by Jo Leigh
“Swell. Now, you wanna talk?”
She looked great. Her hair was up, showing off that neck of hers. She even had earrings, little pearls on her perfect lobes. He couldn’t tell if she had makeup on. It didn’t matter. The dress was something new, at least to him. Soft and kind of large, it flowed on her curves like water flows around a rock.
“Last night,” he began, shifting his gaze to the wall once more, “after we got back from dinner, Danny came by.”
“What?” She came into his room, shutting the door behind her. “When?”
“Just after you went inside. He was in the parking lot.”
“What did he say?” Without an invitation, she sat next to him on the bed. He felt the dip when she sat, although he didn’t turn to look at her. She smelled good.
“He said that Bobby was his. That the cops didn’t know it, but Bobby had stolen a crucifix necklace off Sanchez.”
“Whoa.”
“Exactly.”
“Have you asked him? Bobby, I mean?”
He shook his head as he stood and went to the dresser. “I didn’t need to.” He opened the drawer slowly, as if there were something lethal inside. The gold chain caught the light from the overhead bulb and glinted at him. He took it out of the drawer and went back to the bed. “I found this in his room,” he said, handing her the cross. “It’s not Bobby’s.”
She took it and looked at it for a long time. “How do you know?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t.”
“Then why assume—”
“When do you give up? Do you have to watch him pull the trigger? See the smoking gun yourself? This is known as circumstantial evidence. Bobby admitted he was at the fire, he was seen there. The cross was in his bedroom. It all adds up.”
“Only if he’s guilty.”
He walked across the room to the far wall, kicking his boot as he went. Leaning his head on the cool white surface, he took several deep breaths. Then he turned to her. “I like your world,” he said. “It’s nice and it’s neat and there’s a bow on every package. But it’s not real. At least it’s not any world I’ve ever lived in.”
“Stop it,” she said. “You’re not going to make me the crazy one in this. Just because I don’t believe that everything is a portent of doom doesn’t make me nuts.”
“Fine, we’ll do it your way.” He went to the bed again and held out his hand. Kate hesitated for a moment, then put the cross in his palm. He didn’t acknowledge the worried look on her face. “Come on. Let’s go ask him.”
Crossing the room quickly, he opened the door and went into the hall. He didn’t hear Kate’s footsteps behind him, but he knew she would follow. Bobby’s door was closed. T.J. heard music. He knocked. Loudly.
“Come in.”
Just as T.J. opened the door, Kate came up behind him. She put her hand on his arm, not to stop him, just to warn him to take it easy. He nodded, consciously tamping down his anger.
Bobby was sitting cross-legged on the bed. The Sports Illustrated was on his lap. He looked so young.
“What?” he said, suspicion clear in his voice and on his face.
T.J. took a breath. “Danny Arcola came by last night.”
“So?”
“So he told me something that’s got me concerned.” He held out the crucifix by the chain, the cross swaying at Bobby’s eye level. “Where did you get this?”
The boy reached out and grabbed for the cross, but T.J. stepped back and away.
“It’s mine. Give it back.”
“I asked you a question.”
Bobby looked from T.J. to Kate. “Make him give it to me.”
“Just tell him where you got it, Bobby. It’s all right.”
His mouth tightened and his anger expanded to include both of them. “My mother gave it to me, okay? Is that a
“When?” T.J. took a step toward the bed. “When did she give it to you?”
Bobby moved sideways, away from his brother and off the bed. He stood, arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of defiance. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Just answer the goddamn question.” T.J. felt his own fury building. He tried to take it down a notch, but when he looked at Bobby, something snapped. It wasn’t just Bobby Standing there. It was Gus and Ed and even himself. His whole family, his history, was right there in front of him. Stubborn, stupid, belligerent. He wanted to knock some sense into the boy, make him see that this was no game. That his life was on the line and if he didn’t do something right now, he would end up like the rest of them.
“I tell you she gave it to me. Ask her if you don’t believe me.”
“You think I won’t? You think I’m gonna just let this pass, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you.” He stepped toward the boy, forcing him to back away. “You may be able to snow the others, but I know you. I am you.” He turned to Kate. “Keep him away from the phone.”
She moved toward T.J., but he slipped past her, heading out the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice high and tight.
“To visit my dear mother.”
He knew she was following him, heard her ask him to wait, but he didn’t. He’d gone as far as he could doing things Kate’s way. Now it was time for him to take action.
Kate watched T.J. drive off, fighting the urge to chase after him. She was afraid of what he would do when he got to Teresa’s. Not that he would hurt her, but that he would damage the relationship irreparably.
Molly came up behind her. “Boy, howdy,” she said softly. “This is some pickle, hmm?”
Kate nodded. “You’ve said a mouthful, kiddo.”
“So go on after him. What are you waiting for?”
Kate turned. Molly looked like a refugee from Terminator II. She had on an olive green tank top tucked into camouflage pants. Instead of army boots, however, she wore orange high-tops.
“Tell me something,” Kate said as she led her assistant down the hall. “Had you seen the crucifix? Before the fire, I mean?”
Molly stuck her hands into her pockets and frowned. “Can’t say that I have. Not that I believe Bobby was involved with the fire. ’Cause I don’t. But I can’t lie about that necklace, either.”
“Something tells me this isn’t going to go well. I think that necklace is going to hurt us.”
“What are we gonna do?”
Kate stopped at her door. “I’m going after him. You stay here and talk to Bobby, okay? See if you can find out when he got the cross.”
Molly nodded. “Go for it.” Then she headed toward Bobby’s room.
Kate grabbed her purse and went down the hall to the back door. She made sure it was locked before she walked to her station wagon. She tried to remember where the Sarduccis lived. She’d been there twice before and thought she remembered the way.
The drive gave her too much time to think. Trouble with T.J. had been inevitable, but damn it, she’d hoped for a longer period of grace. It had been really great there, for a while. Now she feared with all this hoopla about Bobby, T.J. would find his mask again, the one he’d worked so hard to lose. If it did turn out that Bobby was responsible for the fire and Mr. Sanchez’s death, it would kill him. It would be the proof he’d looked a lifetime for—that he and Bobby were destined to come to a bad end.
She turned left on Welby Way and headed toward the old part of town. This had been a strictly agricultural area, up until the 1970s, when some smart developers had figured out that Harbor Bay had the best weather in the U.S. The boom had lasted well into the eighties and hadn’t slowed down much even with the recession. Now oceanfront real estate was sky-high. Property values fell each mile from the beach and the houses grew older, the graffiti grew worse and gang activity wasn’t sporadic, but the norm.
Three more long blocks and she turned left at San Paolo, then just a short stretch until she found the apartment complex where Teresa Sarducci lived.
T.J.’s car was parked crookedly on the street. Trash
barrels had been left on the curb and someone’s dog searched for a snack amid the garbage. She had to go another block until she found an empty spot.
What was he doing in there?
She locked the car and walked slowly toward the two-story building. The air was warm here; it felt as if it were in the high seventies, at least ten degrees warmer than at the center. Street lamps illuminated circles of broken sidewalk and rap music caromed off high walls.
Was he listening to her?
The door to the apartment house had a broken lock and she was able to enter without buzzing. Inside, the temperature rose another ten degrees and she felt clammy and uncomfortable as she walked to the stairs. What was she going to say? If T.J. wanted to fight with his mother, how could she stop him? He was a big boy now, able to cross the street all by himself. It wasn’t her business and he had every right to toss her out on her keister.
She arrived at 2B, the Sarducci home. The paint was peeling from the warped door and it scratched her knuckles as she knocked. She couldn’t hear anything but the sound of a vacuum cleaner across the way.
The door swung open. T.J. looked surprised to see her.
“May I come in?”
His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t too glad to see her. But he stepped back, holding the door open.
The apartment was neat as a pin. The furniture was old, scarred, weary. Kate smelled cabbage. “Where’s your mother?”
“In her room.”
“Is she all right?”
He closed the door and walked across the mottled carpet to the kitchen. “My guess would be she’s praying.”
“What did she say about the crucifix?”
T.J. closed his eyes and shook his head in a moment of pure disbelief. “She doesn’t remember. Can you beat that? She says she doesn’t remember.”
“Have you considered that it might be true?”
He opened a cupboard above the sink and nodded for her to look. “See that? Jelly glasses. Do you know how many years I spent drinking milk out of jelly glasses?”
“But—”
He moved to the next cupboard and opened it with such force it banged loudly against the wall and swung back. He shoved it aside. “See this? No two plates alike. Every one of them some piece of crap given to the church. Other people’s trash. That’s what she’s lived with her whole life. Worked two jobs, just to keep up with the booze bills.”
He turned to the cupboard and moved some plates to the side so roughly she felt sure they would break.
“There’s probably a pint or two in here. This was always a favorite hiding place.” When he didn’t see any liquor, he went to the cupboard under the sink, flung it open and started going through the cleaning supplies and folded paper bags. “She hid them everywhere,” he said, his anger making his voice quaver. “I used to find Scotch bottles in my T-shirt drawers, in my closet, in my tennis shoes. I don’t know who the hell she was hiding them from. Ed drank. Gus drank. It’s the only thing this family has ever done well.”
No longer satisfied to just shove things aside, T.J. tossed a bottle of detergent on the kitchen floor, then cleanser, spray wax, bags. He was a wild man, insane, searching for evidence of the pain of his childhood. Kate felt like crying, like running out of here and not stopping till she got to the center.
She took a step toward him, then heard a soft moan behind her. It was Teresa Sarducci. She watched her son with a hurt beyond words. Her shoulders slumped forward, her eyes filled with tears. Her fingers played lightly on her rosary. Kate couldn’t stand it.
“T.J.,” she said, turning again to him. He had left the kitchen for the living room, right across from Teresa. If he’d seen his mother, he gave no sign. He was too busy throwing books from the bookcase to the floor, a steady stream of curses setting his tempo.
“T.J.,” she said again, taking a step toward him. A hand stopped her. She glanced back at Teresa, who said nothing, just shook her head.
“But he doesn’t know—”
“It’s all right, Miss Kate. Don’t say anything. Let him do this.”
“I can’t, Teresa, it’s not fair.”
The woman looked at her oldest boy, watched him tear her house apart looking for bottles. “Not much in this life is fair. When he’s through, listen to him. He never had anyone to listen to him.” She squeezed Kate’s arm, then turned to walk back to her room. The sound of a heavy book hitting the floor made the old woman jerk, but she didn’t look back. Kate could see, even from where she stood, that her shoulders trembled.
When Teresa closed her door, Kate faced T.J. once again. “Are you going to tear down the entire apartment?”
He paused at the last bookshelf, but didn’t turn to face her. “Maybe.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go start some fires myself.”
“Fine,” she said. “Have a great time. While you’re at it, you’d better figure out where you’re going to stay tonight, because it’s not going to be the center.”
She headed for the door. There was no way she was going to stand here and watch this, or even try to get T.J. to listen to sense. It wasn’t her job to be his keeper, or his conscience.
“Wait.”
She grasped the doorknob.
“Wait, damn it. Wait.”
She stood very still, not sure if she should head on out and not look back, or—
“Please, don’t go,” he whispered. “I can’t get through this without you.”
Her hand dropped to her side. “Yes, you can. You have to. Until you’ve made peace with this, you can’t do anything else.”
“You seem to have an awful lot to give to Bobby and the others.”
She closed her eyes and forced herself to stay at the door and not go to him. “They’re kids, T.J. You’re not.”
She felt him behind her and turned to face up to him. To stand by her beliefs, even if it meant the dream would be over. That he would hate her for this. “I’m sorry you had a rough childhood. I’m sorry your father hurt you and that your mother drank. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. If your life is a mess now, it’s because you want it that way. Every time you blame your past or your genes or your history, you buy into a mythology that you’ve created. You have a choice here. One you’ll have to make by yourself.”
“I see,” he said, his voice quiet and hurt. “Thanks for the advice.”
She waited for him to say something else. To yell at her or defend himself or tell her to go to hell. But he just stood there, in the middle of his past, not making a move.
She turned and walked out the door.
Kate knew she should go inside. It was very late, after midnight, and Molly and Peter were worried about her. But she couldn’t. She framed her shot and threw the basketball. It hit the rim and bounced to her right. She took her time retrieving it.
Maybe T.J. would never come back, she thought. It was a very real possibility that she’d crossed the line With him, that he would never be able to forgive her. She took another shot, making the basket this time.
The night was cool, the sea breeze caressed her bare arms and legs. The sound of a car stopped her, but it wasn’t his. She’d been like that for the past hour, pausing at the sound of every car, hoping it was the Camaro bringing T.J. home.
Except it wasn’t his home. His home was in Hollywood, not here. No matter what, he would have left her. But damn, she hadn’t wanted it to end like this.
Bobby had never changed his story. Even Molly hadn’t been able to get him to recant. He swore his mother had given him the cross, that he’d never seen Reuben Sanchez. Kate believed him, but that had done nothing to make him feel better. He felt utterly betrayed by T.J. She couldn’t blame him.
Why was it so hard for T.J. to give up his position, to give Bobby the benefit of the doubt? She knew the answer to that, even as the question formed. T.J. would never be able to believe the best of Bobby as long as he believed the worst about himself. He was trapped in a mind
-set full of blame and anger and Bobby was just an extension of that canon.
She went to the free-throw line and held the basketball just above head level. Her concentration was rotten and she had to struggle to aim. Just as she let the ball go, she heard a step behind her and she spun around.
One corner of her mind heard the ball swish through the hoop. The rest of her attention focused on the man in front of her.
“Can anyone get in this game?” T.J. asked.
She nodded.
He walked to the ball and picked it up, then came back to the court. The lights that lit up the front of the center were good enough to play in, but they didn’t let her see his eyes. It was clear he wasn’t smiling, but she couldn’t get a handle on his mood.
“It’s late,” she said.
“Yeah, well, it took a while to repair the damage.” He took another step toward her. “Wanna play shirts and skins?”
She breathed a bit. “Sure.”
“You be skins.” As he bounced the ball, she saw him smile and to her surprise she felt her eyes tear up.
“I don’t think so, Captain,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm and playful, even though she wanted to run right into his arms.
“Spoilsport. Have it your way.” He tossed her the ball and she caught it. “Twenty-one wins, two-point spread?”
She nodded and he came toward her, lifting his arms to guard her. She bounced the ball a few times, then broke off to her left, leaving him in the dust. She made the basket and caught the rebound.
He made the next two baskets and then the game got serious. She forgot the scene at his mother’s house, forgot about Bobby and the cross and just enjoyed the sport. T.J. was a good player, but not good enough.
He got in a few extra points after he took his shirt off, though. He claimed it was because he was hot, but she had the feeling he knew just what he was doing. It wasn’t fair, really. She tried to ignore him, to keep her eyes on the ball. But then she would brush against him, feel the hard muscle and the sheen of sweat on his pecs. For a minute, she thought about taking off her own shirt. That would even the score. But they were on a public street and she didn’t feel like getting arrested.