Francis returned with the coffee and a smile, and well wishes that hoped Sandra felt better soon.
“Thanks,” she said. “You, too.” She sat for half an hour before Francis came back, asked if she wanted anything else. The next time the waitress appeared, it was a new girl with blonde hair tied back with a clip, and blue eyes, verging on thirty, with dimples in her cheeks.
Sandra paid, left a dollar tip on the table and headed out the door.
The sky was dark and the air was cool again. Traffic was a slow hum, storefront lights and street lamps blinking on. Sandra dug her fingers into her jean pockets and wondered about the benefits of finding somewhere else to go. Wondered if it would be better to just walk home.
Then she remembered empty rooms and cold, gritty floors, and the silence that pressed down until she wanted to scream.
Maybe Daniel would bring back another girl. Wouldn’t that be a shock when he found out she wasn’t even there?
Turning left, Sandra walked two streets down, passing by the club with neon-signed women dancing in the windows. There was a small pub at the end of the block; they sold fries and wings and stew and wouldn’t ask for her ID unless she ordered some brand of the hundred and one imported brews they sold.
It was a little classy and exactly the kind of place the boys wouldn’t be.
The atmosphere was dark and quiet, with a slow, mellow beat on the radio, and the smell of wheat and barley in the air. No one paid her any mind when she moved up to the bar, a long line of polished dark wood, and slipped onto one of the cushioned-back stools.
The bartender didn’t look like he’d tag her, but Sandra ordered a soft drink anyway. He was older, gray at his temples and in his eyes, and reminded her of Lem. When he smiled, Sandra felt her eyes go hot and her throat go tight.
She had to nod to keep from saying something silly out loud.
The root beer left bubbles on her tongue. All the caffeine left her wired and Sandra ordered a serving of fries, watching as the place filled up, keeping her spot at the bar and playing spectator to the room through the dusky mirror on the back wall.
A football game played on the television and a group had set up nearby, cheering and yelling and getting sauce on their shirts and spilling fries on the ground.
The bartender was named Keith Liston and kept refilling her drink, making her feel better with his deep southern twang. He had laugh lines at the corners of his mouth, and the one time his fingers had accidentally touched hers, Sandra had felt nothing more than a long life of happiness and good feelings. He had a daughter up in Montana and three grandchildren waiting for him next Christmas. His wife had left him five years ago for his cousin, but he wasn’t bitter over it. Life was better off. He’d have never met the new Mrs. Liston if the old one hadn’t gone off as she had.
He wasn’t very much like Lem at all, but she liked him a whole lot anyway.
The guy to her left kept trying to buy her a beer, but Keith had already threatened to boot him out the door twice and she was pretty sure he’d be gone soon. His rings caught the dim light meanly, and he had a lifetime of scars and wrong on his knuckles.
Sandra wouldn’t let him touch her.
Some things you just knew.
“Another one?” Keith asked, and Sandra nodded, just so she wouldn’t have to leave, even though her bladder felt full to bursting already. Most the people in the pub were an older crowd, just wanting to talk and get away, or watch some football with the pals. She almost wished she had said yes to a beer, just to lose some of the thoughts in her head. She didn’t know where kids her age went in this town – the ones too young for the bars and too old for everything else.
Another five minutes, one more bad pickup line, and Sandra waved off Keith, settled her tab, and stopped by the bathroom on her way out the door.
She stumbled into someone. Or maybe they stumbled into her. But suddenly Sandra was being thrown. The air rushed in her ears, something sharp and painful in her chest. In her skull. And then she landed and all her air disappeared.
“Shit! I’m sorry!”
A large hand reached down, pulled her up and steadied her. He had caramel skin and dark brown hair.
Sandra fought the urge to throw up, room wavering as he repeated himself, laugh in his voice, sounding horrified and amused and … this man was going to die in a week. Sandra wanted to run away, erase the visions of a bad stumble onto a busy highway, a broken windshield and spider web cracks splattered with red.
“Sorry,” he apologized again. His teeth were very white and lovely straight; his voice was soft.
He was nice and Sandra wanted to cry.
“Hey.” He touched her shoulder, real gentle, helped straighten her. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Her voice was cracked and she cleared her throat. “Fine,” she said again.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I uh…” He showed those teeth again, shrugged one shoulder up and pointed into the pub, thumb over his shoulder and smile growing sheepish on his face. “How about I buy you one, to make it up to you?”
He felt bad. She knew he did, but she didn’t want pity just because she seemed like a wreck. “I don’t drink,” seemed better than telling him she was just underage.
“Well, how about some company then?” His brown eyes were intent and warm. He seemed like the type of guy you could bring home. The guy your parents would be proud of. That was, any parents other than hers. “Truthfully,” he said, “I don’t feel like spending the evening alone. And I didn’t have much of a choice before, but…” He shrugged again, as though asking, what’d ya say?
“I … yeah…. Okay.” Because she didn’t want to go home either.
“Yeah?” He grinned, and this time it lit up his face. “Great.” He led her back into the pub where everything seemed intimate and dark, and he held her chair out for her and pushed it back, and Sandra knew she was blushing but his face said he didn’t mind. “I’m Thomas,” he said, and this time the skin-on-skin of his palm didn’t jar so badly. His name made her think of Tommy, and she hadn’t thought of him in ages. Thomas didn’t give his last name and Sandra was glad because she didn’t want to be browsing obituaries with that in mind.
“I’m Sandra.” For once, it was nice not to have to give a lie as a last name.
Thomas shrugged off his jacket, revealing a soft, brown cotton shirt. It looked thin and worn and comfortable on his shoulders. He ordered a beer, got her a cocktail without the alcohol, and ordered some wings, which Sandra waved off.
She couldn’t get a read on his age. He seemed young, but so solid.
“You live in town?” he asked, frown between his brows like he was trying to place her.
“My family’s just passing through.”
“Yeah?”
“My, uh, brothers…” Sandra hesitated, looked down, drew patterns in the dew from her glass on the tabletop. Thomas just gave another soft laugh.
“Problems, huh? I know how that can be. Older?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm, caught halfway between looking up to them and halfway to wanting to murder them in their sleep.” His grin stretched wider. “I spent most of my childhood just trying to get away.” His face wilted a bit. “And now here I am.”
Sandra managed a questioning sound, fingers curling against wet laminate that mimicked wood.
“I’m a student. College. Looking to be a doctor. I…” Thomas sighed, rubbed a weary hand across his face. He smiled again, but it was strained at the edges. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I’d like to hear.”
The beer slid smoothly down his throat.
“You don’t want to hear me complain. That’s not why I asked you here.”
“Seems like you need to talk.”
“I…” he laughed again, a surprised
, almost bitter thing. “I had to watch my mother die when I was young. She had cancer, and then in school I decided I was going to help people, try and make a difference, try and make sure no one had to go through that again… My family didn’t understand. Everyone works close to home, helps with the family business … I didn’t think it was such an ignoble goal.”
“It’s not.”
“I just want to help others.”
Sandra wanted to cry. Because he’d never get the chance.
Even if she was there, if she managed to find the exact time and date and road he would be on and save him…
There were just some things you couldn’t change.
Maybe Lem had been living on borrowed time after all.
“Hey.” Thomas’ fingers touched hers, gentle-light and then with growing pressure. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need to talk?”
Sandra gave a watery huff. “I don’t feel much like talking.”
He squeezed her hand before leaning back. “Sure you don’t want that drink?”
Sandra hid her smile in her hair. “No. Thanks.”
He sort of shrugged, but didn’t push it. Then his wings arrived and Sandra watched him lick barbecue sauce off his fingers, not seeming to mind her silence at all.
The music had turned to some bluesy jazz. It came faint over the commentary of the game, of the talking and cheers and faint kitchen noises drifting in through the back. Sandra felt odd, like she was watching everything from inside a fog, disconnected and distant. But then Thomas looked up, giving her a messy smile that included no one else – just them – and she didn’t feel alone at all anymore.
“How long are you in town for?” He chased his wings down with the dregs of his beer. He looked around, tried to spot the waitress and finally caught her eye.
“Not long.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but wasn’t true either. Sandra wasn’t going to explain about abandoned houses and squatting and the possibility of being charged with trespassing if they were caught.
Thomas made a sound, like he was displeased, or disappointed, but his face didn’t match and he ended up shrugging his shoulders, giving a look at Sandra’s questioning face. “You’re good company,” he pointed out, which seemed wrong, when all Sandra could think about was how his head would crack open like an egg on the street.
“You too,” was all she said. It was true. And it was better than sitting home alone, cleaning a gun she never wanted to use.
A sudden cheer made her look up, watch the men over at the bar slap each other on the back, grins so wide their faces almost cracked. One of them nearly toppled over, spilling beer on himself and on the floor. When she looked back, Thomas had a wistful expression on his face, like he wished life could be so easy, joyful in small moments.
What a pair we make.
But that just made everything ache again, whistle of wind in her ears.
“You’ll make a great doctor one day.”
Something in her voice made him look up, but Thomas didn’t say a word, stared quietly, and then the night was winding up and he was helping her to her feet, forgetting a moment that she didn’t have a jacket and laughing as he hugged her instead.
His shirt had a smoky smell – not cigarettes, but something deeper and richer.
“We should do this again sometime,” he said, and Sandra nodded.
“I’d like that,” she heard herself say. And if he somehow heard the sudden surge of tears in her throat, he didn’t say a thing.
His hand stayed a large, warm thing on her back, all the way out the door. “Can I walk you to your car?” he asked.
“I didn’t drive.” Sandra fiddled for a moment, eyes big and throat closed, wanting to say so much.
His palm ghosted over her jaw, but he stepped back, didn’t even try to kiss her. The air Sandra sucked in felt raw.
“I… This sounds…” Her hands fluttered a little, and so she stuck them into her jean pockets. The holes in her knees were a mess of frayed strings, fluttering in the breeze and making her feel young and out of place.
Why did you have to run into me?
“I know you don’t know me… Not really. But can you promise me something?”
Thomas blinked, slow and wary, but he nodded. That was enough.
“I… Watch out for yourself… I mean, look out for traffic. Always look both ways, okay? Don’t hurry so much.”
“Of course.” He sounded so confused.
You’re going to die, she thought. You’re going to die before your dreams are realized and I don’t know what to do.
She couldn’t keep her eyes on him. Instead, Sandra tipped up, balanced on her sneaker toes and caught his cheek. “Be careful.” She turned, and only had his whispered, Yeah, to follow her home.
Chapter Fourteen
The car wasn’t in the drive when she arrived. Danny had taken to keeping it pulled alongside the house, unseen from the road, half covered by the over-sweep of trees and brush.
Jack was inside.
“Fucking Christ,” he said, room temperature beer in hand and thumping along the worn steps of the second floor stairs down to her. “Where the hell have you been?”
Sandra stared hard, saw Jack’s jaw come up, that stubborn tilt, and she just wanted to go over and slap the back of his head, make him see how ridiculous this all was. Everyone was so angry, and she’d been sharing drinks with a dead man, and Jack and Danny hadn’t been there, and she hadn’t known what to do and everything was so screwed up.
“Where have you been?” she asked in return.
His jaw tightened and his eyes went narrow, like he wouldn’t tell even under threat of hot coals. “You’re always home,” he said.
“Not anymore,” she said, even though she felt like burrowing into her covers and never emerging again, just wanted to go away for an eternity until things were easier. “Why’d you need to know?”
“We’re your family,” he grated out, like that was an answer, and Sandra wanted to clock his face, get him right in the jaw and make his stupid, pretty, little mouth bleed.
“Yeah, well,” Sandra shrugged, twisting bitter lips, and felt her words come out pointed and cruel, “maybe you should start acting like it then.”
Jack’s mouth worked, like he couldn’t figure out what to say, throat all tight and eyes furious, and Sandra just walked on by, kicked her sneakers off into the corner of her room, and crawled under the covers.
The floor was lit up by the moon and she could see the floorboard where she’d hidden the gun. The dark cracks in the wood seemed to creep deep, deep down.
Jack finally mounted the stairs and went into his bedroom.
Daniel didn’t get home until much later.
And, even then, Sandra didn’t sleep for a very long time. When she did, she dreamed.
She thought it may have been about Thomas.
Her head ached.
Getting out of bed was a marathon of creaking joints and popping bones. Her back felt branded, burn of muscle, and Sandra shuffled out of the room, glad they’d taken to leaving a container of water in the bathroom. It felt colder than the rest of the house and helped wake her up, the silvered reflection of the cracked mirror making her skin look blue and gray, ghostly like one of those stupid late-night horror movies the boys had sometimes watched when they were younger, in motel rooms when Lem had still been there.
Sandra had hated those films.
The boys had spent a whole night teasing her until Lem had called them off. And then they’d seemed to get it.
Horror movies weren’t scary because the things in her head were always worse.
She could still remember the guilty tilt to their bodies, the slow shift for the remote that had ended with them watching infomercials for three hours straight, Sandra’s head on Danny’s shoulder and Jack’s arms wrapped around h
er thigh from his position on the floor.
She missed that.
A dirty shirt was draped on the top of the banister and Danny was in the kitchen, sweats hung low on his hips and the muscles in his back rippling as he reached for a glass in the upper cupboard. It took Sandra a long moment to remember why she was supposed to be angry, that sick pit surging into her tummy until the idea of breakfast didn’t sound appetizing anymore.
Sandra left the room before she was seen.
The floorboards creaked all the way across the hall and into the side of the house and the room that might have once been a small library or a salon. The windows were big there, letting in the early morning light past big thickets of brambles and dead ivy. Dried leaves brushed against the windowpanes, echoing through with soft, crackling rustles, the wind slowly shaking them to bits.
Sandra’s hands shook as she listened to Daniel making a cold breakfast in the kitchen, Jack’s feet hitting the floor as he got out of bed up above. The air felt punched out of her. The sounds trembled and echoed, wood and walls too thin and old for privacy.
For a moment, Sandra had to press her fingers to her mouth to keep from making a noise.
God. She wanted to run again. Run and never come back. Never look back.
Jack slipped into the bathroom, swore as the cold water touched his skin.
Somewhere out there Thomas was going to die. People were dying every day and Lem was dead and the boys were drifting much too far away. Their family was unraveling at the seams. They’d given her a gun as protection against the world and it wasn’t the comfort they thought it would be.
Jack slipped down the stairs and Sandra breathed shallow, waited until he had passed before darting up the steps, closing the door to her room fast.
She stared at the floorboard where the gun was hidden.
Somewhere, a shot reverberated. It echoed in pulses of memory and futures and blood.
Something bad was coming.
And Sandra was very afraid.
~
Sometimes, Sandra dreamed she was failing Lem.
Sticks and Stones Page 14