Knowing that he would get nothing done this way, Drake gave up and faced Ronnie. “It’s a story about a guy who lives a lousy life. It stinks. He hates it. Comprende?”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.”
Ronnie sat on the edge of the bench with his back to Drake. “Why don’t you like me?”
“What are you talking about?” Drake said, though he could have answered that question in one sentence. “I just got through talking to you out there.”
“You didn’t act like you wanted to talk.”
“Well, I did, didn’t I?”
“I don’t mean to make you so mad. I just…sometimes I talk too much, don’t I?”
“You didn’t want to say two words outside, and now when I’m trying to play, you wanna carry on a conversation. I just wanted a few seconds alone to think, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” Ronnie agreed, tilting his head down. “That’s what Mommy and Daddy always said. That I talked too much, I mean. I think that’s why they got mad at me a lot. I’m sorry.”
Drake fell silent, wanting to kick himself for being so stupid and inconsiderate. It hurt him to see the kid hurt. “Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Ronnie stood to leave.
“Ronnie, just…stay. You don’t make me mad.”
“I don’t?”
“Course not. I’m just not used to the company, I guess. No one ever really talked to me before now.”
“Really? I would have thought you had a lot of friends.”
“Why’s that?” Drake said, now somewhat amused.
“Because you’re cool.”
That got a laugh out of Drake. “Cool? Hardly.”
“I think so. You can play almost anything on the piano, and you can mow the yard out there faster than anyone I know.”
Drake grinned and shook his head. “I’m probably the only one you’ve watched mow a yard, so how could you compare me to anyone else?”
“Well, still. I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad you don’t think I talk too much.”
Chapter
9
PHONE CALL
Drake Pearson went to bed early that night after complaining of a headache. After a lingering evening of grilling hamburgers and watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Wrong Man starring Henry Fonda—which Andrew had to pause several times to answer Ronnie’s unending questions about the plot—Ronnie brought up the bright idea of playing a board game. Ronnie sped Drake through the rules, which basically consisted of taking all the marbles around the board and back home again by rolling a pair of dice. Pretty lame concept to Drake, but Ronnie seemed to love it. And on top of that, it took over an hour before the game finally ended—Ronnie being the winner, of course.
Drake couldn’t remember the last time he had played a board game. The more he thought about it, he wasn’t sure if he had ever even played one at all. Most of his memories as a kid had to do with the outdoors; but as he had grown into his teenage years, he had spent nearly all his time watching television and playing video games at a friend’s house or browsing the Internet at the library. Some days, he actually found himself missing the small things again, like listening to the rope creak around the branch overhead as he rocked slowly in the tire swing, or shouting “Pow! Pow!” at the invisible bad guys he relentlessly harassed in his backyard. Spending time around Ronnie seemed to dredge up all those forgotten memories. He had been so consumed with the bad side of his life lately that he had neglected to remember the good, innocent child he used to be. Kind of like Ronnie.
Drake’s legs felt like lead as he staggered up the stairs. He dreaded the nightmares that would invade more of his precious sleep tonight. He was tired of hearing the muffled noises in his head, seeing the surreal images every time he closed his eyes, double-checking the shadows because he thought he saw a face, fighting the darkness that seemed to threaten his very sanity. One false move, and his entire life had catapulted itself into an abyss that could never be escaped. His dad had taken his mom’s life, he had taken his dad’s life, and now he was slowly snuffing out his own. Maybe it would be better if he were dead. That was a new concept. He wanted to live, to fight his way out of this mess he had created and start a new life, but he wasn’t kicking out suicide entirely yet. He wondered if life was really worth living if this was what every second of his would entail.
Drake pushed the bedroom door closed behind him, listened to make sure Andrew and Ronnie were still chatting downstairs, and pulled out his shoes from underneath his bed.
The money and pocketknife were still there. Good. Andrew and Ronnie may have seemed like nice people, but he could never be too sure.
Drake didn’t really have a headache; he had just told Andrew that so he could have some quiet time alone. He had almost convinced himself that the beads of water rolling down his cheeks while he had been mowing earlier were only sweat droplets from his forehead. But they weren’t, even though he wasn’t quite ready to admit that to himself yet. They were tears. All the time he had spent mowing, he had been thinking of his mom. He hadn’t really allowed himself to cry since that day he found out the truth at the library. He had cried in his car, but his heart had been so blackened by hate that it had suffocated the love he felt for her. Then he was driving again, had rushed home to his father, and yelled and screamed and threatened. The next thing he knew, his father was dead after a single, seemingly insignificant blow to the back of his head.
That night didn’t even seem real to Drake anymore. It had all happened too fast for him to grasp what he had done. He had just swung his fist at his father; he hadn’t calculated in that short amount of time that his father would fall backward and crack his skull on the stone of the fireplace.
But how could he tell the police that? Hey, I know what it looks like, but I really didn’t mean to kill him. Yeah, right. They’d laugh in his face and throw him in jail so fast he wouldn’t know what had hit him. So whether he wanted to be a fugitive or not, that was his new title. The guys in the action/adventure movies always got away with stuff like that and somehow ended up as heroes, but Drake was living real life, not performing on a movie set. If the police were able to piece the clues together and pinpoint his location in Springfield, then it was just a matter of how long he could hold out until they found him.
But he could never tell Andrew that. If push came to shove, he would have to find someone else—someone who understood what he was going through and would hide him.
Andrew didn’t realize how tired he was until his body hit the mattress. Ahh. Such a long day for someone who was supposed to be retired. He still couldn’t believe Ronnie had chosen to sleep in his own bed tonight. Maybe the newfound independence would be good for him.
Andrew closed his eyes as a verse from Psalm 68 came to his mind. Somewhere in between dreamland and reality, he recited the verse in his mind. A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation. God sets the solitary in families…
That’s what he and God were doing now. A heavenly Father and an earthly father to two people in the world who needed a family the most. Andrew wondered if Drake really did have a family. Perhaps he could find the words to ask him someday.
God sets the solitary in families. Andrew listened to the soft patter of rain against the window as the ceiling fan weakly rippled the bed sheets. Yes, sleep would come easy tonight.
Bacon, eggs, and biscuits were the alarm clock the next morning. The sound of spitting grease and the fragrance of blackberry jam were just too much to ignore. Drake usually slept in until sometime after lunch every Saturday, but the mixture of the overpowering scents quickly made him reconsider.
As would be expected, breakfast was delicious. The bacon was crunchy, the biscuits peeled off in buttery layers, and the eggs were running with Velveeta. The only thing that curbed Drake’s appetite was when Andrew once again felt the need to go through his little routine of bowing his head and saying a prayer over the food. P
lease. As if anyone is out there listening anyway.
Ronnie was talkative throughout the meal, rambling on and on about how he wished it could be summer forever, or at least something along those lines. Did the kid never shut up? Stress was choking the life out of him right now. Could they not see it on his face? If they could only feel half that kind of pain, maybe they would be shaken out of their perfect little worlds for two seconds and show some consideration. Drake was genuinely trying to maintain his patience throughout the prayers and endless babble coming from Ronnie’s mouth, but with a death-penalty convicting murder on his conscience, he sensed that his patience barrier was wearing thin.
After he was certain he could eat no more, Drake set his plate and silverware in the sink. He was hesitant at first to ask, but eventually mustered up enough courage to say, “Mind if I watch some television?”
Andrew chewed his food unhurriedly as he thought. “All right. But let Ronnie have the remote at twelve.”
“That’s when the Saturday cartoons start,” Ronnie explained.
Drake shrugged in agreement and walked into the living room. He crashed on the sofa and pushed an exotic-looking table plant aside so he could elevate his feet on the coffee table. After he thought a moment, he withdrew his feet and moved the plant back into place. Don’t push it, Drake. You don’t own the place. You’re only a guest.
He snatched up the remote and scrolled through the channels until he spotted a movie he remembered watching years ago. He hit the enter button, but instead of displaying what he had selected, the television went dark and showed a small, blue box at the bottom of the screen. “Parental controls locked,” he read aloud. “Please enter pass code…what?” He tossed the remote aside and walked back into the kitchen. “Hey, uh, I think your television’s messed up. Says something about a pass code. Do you know it?”
Andrew breathed slowly and set his fork down. “Mm-hm.”
“Great. Then do you mind puchin’ the numbers in real quick? Movie’s started and—”
“I’m afraid not,” Andrew said straightforwardly, as if he had already anticipated this conversation beforehand. “Sorry, Drake. I created that pass code for a reason.”
Drake stared at him blankly. “Meaning…?”
“I didn’t want Ronnie to accidentally see or hear something he shouldn’t, so I locked all programs with a PG rating and up. If I know there’s nothing wrong with one of the PG programs, however, I’ll unlock it.”
“Oh, well, as long as Ronnie doesn’t come in there while I’m watching, you won’t have to worry.”
Andrew didn’t know how he could possibly make what he had already stated any clearer to Drake. “That goes for all members of this house, including myself. I’m not letting anything get into my spirit that could potentially harm it.”
Drake couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Your spirit? What does that have to do with watching—”
“Because I’m a Christian and I have Jesus living on the inside of me, I refuse to listen to anyone speak out against His name or curse Him. Any cursing. And if people don’t wear modest clothing on television, then I’m not gonna stoop to their level and watch that either. I like television as much as anyone else does, Drake, but I have certain boundaries I set, and what I set I follow.”
“It’s just a movie. People cuss all the time, so what’s the difference?”
“I can’t help it if I walk by someone and hear them use bad language, but I can stop it from coming into our home, and that’s what God holds me accountable for. Anyone living under this roof has to follow those boundaries.”
“Not everyone in this house is a Christian,” Drake said edgily, knowing as soon as those words left his mouth that he was stepping on dangerous ground.
Andrew pondered that statement for a moment and finally said, “Then as a Christian, that puts an even greater responsibility on me to watch out for you too, doesn’t it?”
Drake turned around and stormed into the other room. He had a few choice words for that man right now. He reluctantly turned off the television and shook his head. I can’t even watch any good movies anymore? This ain’t gonna work. Maybe he could figure out the pass code himself. Yeah, that’s what he’d do. He would just go through every combination possible until he got it right. 0001, 0002, 0003, 0004…OK, so down the drain with that idea. The movie wasn’t that great anyway.
Drake spotted a DVD rack beside the television and quickly scanned through the titles. It’s a Wonderful Life, North by Northwest, Casablanca, The Don Knotts Classic DVD Collection. He rolled his eyes and stood up. Oh, brother. He’s one of those types.
Since watching a good movie wasn’t an option, Drake retreated to his room and turned the radio in his digital clock down to a low volume. At least the radio didn’t have a parental lock on it. Music was probably the one thing Andrew had forgotten about in his big book of “spirit-harmers,” so Drake made a mental note to keep the music down to a safe volume. He certainly didn’t want that freedom stolen from him too.
Da…Da-da…da-da-la-da…storm the gates for refuge…da-da and betray the innocent mind…da-da-da…listen for an answer…la-da in the life you left behind…
Drake took his hands off the piano keys and scribbled the words down on the page in front of him. For the first time in his life, he dared to put lyrics to his chords. The melody was deep and somber, unlike anything he had played before, and they deserved more than just the sound of a blank song.
Emptiness now dares to speak…darkness holds the gun…da-da-da…breaking through the—
The shrill ring of the phone disrupted his thoughts. He stopped playing and listened for a second, waiting to see if anyone would pick up. Ronnie was up in his room starting on a new puzzle, and Andrew had stepped into the shower about ten minutes ago.
Drake looked across at his half-empty page and frowned. Might as well answer the phone, he thought. He walked over to the caller ID and saw the name Tavner, Kevin displayed. Hmm. Must be a member of the family. He picked it up. “Hello?”
The speaker on the other end was silent for a moment before saying gruffly, “Who’s this?”
“Drake.”
“Drake? I don’t know no Drake,” Kevin said irritably. “Is this Andrew’s house?”
Drake moved to the bottom of the stairs and looked up, hoping to see Andrew emerging from the bathroom. The shower wasn’t running, but the door was still closed. “Yeah, this is his house.”
“Then who are you?” Kevin badgered.
Drake leaned against the stair handrail. “I work for him.”
“Oh,” Kevin said, though he still sounded confused. “Well, I need to talk to ’em.”
“He’s busy right now. Could I maybe take a message?”
“Is Ronnie there?”
Drake glanced up to the top floor again and saw the light on in Ronnie’s room. “Workin’ on a puzzle, I think. Why?”
“I’m his father. Tell him to come answer the phone.”
Drake remembered Ronnie’s words about his parents not wanting him. He wondered if Ronnie had only been exaggerating or if his father really was the problem. “I don’t know. I…”
“Who are you talking to, Drake?” Andrew said as he descended the stairs, hair dripping and smelling of shower gel.
Drake covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Some guy named Kevin. Wants to talk to Ronnie.”
Andrew’s expression altered at the mention of Kevin’s name. “Give me that,” he said. He snatched the phone from Drake’s hand, the old anger he had wrestled to subdue now fully aroused in him again. “Hello? Kevin?”
“Andrew?”
Andrew’s hand stiffened around the phone. “What do you want?”
“I wanna talk to my boy.”
“You know what the judge said!” Andrew said in a raised voice. “Don’t push me, Kevin.”
Drake wrinkled his brow. Judge? So it ended up in court…Ronnie wasn’t lying when he made it sound like a big deal. His parents mus
t be worse than I thought.
“They said no visitation rights!” Kevin said heatedly. “They never said I couldn’t call!”
“How easily my visit to your house slips from memory.”
“And how quickly you forget whose blood runs through that brat’s veins! Now put him on the phone!”
“If you think you can threaten me—”
“Let me talk to my boy!”
“I don’t think you have anything worthwhile to say.”
“If you don’t give him the phone—”
“I’m not making the decision. It’s Ronnie’s choice whether or not he wants to talk to you.”
“Stop wasting my time and ask him then!” Kevin demanded.
“All right. I will ask him.” Andrew covered the mouthpiece and called Ronnie downstairs. “Ronnie, your dad’s on the phone,” he said softly.
Ronnie shook his head and backed away, his eyes fixed on the phone. The look on his face exposed his inner terror of the monster waiting on the other end to talk to him, to bruise him deeper. “I don’t wanna talk to him,” he said in a shaky voice. “Please don’t make me do it.”
Andrew put the phone back up to his ear. “He doesn’t want to talk to you, Kevin. Leave him alone.”
“You can’t refuse me! I’m his father!”
“You were never a father. Goodbye, Kevin. Don’t even try to call this house again, because no one will pick up.” Andrew moved the phone away from his ear as Kevin let out a string of curses, and hung up. He sighed and hesitantly turned to Ronnie. “I’m sorry, Ronnie, but I wanted to ask you first.”
Ronnie walked back up the stairs and into his bedroom without saying a word.
Drake looked at Andrew, speechless at the sight he had just witnessed. “I wouldn’t have answered the phone if I had known.”
“I know,” Andrew said, still wearing a frown. “It’s not your fault.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened between Ronnie and him?”
Andrew made sure Ronnie was occupied in his room before taking Drake over to the couch and sitting down beside him. His eyes searched the room as he tried to begin. “Kevin was never a real father to Ronnie,” he started, wrinkling his brow as all the awful memories he had tried to forget flooded back into his soul again. “He drank all the time, gambled away his share of Dad’s inheritance one week after it was given to him, and did a whole lot of other stupid things I’d rather not say. When he lost a gamble, he got himself stoned out of his mind, then took all his anger out on Ronnie. It was like a chain reaction every time. Ronnie never told anyone, never talked about the abuse he suffered night after night. Still doesn’t, for that matter.” Andrew wiped a tear away from his eye and clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking.
Broken Identity Page 11