The Debt

by Tyler King

  “I do believe that the attendance policy is predicated on entering the building. Perhaps you’d be so good as to escort your date inside.”

  He said the word like it left a sour taste in the back of his throat. Date. That got my back up and I stood straight, taking a step forward. Hadley stuck her arm through mine, holding me in place. I guess the idea to hit him or otherwise jeopardize my enrollment in this university had crossed my mind, but that happened every time I attended his class.

  “Works for me,” Hadley answered as she smacked a disingenuous smile on her lips. “I get paid either way.”

  With that, she tugged me along to the entrance.

  “You’re terrible,” I whispered as I paused to hold the door open for her. “And I love you.”

  “I know.”

  Since we were among the last stragglers to file into the music hall, Hadley and I took two seats on the far right aisle in the back of the audience just as the dean took the stage. He prattled on for more than ten minutes about recent alumni accolades and the music college’s tradition of blah, blah, blah. I tuned him out, instead entertaining myself with running my fingertips over Hadley’s bare knee and tracing the goose bumps that blossomed over her skin.

  We passed the flask back and forth—discreetly at first and then with an increasing lack of shit-giving—while a panel of two doctoral professors and a guest lecturer went on ad nauseam about the modern landscape for classical musicians and composers.

  “Is it just me,” Hadley leaned over to ask, “or does the one in the middle look like he could have been featured on America’s Most Wanted in the eighties?”

  I bit back a laugh, squeezing her knee.

  “Seriously. Look at that mustache. He looks like a serial killer. You know,” she went on as her whisper became less unobtrusive by the syllable, “they show a picture of a guy recently convicted on the news and you’re like, ‘Yep. He looks exactly like a guy who would cultivate rare orchids, raise chinchillas in his backyard, and keep severed human heads mounted on the wall in his basement.’”

  “But he was always so polite,” I stated with affected shock. “Willard was quiet and kept to himself. He brought his trash cans in from the curb on time and watered his lawn.”

  “I blame the schools. And violent television poisoning our youth.”

  “I heard,” I began after taking a swig from the flask and handing it back to her, “that poor Willard’s mama used to dress him up in skirts and make him serve tea at her book club meetings every Sunday afternoon.”

  “Well,” she drawled in an exaggerated Southern accent, “I reckon that explains why his mama’s head was found fixed atop a fifteen-foot stack of Oprah’s Book Club selections on the front lawn of the public library.”

  “Shhh!”

  We both glanced behind us at the chastising sound. It was one of those irritated shushes that came out louder, and therefore more conspicuous, than the conversation it sought to admonish. Hadley lost it; she burst into strangled laughter. I slapped my hand over her mouth, cradling her head to my shoulder to shut her up.

  The senior citizen behind us—maybe a member of the faculty or just a local resident who had nothing better to do than attend the public event—could have passed for the unspoken but mutual vision Hadley and I shared of Willard’s mother. It was fucking priceless. That face could drive a man to serial murder.

  “She’s very sorry,” I told the woman. “My sister’s a bit touched in the head.”

  She scowled, not softened by what I thought was a charming smile. Hadley tried prying my hand from her mouth, but I wouldn’t budge.

  “Her crib was lined with lead paint—”

  Punky bit me.

  “Ow. Fuck,” I hissed, and yanked my hand from her teeth.

  She’d gotten me pretty good, the feisty shit.

  “Behave,” I snapped at her.

  Hadley’s satisfied grin was wide and her eyes were bright with mischief.

  “You know what Father said. If you can’t control yourself, we’ll have to send you back to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be good.” Hadley leaned toward me, propping herself up with one hand on the armrest between us. “Please. Don’t tell on me. I’ll do anything.” Her other hand slid over my thigh just as her lips met my jaw.

  Goddamn.

  “Okay.” I took the point of her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ll let you play with Mr. Rogers again, but this is the last time I cover for you.”

  Yes. In that scenario, my cock was named Mr. Rogers. There was no good reason for that.

  Punky nodded, making a show to zip her lips and tuck the imaginary key into my breast pocket before primly settling back in her seat with eyes trained to the front.

  The guy next to me leaned over. “That’s your sister?”

  I kept my expression flat, eyes on the stage, and barely tilted my head in his direction. My hand slid up Punky’s thigh.

  “Twin.”

  * * *

  As the evening wore on, Hadley kept me amused and sauced through the remainder of the lecture and then the following talkback. When the dean again took the stage to announce Alexei, I found that I’d relaxed from my edgy demeanor.

  Much to my relief, the dean made no mention of me. I wasn’t sure why I had been so convinced that Alexei’s presence meant that my name would be paraded out for the audience, begging that I stand for acknowledgment. I hadn’t toured in years, and even then it was a small population who would have heard of me. I hadn’t been a staple of the morning shows or fluff pieces on the evening news since I was a child. Interest in me was relegated to the audience that followed classical music. Shit, there were four-year-olds in China who were already surpassing my once-bright talent.

  I guess that made me an arrogant prick, wrapped up in my own ghost. I wasn’t here as a novelty. I wasn’t special among this crowd. I was just another student attending a required function. The dean’s personal invitation was just a matter of formality he felt obliged to uphold.

  Hadley took my hand and entwined her fingers with mine as the audience applauded for Alexei. He crossed the stage, offering a tight nod before taking a seat at the piano. He looked the same—taller, thinner than the slightly overweight kid I’d once known and always despised.

  Alexei launched into a selection from Stravinsky’s Petrushka. It was a good choice, considered the last time Stravinsky was, well, Stravinsky. Alexei played it suitably. He lacked sensitivity to the inherent emotion of the piece, taking the song out of context from the ballet and therefore disarming it of meaning, and he favored his left hand in an obvious way. Alexei played the song for impact. He chose what the listener should feel and when, rather than trusting the intended meaning to come through from the original. And even that manufactured emotion felt inauthentic. His rendition was like asking someone who had never tasted saffron to somehow replicate the flavor. As a person and a musician, he lacked depth. He was emotionally sterile, which was perhaps the greatest offense he brought to the piano.

  We were philosophically at odds. I doubted very much that he had any special affinity for music. He touched the keys as a student who had been instructed to do just so. His body was rigid on the bench, immune to the harmonies that poured out from his hands. It had always been my assumption that Alexei played for money, recognition, and because somewhere along the line he’d been told to do so and excel at it in the process.

  Of course, one could say that it made me a hypocritical asshole to condemn a man’s pursuit of fame and fortune when I had both and required neither. But I hadn’t practiced twelve to fifteen hours every day for the checks it had earned me. I hadn’t endured muscle cramps and tedious repetition for the satisfaction of my name on a marquee. I played because I fucking loved the piano.

  The first time I set my fingers to the keys, I’d been fascinated, enthralled. The first time I performed onstage for a crowd that had paid to see me, I knew I’d found my purpose in life and nothing would ever fulfill
me the same way.

  I realized then, as I stared down at my leg, that the fingers on my left hand pantomimed the notes while my foot rode the imaginary pedal. My head pounded, either from the whiskey or the persistent agitation I’d felt for the last week. What made me sick? The memory of why I gave up my passion or the effort it took to abstain in favor of nursing my fear and anxiety?

  “Baby,” Hadley whimpered at my ear, “you said you’d take me to the Taylor Swift concert. There aren’t even any words to this song.”

  I tried for a smile in return, though I’m sure I failed. To her credit, Hadley didn’t let it show if she was disappointed that her joke didn’t have the desired outcome. I kissed her temple, squeezing her hand tighter.

  For the remainder of the performance, my fingers wandered through the air with my tongue piercing flicking through my teeth like a metronome.

  * * *

  The reception was dry: dry conversation, dry personalities, dry of anything mood-altering to imbibe. We’d finished off the last of the flask while trekking across the courtyard to the reception hall. Hadley made a valiant effort to dig my demeanor out of the ditch, but I found myself distracted.

  “Hey.” She tugged the end of my tie, demanding my attention.

  We stood off in a corner of the room, doing our best to survive the night unnoticed.

  “If you don’t at least pretend to stare at my tits or cop a feel of my ass, I will be forced to take drastic measures.”

  Okay. Now I was listening.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ignore you.”

  “I’m here to distract you and otherwise save you from yourself, right?”

  “Essentially. And you’ve been great company. I’m just—”

  “I know. But how can I charm you with my biting wit if you keep scanning the room like someone is going to jump out and attack at any second?”

  “Good point.”

  “Ask me to dance.”

  “You hate dancing. More to the point, you can’t dance. You sort of have this flailing, jerking, Elaine Benes thing that you do, but it definitely isn’t dancing.”

  Punky fisted her hand in the waistband of my pants and tugged me against her chest. With narrow eyes and a low voice she said, “Listen, MacKay. When a woman gives you an invitation to handle her in public, you count your lucky stars and take her to the floor.”

  Fuck, I loved this girl.

  I escorted her to the center of the room where faculty and a few students danced to the live string ensemble. As my mother had taught me, I took Hadley’s waist and one hand in mine, leading her through the waltz. She proceeded to step on my feet on every third beat.

  “Let me lead,” I said.

  “I am. I thought you knew what you were doing.”

  I pulled her body flush against mine, trapping her hand to my shoulder. I could and would command her body. Hadley sucked in a sharp breath, tensing before releasing her muscles to my control. As she relaxed, her head came to rest against my chest.

  “Not half bad, huh?”

  “This isn’t even dancing anymore,” she said. “This is just foreplay.”

  “Sweetheart, leaving the house was foreplay.”

  “May I cut in?” Alexei asked in a thick Russian accent.

  Oh, for the love of Christ. How was it possible that in a single day I could be interrupted three times from wooing—yes, fucking wooing her panties right to the goddamn floor—the woman I needed to bed with a fiery urgency that threatened to cripple my dick?

  Seriously. I wanted an answer.

  Was this my punishment for years of inaction? Here. You finally have the object of your desire within your grasp. Now the universe will conspire against you and force you into eternal celibacy.

  Fuck.

  I closed my eyes, held Hadley against my chest, and didn’t lose a step as I replied. “No.”

  “Not even for an old friend?”

  Hadley hesitated in my arms. I squeezed her hand, urging her not to react.

  “Touch her, and I’ll break every bone in your hand,” I warned.

  Hadley’s fingers closed around my lapel.

  Chapter 20

  Session 6

  “And then what happened?” she asked.

  I looked up from the ruled lines of my notebook with indifference. Sitting in the cramped office, Not-Doctor Reid appraised me. Not-doctor, because she was only a doctoral candidate assigned to the student counseling center. According to my father, she’d come recommended from my former therapist, who was a colleague of her advisor. Apparently, she was perfect for me. I had yet to figure out why.

  “You already know the answer to that,” I replied.

  She was dressed in a plain casual shirt and jeans. That always bothered me. I hadn’t dressed up for our appointment. I never did. Nevertheless, it seemed only proper that the therapist should attempt a look of professionalism. The least Not-Doctor Reid could do was wear a blouse with buttons and a collar while she listened to me confess my soul.

  “You fractured his jaw.”

  “No.”

  “No? That’s what I read from the initial complaint. Is it inaccurate?”

  “Not Alexei.”

  “Right.” She glanced down at her iPad. “Gregor. Alexei’s mentor.”

  My fists clenched. I toyed with my tongue piercing, slipping it between my lips. “He approached us next.”

  “Gregor put his hand on your shoulder.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “He put his hand on your shoulder and then you fractured his jaw.”

  I remained silent.

  “How?”

  “How? With my fist. I punched him.”

  “I didn’t know that was possible.”

  “Really?” It felt like she was toying with me, looking for a reaction. “Of course it is.”

  “One punch.”

  “Just one,” I repeated. “That’s all it takes if you do it right.”

  “Had you done it before? Fractured a man’s jaw.”

  “No.”

  “But you’d considered it. You’d considered how to do it right.”

  “I knew I wanted to hit him as hard as I could. I did.”

  “You describe sex in vivid detail,” Not-Doctor Reid observed, pivoting the topic. “Your recent encounters and personal thoughts.”

  I had no response to that worth lending a voice.

  “But not your abuse. You refer to it often, though you hesitate to elaborate.”

  “And I won’t.”

  The topic was irrelevant to this discussion. For that matter, it was not pertinent to the purpose of these sessions. To avoid criminal charges, I was to submit to counseling twice a week for the duration of the semester, at which point she would deem me fit to continue my enrollment or recommend expulsion from the university. We’d gotten the topic of my lack of remorse for the altercation with Gregor out of the way at the outset. The only question left to answer was whether I was, in fact, a loaded gun primed for violence, and therefore a threat to others and myself.

  It was all a bit melodramatic for my taste. It wasn’t like I’d attacked the man without a good reason. She was aware of my history.

  “Why?”

  She wasn’t getting an answer to such a stupid question.

  “I’d like to hear more.” Not-Doctor Reid settled back in her chair. “Are you ready to continue?”

  Chapter 21

  I leaned against the window of the hired car for which I was now paying overtime after a trip to the hospital to have my broken hand set. Considering the damage and outrage Hadley and I had fled from at the reception, it wasn’t that bad. I could still play the gig tomorrow night. It would hurt, but I could manage.

  “Why did you lie about your parents?” I asked.

  Hadley looked at me first with incredulity and then a scathing scowl. “Really? That’s the question you want to ask? Right now? Fuck, Josh. Do you have an
y idea how much trouble you’re in? We should have stayed. You know they called the campus police.”

  “Yes, I want to know. Yes, I have a pretty good idea to what degree I’m fucked. No, if we’d stayed, I wouldn’t have hit him only once.”

  She slouched beside me. In the front seat, the driver kept his eyes on the road, ignoring us with professional ease.

  “I was a kid,” she huffed.

  “We haven’t been kids since we were five.”

  I had never mourned the loss of my childhood and innocence. It had never occurred to me to do so.

  “That’s what I told everyone,” she answered after a weighted pause. “You didn’t grow up like I did. You didn’t go to school at first, subjected to other kids. When everyone knows you’re adopted, they ask the same question: What happened to your parents? When you tell them it was a car accident, that’s the end of the conversation. They assume it was a gory mess and then move on to pitying you in silence.”

  Hadley looked out the opposite window, her features cast in flickering shadows as we passed other cars on the highway. “What do you suppose they’d say if I told them my parents were murdered in a home invasion? You can’t get out of that with a two-word response. ‘Were you home at the time? Did you see it happen? Did you scream when you saw the bullet punch a hole in your father’s head? Why are you still alive?’” She turned her eyes back to mine. They were cold, tired. “I had told the lie for so long that it was just a reflex. I’m sorry.”

  I took her hand, tugging her closer until she rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s okay. I get it. I just needed to know.” I exhaled against her hair, pushing it back over her shoulder. “I didn’t care that you’d lied—yes, we were young and I can’t hold it against you—but that there was something so important about you that I didn’t know. That part hurt.”

  “Imagine how I felt when you stopped talking to me.”

  I deserved that.

  “This amazing thing happened, and then something terrible, and I couldn’t go to my best friend. And because it was you, us, I couldn’t talk to anyone else about it either. I’ve never felt so alone.”