He felt tears but tightened up his insides until the urge left him. When he looked over at her she was nodding. She reached out and laid a hand on his good one, squeezed it.
“It’s a lonesome business, riding,” she said. “Maybe that’s why a man can get to love it so much. Maybe because there’s only him. Only him when the gate gets thrown wide and the bull or the bronc busts out into the open. Maybe there’s something in that moment that makes a man feel like it defines him, sketches him out, gives him detail. I don’t know, I’ve never done it. But I helped three men do it. Helped three men make it the focus of their lives. And I guess I learned something about it. I guess I learned a little about what it feels like, about how the ride feels, the thrill, the excitement, the danger. And maybe I know a little something about the sound of it too. The thump and grunt and crash of it, and the sound of the crowd. I know a little something about the noise of it all. How that sounds. But you know what?”
She looked at him. Waited.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t know anything about the quiet. The silence. I don’t know anything about how the silence feels when it’s over. When the lights go off in the arena and you’re left there standing with your rigging, the crowds are all gone, the arena’s empty and you stand there wondering what to do next. I don’t know anything about that. Cowboys always keep that one to themselves. Even your grandfather, even your daddy. So it makes it hard to understand how it must feel to you right now, knowing that those lights aren’t ever going up for you again, that the chute won’t get thrown open one more time. But if you were to tell me, maybe then I’d have a chance to get it. To know how that feels. Maybe then I’d know how to help you.”
He looked at her and she could see him searching for the words.
“I don’t know either,” he said. “It ain’t never been this quiet before.”
They looked at each other silently and she nodded.
She put the tips of her fingers to her face and traced the line of her cheekbones. In the mirror she watched her fingers rise and fall as they followed the line of contusion and then dipped into the natural hollow and felt the looseness of her teeth under the skin, and she pushed her tongue against them and felt the push against her fingers and winced at the sudden stab of pain. She dropped her hand and slid the middle finger of the other along one line of her jaw and then the other. There were bumps there and a heaviness at the mandible joint where his fist had landed most squarely and she opened and closed her mouth a few times and heard the crackle of bone on bone. She tried to smile but the split flesh of her lip was just beginning to heal and it held stiffly so that she managed only a grimace, the emptiness of her eyes giving it the perpetual flatness of a catatonic. She felt none of the reassurance the smile was meant to offer her and she tried to wink at herself but the puffed purple flesh around her eyes turned it into a garish tic and she settled for a squeezing together of the eyebrows, leaning in toward the glass and staring into the depths of her eyes. None of them had ever done this. None of the men. They’d always been disarmed by her beauty and the fact that she had actually chosen them so that when arguments erupted or differences became so starkly apparent she’d always been given a kind of immunity from the fallout, a grace culled from her startling exotic look, the half-bloodedness, the mulatto coffee-and-cream complexion and the great hazel sharpness of her eyes.
But he was different. She’d known that from the very start, but there was something in his power that pulled her along despite her misgivings. He knew things. He knew about a woman’s body, was fascinated with them, and he’d explored her fully, learning where to touch her, how she liked a finger placed, a tongue, the rhythm that turned her on and how to bring her to a point of release and let her go, building and stoking the fire in her until he finally took her over the edge. She felt plumbed, known and captive, and it was fascinating. The idea of a big, powerful man doing things to her body she’d never felt before was exciting. She’d given back, and that excited him further although he always retained control, always reined her in with a big palm on her buttocks or back. Then it turned mean. He started to take her. He’d simply walk in and have her, leave her limp and aching once he’d satisfied himself and watch television or demand to be fed. Staring at herself in the mirror, Claire wondered why she hadn’t left when it became obvious how cruel he could be. She cursed herself. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid about men. But hope was a strange thing. Hope could make you blind. Hope could tell you that things weren’t what they seemed, that some things were just a phase, a mood, a glitch. Hope could even convince you that if you did as you were told it would all smooth out in time and you’d wake up one morning wrapped in the arms of a man who adored you, worshipped you and sought only to fulfill you. But hope bruised too, and Claire fingered her swollen nose and felt the crush of loss that hurt more than the beating. Hope sometimes felt worse than dying.
There was nothing in the mirror of the vibrant, beautiful woman. There was just a hag, beaten into submission, used, discarded, tossed into a corner until it was time to be used again. Hag. She felt fury building in her, a raging, bitter fury that flicked against the sides of her belly and seemed to warm the wounds on her face, make them smoulder, cauterize them in the rank vetch of resentment, disdain and hatred she felt inside her for all the men, all the promises, all the heartache, disappointment, disillusionment, new beginnings and random glories that flared briefly for her but became extinguished in the sop of whispered intentions that were only come-ons dressed up in consignment clothes. Claire pounded her fists against the top of the bureau and then raised them to her temples, held them there, squinted her eyes tight shut to excise the memories, then opened them to look at herself again.
She couldn’t be seen like this. Not until she figured out what she had to do. Eric had been careful to exercise control over everything. The only money she had came from the weekly allowance he doled out for groceries and household things. It was generous and they ate well, but Claire had never once considered the need for a financial resource of her own. The cellphone in her bag rang at least six times a day with Eric asking where she was and what she was doing. He was always demonstrative, giving her encouragement and compliments during those calls, sweet even, though the whispered niceties always carried a vague sexual undertone. She had no idea of the bank accounts, which bills were due when, or how the house itself was maintained. Eric took care of all of that. He even bought clothes for her, often sweeping in on a wave of whiskey fumes to present her with another dress, suit or some lingerie that he’d ask her to model for him while he sat on the sofa and watched. He gave Aiden money, bought him things, and he’d paid the debts she’d built up before they met. Her role was the dutiful, obedient housewife, and he reminded her constantly about the lack of stress in her life, how he took care of everything, how she never needed to worry, and for the longest time she hadn’t. Her reward was the sex. That’s what he told her, and at first she hadn’t really minded. But this was different. This felt like slavery.
She sipped from the bourbon and pondered what she might do. There was a knock at the door, and she looked over to the bedside table to check the time and was surprised at the lateness of the hour. There was another knock, more insistent, and she reached for the cold cream and spread it heavily around her eyes and along her cheeks to cover as much of the bruising as she could before she ran in small, mincing steps down the hallway to the door.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Police” was all she heard.
She leaned against the door frame and closed her eyes. She pulled the robe closer to her. “What is it?” she asked.
“Mrs. Hartley? Please open the door.”
She was surprised to hear her name and she took a deep breath and patted the cream in again before she slid the bolt free and opened the door. A plainclothes officer held up a badge. There were two uniforms with him.
“It’s Aiden, isn’t it?” Claire asked.
; “Yes,” the plainclothes officer said. “I’m Marcel Golec, Youth Division. You’re Mrs. Hartley?”
“Miss.”
“Well, Miss Hartley, we need to talk.”
“Now? It’s late.” Claire looked about nervously and hoped that Eric wouldn’t be awakened by the intrusion. She nodded, and Golec quietly told the two uniforms to wait outside.
Claire showed him to a chair. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“There’s been a shooting,” Golec said. Claire slumped down heavily in the chair opposite him and the shock on her face made Golec wish he’d made a more delicate opening. “A robbery,” he continued, “with a handgun.”
“Aiden,” Claire said. She spoke the name with regret and a woe Golec could feel.
“No,” he said. “A boy named Cort Lehane. Do you know him?”
“Cort? Cort is Aiden’s best friend. They met at the youth centre. Cort’s been shot?”
“The boy’s seriously injured. Two officers stumbled on him trying to hold up a girl making a night deposit. He fired at them. There wasn’t anything else they could do.”
Golec watched the news begin to sink in. “Are you saying Aiden was with him? Is that it?”
“No,” Golec said. “He wasn’t there. But the boy claims the gun belonged to Aiden. That he’d given it to him and told him how to do the robbery.”
“No.”
“It’s what he says, and if it checks out we have to charge Aiden with accessory, maybe conspiracy to commit.”
“Conspiracy? He’s fifteen,” Claire said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Sounds ridiculous,” Golec said, “but the fact is that there’s a kid in intensive care right now with a bullet hole in him, a young girl with a trauma counsellor and two officers mighty shook up about firing at a kid. Ridiculous maybe, but true nonetheless. Where is Aiden right now?”
“In his room.”
“Can you check?”
“Yes.”
Golec watched her walk away. She was small and pretty under the heavy splash of cold cream and he wondered about the bruises. The split lip told him all he needed to know. The outline was always the same and the story of the kids never altered much. Even sumptuous surroundings like this proved to him that all the money in the world couldn’t purchase a safe home or guarantee a child’s immunity from the effects of grown-up immaturity. The non sequitur irked him.
Claire walked back into the living room with a sleepy-eyed Aiden right behind her. He didn’t exactly fit the image of a gangster awaiting the outcome of a heist, and Golec felt encouraged despite himself. But when Aiden saw him standing there the sleepiness was instantly replaced with a wide-awake wariness, a shifting to something he’d seen too often in the kids he dealt with.
“What’s up?” Aiden asked.
“I need to talk to you about Cort Lehane,” Golec said. “He’s your friend, right?”
“Yeah. We know each other.”
“Aiden, he’s your best friend,” Claire said.
Aiden gave her a hard look that Claire didn’t recognize and it worried her. “Well, we hang out but I wouldn’t exactly call him that,” he said.
“Nonetheless, he claims you and he are tight, best buds, partners even,” Golec said and watched him closely.
“Partners?” he asked. “Partners in what?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“I think I don’t.”
“Aiden, be polite,” Claire said sharply.
He looked at her again and Claire felt herself pull back from the intensity and the anger in his eyes. “He’s doing his job, Aiden,” was all she could say.
“Guess a cop doesn’t need to be polite to do his job then.”
“Aiden.”
“It’s all right,” Golec said, standing. “We can finish this conversation down at the station if you like, Aiden, because I need answers and I need them tonight.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“Not yet.”
“So what’s the big concern? So what if I know Cort? Big deal.”
“It’s a big deal because Cort’s been shot. Shot during the commission of an offence. A robbery, to be precise. An armed robbery. Been to many bookstores lately, Aiden?”
Golec watched his face register surprise despite his efforts to keep it calm. He was still just a kid playing a man’s game and even though he’d learned some street sense somewhere in his travels, he hadn’t learned enough to lift him over the fact that he was still just a kid in over his head. This was no criminal. Not yet anyway.
“Is he gonna be okay?” Aiden asked finally.
“We don’t know. It’s touch and go right now,” Golec said. “Cort says the pistol he used was yours. He says you gave it to him and told him how to pull the robbery. He says it was your score all the way.”
“My score? I was here. I was in bed.”
“True enough. But if the gun was yours I’ve got you for accessory and conspiracy to commit a felony.”
“You got nothing.”
“I’ve got a kid caught in the act who claims you got the gun.”
“He’s lying.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Mom?” Aiden asked, downshifting into fifteen again, and Golec watched her. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“Tell Detective Golec the truth, Aiden,” Claire said quietly.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked.
“Tell the truth, Aiden, that’s all.”
“You don’t believe me. You’d rather believe the cop. Well, fuck you, then.”
“Aiden,” Golec said sharply. “You don’t speak to your mother like that.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me how to talk to her? You’re not my father. You’re just a cop.”
“I’m a cop who holds your future right here, boy,” Golec said, bringing the cuffs out from behind his back.
Aiden faced him directly and cocked his head slightly, and in the stance Golec could see a future hardcase. He’d seen enough of them in his time to know. Aiden had enough of the young turk in him to not back down easily, enough to make him a candidate for a lifetime of these scenes, enough to not hear the fifteen-year-old speaking under the visage of a tougher, older man and enough to guarantee his mother one huge load of grief and guilt and shame. Golec held the look and waited.
“I got nothing to say,” Aiden said.
“Fine,” Golec said. “You’re under arrest.”
“Aiden, for god’s sake, tell him!” Claire grabbed at her son. “Tell him you had no part in this. Tell him it’s a tall tale. Tell him, Aiden.”
The boy looked at her blankly, and Golec could see him steeling himself, pulling himself back and away like they all did, getting ready for the game to come. Claire was weeping now, and as she stepped toward her boy he retreated the same number of steps. The cream was dripping onto the collar of the robe and she made no move to dab it and Golec could see the whole visage of bruises on her face. There was another story here and he’d be sure to tell the uniforms to return to check it out. Her shoulders shook and Golec could see the collapse coming, the fall to the floor that would follow their retreat into the hallway. He wouldn’t cuff him. Not in front of her now. This was enough of a shock. Aiden just stood there looking at him blankly, waiting.
“We need to go, Miss Hartley,” he told her.
She looked at him, trying to comprehend it all. The cold cream was a dripping mess and the tears shone in her eyes against it so that for a moment she looked like she was melting right in front of him. Then she looked at her son. The two of them stood mere feet apart. Claire reached out one hand toward him and Aiden still would not take his eyes off Golec. Her hand shook, the fingers aching for contact, and Golec could see the miles and miles of separation that was happening invisibly between mother and son. As he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and eased him toward the door he saw the light dim in her eyes like the sweep
of a lighthouse beacon turning outward and away across the solemn, empty sea. It saddened him. It always did.
book two
the light breaking through the window and the feeling in his head seemed one and the same. Both were diffuse, and there was a sense of timelessness about it so that staring across the slope of his chest and down the line of his body to the cast on his leg and the small tent of sheet that was his other foot gave Joe Willie the feeling of emerging into a dream, the usual benchmarks of time passing lost in the cottony numbness of the drug. He was alone. He was glad of that. There was a cup of water on the table beside him and he turned his head to look at it. The morphine dried him out and he felt parched and flattened as if everything vital had been drained out of him. The water was on the swing-out table to his left and as he stared at it now he knew he’d have to reach across his body with his right arm to get it. He tried, and he almost screamed with the sudden flare of pain in his left shoulder. The water sat there and he could taste its sweetness and he gritted his teeth and made the same move again. There was a searing flame where the fullness of his shoulder used to be and the weight of him felt like something would snap like kindling, and he rocked back to the flat of his back before throwing his right arm across his chest. He knocked the cup off the table and it clattered across the floor and he almost screamed with rage. He settled on his back and stared at the light easing higher into a soft yellowish sheen against the far wall of his room. He couldn’t even get himself a drink of water, and the hard fact of that made him angrier and he could feel the heat of it burning in the hollow of his chest so that when the nurse appeared he could only stare at her balefully while she retrieved the cup and filled it and held it to his lips so he could sip at it until he was satisfied. She mopped his brow with a cold, wet cloth and he closed his eyes and tried to immerse himself in the relief that brought. But when he opened them again he could see her look of concern and it enraged him again. She asked if he needed anything and he only shook his head vacantly, and she moved the table over to his right side and left the room. He felt trapped, pinioned to the bed, and his eye drifted over to the crutches they’d left him the day before.
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