Battle for His Soul

by Theresa Linden

  “Just drive,” was Jarret’s only answer.

  Ten minutes later, Jarret’s heart rate and breathing had returned to normal, but his throat burned and he had a sour taste in his mouth. He straightened up as best he could and turned his attention to the glove compartment. “What’d you put in there?”

  “Oh. Don’t open that.” Roland spared a glance. He had a white-knuckled, ten-o’clock-three-o’clock grip on the steering wheel and eyes glued to the road.

  Jarret pushed past the pain to reach for the glove compartment. He opened it to a mess of papers, napkins, a tire gauge, and a black semi-automatic pistol. “What the—”

  Despite his agony, Jarret reached for the gun. “So that’s how you got them to run off, huh?” He examined the pistol, checking the magazine for ammunition. “It’s not even loaded.”

  Roland shrugged. “I wasn’t going to shoot anyone.”

  “Did you know if it was loaded or not?”

  “No.”

  Jarret looked his little brother over with a hint of admiration. “You actually threatened those guys with a gun in your hand?”

  “No. Well, yes.” He glanced again. “I wasn’t going to shoot anyone.”

  Jarret chuckled, though it hurt to do it. His hands jerked to his aching ribs, causing the pistol to slip from his grasp. It landed somewhere on the floor near his feet. He’d have to get it later. He couldn’t imagine the pain he’d feel leaning over. Taking a breath, he looked at Roland. “Here I thought you were spineless.”

  Eyes on the road, Roland huffed.

  While a ride home usually seemed shorter than a ride to some place, this ride felt endless. Eventually, Roland pulled into the circular driveway and fumbled with the automatic shifter until he figured out how to park.

  “We gotta get this back to Rufino,” Jarret said over the clicks and sighs of the tired engine. “He told me not to park it here at the Zamoranos’.”

  Roland flung open his door. “I’ll move it after I get you inside.”

  “I can walk.” Jarret grabbed the door handle and tugged, but his ribs screamed.

  Roland swung open the door and touched Jarret’s arm.

  “Back off.” Determined not to show his pain, though grimacing uncontrollably, Jarret swung his legs out and pulled himself up using the car door. “Why don’t you go in and make sure Papa’s not around? I don’t want to talk to him tonight.”

  Roland obeyed, jogging up the sidewalk and stepping inside. He left the front door wide open.

  With a great deal of concentration, Jarret moved as naturally as possible up the sidewalk and into the house.

  The foyer and hall lights were on. Voices came from down the hall, from either the kitchen or Juan’s den. Jarret only had eyes for the staircase. He pushed the front door closed with the shoulder that didn’t hurt and headed for the stairs.

  Roland appeared in the dark doorway of the sitting room. “Papa’s with Juan.” He gave a nod in the direction of the den as he went to the front door. “I’ll go return the car.”

  “Good. I’m going to bed.”

  The instant Roland yanked open the front door, Papa called out from the den, “Jarret? Roland?”

  Roland stopped and turned around, but Jarret climbed the steps and moved out of view.

  “Where’ve you two been?” Papa’s boots scuffed down the hall. “I need to talk to you.”

  “We went to Tucson,” Roland said.

  Jarret stepped into their dark bedroom and listened from the doorway.

  “Where’s Jarret?” Papa said.

  “Upstairs. He’s not feeling well.”

  “He’s not feeling well?” Papa sounded skeptical. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “I don’t know. We had pizza. He sort of threw it all back up.”

  Jarret smiled and silently closed the bedroom door. Good answer, little brother.

  ❖

  “Get out of bed, cowboy.” It sounded like Papa forced the words out through clenched teeth, but the use of the word cowboy was enough to convey his anger. Papa always switched to cowboy talk when his temper rose.

  “Go away.” Jarret refused to open his eyes or move his aching body. A moment ago, he awoke to Papa’s loud voice and a rude burst of sunlight as Papa scraped open the drapes. The pain woke up too, but maybe it would subside if he could rest more. Sleep hadn’t come easy last night. Unable to find a single comfortable position, he had lain on his back for hours, wishing he felt like getting up so he could take the sleep aid he’d used on Roland.

  “I said get up!” Papa yanked the sheet from the bed.

  “Why can’t I sleep in? It’s vacation.” Jarret shifted his body a bit. He wanted to turn away from Papa, but his left side ached more than the right.

  Hands latched onto his upper arms.

  “No!” Jarret tensed in anticipation of pain. He hugged his ribs and snapped open his eyes.

  With fire in his eyes, Papa yanked him up and forced him to sit on the edge of the bed.

  A groan escaped Jarret. He fought back tears of pain while his arms moved by impulse to protect his ribs.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Papa peered over his shoulder. “You eat the same pizza?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Roland stood in the bathroom doorway, arms folded, frowning.

  Papa faced Jarret again. “You’re not sick. Strip off your shirt, and let me see what’s wrong with you.”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Way you’re acting, I’m beginning to doubt that. What were you out doing last night? Didn’t bother telling me you were going out, borrowing Rufino’s car, not coming back till late. You out kicking up a row?” After waiting a second and getting no answer, he turned his head again. “You lie to me, Roland?”

  “No.”

  “You better not have. That wouldn’t be like you. You start hanging out with Jarret and picking up his ways—”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you everything.” Roland unfolded and refolded his arms.

  “Picking up my ways?” Jarret sneered. What had Roland told him?

  He leaned to the side, wanting to lie back down, but Papa got him by the wrist. “Easy now. Off with the shirt.”

  “No.”

  Papa grabbed the back of Jarret’s shirt collar and tugged.

  Jarret latched onto the hem as it rose to his navel, wanting to fight for his privacy, but the effort sent a rush of pain. Moaning, he let Papa strip off his shirt.

  Papa swore as he laid eyes on the scrapes and bruises on Jarret’s abdomen. “Got yourself knocked galley-west, I see.” He looked at Roland. “What about you?”

  Jarret forced himself to stand. If he could get to the bathroom, maybe Papa would leave him alone.

  Papa guided him back down and touched his sides, running his fingers along ribs. “Nothing feels broken. Just got ‘em bruised real bad. So, give me your story.”

  “Ain’t got no story. We were minding our own business. Some guy punched me in the gut. That’s all.” Papa hit a particularly sensitive spot, and Jarret jerked back with a moan.

  “Some guy punched you. That’s all, huh? Where were you? Out drinking?” He glanced over his shoulder.

  Roland came over, peering at Jarret’s bruised body. “We weren’t drinking. I told you we were shopping. I’m not lying.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Jarret hurt too much to give Roland a warning look. Besides, he no longer cared. Let Papa think what he wanted. Jarret only wanted to ease the pain. Maybe he could take some of that liquid sleep aid and get some rest.

  “It’s my fault, really,” Roland said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the thief and the stolen things, so we went to a few pawn shops to see if we could find anything of Señor Juan’s. Jarret didn’t do anything wrong. This happened at the last pawnshop. Some guys were hanging around outside and, well, I don’t know why they beat him up.”

  Papa faced Jarret again. “They get your wallet?”

  “N
o.” Jarret slapped his back pocket and found it empty. He glanced at the dresser. No wallet. He cussed. He had a wad of dough in that thing, and his credit cards, driver’s license . . .

  “Roland,” Papa said, “go fetch Señora Eremita. Have her bring bandages, an icepack, and some aspirin.”

  The instant Roland fled the room, Papa turned hard eyes to Jarret. “You only care about yourself and what you want to do. You never think about consequences. You don’t know this area. You don’t know Tucson. There are some rough neighborhoods. I could-a told you that. I grew up around here.”

  “Lay off. Roland told you it was his idea.”

  “Roland also thought you called me. Did you tell him that?”

  Jarret averted his gaze. What else had Roland told him? Forget trying to sleep. What he needed was an escape. He needed to get high. Maybe that would ease the pain. Rufino. He’d find Rufino and bum a joint or two.

  “You should’ve called me, asked me. I’d have told you no. Juan’s thief is not your concern. You put yourself and your brother in danger—”

  “Ha! I put your pet Roland in danger, huh? I’m the one with the bruises.” Jarret jabbed a thumb at himself then pointed a finger at Papa. “And you only care that Roland might’ve been hurt.”

  “Neither of you would’ve been hurt if you hadn’t been out there. Why do you have to be such a hard case? You’re seventeen, somewhere between hay and grass, but I’m still your father. You need to follow my rules. Especially when you’ve got someone else with you.”

  Papa’s eyes blazed. “Next time you’re fixing to go out on the shoot, don’t bring Selena, don’t bring Keefe, and don’t bring Roland. Do it alone.” He stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.

  Jarret jumped then took a breath and lay back down. He’d rest for a minute before paying Rufino a—

  The door flew open. Old Eremita stood glaring from the doorway, a roll of Ace bandages in her hand.

  Roland

  When Roland had stepped into the kitchen to fetch Eremita, he’d found Selena with her, both of them working at the counter making salsa or something. He hadn’t liked asking Eremita for bandages and whatnot in front of Selena.

  “¿Cómo?” Eremita had said, forehead winkling. She stepped to the sink and ran the water.

  Selena didn’t look up from the big chef’s knife in her hand or the onion she diced, but she smiled, probably wondering why he needed bandages.

  Roland followed Eremita to the sink and spoke in a low voice, hoping to keep the conversation private. “Bandages, you know, like Ace bandages. You use them to wrap a sprain.” He spun a hand around his forearm to demonstrate.

  Eremita squinted at his arm. “There is something wrong with your arm?”

  “My— No, I’m fine. I just need— Well, Papa said . . .” He glanced at Selena’s back. She continued dicing, a pepper now. “Don’t you have any bandages?”

  “You need for a cut?” Eremita looked him up and down as she dried her hands on a towel.

  “No, it’s not for me. Papa sent me . . . I need aspirin, an icepack, and Ace bandages, the kind you wrap around a . . . whatever.”

  Eremita’s eyes flickered with a look he couldn’t interpret. Irritation? Uncertainty? She spoke English well enough. Why did she seem so confused?

  “Do you have a first aid kit?” Roland said, watching her cross the room.

  “I will get.” She walked with purpose through the far doorway.

  “Can you bring it upstairs?” he called after her, backing up. He needed to get upstairs and make sure Papa didn’t throw all the blame on Jarret.

  Ready to bolt before Selena questioned him, Roland turned. But there she was, standing right in his way.

  “Wanna taste it?” Smiling flirtatiously, Selena lifted a spoonful of salsa to his mouth.

  “Um, no.” Roland tried to step past her, but she stepped with him. “I have to get back upstairs. Papa, um, I need to, um . . .”

  “What happened to Jarret?” she said, again offering the spoonful of salsa.

  Aware of how close she stood and her desire to spoon feed him, heat rode up his neck. He shook his head to reject the salsa. “Maybe later.”

  “Where’s he hurt?” Selena stuffed the spoon into her mouth and brought it out clean. “Where’d you two go last night?” She wiped the corner of her mouth and stepped closer, her brown eyes gleaming with curiosity. “How’d he get hurt?”

  “He’ll be all right.” Inhaling the flowery scent of her shampoo, more heat rose to his face. There were six inches between her and the kitchen doorway. Should he gently push her out of the way?

  She leaned against the doorframe and tucked her silky black hair behind her ear. “You might as well tell me. I’ve already heard the rumors.”

  Roland stood staring, dumbfounded. Rumors? It wasn’t but a quarter after eleven in the morning.

  Uncomfortable with the idea of shoving her out of the way or of answering her questions, Roland spent the next five minutes or so trying to change the subject. He didn’t want to betray Jarret. They had never gotten along as well as they had last night. Maybe things would be different between them now. Maybe they could be friends. So Roland asked Selena what she’d been up to lately, what the Desert Museum was like, and what plans she had for the day.

  But Selena wasn’t having it. She kept steering the conversation back to Jarret, so he finally said, “Why don’t you ask Jarret when he comes down? I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you.”

  Then, steeling his resolve, he took a breath and put a hand to her shoulder. “I’ve got to get going,” he said as he gently pushed her aside.

  Halfway through the foyer, footsteps sounded on the staircase. Then a groan. Jarret came into view, walking slower than usual and without the typical bounce in his step. His hair hung loose over his shoulders in matted curls, as if he hadn’t taken a comb or even his fingers to it. He wore his new cowboy hat and a different shirt, but the tan cargo shorts were the ones he’d worn yesterday, which wasn’t like him at all. Maybe his body ached too much for him to change.

  “Hey,” Roland said as Jarret reached the bottom step. “So how do you feel?”

  “Hey there, Judas.” Jarret walked around him, avoiding eye contact.

  Roland followed Jarret down the hall. “Judas? Why? Because I told Papa we were at pawn shops? What’s wrong with that? I told him it was my idea. I didn’t mean for you to get the blame.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re his pet. You’ll never get the blame.”

  “I’m not his pet. It’s just that you always—”

  Jarret stopped dead, turned, and met his gaze, challenging Roland with his eyes.

  Roland shut his mouth and swallowed hard, unable to finish his sentence. It would have come across as judgmental.

  Jarret gave a smug grin and pushed past him, bumping shoulders. He shuffled down the long hallway to the sliding glass door at the end.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Can I come?”

  With a sarcastic grin and a shake of his head, Jarret stepped outside and slid the door shut behind him. He walked off in the direction of the stables.

  A few seconds later, Roland stopped staring and turned around. Maybe Jarret needed time to recover from the pain. In the meantime, Roland could get some work done for Papa.

  He climbed the stairs and returned to the bedroom. His gaze skated over the tangle of wires and electronic devices on the little table, and he recoiled. Shopping bags and toiletries covered the polished cherry wood dresser. Towels and clothes lay in piles on the floor. The vibrant colors of the decor had never appealed to him, but the mess made it hard to bear. He would never have let his own bedroom get like this.

  He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing in his tidy room back home. Silence. A slight chill in the air. The muted light of an overcast day streaming in between half-drawn drapes. A single white pillow on a gray comforter. A dull shine on the cl
ean surface of a black dresser.

  With a sigh, he went to the balcony window and squinted against the sunlight. Two stable hands stood by the fence of the corral. A figure moved in the dark doorway of the stables. Jarret had headed that way. He wouldn’t try to ride, not in this heat and not with his aching ribs. Would he? No, he probably snuck off to some out-of-the-way corner to smoke a cigarette.

  If only Jarret hadn’t taken a beating last night, it would’ve been perfect. They’d shared a moment, actually had fun together singing.

  Roland chuckled. He actually sang . . . out loud . . . in front of Jarret, of all people. And it hadn’t sounded too bad.

  His eyes misted. Jarret had seemed to like him. They were like friends. Until the morning. Then Jarret returned to his old attitude, although . . . something seemed different.

  He hadn’t been himself lately. Sure, he still had his confidence and charm, but they didn’t get him everything he wanted like they had in the past. And he’d never handled failure or rejection well, but lately he’d been pushing people away, starting with Keefe. Was he now avoiding Selena? Had he given up on her? Maybe he regretted even coming on this trip.

  Something was going on inside of Jarret, a battle maybe. Whatever it was, he needed help.

  Keefe said Jarret needed help they couldn’t give. He was right.

  Roland turned from the window, blinking away green afterimages, and went to the wardrobe. He squatted, unzipped his duffel bag, and reached inside. Somewhere, he had packed his . . .

  He pulled out a silver chain with a Miraculous Medal and dangled it so that he could rest his eyes on the image of the Blessed Mother. Mama had given it to him when he was little, the same year she died. Sometimes he wore it under his shirt, but mostly he kept it by his bed. It reminded him of her. Why was it called miraculous?

  Straightening, he realized what he needed to do. Jarret needed a miracle. Roland went to Jarret’s bed, intending to hang the chain over the bedpost, but something made him stop. It might be better to put it . . . He crossed over to the dresser, opened a drawer, and stuffed the medal into a pocket of Jarret’s jeans. Then he closed his eyes and prayed, Mama, don’t forget your boys. He had meant to pray to Mama, but his heart turned to the Blessed Mother, so he repeated the prayer to her. Then he pulled out his phone.