Scum

by James Dekker

  I run and I run until I am up at the highway. Cars are rushing by me, and I think how easy it would be to dance into the path of one. Then I think about my father and how sad he has been and the phone calls he makes every day. I think about who he will talk to if anything happens to me. I think about whether he would be able to stop himself from telling my mother everything. Then I see a bus in the distance. It’s coming toward me. I fumble in my backpack for my wallet, and I count out exact change. When the bus pulls over to where I am standing, I get on.

  An hour later, I am standing across the street from the bar where my brother died. It’s daytime, and I can see now how rundown the place is, what a dive it is. I try to picture Danny in a place like that at three in the morning. I try to picture what he was doing in there. I try to picture someone walking up to him and saying something to him—probably something angry—and then shooting him.

  Then I think of it another way. I think of someone walking up to Danny and maybe asking him something, and Danny doing what he does best, giving the guy some smartass answer, making some sarcastic response. It wouldn’t surprise me. Danny thinks...thought...he was smarter than anyone else. Danny had an answer for everything, and if it was an answer that could get him a laugh, even better. I picture Danny being a smartass, only he’s picked the wrong guy or the wrong day, and the next thing you know, someone is calling 911.

  I’m standing there, thinking all of this, when I see someone come around the corner and walk to the front door of the bar. I see his hand reach out to open the door. I see that hand pause, and the person who is about to go into the bar turns and looks at me instead. Then he comes across the street toward me.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s the same kid who was carrying the tub of dirty glasses and plates the night my father and I went to the bar so that my father could talk to the customers. Now that he’s up close to me, I see that he is scrawny, with eyes that look too big for his face, and soft lips like a girl’s. His hair is long and wavy. He keeps raking it out of his eyes with one hand. He says, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I say.

  “You’re the girl who was here last week,” he says. “With that man.”

  “That was my dad,” I say.

  The kid looks around. “You here alone now?”

  I nod.

  “You’re not going back in there, are you?” he says, frowning.

  “My brother was killed in there,” I say.

  There is a long pause before he says, “I heard about that.”

  “The cops say there were a lot of people in the bar when he was killed. But they say they haven’t been able to find out anything. They haven’t even been able to get a description of the guy who did it.”

  “Well, it’s pretty dark in there,” the kid says. “And the people who go in there, they’re the kind of people who mind their own business.”

  “You work there, right?” I say. He nods. “Did you know my brother?”

  “I know who he is,” he says. “I’ve seen him around.” He looks me over and shakes his head. “It’s hard to believe he was your brother.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know,” he says with a shrug.

  I tell him I don’t know. I tell him I have no idea what he’s talking about. His cheeks turn pink.

  “I mean, you seem so nice,” he says. “Your dad too, the way he went around talking to everyone, saying please and thank you. He seems real nice.”

  “So what are you saying?” I ask. “Are you saying that Danny wasn’t nice?” I know Danny. I know how he could be. But it’s one thing for me to think he could be a real jerk sometimes. It’s one thing for me to even say it out loud. But for someone else to think that about Danny, about my brother, especially now that he’s dead—that’s another thing altogether.

  “He was my brother,” I tell this kid. “He used to take care of me. He used to walk me to school. He used to buy me ice cream out of the money he made delivering flyers around the neighborhood.” And it’s all true, which I guess is why I start crying again.

  “I’m sorry,” the kid says. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “There were so many people in there the night he died,” I say bitterly. “And you expect me to believe that not a single one of them saw anything? What kind of people drink in that bar, anyway? What kind of people can see someone get shot right in front of them and not want to tell the police what happened? What if one of their kids got shot? How would they feel if I saw something like that, and I just kept my mouth shut?”

  I’m shouting at the kid now, and he starts to look nervous. He glances back across the street. Just as he does, the front door of the bar opens, and the bartender steps out. He looks over at us. Then he yells, “Titch! Get in here!”

  Titch? I look at the kid. What kind of name is Titch?

  The kid looks uncomfortable. “I gotta go,” he says. He hesitates. “Look, I’m sorry about your brother. People are complicated, you know. Sometimes you see one side of them, sometimes you see another side. I didn’t really know your brother. I didn’t really get to see all the different sides of him.”

  “Titch!” the bartender roars. “Now!”

  Titch dashes back across the street. When he gets there, the bartender cuffs him on the back of the head and shoves him through the door into the bar. He glances around, like he’s checking to see if anyone else is watching. Then he scowls at me across the street before disappearing inside.

  The house is empty when I get home, even though it’s way past suppertime. There are two messages for me on the phone—one from my mother and one from my father. They both tell me the same thing. They both say they are going to be late and that I should fix myself something to eat. But I’m not hungry.

  I’m lying on the sofa in the family room. The TV is on, but I’m not really watching it. Mostly I have it on for the sound, so that there’s something filling up the house besides my heart beating and me breathing.

  My mother comes home first. I hear her drop her briefcase in the front hall. She comes through to the kitchen and stands at the counter for a moment, looking over at me.

  “Did you get something to eat?” she says.

  “I made myself a sandwich,” I say. A lie.

  She nods and turns around to leave the kitchen. Just then my father appears. He looks like he’s going to say something, but my mother walks past him without a word. I hear her footsteps as she goes upstairs. I hear the door to her bedroom click shut.

  My father watches her. After she has gone, he looks at the spot where she used to be. It takes a few moments before he turns to me.

  “Did you get something to eat?” he says.

  “I had a sandwich,” I say.

  He nods and starts to turn away.

  “Dad?”

  He turns again.

  “Did you call Detective Rossetti today?” I say.

  He nods again. “He tells me they haven’t given up,” he says. “But they’ve hit a roadblock, Meggie. They have nothing to go on. He says the case will stay open and active. But you know what it’s like in the city. There’s always someone else getting killed. Those detectives work hard. They put in long hours.”

  In other words, my father has given up.

  “Did you have supper, Dad?” I say. “You want me to make you something?”

  “I ate before I came home,” he says. I notice how his suit hangs on him like it’s three sizes too big. I know he is lying to me. But sometimes you don’t feel like eating. Sometimes you just don’t care.

  Chapter Eight

  Three nights later, the phone rings and I answer it.

  “Is this Megan Carter?” a voice says.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Titch. You know, from the bar?”

  I am so surprised that I almost drop the phone. “How did you get my phone number?” I say.

  “I saw the notice in the newspaper after it happened.”
He sounds as surprised by my question as I am by his voice. “It had your name and your parents’ names. I looked you up.”

  Oh.

  For a moment there is silence between us. He is the first to speak again.

  “I just wanted to see how you were,” he says. “You know, because you were so upset the last time I saw you.”

  I’ve been thinking about what I said to him. I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s dishonest of me to act like Danny was some kind of angel when I know he wasn’t. My father and I both know. But when Titch hinted at the same thing, I got mad at him and told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry too,” he says. “He was your brother. And you’re not supposed to say bad things about people who have just...” His voice trails off, and I wonder if he’s afraid to use certain words, like died or dead. I wonder if he thinks those words will make me cry.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It was nice of you to come over and talk to me.”

  “You seem like a nice person,” he says. He has a soft voice and a quiet way of speaking, and suddenly I don’t want him to hang up. So I say, “Have you been working at that bar for a long time?”

  “About a year,” he says. “Dave, the guy who owns the place, he kind of looks out for me.”

  “Looks out for you?” I wonder what he means.

  “He used to go with my mom. When she died, he let me crash at his place. He’s always after me all the time to get my homework done. He gave me a job too. He’s a good guy.”

  “So you’re around that bar a lot,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you know a lot of the regulars,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says again, only now I hear caution in his voice, like he’s afraid of what I might say next.

  So I don’t ask him any more about the bar. Instead I tell him how weird it is around the house. I tell him how my mother used to bustle around here, talking about work, trying to get a meal on the table, how she used to boast all the time that she was the queen of multitasking, but now she’s quiet all the time, and when she’s at home, she’s up in her room alone. I tell him about how sad my father is, maybe even sadder than my mother because, after all, Danny was his son, and aren’t men supposed to have a special bond with their sons? I tell him about the funeral, and how I can’t figure out why my mother wanted to have it at the funeral home instead of at the church, and why she didn’t ask our minister to give the service but instead had some stranger do it who didn’t get my name right and talked about what Danny was like years ago instead of what he was like now.

  There was silence again when I said that. Then Titch said, “Maybe that’s what she wanted to remember most—what he was like when he was a little boy.”

  I think about that. It makes perfect sense.

  “I like dogs too,” Titch says.

  “Do you have one? What kind?”

  “I had one for a while. Just a mutt, but a nice dog, you know? Smart.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He got hit by a car. I saw it happen. The car that hit him didn’t even stop.”

  “Did you report it to the police?” I say.

  “Naw. The cops don’t care about a dog, especially a mutt. But I’m saving up. As soon as I get enough money together, I’m going to get a purebred. A chocolate Lab.”

  “That’s a big dog,” I say.

  “That’s what I want. A big dog.”

  We talk a little longer. Then I hear someone call his name.

  “Are you at work?” I say.

  “I’m on my break.” I hear his name being called again, and I picture that bartender with his angry face. “I gotta go,” Titch says.

  I think about him all night. I think how he’s been working at that bar for about a year now. I think how he must know a lot of the regulars. I think how it might be different if Titch were to ask around. People who know him might tell him things that they would never tell my father, maybe even things that they would never tell the police. I can’t stop thinking about it.

  Chapter Nine

  I don’t pay attention in school the next day. Most of my teachers don’t bother me. Most of them are afraid to push me or yell at me. Most of them think I will burst into tears if they say anything to me. So I keep my head down, and I think about Titch. I can’t wait until the last bell of the day rings. As soon as it does, I head up to the highway and stand there impatiently waiting for the bus.

  When I get to the bar, I don’t hesitate for one second. I walk right into the place like I own it. There is no bouncer at the door. I guess it’s too early for him. The place isn’t crowded, but there are people at a lot of the tables and in a lot of the booths. A few of them glance up. Most of them don’t pay any attention.

  A door opens at the back of the bar. Titch comes through carrying a massive tray that is filled with clean glasses. It’s so big that he staggers a little under its weight. A look of surprise crosses his face when he spots me, and the tray wobbles. For one terrible moment, I think it is going to tip and all the glasses are going to crash to the floor. But Titch bites his lower lip and concentrates on what he is doing. He gets to the bar and puts the tray down. Then he comes over to me and says in a low voice, “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to talk to you,” I say.

  The door at the back of the bar opens again and someone else walks through.It’s the bartender. Titch grabs my arm when he sees him. He grabs it so hard that I say, “Ow!” That’s when the bartender notices who is with Titch. He starts toward us. He does not look happy to see me. Titch glances at him, and his face changes.

  “What do you want?” he says angrily, his voice much louder now, like I am the last person he wants to see.

  “Yeah,” the bartender says. He is right beside Titch now. “What do you want? You shouldn’t even be in here. You’re too young.”

  I decide to ignore the bartender. I focus on Titch.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say.

  “I’m busy,” Titch says. “I’ve got work to do.” His voice is cold and hard. He doesn’t sound like the same person I spoke to on the phone last night. He doesn’t look like the same person who talked to me out on the street a few days ago.

  “Are you going to be a good girl and get out of here?” the bartender says. “Or do I have to escort you out?”

  When I don’t move, he grabs me by the elbow and pulls me toward the door. I dig in my heels and look at Titch for help. The bartender’s long fingers bite into my arm. I am going to have finger-shaped bruises all around my elbow. I try to resist, but the bartender is tall and strong. He drags me toward the door, and there is nothing I can do to stop him. I look at Titch. He looks back at me, but I don’t see anything nice in his face now. The bartender opens the front door and pushes me through onto the sidewalk.

  “You come in here again, and I’ll have to call the police,” he says. “You’re not allowed in here. You understand me?”

  I tell myself that there is no way I am going to give this guy the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I try to shake him off me. But he holds tight.

  “The police have already been here,” he says. “They already talked to people. Nobody saw what happened. But I’ll tell you something, little girl. Your brother was no angel. He was a real piece of work. If you don’t believe me, you can ask around. You’ll find out the same thing. The cops already know it. They know your brother. You hear what I’m telling you? So stop coming around here. It’s not going to do anyone any good. And leave Titch alone. He didn’t see what happened. He didn’t see anything.”

  When he finally lets go of me, he gives me a little shove, and I almost fall over. He goes back into the bar. I stand on the sidewalk for a few minutes, rubbing my elbow where he was holding me. I stand there, and I realize that I am hoping Titch will come out. I am hoping he’ll come to see if I am okay. I’m ho
ping that I can talk to him and that he will help me. But then I remember the look on his face and how cold his voice was. And there I am again, doing what I said I wasn’t going to do. There I am crying.

  I find my way back to the bus stop.

  I look out the window all the way home. Sometimes I focus on the window itself. I see the shadow of my face in it, like a ghost’s face, because through it I can see houses and trees and cars and utility poles zipping by. Sometimes I focus on my face instead. When I do, I see tears dribbling down my cheeks.

  It’s quiet in the house when I get home. My mother’s bedroom door is shut, which means that she is in there, maybe sleeping, maybe looking at pictures of Danny. The door to the spare room is shut too. But it opens as I go by, and my father looks out.

  “Where have you been?” he says.

  “At the library,” I say. “I got behind in my work. I’m trying to catch up.”

  “It’s hard times now,” my father says. “But it’ll get better. After a while, it’ll feel different.” He says it, but something in his face tells me he doesn’t really believe it.

  It’s late when the phone rings. My father answers it. He raps gently on my door.

  “It’s for you,” he says. “It’s a boy.”

  I take the phone from him and say hello.

  “It’s me,” a voice says. “It’s Titch.”

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece and tell my father it’s a boy from my history class. I tell him we’re doing group projects. Then I take the phone into my room and close the door.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Titch says. “But you shouldn’t have come down there. You—”

  I press the button to end the call.

  The phone rings again a few seconds later.

  I say hello. It’s Titch again. I hang up again. Right after I do, I press the on button. Now anyone who calls will end up in voice mail. I leave the phone that way all night. In the morning, I check it. There are no messages. I tell myself I don’t care. I tell myself I hate Titch. I tell myself I wish he had a brother and I wish his brother would get shot. Then he would know what it’s like.