He rolled over on his back and tucked his hand underneath his smooth pillow, letting the gentle breeze from the ceiling fan drive back the black strands of hair from his sweat-soaked face. He was consumed with thoughts of his dad. They must’ve found him by now. If nothing else, the neighbors probably phoned the cops about the horrible smell, if two days is enough to…I never meant for this to happen. It should have never gone this far. Too much time has gone by now. I’ll bet the cops have my picture already and are combing the streets looking for me. I wonder how far news like that travels. Does Andrew know? Will he know?
Drake couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that all this strange kindness being offered toward him lately was all somehow part of a setup. A sting operation, perhaps, set up by the police knowing that he would be just the type to fall for it. But could he afford to leave now and toss an opportunity like this out the window just because he got scared and decided to run? He wasn’t stupid. He knew his chances of finding a job with benefits as good as Andrew had offered him were one in a million, especially in a big city like this where most jobs demanded more than a high school education to make a living. If he left now, it was over. Done. No turning back.
But then again, if he stayed, it could still be over. Let’s look at my options. Leave and live the rest of my life on the streets and probably sell drugs just to get by when the money runs out, or stay here, get caught, and likely get thrown behind bars for the rest of my life. Just thinking about either one gave him a throbbing headache.
Ah, Drake, why’d you have to go get yourself into such a mess? You had a life—maybe not the greatest in the world and filled with more bad than good—but at least you had something. Now, you may just lose everything. He closed his eyes. Tired. So tired. If only he could sleep, he would fall into a deep, long sleep. He wasn’t even sure if he would ever want to wake up. As long as he had peace.
The bright glow from the rising sun roused Drake from a sound sleep. He lay there for a while, just breathing, thinking. It was still early if the digital clock beside him was right, so he was in no rush.
Why did he have to dream so much? When he was younger, all he dreamt about was scuba diving in the Pacific ocean, climbing trees, playing baseball, or riding ostriches—mainly because he had watched so many re-runs of the Swiss Family Robinson. But now…now all he dreamed about was getting into fights—his dreams were filled with knives and guns that were more often used on him than the other way around.
Dreams were stupid, only meant to scare. And the scenes didn’t come from movies anymore, even from the horror movies he had dared to watch occasionally. No, these dreams were the result of a scared, tortured heart that refused to heal.
Drake shuddered as the memory from last night’s dream came back to him in blurry fragments. This time, he saw the blood. He saw his dad lying motionless on the floor, cold and lifeless, just as he had left him. There was no gun aimed at his chest and the shadows were empty. His eyes were completely focused on the wound on the back of his dad’s head that continued to pour blood—blood now more black than red.
He was a murderer. And the dream was all too real.
What’re you doin’, Drake? Think this is something you just run away from and eventually forget? This is going to stay with you for the rest of your life. People are looking for you, and when they find you, it’s bye-bye world and hello iron cage. This house may seem great and all now, but you better have a backup plan somewhere in the back of your head if you find they’re on your trail.
Drake eventually mustered up enough strength to rise from bed and turn the blinds upward to deter most of the sunlight. The carpet on his bare feet felt warm and soft where it had stayed in the sunlight for so long, so he sat on the edge of his bed with his feet touching the floor. So what’s it gonna be, Drake? Leave or stay? He studied the room. Not particularly large or elegant, but remarkably clean and neat for a room that had rarely been used. White curtains, a muted-green bedspread, a dresser with a round pearl mirror above it, and a few devotional books along with a Bible stacked atop the nightstand made the room simple yet impressive all at the same time. Drake couldn’t recall if the books had been there the night before or if Andrew had recently placed them there in hopes that he might pick one up. Yeah, fat chance.
Drake stared down at his feet and exhaled. There he was doing that same routine again—looking down while all his emotions eroded away more of his soul. He looked up at the ceiling just for the change in scenery. It’s your choice, man. Your gamble. Your life.
He wished it weren’t so difficult to decide. He had all he could ever hope for here, yet he was trying to find something that would make him give it up. Why was he doing this to himself? Couldn’t he just be content and put his mind at ease?
He decided he was too tired to answer that age-old question. After considering the pros and cons of both options, he concluded it best to stay here and lay low until he actually had some tangible evidence to make him leave. I’ll stay here for now, but if I start suspecting anything—even so much as a second glance from anyone—I’m outta here.
After lunch, Andrew led Drake outside to the shed and showed him the equipment he would be using to do the yard work. “It’s really not that hard once you get used to the way it runs. I will tell you, though, the back left wheel doesn’t roll as smoothly as the other one, so you may find at times you have to pull harder toward the right to keep it straight. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Drake said, trying it out for himself while the engine was off.
Andrew showed Drake the steps to start it, stop it, and shut it down. “Now you try,” he said, stepping out of the way.
Drake double-checked the throttle level and handle bar switch before slipping his finger through the metal loop. He yanked the cord back three times until he heard the engine rev up and felt the machine vibrating under his grasp.
“Good!” Andrew shouted over the noise. He waved his hand and motioned for Drake to turn it off. “And that’s basically all there is to it. I’ll fill up the gas for you before you mow every time, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“And I start the weed eater up the same way, right?” Drake said, already beginning to sweat as the blistering sun bore down on him. He wished he hadn’t chosen to wear a black shirt.
“I’ll go over the weed eater separately with you, but basically, yeah, the same steps,” Andrew said. “But don’t worry about using that until you’ve had at least an hour of rest after mowing.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” Andrew said, shading his eyes as he peered up at the sky. “This may look like a small yard, but it’s no picnic to mow. Watch out for tree roots above the ground, flowers, bushes, and especially rocks, though I haven’t seen that many in the yard lately.”
“Lately? Wouldn’t they be out of the yard by now? I mean, if you’ve been mowing—”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But my neighbor—” Andrew raised his arm and pointed to the right, “has a child who loves to play cars in the dirt near the fence and, for some strange reason, throws any rocks he finds over his shoulder—”
“Which wind up in your yard,” Drake said, finishing his sentence for him. “Just go over and tell the little brat to stop, then.”
Andrew would hardly call the child a brat. “I’ve mentioned it to his father, but I see no real harm in it. It’s good to see kids having fun.”
Drake just nodded, not really understanding Andrew’s reasoning but hardly caring anyway. “At any rate, I’ll be careful and watch out for the rocks.”
Andrew patted Drake’s shoulder before walking away. “Don’t wear yourself out!” he called over his shoulder.
Drake rubbed the palms of his hands together. Here goes nothing.
Drake had the front yard mowed in less than twenty minutes, but already his shirt was soaked with sweat and the palms of his hands rubbed raw. The smoke from the engine kept blowing in his face every time the wind ch
anged direction and made the yard and everything else around him seem blurry. Back at his old house, his yard was nothing but hard dirt and rock with the exception of a patch of thorns and weeds at the end of the driveway, and neither he nor his dad had even touched a mower in all the time they had lived there. Well, I’m touching one now, and it feels like it’s glued to my fingers from sweat.
Drake pushed the mower around to the back of the house, his mouth parched and forehead sticky. At least back here he would have some shade under the trees. As he guided the mower to the right, he noticed Ronnie sitting on the bottom step on the back porch, almost as if he had been waiting for him. Lucky me.
Drake ignored him, or at least tried to, and went on mowing as if he never even noticed Ronnie’s presence. He couldn’t put a finger on why the kid bothered him so much. Andrew was easy to get along with for the most part, but Ronnie was someone he did not like and couldn’t explain why. He had never liked kids to begin with, but sharing a house with one who was always in his face asking questions only heightened the issue.
He pulled the mower left, wishing he didn’t have an audience. Maybe it was Ronnie’s age that hassled him. Maybe it was his undying curiosity of anything and everything around him. Maybe it’s because he’s staring me down like a hawk watches its prey before it goes in for the kill. He quickly pushed the mower past Ronnie without making eye contact. He didn’t even blink, for that matter. Still, he sensed that Ronnie was following him with his eyes. What could possibly be so interesting about a sweaty guy pushing around a half-broken lawn mower? he wondered.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Ronnie stand up and move to the other side of the yard where he reached down and picked up something. Good grief, what’s he doing now?
Ronnie reached down again and took hold of something in the grass.
Drake killed the mower and marched over to where Ronnie was standing. “What’re you doing?” he said irritably. “Inspecting my mowing or hunting for last year’s Easter eggs?”
Ronnie looked up and opened his hand, revealing two small rocks. “Just trying to help. Sorry.”
Drake gulped. He had completely forgotten about what Andrew had told him concerning the rocks. Looking around him now, there were probably ten or twelve more still buried in the grass. If he had mowed over them without remembering, he might have damaged the mower’s blades and possibly even sent a couple of rocks soaring toward the house. Feeling like a complete idiot in front of a 7-year-old, Drake said meekly, “Oh, uh…thanks.”
Worst part was, Ronnie didn’t even try to rub it in or make a smart remark back. He simply bent over and began picking up more.
Drake waved awkwardly at Ronnie as he took a few steps backward and started the mower again. Just a little longer, and he would be done. He just hoped the kid wouldn’t come back out to watch when he used the weed eater later. What a thrill that would be.
Drake ran the mower over the last strip of grass and paused to survey the work he had done. Not bad, minus the few chewed geraniums he hadn’t seen until it was too late. But that was on the backside of the birdbath and would doubtlessly even be missed. Besides, he had managed to cover most of the ravaged petals by bending some of the untouched flowers toward the front. Couldn’t even tell the difference…sort of.
He shut down the mower and walked it inside the shed, noticing for the first time how tired and wobbly his leg and arm muscles felt. Overall, it was a good feeling, though. Hard work felt like medicine to his blood, just what he needed. He locked the shed door behind him and turned to see Ronnie holding a glass of iced water. He pointed at the glass and said, “That for me?”
“Yep,” Ronnie said, handing him the water.
Drake, with Ronnie trailing behind him, walked to the back porch and slowly lowered his sore body down on the steps. Wood had never felt more comfortable in all his life. Andrew had been right—this may have been a small yard, but when he was the one pushing the mower over every inch of it, it suddenly became noticeably bigger. He could feel the nerves in his legs bouncing as he nursed the cool glass in his hands.
Ronnie sat down beside him and rested his chin in his hands. “Tired?” he said, letting a yawn escape from his mouth.
Drake gulped down the icy water, ignoring the sting it brought to his parched throat. He exhaled forcefully through his nose and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “More’n you know.”
“Still like it here?”
“Absolutely.”
Ronnie bit the inside of his cheek. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Ah, you just don’t know me that well yet.” Drake glanced over at him and could tell that he didn’t buy it. “What do you do in this yard anyway?”
“Not really anything yet. I just moved into Uncle Andy’s house a few days ago.”
Drake looked at him curiously as he fanned his shirt. “Is that so?” He tossed the rest of his water in the grass and stretched his legs out in front of him. “I figured you’d lived here awhile.”
“Nah.”
Drake suddenly remembered that first night he had spent here when Ronnie had said something about his parents not wanting him. He hadn’t paid much attention to it then, but now he found himself filled with concern. It was then he realized what a jerk he had been. “You OK? I mean, you wanna talk about anything?”
Ronnie pursed his lips and bent over to tie his shoe. “Not really. I’m fine.”
Drake stared out into the yard again, wondering why he even cared about the kid’s past. So the kid had problems. Who in this world didn’t? A broken heart and shattered life was no new concept to Drake. He had been there and done that, but you didn’t see him crying or whining to anyone about it. He had to remind himself, though, that Ronnie was only 7 years old. He had a reason to be upset.
Trying not to let the conversation get too silent or depressing, Drake changed the subject. “So, back to the yard. What do you plan to do out here? Build a tree house? Plant a garden? What?”
“I’d like to have a dog,” Ronnie blurted.
“A dog? I thought you just liked panda bears.”
Ronnie frowned and looked away.
OK, cut the sarcasm. Drake nudged Ronnie’s shoulder. “C’mon, man. I was just kiddin’ ya. No, really, a dog? What kind of dog?”
Ronnie looked back at him undecidedly, fearing that Drake would only make fun of him more. “A beagle,” he answered faintly.
Drake whistled loudly. “A beagle? From what I’ve heard, beagles are a lot of money, pal.”
Ronnie stared down at the grass. “Yeah, I know. I asked Mommy for one before, but she said no.”
“Well, hey, your uncle’s got a lot of money, right? I mean, just one look at his house says that much. He could buy you a beagle.”
Ronnie tried to smile. “I dunno.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Have you asked him?”
Ronnie shook his head. “He’s already done so much for me already. It doesn’t feel right asking him for anything else.”
“Yeah, I see your point.”
“I have about twelve dollars so far in my piggy bank, though,” Ronnie said, his intonation rising. “I probably have close to enough, huh, Drake?”
Yeah, like a few hundred dollars short. “Maybe you could ask for one for your birthday,” Drake suggested.
“It’s still eight months away,” Ronnie said miserably, resting his chin on his knees.
“You could sell lemonade.”
Ronnie made a face and shook his head.
“OK, maybe as a Christmas present, then.”
Ronnie took Drake’s glass from his hand and stood up to leave. “Yeah. Maybe.”
All the yard work was behind him. Flecks of grass clung to his legs and shoes, and his skin felt like it had just been baked in a hot oven. Drake wanted to collapse as he walked through the front door, but as soon as he caught sight of the beautiful grand piano in the adjoining living room, he headed straight to it in spite of his fatigue and sat down on
the smooth, glossy bench. He couldn’t let this day pass without his fingers feeling these keys again.
Only at this specific time in the afternoon did the sunlight permeate the delicate curtains and strike the piano at a certain angle, making the polished wood glisten like refined gold and giving the keys a light orange tint. He lightly ran his fingers over the ivory keys as a song slowly trickled into his head. He found the right key, positioned his hands, and began playing softly. The delicate music was a much-welcomed change from the harsh, grating sound of the lawn mower, and for a few moments, he forced his mind away from the subject of his fears.
After the song ended, Drake continued to play his own made-up melody. He could never remember the same tune the next day and had never even thought of writing it down to play later, but the wealth of ideas stored within the deep recesses of his brain never seemed to run dry. Besides, he couldn’t read music off a sheet because he had never been taught that way. He merely heard the song from inside his heart and let it come out through his fingers. It wasn’t difficult for him to play, though some people seemed fascinated by his skill. It was just something he did—almost without thinking sometimes. Andrew called it a God-given ability. Drake called it a song. Nothing more.
“Whatcha playin’?” Ronnie said, ambling up to him from behind.
Nosey again, I see. “Oh…a song I made up just now.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Nope.”
“Oh…sounds sad.”
Drake continued playing, gradually moving into the lower keys for a greater effect. “Story of my life, kid.”
“Is that its name?”
“Sure. I don’t care.”
Ronnie watched him intently. “What’s the story about?”
Broken Identity Page 10