Faultlines

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  He smiled, too, but the look he gave Libby held none of that warmth. She felt he was assessing her, putting her on notice, but then he and his family were quickly gone, and she thought it might as easily have been her imagination.

  She drove Jordan home in Beck’s truck, over his protests. When she stopped at the end of the road that led to the highway, he got out and opened the gate, waited for her to pass through, then locked it behind her.

  She thanked him when he got back into the truck, and after they’d driven several miles in silence, she said, “I could really use some help at the cottage with the landscaping, but I don’t want you hitchhiking—unless you already have a job.” She hadn’t thought of that.

  But he said he didn’t. “I could probably get somebody to bring me. Not my mom,” he added quickly.

  No, Libby thought.

  “It might be hard to work out a regular schedule, though, since I’d have to rely on somebody to give me a ride.”

  Talking further, they decided he would call when he could arrange transportation, and when she offered him fifteen an hour, he said it would be great. “It’s more than Mom pays me.”

  Now that it was settled, Libby questioned her sanity. Why was she doing this, involving him in her life? But she could already tell there was no use in arguing with herself. This is Beck’s son, a voice in her head said, and it was as if Beck were there, riding beside her. She could reach out and touch him, and he would be warm and real. If all things were truly possible.

  She glanced at Jordan. He didn’t resemble Beck so much in profile. His nose was shorter and slightly upturned. Beck’s nose had been long and straight, what people called a Roman nose. Libby had never seen Sandy close up. Jordan might have her nose, for all she knew. She said, “I’m surprised you aren’t working for your mom this summer.”

  “It’s better if we’re not around each other right now.”

  Libby waited, knowing from her work as a guidance counselor that silence could be unnerving, that it would often get a person talking simply to fill the void. She didn’t know what to say, in any case. She didn’t know why she was thinking of tactics that might lead him to confide in her. To what end? What would she do with any information he gave her? She didn’t know if she had ever in her life felt so uncertain, so unsure of her role. But she was drawn to him, that much was undeniable.

  He said, “It’s no secret, I’m in a lot of deep shit. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Huck is a great guy, or he used to be. He was at my aunt Jenna’s a lot when me and Trav were kids.”

  “I heard your uncle was killed in the line of duty,” Libby said. “In San Antonio? He and Sergeant Huckabee were partners, right?” They’d reached town, and Libby stopped at a red light.

  “Yeah, Huck was kind of like a dad to Travis. He did stuff with both of us. Once he even helped me and Travis build a soapbox-derby car. We raced it in Dallas and a few other places around Texas.”

  “Did you win?” Libby headed through the intersection and picked up speed.

  “Nah. We didn’t care. It was just for fun. You should slow down. My house—see that little road up there with the green mailbox? That’s where you turn.”

  She followed his directions, cresting a short hill. The house, a low-slung ranch style with a rusty metal roof and a deep front porch, came into view. What if his mother was home? The possibility had needled Libby’s mind the entire way here.

  “My mom’s on a job.”

  Libby darted a glance at Jordan, and it was in his eyes that he’d read her mind. She parked in front of the basketball goal. The net was missing, and the plastic, sand-filled base was faded. It looked well used. “Do you play?”

  Jordan said, “For fun, yeah.”

  Libby said, “I grew up in a neighborhood full of basketball-playing boys, mostly older than me. Sometimes they let me hang out with them. They taught me the game.” She remembered the slap of the ball on the concrete, the endless taunts and whoops of laughter, summer nights playing endless games of H-O-R-S-E. They’d never liked it when she won.

  “Trav and I played football in high school. We were cocaptains. I don’t really know why I got picked for the job, but Trav—he was a natural-born leader. He never let anyone quit, never let them get down. No matter how bad you screwed up, he’d be there for you. You know the rule ‘No pass, no play’?”

  Libby nodded.

  “The center on our team, Brad Strong—he couldn’t get algebra, not the simplest equation, and he was flunking big-time. He was all, like, ready to quit to avoid getting booted him off the team, but Trav wouldn’t let him. He tutored Brad—nights, weekends, before school, whatever—and he never asked for a dime. He knew Brad didn’t have it. Trav helped other kids with their grades, too, not just football players. He never took a fee unless they could afford it.”

  “Brad passed?”

  “He made a B.”

  “Pretty impressive,” Libby said. It was. She remembered what Augie had told her about Travis, that he’d worked with special-needs kids when he had extra time. It made her heart ache to think of his loss, of what he might have become, the contribution to the lives of others he might have made had his life not been extinguished so soon. Such a waste.

  “Trav was the best,” Jordan said, and then, after a heartbeat, he added, “I wasn’t driving.”

  Libby looked at him; he was staring straight ahead.

  “We were on the lake all day. Michelle’s folks have a real nice place. They’ve got boats, a couple of Jet Skis. Her mom and dad are pretty cool, too. They’re not all uptight if we have a beer or something.”

  Libby didn’t say anything.

  “We’re almost twenty-one, anyway.” He waited, and when Libby didn’t fill the silence, he said, “I know you shouldn’t drink and drive. I mean, I know it when I’m sober. Everybody does, I guess.”

  “But that night you weren’t sober.”

  “No. We’d been drinking pretty much all day. We slept some in the afternoon when it got really hot, but you know . . . we kind of started in again when we got up. Michelle’s folks cooked hamburgers, and we ate. I wanted to just chill there, watch a movie or something, but Trav was wired, like, he ate dinner, drank a couple more beers, and got his second wind or something. He wanted to shoot off firecrackers.”

  Jordan wiped his face and made a noise deep in his throat. It sounded to Libby like a protest of sorts. It sounded like a wish to not tell the rest, or to change it somehow.

  He said, “We’d already shot off everything we had over the Fourth, but the stands stay open around here for a few extra days till they sell out, or sell as much as they can. I didn’t know how bad off Trav was, or I would never have given him my keys, but he’s usually all right to drive. He doesn’t get wasted.”

  “Were you doing something more than drinking?”

  Jordan didn’t answer. He wiped his face again. “X,” he said. “We took some Ecstasy, but I don’t think they found it when they did the tox screen at the hospital, or they would have said something, so maybe it wore off.”

  “I don’t know,” Libby said. “Alcohol and drugs in combination—” She stopped, not wanting to come off as if she were preaching. She sensed it was important to let him talk.

  “We were going to go to this stand outside Greeley, but we couldn’t find it, and somehow we got off on 440, and Trav’s flying down the road like he’s Mario Andretti. Michelle was in back, and she’s screaming at him to slow down, but he said no, he was going to see how fast the old mothereffer could go—it was crazy. I never saw him like that.”

  “You weren’t wearing seat belts.” Libby had heard this from Augie or Ruth.

  Jordan shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I looked at the speedometer right before he lost control; he was pushing a hundred miles an hour. I was freaking, too—440 is bad enough when you’re sober.” His voice caught. He cleared his throat.

  They shared a silence, Libby looki
ng in the rearview. She kept expecting to see Jordan’s mother pulling up onto the driveway.

  Jordan scrubbed his hands down his thighs. “Airbags only partially inflated. Travis went out the driver’s-side window. He landed about twenty feet away in some grass. I remember my head slamming into the passenger-side window, but when I came to, I was in the driver’s seat. I don’t know how I got there, or how long it was before I woke up, but I was real confused. I thought I was at home and had fallen out of bed. It was weird.”

  He stopped and took a breath, steadying himself. His throat worked with the effort. A pulse throbbed at his temple. She wanted to tell him he didn’t have to go on, but he lifted a hand, as if he’d read her mind again.

  “Michelle was, like, whimpering, but she said she was okay when I asked her.” Jordan took a moment, scouring his legs with his palms again. “Then I looked around for Trav, and I saw him in the grass, all twisted up, not moving—I don’t know—it’s like something took over, and somehow I got out of the car and over to him. I said his name, I tried to get him to wake up, but I kept passing out. ‘C’mon, man. I love you, man.’ I kept saying it. I kept saying his name and that I loved him and then I’d pass out—”

  Libby put her hand on his arm; she couldn’t stop herself. He sounded so broken.

  “If people find out Trav was driving, they’re going to hate him like they hate me. I don’t want that to happen. He’s dead now. All that’s left is his memory, and I’m not screwing that up. If I have to go to prison—so I will.”

  “I can understand why you feel that way, but would Travis want you taking the blame?”

  “Well, I’m not. I keep telling everyone I wasn’t driving.”

  “But you have to do more, say more than that, right? What about your attorney? Have you told him the whole story?”

  “Yeah, but the evidence—plus, everybody—I mean, I’ve got kind of a reputation for drinking a lot, you know?”

  “Do you? Drink too much?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. Anyway, there’s a witness who says he saw me driving that night. I remember there was this pickup truck coming from the opposite direction. We were in his lane, going right for him. I don’t know how we kept from hitting him head-on.”

  “The driver of the truck that was coming at you? He’s the witness?”

  “I don’t think so. That guy says we passed him, and he saw me in the driver’s seat. The truck I remember was coming from the other way, but my brain was messed up, I might not be remembering right. Anyway, I was yelling at Trav the whole time. I was so scared.”

  “I can only imagine,” Libby said, and it was true. She’d never been in a car accident, not even a fender bender.

  “My attorney seems pretty sure we can make a deal. I could get off with probation, community service, since it’s my first offense. The only problem is Huck. He’s not going to let me off. He knows the judges around here. He’s got all the cops on his side. They’ll make sure I go to prison. It’s what Huck wants.”

  “Why?” Libby asked. “Why is he after you?”

  Jordan looked at her, looked away, and then back. And then he told her.

  Ricky Burrows was sitting on the front porch steps at the cottage when Libby got back from Jordan’s.

  He stood up when she got out of the car. “I hope you don’t mind that I waited.”

  “No. It’s fine.” She’d stopped in town at the grocery store and bought a few things, a fully cooked rotisserie chicken, the makings for a salad. It was ridiculous when she had a refrigerator full of food. Coleta Huckabee’s tamales, for one. But after talking to Jordan, she wasn’t in the mood for tamales, or much of anything else associated with the Huckabees. She shifted the sack to her other arm, letting herself through the gate.

  “I was wondering about your plans for the house,” Ricky said. “I talked to Augie, but he wasn’t sure.”

  “That’s because I’m not sure.” Libby paused at the foot of the steps. “It’s awfully big for one person. I really don’t know what I want to do.” Part of her wanted to build the house anyway, because Beck had designed it. She had the money. The attorney who was handling Beck’s estate had said she would be fine, that Beck had been overly cautious in his concern about their finances, which was typical of him.

  “You could make it smaller.” Ricky looked intently at her.

  “I suppose I could.”

  “So, are you going back to Houston, then? Maybe you want to renovate this.” He waved an arm, indicating the cottage.

  “Are you looking for work? Is that why you came?” She scrambled, trying to come up with any odd jobs she might hire him to do. She asked about his truck, whether he’d ever heard anything from the police regarding the damage, who was responsible, and it only made her feel worse when he said no. She thought how she’d meant to go to the Greeley police about the incident and hadn’t. So much had happened.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Not your fault,” he said.

  “No, but it happened on my property.” It didn’t make much sense that she felt responsible, but there it was—her brain, taking on the sins of the world. “You know it’s possible that Beck was the intended target, not you, and whoever did it keyed the wrong truck. They would have come from Houston,” she said when Ricky looked perplexed. “It’s a business thing, a grudge, I guess you’d call it.” She didn’t want to get into the whole issue with the lawsuit and the hostility that had ensued as a result.

  Ricky’s grin was one-sided, commiserating. He said he knew about grudges.

  “If you get me an estimate for a repair on your truck, I’m happy to pay for it. I should have offered before now.” Why hadn’t she?

  “Nah. How would it look? A shiny door on my old beater?” He went to the gate.

  “I’ll make a decision about the house soon,” she said.

  “I talked to Sergeant Huckabee.” Ricky went through the gate, and as he closed it he looked back at her.

  “Was he any help?”

  “Everything these days is for a price. You ever notice that? Cops are no different.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Nothing. Cops just piss me off in general, you know?” He smiled another crooked smile and got into his truck, and when he waved as he drove away, she waved back, thinking it must be so frustrating, coming all the way here from Colorado, looking for a break, a fresh start, only to have every door slam in your face.

  10

  Sandy saw the woman loitering by the cart-return area nearest her truck when she came out of the grocery store, and as she passed her, she had a sense of the woman’s stare drilling her back like the hot August glare. She stowed her bags of groceries, searching her mind for a reference, and found none. She was pretty sure she’d never seen the woman before. But when she turned, there the woman was, so close Sandy took an involuntary backward step.

  “You’re Jordy Cline’s mother.” The woman wasn’t asking so much as she was making an accusation. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was shaking as if she were cold, which was ridiculous given that the temperature was still hovering near one hundred degrees. She was sweating, so much that her short, dark hair was plastered to her cheeks and temples. She looked worn-out, used up, battered by fatigue, maybe, or grief, or insanity.

  Something about her was off. Sandy could feel it. She realized the woman had no purse, no car keys in hand. How had she gotten here? Common sense warned she should get into her truck and go, but a less cautious impulse ruled, keeping her in place, trying to sort out the woman’s identity, her problem, whether she needed help.

  “I’m Patsy Meade,” the woman said, watching Sandy as if waiting for a sign of recognition.

  But Sandy was clueless and shook her head.

  “Michelle Meade’s mother?” The woman—Patsy—bit off the words. “I’m the mother of the beautiful girl your son put into a coma. The one who had her whole life ahead of her until your son got her into
his car and drove her around drunk. I understand he’s fine now, out of the hospital, walking around free, while his cousin is buried in a graveyard and my daughter might never wake up again. How does it feel? To be the mother of a monster?”

  “Jordy isn’t a monster.” Sandy dug in her purse for her keys. “He wasn’t driving.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Do you think denial serves you now? My understanding is your kid drinks—a lot more than he should—but you and your husband are blind to it.”

  “Jordan doesn’t drink more or less than—you don’t know anything about him.”

  “My daughter knows him quite well. She was concerned about him. Concerned! Both she and Travis were. As if it ever does any good to care about a drunk. They talked to me about him the weekend they were at the lake, and that’s what I told them. Cut him loose, stay away from him. I knew your son was bad news. I knew this was bound to happen. I just didn’t think—didn’t believe my daughter would be in the car—” Patsy broke off, looking away. She was shaking harder now.

  Sandy wanted to leave, but she didn’t feel able to lift her foot onto the truck’s running board. It was beyond her. She apologized, saying, “I’m sorry,” and it was difficult to hear her voice over the thudding of her heart, the ringing in her ears. She wasn’t sure about the apology. Something warned her that Roger wouldn’t be happy to hear she’d offered it. It might be construed as an admission of guilt. But that wasn’t it. She was sorry the way any human being, any mother, would be for what Patsy was going through—the fear and the worry, the constant dread for her child. She was sorry for Michelle, lying in a hospital bed, her outcome uncertain when she should be getting ready to return to classes at UT.

  She was sorry for Travis and Jenna and her parents. Emmett, Jordy, herself. Her sorrow pushed into her throat, as hard as a brick. It gripped her heart. She didn’t cry. She thought if she were ever to start, she’d never stop. She couldn’t see the end of it—all this grief.

  “I came to warn you.”

  Sandy looked at Patsy.