburst. “If you don’t allow me to check the property, I’ll have to get a search warrant.” Mike stares back at me.

  This is surreal. “Go ahead.” I nod and step back to let him pass.

  When he heads for the foyer, I follow. Under the glittering crystal chandelier sits our half-built heart pine staircase, with its grand, curved railing and hand-carved balusters.

  “Renovations, eh?”

  “Mitchell’s idea. Not mine,” I say, shaking my head. “Does this look like my kind of project?”

  Mike rubs his chin. “Nah, not really.”

  We fall silent.

  “Listen.” His deep voice reverberates in the empty room. “So sorry to have to bother you with this. I really don’t want to have to take you down to the station.” He takes a half step toward the hallway, then straightens his shoulders. “It shouldn’t take long and will save us both a heck of a lot of hassle.”

  I sink down on my heels against the wall. What. The. Hell? Doors open and close, drawers slide in and out. Curtains whisper as Mike moves them. I’m certain I hear him lift the rug.

  Thorough as always, he inspects each bathroom from top to bottom. He pokes his head in the garage, glances in the trash, shuts the door. He spends what seems like an eternity combing through every inch of the house. In any other situation, I’d ask if he’d clean out the gutters while he’s at it and then mow the front yard. Somehow, tonight, I’m sure he wouldn’t find my attempt at humor funny.

  And then Mike coughs. “Ava?” he calls out.

  I stand up. “Where are you?”

  “Master bedroom.”

  When I reach the sound of his voice, I can’t make sense of what I see. Money, a roll of it. A wad. More than I’d ever keep. Mitchell’s Alabama ring. And a piece of paper with the college insignia embossed at the top. Nicely, neatly placed in the top drawer of my nightstand.

  Mike doesn’t speak.

  “Those are not mine.”

  “Not yours.” His lips curl. He doesn’t move from where his feet are planted.

  I throw up my hands.

  “It’s . . . I’ve never . . . there’s no way.” In my haste to expel whatever voodoo black magic has leaked into my bedroom, I realize I am possibly incriminating myself in some way.

  “Ava.”

  “There’s no—” I stop myself.

  Mike scoops up the cash, the ring, and the letter. “I’ll just be going.”

  Scenes of the county jail flash in front of me. Bars slamming shut, the clanging of handcuffs. Feet leaden, I manage to escort him to the back door. “Good night, Mike.”

  “I’m awfully sorry to have bothered you, Ava.” Mike shakes his head.

  Not as sorry as I am. I close the door, double-check the lock, and move a chair to block the entrance. Nothing’s safe anymore.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER 29

  JACK

  TUESDAY, APRIL 13

  The apartment’s a total mess when Dad gets back. Soap bubbles float from the kitchen where Isabel’s washing dishes. Except for the kitchen, the lights are all off, and I hear my dad cuss when he trips over the baseball bat propped by the front entrance.

  I wince and grit my teeth, hoping the noise doesn’t wake up Sam. But when I look, the red lights keep moving across the monitor screen. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  “Oh, there you are.” Dad darkens the doorway, holding something big and bulky. What he’s carrying smells sweet, like saltwater taffy mixed with bubblegum.

  I glance up from my Spiderman comic book. “Hey, Dad.” I strain my neck to see what he’s carrying.

  When Isabel walks into the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, her tan hands still shiny and wet from the dishes, my father flicks on the light and holds out a humongous arrangement of fresh flowers. I squint hard at the brightness but peel one eye open enough to see white daisies, lacy purple lilies, and crinkly pink carnations.

  “For you.” He gives Isabel with a small bow, a knight’s offering to his maiden.

  Isabel gasps and clutches her chest, her crucifix. For a moment, I think she might be allergic or having a heart attack. Instead, she begins to cry.

  I gulp. Dad waits. But then Isabel wipes her eyes on the towel and throws up her arms. “Sí, sí.” She nods and reaches both hands for the bouquet. “Gracias.” When Isabel buries her nose in the flowers, the petals seem to pat at her face, telling her everything will be okay.

  I jump up and make a beeline for the other room. Even there, I can still see and hear them talking.

  “My husband—” Isabel lifts her head and begins again. “What he always bring me,” she explains. “He die last year. The pneumonia.”

  “I’m so sorry.” My dad squeezes her free hand. “I just wanted to say thank you for all that you do for my family. Muchas gracias.”

  Isabel flutters her eyelids and stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. The next instant she is back to Super Nanny status. She bustles away, grabs a potholder, opens the oven, shows my dad our dinner.

  “Eat!” she dictates, and grabs her oversized gold purse from the counter. She hesitates before leaving. “Baby Sam misses his mama,” she whispers and shakes her head.

  Isabel’s dark eyes, full of questions, search my dad’s face. It’s plain she doesn’t understand what’s going on. Then again, neither do I. She glances at my dad’s hand, wedding ring still on. Her red lips part and close.

  “Good night, Isabel. Thank you,” he says firmly.

  I come out of my bedroom and watch from the window as she makes her way down the sidewalk, past all of the houses, under the yellow glow of streetlights.

  “Homework done?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  “About time for bed, don’t you think?”

  I nod and hold the slick pages of my comic book close.

  “Anything special happen today?” A dark cloud passes over his face.

  “No, sir. Nothing.”

  Robot-like, he avoids my gaze. “So where’d you get the cookies?”

  “Uh, Ava,” I answer, feeling like I’m telling a secret no one should know.

  “How long’d she stay?”

  I listen for the anger building in his voice, the bubbling up of lava that bursts from the earth. But it’s not there.

  “Not long,” I reply.

  He actually smiles at his plate, but his eyes stay hard as the granite countertop, which makes me bite the inside of my cheek and wish I’d lied.

  “How nice. So you gave her the tour?”

  I hesitate, shuffle one step back from my father, my chin touching my chest.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Dad tu
rns. “Look at me, Jack.”

  I clutch the comic book tighter, until I can feel my rib cage. Then I raise my head.

  Dad keeps his voice even and flat, but now he grips the table, making his knuckles bulge bone-white. “That woman is never to set foot inside this apartment again. Do I make myself clear?”

  Heat rises in my chest, creeping up to my face. “But you told me—” I argue.

  Dad brings a finger to his lips. “There’s nothing more you need from that woman. She’s trying to trick you. Get you to take her side.” His jaw tenses.

  I lift my foot.

  “We’re not done until I say so, got it? You’re already in big trouble, mister. Do you want more?” My dad’s breath comes fast and hard. A bead of sweat drips down the side of his cheek.

  “Wake up, son,” he hisses. “She doesn’t love you.” He stands up, strides over, and squeezes my shoulder. “It was all a trick, a game. She adopted you to make me think she was good, that she cared. And all the while—”

  He grips tighter, until my skin folds. I wince at the pain and clench my teeth.

  “Go on, son. Get some sleep.” He pushes me toward my room. “I have work to do.”

  Once I’m inside the bedroom, I let my shoulders droop and grip my knees with both hands. The pounding in my head slacks off to a slow, steady beat. In the other room, my dad is calling someone and pacing the floor. I leave the door open just a crack, crouch down, and listen.

  “Dispatch? This is Mitchell Carson at 88 South Davenport. Apartment A2. Could you send someone over please? Right away. I need to report a burglary.”

  CHAPTER 30

  JACK

  THURSDAY, APRIL 15

  It’s been the longest week. Sam crying all of the time. Isabel talking about her dead husband. Dad freaking out and calling the cops didn’t help. And now, we’re back in Dr. Bennett’s office.

  “Hey, Jack,” she says, adjusting her red glasses. “How are you?” Her assistant, a small dark-haired girl with a long ponytail steps out from the office then, giving me a smile.

  “Um, hey.”