by Ruth Wind
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Chapter 12
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As darkness fell, Joel knew what he had to do. Remembering his promise to move if anything happened to ruin the friendship between himself and Maggie, he went back to his apartment. He wandered through the spacious home, admiring the carved metal doorknobs and long windows, the bookshelves and the sunny kitchen.
Then, with a sense of resignation, he plunged into the work of moving himself out. He cleaned the recycling room, bagging cans and paper and plastic into neat bundles; swept and mopped the floors; boxed his record albums and tapes. A friend at the raptor center had agreed to store a few things for him. The rest he would take with him. There wasn't, after all, much of an accumulation.
Except his books. These he packed carefully into boxes and loaded into the cab of his truck. His books went with him. They had been the only constants of his life.
At last, he went upstairs. His bedroom was untouched since the morning's confession, and the sight of the letters, scattered like forgotten children on the floor, pained him. He picked them up carefully, shuffling them back into a neat, huge stack that contained all he had left of Maggie. These letters had shown him her resilience and strength, her humor and honor. They had been his beacon of light through the dark years, the one reason he could see in addition to his birds to continue to keep himself alive. Her thoughts and ruminations had given his mind and soul the fuel they needed to keep growing in an environment designed to thwart.
Even though he had lost her, there was no regret, not for himself. He had gambled all he had, given her all that he was, all that he had hopes of being. Even his lie had been perpetuated to protect her. A man could do no more. The past was not his to change.
As he gathered the letters to himself, smelling the scent of the potpourris he now knew she used in her bedroom, he had a brief, searing instant of sorrow. Maggie had truly given him his freedom—freedom to love again, freedom to laugh again. His most fervent hope had been to return that favor, to free her of the betrayals of her past.
Instead, he'd given her one more. Unlike Moses, she'd required more than shelter and nourishment. In that one kernel of truth, he found his regret. Maggie deserved so much more, and he'd been unable to deliver.
Galen had no luck in the stands. "I think I'll find him in the front of the crowd."
"What makes you say that?"
He frowned. "If I wanted to start a riot, that's where I'd go. The crowd is thickest there, rowdiest. Stands to reason."
"All right." Maggie rubbed a throbbing temple. "Let's go."
"Why don't you stay here? I'll go check it out."
"Forget it Galen. I'm a newspaper publisher, remember? I'm aware of the risks."
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Fine. Let's do it before the band comes on."
Unfortunately, the press of the crowd was resistant to allowing even one more body to pass through its mass, and before the trio had inched even halfway toward the front, Proud Fox ran onstage.
The crowd had been waiting months for this moment, and they exploded with their enthusiasm, screaming, jumping, shouting, whistling and clapping. Wedged into the midst of them, Maggie was jostled and shoved. Her eardrums felt as if they would burst under the pressure of noise. When the band slammed into their first song, a decibel level Maggie would have sworn caused deafness was trebled. Every cell of her brain sizzled with the initial powerful rocket of sound.
But as she'd told Galen, she was aware of the risks. The thought of the possible mayhem that could result if a riot broke out in this madhouse spurred her on. Ignoring the glares flung at her, she squeezed through one row of teens after another, shouldering and elbowing and dipping to get through. After what seemed like an endless time, she found herself three rows from front and center. Looking up to regain her bearings, her gaze froze on a black jacket painted with a red pentagram, an impossible squeeze to her right, on the fringes of the crowd.
The boy in the jacket flipped long hair away from his face, and Maggie noted the wig was slightly askew. His face was in profile. In the bright lights from the stage, she could see the twist of his lips and the fine scar running from his eye through his cheek. As she watched, Cory reached into his pockets and withdrew a handful of round, dark balls.
She frowned, pushing past two more people, then a third, trying to see what he was doing. A match flared in his hand, an unremarkable event in the crowd of smokers.
Then Maggie saw him touch the match to the fuses on the balls, lighting several at once before tossing them like volleyballs into the crowd. In shock, Maggie saw one sail toward her, the fuse sparkling orange against the night sky.
Without conscious thought, feeling as if she were moving in slow motion, she shoved at the people in front of her, violently moving through the resistant stream toward the spot she thought the firecracker would land. It was a cherry bomb, probably, not designed to do more than cause a lot of noise, but if it exploded in someone's face—
It landed before Maggie could reach the spot, the noise of the explosion muffled in the electric guitar pouring from the speakers. But around the landing spot, kids screamed and jumped back, shoving those behind and in front of them, which in turn, caused those people to shove and push back. As she watched, the ripple of irritated pushing grew, like the radiating circles expanding from a rock thrown into a pond. Around her, she heard the other cherry bombs go off with sharp reports like gunfire, saw the same principle in action.
An elbow caught her chin with dizzying force, making her teeth clack together with jarring noise. When Maggie shook off the stunning blow to look around, Cory was gone.
No, not gone, she saw—deeper in the crowd. He'd taken advantage of the milling confusion caused by his cherry bombs to fuse himself with the shifting bodies. The move had brought him only a few feet from Maggie.
With her goal in sight, she felt a surge of adrenaline give power to her body. She pushed through the last obstacles like a needle through cloth, simply and directly.
She grabbed the leather-jacketed arm and ripped off his wig. "Don't do it!" she shouted in his ear. Twisting his arm behind his back with more strength than she knew she had, Maggie pushed him ahead of her, out of the crowd. "I know who you are!"
He fought her, not much at first, but more and more as they neared the outer rim of people. He kicked her in the shin hard. With the pain came a blinding red anger, a renewal of the same fury she'd felt upon learning of Joel's betrayal. Adrenaline-spurred power gave her arms twice as much strength as they ordinarily had, and she shoved Cory with all her might toward a security guard.
Cory broke free, struggling the last few feet to the corridor of space near the fence. Maggie took off after him, determined she would not lose him this time, not if it killed her. He darted toward the gates leading to the bleachers, glancing once over his shoulder at Maggie, following close behind. He seemed to hesitate, then bolted up the stairs at a pace only a young, healthy boy could meet.
As Maggie took the stairs, her breath tore raggedly in and out of her chest. Each lungful of air seemed to have gained sharp edges, and her throat hurt, Adrenaline had helped her begin—now stubbornness would not let her give in.
He ran clear to the top of the bleachers and turned desperately to the right, looking for an out. Maggie forced rubbery legs up the last few stairs. She cornered him at the top level of the arena, where a wind cut through the opening to their left. Bleachers descended in stairs for hundreds of feet in the other direction—bleachers filled with fans.
As Maggie neared him, he charged her with a yell. She stood firm, absorbing the tackle with a cocked shoulder, the way she had as a child with Galen, and effectively blocked him. They both fell to their knees, and Maggie reached her arms around the boy's torso, pinning him against her.
His body went limp. "Oh, God," he cried. "Oh, God." He covered his face with his hands.
Not entirely certain this wasn't another ploy to escape, Maggie released her hold a fraction. H
e sagged further under the weight of the sobs shaking his shoulders, and Maggie released him entirely, braced to snag him again if he ran.
He didn't. He collapsed completely on the concrete floor, weeping uncontrollably. "I just wanted to make it up to him," he cried, taking Maggie's hand. "He was all I had!"
Maggie thought of Galen. "I understand, Cory. More than you'll ever know." She took his hand. "But this wasn't right. You need help."
"No!" His face paled, the scar that twisted his mouth standing out in relief. "God, please don't tell my father. He'll kill me."
Maggie fought to control her voice. "You have my personal guarantee that you won't ever have to go home to him again."
Cory moved away, panic clear in his eyes. "They always say that and they always send me back. You just can't know…!"
"Listen to me!" she shouted. "My father was a brutal, vicious man, just like yours. I do know what I'm talking about."
He looked at her.
"My brother is an expert on both the beatings and the ways the state can protect you. He's here, at the concert, and he can get you the help and the shelter that you need." She faced him squarely, her voice hard. "I'll take you to him, right now. But I swear, if you pull anything, I'll press charges for this cut on my eye, for the vandalism to my house, and I'll see you in court for the riot at the ticket outlet." She let the words sink in for a moment. "What's it going to be?"
Cory stood, his posture exhausted. "I'll go see your brother."
"Good for you." She cocked an eyebrow. "Don't mind if I hold your arm, do you? My legs are a little shaky after that run."
It was nearly an hour before they found Galen, waiting near the gates to the parking lot. In all that time, Cory docilely followed her instructions. It disturbed her in a way—the confrontation seemed to have taken everything he had. In spite of all the violence he'd perpetuated, she found herself feeling a deep sympathy for the boy. She honestly hoped he would find the help he needed, that it wasn't too late to educate him to healthier ways of venting emotion.
She sketched the situation to Galen quickly. He didn't need much information, only the appeal for help. As she'd known he would, Galen took charge immediately. "You can go home now, Maggie," he said, touching her cheek. "You need some rest."
Joel's truck was gone and his apartment windows were dark when Maggie drove up in front of the building. She was aware only of a sense of relief as she dragged herself up the steps.
Letting herself inside her own apartment, she collapsed on the couch in the darkness. For a long time, she just sat there, feeling the emptiness of the rooms reflected in her heart. It was a loneliness as bereft of hope as any she'd ever experienced, even worse than the day Galen had run away from home.
That thought gave rise to another. In her mind's eye, Maggie saw herself manhandling Cory Silva on the field. She felt a fleeting wisp of the living anger that had spurred her and shook her head in bewilderment.
Never in her life had she allowed any kind of anger to break her composure. Even when Samantha, as exasperating and exhausting as all children are, had pushed Maggie to the limit, she hadn't given in to the furious, all-consuming rage that had engulfed her tonight.
Its appearance terrified her. In those moments, she knew with cold certainty that if it had been necessary to knock Cory down to stop him, she would have done it. She'd have knocked him senseless if the need had arisen.
How could her control, the control developed over a lifetime, have snapped so completely?
She shivered, thinking of the morning's revelations. As the full scope of Joel's betrayal had become clear to her, she'd experienced another emotion alien to her—hatred. For a long violence of seconds, she'd hated Joel Summer with every infinitesimal piece of herself. It made her feel ill now to think of it.
Wrapping her arms around her legs, she tried to halt the trembling of her limbs. Anger and hate had both come from love. The passionate, overwhelming love she'd allowed herself to feel for Joel.
But it hadn't been love that had seduced her, in the end. Joy had done that. It had been joy that had shimmered between them as they'd made love, an emotion as clear and perfect as the first morning light. Its perfection had lulled her into believing it would be safe.
Unfortunately it was impossible to open the door to just one emotion. By removing the blocks to joy, she'd also let anger and sorrow and despair into her life. She should have known that, should have already learned this lesson.
Before she could cry, Maggie stood up. She would close the door to all of them again. Love would become again a tenderness she felt toward Samantha and Galen, anger nothing more than mild irritation. She would allow no intrusion of Joel Summer into her thoughts until she felt nothing, not hate or sorrow or love. Until his memory brought only a mild, distant regret, she couldn't allow him any space in her mind.
The trick, she thought wearily, heading upstairs to her own bed, a bed she'd not slept in for weeks, was finding out how to keep herself from thinking of him.
He made it easier, as it turned out. Sunday morning, it was apparent that he was gone. Not just out for the day, but packed up and gone. When Maggie realized it, she felt a pang for the cats, Moses and Buddy. She would miss them.
When Galen came downstairs for breakfast, he said, "It looks like Mitchell moved."
The sound of his real name sent a sharp, hot sword through her middle, and Maggie had to breathe deeply against it for a moment. "I know," she finally answered, focusing her attention on the counter she was wiping.
"That's odd," Galen commented as he took a seat at the table.
Maggie shook her head. "No, he promised he would move if we found we couldn't get along." In spite of everything, it was no surprise to find that he'd kept that promise.
"Do you want to talk about this, Maggie?"
"No," she said flatly.
He scanned her face with a worried frown. "All right," he said finally. "It's your little red wagon." He stood up. "But I can't sit around here and watch you brood. Let's do something."
"What?"
"I don't know. We'll think of something."
"You go ahead," she said. "I don't really feel like doing anything."
"I'll stay, then. I came here to be with you."
"No sense in your suffering with my bad mood."
He settled back in his chair stubbornly. "All the same…"
"Have it your way," she said.
"What happened with Cory last night?"
"About time you got around to asking." She shrugged listlessly. "He's going to be evaluated and moved accordingly. By the time I got him to the shelter last night, he was blubbering like a baby, sobbing about that brother of his. It's pretty clear he's not stable, that he hasn't grieved."
"Is there any hope for him, do you think?"
"Oh, yeah," Galen said with a grin. "There's always hope. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be in the line of work I am."
She smiled halfheartedly.
"Maggie." His voice was stern.
"Don't, Galen," she said in a weary voice. "Please."
He reached out and took her hand. "Do you remember what you used to do when Dad went crazy?"
She frowned, wondering what this had to do with anything. "Not really." With a droll twist to her lips, she added, "I frankly avoid thinking about him at all."
Galen licked his lips. "You used to hide under the stairs. It was full of spiders, but you braved your greatest terror rather than face Dad." He stroked her fingers gently. "I would find you under there, shivering, with your hands around your knees, pale as a ghost."
The memory flashed on the screen of her mind, vivid and intense. A rush of hot tears filled her eyes, and she snatched her hand from her brother's to cover the trembling of her lips. "Damn you, Galen," she whispered. "You're the only one who can do this to me."
"You're hiding now like you did then," he said quietly. "I'm not going to tell you what to do, one way or the other, but you have to deal with it."
The tears, irrepressible now, slid over her face. "I don't know how."
"Find a way," he said, standing and reaching out for her.
Maggie collapsed in his arms, weeping. He held her while she cried, the way he had when she was seven. She let her mind go where it would as the cleansing tears flowed through her. She saw herself with Joel in the high mountain meadow, laughing with giddy pleasure as the kite tugged on the string between her fingers. She saw his great head bending to taste reverently of her breasts and saw his eyes, trained with familiarity on the sky. "God, Galen," she said with a broken voice, "I really fell for him."
"I know you did." His hand smoothed her hair gently, calming her.
The words seemed to provide a cork on her emotions, and wiping at her eyes, Maggie pulled away. Galen said nothing as she walked to the sink to splash cold water on her hot eyes, then dried them. Finally, she turned. "Did he do it?"
Galen sighed, lifting his heavy blond eyebrows ruefully. "I wish I could say no. The truth is, he would never discuss it." He paused. "What do you think?"
Maggie shook her head slowly. "I don't know." She took a breath and blew a strand of hair away from her face. "That's not even really the issue, is it?"
"Maybe it is."
"He lied to me, Galen. Invented somebody. I feel now like I was the only participant in what I thought was something really good."
"What do you think you really would have done if he'd shown up at your door and introduced himself?"
"That's exactly the point," she cried. "He didn't trust me enough to give me the chance."
Galen nodded. "I see what you mean."
"Oh, please," Maggie protested with irritation, "don't play psychologist with me, counselor."
"Okay," he said, straightening. "I'll talk like your brother. That man is crazy in love with you. He lied. I understand why that upsets you. I can also see, knowing you, why he did it." He pursed his lips in consideration, "About his killing his wife's lover—I don't think it matters. He's done his time and he's not a crazed killer."