Pull

by Claire Wallis

  Fifteen minutes after we leave, I’m banging on the door of a shit hole in the east end of the city.

  “Open the goddamned door, Nikki. I know you’re in there,” I scream, even though I know she isn’t. My fist is hammering on the door, and I start to kick at the base with my foot. “Open the fucking door! Open it.”

  A few seconds later, I hear a voice from inside.

  “What kind of fool is bangin’ on my door like a motherfuckin’ jackhammer? You gonna meet your end when I open this door, motherfuckin' piece of shit.”

  Perfect. Franklin is home.

  “Fuck you, Franklin,” I shout at the door. “I know she’s in there. Bring that bitch out here before I beat in this door and your fucking head.”

  “Shit. David, is that you, you little punkass pussy?” Franklin whips open the door. “Jesus Christ, you fool. What the fuck do you want?” He’s standing in the open doorway in a stained wife-beater, holding a 40 of King Cobra and a remote. He’s rocked out of his mind.

  “Where is she?” I try to push past him, but he won’t budge. “Where is that thieving bitch?”

  “She ain’t here, so slow your fuckin’ self down, boy,” he says calmly. I run my hand through my hair and exhale sharply. “Besides, you got a lotta balls showin’ up here askin’ for her. You’re lucky I ain’t beating your ass already for what your pretty-face boys done the other night. They came in here and stole my fuckin’ woman right out from under my fists, and I ain’t seen her since.”

  “Yea, well, they didn’t do it for me, that’s for fucking sure,” I spit at him.

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, man? What the hell is goin’ on?” Franklin’s eyes are glazed with rage, but I think he’s too high to do anything other than stand there and stare at me.

  “Nikki stole my fucking money, that’s what’s going on,” I say matter-of-factly. “My boys came here to get her ’cause Ray told them to. He had a job for her or something. When they came back with her and Ray saw how demolished she was, he left her with me and told me to clean her the fuck up. So I did. And then that bitch thanked me by stealing my money. Eighteen-hundred fucking dollars, Franklin. And I want it back.”

  “Well, like I said, she ain’t been back here since your boys took her. And you can tell those fools they’re lucky I ain’t pressing charges against them for kidnappin’ my woman. They better watch themselves.”

  I stand stock still on his half-rotten porch, put my left hand in my pocket, and shake my head from side to side very slowly.

  “You don’t want to do that,” I say, rolling my little yellow Emma between my fingers, “’cause if you go after them, Ray will come after you. And, trust me, you do not want that. Ray already thinks you’re hiding Nikki and my money, and he’s pissed as fuck that he’s lost his best girl. He wanted to come here with me and beat the living shit out of you. Hell, that’s sugar-coating it—he flat-out wants to take you down over this, but I told him I’d handle it. So I suggest you forget your grudge with my boys and let me take care of Ray. I want my eighteen-hundred dollars back, but it isn’t worth anyone getting killed. Not even your sorry ass.”

  I step up into Franklin’s face and lower my voice. I release Emma back into my pocket, grab the straps of his wife-beater, and pull him to me. I need to make sure he hears what I’m going to say next.

  “But if you’re lying to us and she’s here, I’m not responsible for what Ray does when he finds out. ’Cause he will find out.” I let go of Franklin’s shirt, smooth it flat with my palms, turn on my heel, and drive straight to Ray’s.

  Chapter 23

  Matt—Present Day

  I’ve been waiting for today for a very long time. At eight o’clock tonight, Chris Claremont is going to do a live video chat with Crazy Dog Comics, and I have one of only three-dozen tickets. I mean, the dude wrote Uncanny Avengers for seventeen years—he’s a genius. I made a list of questions to ask if there’s a Q and A. It’s been sitting on my desk all day, and I’ve been tweaking and prioritizing my questions since lunchtime. I am going to relish every moment I have with this amazing man. It’s gonna be so cool.

  Emma comes to my cubicle a few minutes before six to tell me to have a nice evening. She asks me if I have plans for the night, but I don’t tell her about Chris Claremont. Instead, I tell her I’m going to stick around at work to finish a few things and then head home. She says David is going to pick her up tonight, so she’s heading down to meet him on the corner. I’m sure he’s already waiting for her. He’s probably been there since five.

  I’m in no rush to get out of here because all I have to do is grab a quick bite to eat before I head over to Crazy Dog’s. I study my questions for another fifteen minutes or so before I grab my stuff and head to my car. As I pull out of the parking garage and around the corner, I see Emma standing at the curb, talking on her cell phone. But I don’t see David or his car. I decide to drive around the block and stop to ask her if everything is alright.

  When I pull up next to her and roll down the window, I call out and ask her what’s going on. She says David never showed up, and he isn’t answering his cell phone. Her eyes dart up and down the street as she’s talking, and I can tell that she’s freaking out. Completely freaking out. I tell her to get in the car, and I’ll take her home. She says no, she can take the bus. I lie and tell her I have nothing better to do.

  On the drive, Emma keeps texting David and calling him over and over again, leaving voicemails that sound more and more frantic. I repeatedly tell her to calm down, but my efforts are apparently fruitless because by the time we pull onto Harborough Street, she’s completely bonkers. She knows I’m aware of her brother’s deal with David, and in the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking Ricky has something to do with why David didn’t show up. I know I am. I hope it wasn’t a mistake for me to bring her here. What if her psycho brother is standing at her door? Shit.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I’m sweating, that’s what I’m doing.

  We pull into the parking lot of her apartment building, and thankfully, no one seems to be around. I follow Emma inside. She unlocks and opens her apartment door, rushing from room to room and calling for David. But he isn’t here. She pushes past me, heads out the door, and runs up to his apartment; her feet rapidly stomping up the stairs.

  “Fuck,” she says as I run after her.

  When I get to David’s door, she’s standing in the middle of his living room open-mouthed, her eyes popping out of her head like some loony cartoon character. David isn’t here either. No one is.

  “Fuck,” she says again. I watch the worry on her face melt into sheer panic. I need to do something. To say something. Only I don’t know what. I’ve never been good in these situations. I’m always afraid I’ll say something wrong.

  “I’m sure he just got held up somewhere,” I say at last, trying to find the right words. “He probably just lost track of time.” Her eyes snap over to me, and her brow furrows. The panic is gone in an instant, and I watch a flush of blood—hidden just beneath her skin—travel up her neck and across her face. Whoa. This woman is as angry as a wet hen. I can practically smell the ferocity leaking out of her pores. The intensity of her anger makes me feel fragile. Weak. Is she angry at me for what I said? I was just trying to make her feel better.

  No. It can’t be that. It has to be more.

  “David doesn’t lose track of time, Matt,” she says sharply, her jaw tight and her hands balled into fists at her sides. She turns in a circle, looking around the apartment for some clue as to what the hell is going on. I can see her thinking. Her fisted hands crash against the top of her thighs, making a stiff smack that vibrates through David’s hollow apartment.

  “My fucking brother,” she says at last, through gritted teeth.

  “What?” I ask quietly, afraid to piss her off.

  “Ricky. This is because of him.” Her voice is biting and crisp, the words sound sick on her tongue.


  “You don’t know that. You’re jumping to conclusions,” I say, trying to force her to examine another possible, less insane, explanation. When her eyes sink into me, I wish so badly that I wasn’t here. I wish I were where I’m supposed to be: walking into Crazy Dog Comics to meet one of my heroes. She’s about to burst.

  “It’s him. He’s done something to David, and I swear to God, when I find that motherfucker I’m going to do what I should’ve done a long time ago.” She starts walking past me and out the open door. I follow her down the stairs.

  “You can’t let your brother know you’re still alive!” I shout at her in the hallway. Just before her hand hits her doorknob, she stills and turns to me, putting her hand to her face and grasping the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She closes her eyes.

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Matt. This whole damn apartment building does not need to know my business. No one does.” She drops her hand and opens her eyes. “Not even you,” she adds smartly as she turns to open her door and walks in.

  She doesn’t close the door behind her, and I’m left wondering if I should follow her in or get the fuck out of here as fast as I can. This is not the Emma I know. This Emma is scaring the shit out of me. This Emma needs a damn Xanax.

  I take a deep breath and follow her into the apartment, gently closing the door behind me. Once I’m inside, she turns to me, and her body and eyes soften. I think she might start to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” she says with a deep sigh, rushing to me and wrapping her arms around my body. I can feel her heart pounding through my shirt. She’s hugging me, and I’m completely surprised.

  “I’m really sorry,” she says again, her face against my chest. “I’m just so freaked out. My head is spinning. I’m just…I just got really, really angry. I’m afraid that shit is hitting the fan, and I don’t know what to do.”

  I hug her back, still expecting her to cry. She doesn’t though, and after a minute passes, she drops her hands and steps back away from me. She looks more composed now. More in control.

  “Don’t worry about it.” A small smile presses into my lips. Her eyes are filled with concern, but I know it’s for David and not for me. That’s okay, though, because someday, when I love someone like this, it’ll be the same for me. I’ll worry about them if they aren’t where they’re supposed to be. I’ll think about them all the time. I’ll want to protect them. I’ll be just like this when I get an Emma of my own.

  “I need to check my phone again to see if he called,” she says eventually, breaking my trance and slipping into action. She walks over to grab her purse from the table.

  The moment her hand touches the bag, there’s a knock at the door.

  Motherfucking hell.

  My breath leaves me in a hot rush, and my nerves flick to attention. Emma looks over at me, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Her hand, the one now lifting the purse, is frozen. Is David out there? Jesus, I hope so. But what if it’s her brother instead? What the fuck am I supposed to do if it’s him? Did I lock the door behind me? Shit.

  We’re both stiff and unmoving. Emma’s eyes close for a quick second before she takes a breath. In a flash, instead of answering the door, she’s running back to her bedroom. I follow her, not knowing what else to do. When I hit her doorway, I see that she’s already opened the bottom drawer of her nightstand. She’s fishing around in there for something, but she must not find what she’s looking for because three seconds later, when she stands up, she’s empty-handed. I see nothing but a face full of confusion. Her expression is ringing with questions, and for some reason, it makes me want to hug her again. I want to tell her that everything will be alright, even though it’s probably a lie.

  Emma rushes past me again and walks back out to the living room. About ten paces away from the wooden door, she stops dead in her tracks.

  “Who is it?” she says harshly. Not an ounce of fear permeates her voice, even though her body language is soaked with it. This woman has balls. They must be made of titanium. And it’s a good thing, because mine have turned to mush.

  The video chat with Chris Claremont is officially off my radar.

  Chapter 24

  David—Age 11

  I think I might be the only kid who doesn’t love Christmas. At least not like most kids do. And it isn’t because I haven’t gotten a present for the past five years. Or even because it reminds me of my dead mother. It’s because no one wants a contractor in their house during the holiday break. And, since he can’t be at work, it means that my dad is either one of two places: sitting at the bar at Peyton’s or home with me.

  Today, he’s home with me. It’s Christmas Eve day, and the only reason he isn’t at Peyton’s is because they decided to close to let the bartenders and servers spend time with their families. I’m happy they’re closed this year because it means that maybe me and my dad will have a decent Christmas. Maybe we’ll just sit here, watching TV together and eating noodle soup and Hot Pockets. Maybe this year he’ll stay sober enough to remember that tomorrow is Christmas. Maybe he even got me a present. He forgot last year—and the four years before that—but he promised that he would never forget again. He promised that he would get me something extra good this year. He was drunk when he said it, but I bet he remembers. He remembers a lot of things.

  I still got him something, just like I always do. I got him a new tape measure with a built-in leveler. I used some of the money I made mowing the Clevers' lawn last summer. I know he’s mean, but everyone deserves at least one Christmas present. I got myself something, too, just in case he forgets. I got myself a new ball cap. It’s got the Cubs logo on it. I wrapped it and everything. Too bad there’s no tree to put it under.

  I used to put up a Christmas tree. Last year and the year before, I saved some of the grocery money and dragged a tree home from the Rotary Club’s tree lot. I decorated it with all the ornaments my mother had collected since she was a girl. I still remember the stories behind most of them. She got the glass snowman on the boardwalk when she was a teenager. She painted the wooden soldier with her mother the winter she had the chickenpox. I made the plaster bell with my school picture pasted on the front in preschool. She and my dad received the paper mache bride and groom on their wedding day. I used to unwrap each ornament from its little nest of tissue paper and hang it on the tree, just like I did with her every December, before she got sad. Then when the New Year had passed, I would put them all away again and take the dead tree out to the curb with the trash.

  But this year, I didn’t do any of it. Because this year, my dad said no. He said he hates those damn ornaments. So even though I really wanted one, I didn’t put up a tree. And as a result, it doesn’t even seem like tomorrow is Christmas. It seems like it’s Tuesday.

  At five o’clock, me and my dad are watching TV when someone knocks on the door. I look over at him. I’m completely surprised to see a small smile on his face, as if he already knows who’s out there. He stands up and walks over to the door. When it’s open, I see a woman standing there. I can’t see her face because he’s blocking her, but I see half of a black skirt and a red blouse. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. He puts his hands on her waist. I think immediately that she must be a crazy person to want to kiss my father. I feel like I’m going to retch. I take my eyes off them and put them back on the television, pretending the grown-ups don’t exist.

  Their kiss must be over quickly because a second later I hear him invite her in. She says thank you, and then I hear the heels of her shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. I just cleaned it yesterday. I hope she wiped her feet on the mat before she came in. I try to focus on the television as I hear the footsteps grow closer.

  “David, this is Ellie,” my dad says, the two of them stepping between me and the television. “She’s having dinner with us tonight.”

  I look up at him wondering where he’s going to get a dinner decent enough to serve to someone named Ellie.

  “Hi
. Nice to meet you,” I say. She looks pretty normal. Straight blonde hair. Sunken brown eyes. Thin body. Maybe she isn’t a crazy person after all. She offers me her hand to shake. I sit forward and take it. It’s cold and hard, like it’s made of plastic. She bends forward, her chest now at eye level, and I can smell her breath.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” she says, a mist of alcohol flooding out around her words. She smells just like my father. Now I’m officially disgusted. “So, your dad tells me you’re in the fifth grade.” She releases my hand and stands back upright. “How’s that going for you?”

  “It’s okay.” I return my eyes to the TV, not wanting to egg her on. My father walks away from us and toward the kitchen. I hear him getting glasses out of the cabinet and filling them with ice as she sits down on the sofa next to me. Then I hear him pouring.

  “I remember the fifth grade. I had the biggest crush on this boy named Joseph. He had the nicest hair. You have nice hair, just like he did. I bet all the girls have crushes on you, too.” I keep my eyes on the TV because I don’t want to throw up.

  “Not really,” I say. I really, really, really don’t want to be sitting next to her anymore. I want to get out of the room, but I know my father won’t like it if I do. I’m about to announce that I have to go to the bathroom when my father returns to the living room with two tumblers of whiskey and a can of Coke in his hands. He passes one of the whiskeys to her and holds the Coke out to me. I don’t know what to do. He’s never brought anything out for me before. He shakes it a little from side to side and nods his head as if to tell me that it really is mine to take. I reach up and take it out of his hand. The can is not nearly as cold as Ellie’s hands. A lukewarm Christmas Eve Coke. Yum. But I don’t say a word. I open the top and drink it until it’s gone.

  Three hours later, Ellie is sitting on my father’s lap and the pair of them are drunker than a couple of rum-soaked pirates. We haven’t had a single bite to eat, and my stomach is growling like crazy. I’ve been trying my best to ignore them, but every time I try to leave the room, my father clears his throat and tells me not to disappoint him in front of our guest. I’ve watched two different Christmas movies while they’ve sat there drinking and joking and touching each other. It’s torturous. And dumb. Once again, I want to be anywhere but here.