The man Tawny had shot in the leg was up, lurching toward the car. He stooped to pick up the chain, then continued his advance. Charlie started the engine and hit the gas, striking the man with the front bumper, knocking him away as the chain rained on the car’s hood. Charlie slammed on the brakes and shifted into reverse, turning the Volvo around to face the street. A white man appeared from the shadows and ran toward the passenger side of the car, pointing a pistol. “Get down!” Tawny shouted.
A shot rang out as the Volvo’s wheels went over the curb. The car careened into the street with a thump that jolted everyone inside. Car brakes squealed behind them and a horn honked. More shots were fired as Charlie raced away. Wyatt started crying loudly. Romy was eerily quiet.
“We’re out of there!” Tawny told her kids. “We’re never going back, I promise!”
A second later, Tawny stuck her head between the front seats, hyperventilating as she spoke. “The kids are OK, I think. Oh, God, Charlie. Those men took over the soup kitchen last week. I heard a woman screaming Saturday night, and then yesterday the police pulled a body out of the Dumpster. I’m sure it was her. It was horrible. That could have been me and the kids. They kept trying to get in. It was weird. They could have broken out a window, but they kept trying to unlock the door.” She took a few breaths and swallowed. “I’ve been thinking of you. I prayed you’d come back for us. Sure took you long enough. I heard a brawl and before I knew it, Romy had slipped outside even though she knows not to. I grabbed the gun and chased after her, and I saw your car. Had to help you. You’re a mess. Your eye looks real bad. You need a doctor.”
“I’ll be all right,” Charlie mumbled, even though he had no idea what he was talking about. He was more than half-blind and could barely hold the road.
“Here. Keep this up there, away from the kids.” She handed him the nickel-plated revolver, which was warm and smelled of shooting. He laid it on the passenger seat, then covered it with a plastic bag. She leaned back and buckled in the kids as best she could. “We need a place to stay.”
“You can stay at my place,” Charlie said, his voice heavy and dull.
“We’ve got a place to sleep,” she said softly to her son. “So quit crying.”
“I’ve got to move out in a couple of days, though.”
“You can afford a new place, right?”
“Yeah.”
“We need to call 911. Got a cellphone?”
Charlie reached into his pocket, then saw a convenience store ahead and pulled his hand out empty. No cops. “Use the pay phone. Don’t mention my name. I’m already mixed up in one shooting,” he said. “Maybe more.” He pulled into the store’s parking lot, which was bathed in fluorescent light, and parked near the pay phone, located near the end of the building.
“I’ll tell them I know where the men are who killed that woman Saturday night,” Tawny said.
Charlie dropped his forehead on the steering wheel. “Do that.”
Tawny stepped out of the car. Charlie watched her walk away in her Daisy Dukes, pink tank top, and high-heeled sandals. He placed the gun in his lap and pulled the mirror down to check his face. It was a mess. An alien configuration of blood and pulp. His new rimless glasses were busted and had only stayed on because they’d been mashed into his face—now more like a monocle with antennae than specs.
And the pain was almost unbearable. To take his mind off it, he pivoted the mirror to check on the kids. Their watchful gazes met his. “You’re hurt bad,” Romy said.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It looks bad.”
“Do you have any food?” Wyatt asked. “Do you have a TV?”
“Yes and yes.” As he spoke, Charlie became aware of pain in new places.
Tawny returned. “We should get some food,” she said. “They haven’t eaten all day. I was afraid to go out with those men there.”
“I’ll feed them at my place,” Charlie said. “Let’s go.”
He pulled out of the lot onto Memorial, barely avoiding getting T-boned by a pickup truck. Tawny muttered, “Don’t kill us now, man.”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“You must have a concussion. Honestly, Charlie, I don’t understand how you survived.”
“I haven’t survived yet.”
“How can a human take a beating like that?”
“Don’t know.”
“Why you?”
Charlie felt a loose tooth with his tongue. “My turn, I reckon.”
He watched the street move sideways in front of him. A pair of headlights shone directly in his eyes as a horn blared. He adjusted the car out of the way of oncoming traffic. “We’ll be there soon,” he said.
“If by there you mean the hospital, I believe it.”
“Be a man. Answer the phone.”
“I … didn’t hear a phone,” Tawny said.
Somehow, Charlie made it to Castlegate.
“Do you live in a hotel?” Romy asked as they pulled into the garage.
“No,” Charlie said. “These are apartments.”
He parked and limped toward the elevator as his passengers followed. He felt the pistol against the small of his back; he couldn’t remember putting it there. When he glanced back at the car, he saw a bullet hole just above the gas cap door.
Tawny touched Charlie’s back, where welts from his chain whipping were rising. He winced and pulled away. “Thank you for taking us in.” Tawny stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Unfortunately, there no longer seemed to be a place on his body that didn’t hurt.
Charlie cleared his throat. “No. Thank you. They were going to kill me.”
“They were doing a pretty good job, better than those guys that shot you.”
When they got off the elevator, Charlie’s hand trembled so badly he couldn’t unlock the door. Tawny took the key and got them inside the apartment.
The kids walked gingerly across the concrete floor. “This is all one room,” Wyatt said. “But it’s a big room.”
Charlie limped into the kitchen. He pulled off—or rather, extracted—his fancy spectacles and put them on the counter. Then he went to a corner by the bookcase and pulled out the kid-sized sleeping bags and mats he’d bought for Beck and Ben’s stay. “Make yourselves at home.”
Wyatt moved toward the TV. “You’ll have to eat and take a bath before you watch that,” his mother told him, then turned to Charlie. “Food?”
“Uh. Sure. Cheese sandwiches and apples.”
“Thanks. You should clean up and assess the damage.” She reached up to touch his face, but she winced at the sight of him under the kitchen lights and pulled back her hand.
“Are those nail holes? I think that’s what got your eye. My God, can you see out of it? It’s swollen shut. Try opening it.”
“No.”
“You should go to the hospital.”
“I’ll be all right,” Charlie said, although he didn’t see how. He didn’t see much of anything, but there was a numbness coming over him that seemed to be killing part of the pain.
He realized that a beautiful woman had come to spend the night, and he was in the most pitiful shape of his life. His crotch ached up to his diaphragm. His brain was a cabbage. In his condition, he was more likely to piss blood than have sex. He wished he could just crawl into his cave and get well or die. Didn’t matter which, as long as it happened quickly.
He pulled the pistol from his jeans and examined it. Amazing. A prostitute with a gun had saved his life. There were so many bad lessons to be learned here. He swallowed hard. Dragging his right leg, Charlie limped over to the bookcase and placed the revolver on a high shelf beyond the kids’ reach, gasping in pain when he stretched. Now he knew what broken ribs felt like.
Tawny drew a bath while the children ate. Afterward she put them in the tub together.
Meanwhile, Charlie checked his face in the living-room mirror. One hell of a beating he’d taken. He looked like a boxer following a career-end
ing bout. He felt like he was trapped in a dim tunnel with a dull echo and a slow train coming. He was lucky he hadn’t bled to death; instead, he’d coagulated nicely. There was dried blood where the tracks of tears should be. His left eye remained swollen shut and throbbed mercilessly. His cheekbone might be cracked. His nose, broken and disjointed, had stopped bleeding. He was pretty sure he would lose at least one of his teeth. His right knee, like his thighs, had been punctured several time. He suspected that the nails from that nasty two-by-four had pierced his skull. He was sure he had a major concussion and wondered if they’d damaged his brain—part of that small percentage he used. He also suspected some damage would be permanent. His overall assessment: He really should feel worse; in fact, he should be dead. Now he really knew what Lincoln Roberts had felt like.
He didn’t want to sit down for fear he wouldn’t get back up.
“Be a man. Put a Band-Aid on it,” he muttered, and then took some Advil and washed his wounds in the kitchen sink, splashing water on his face. He plastered bandages on the lacerations he could see, even putting a large square Band-Aid over his left eye. His jeans were torn and bloody, so he slipped on a new pair behind the counter. With a single, loud cry of pain, he put his nose back in line—more or less.
Then he put on his old pair of industrial glasses, so he could see out of one eye, at least. He collapsed on the counter to take the weight off his legs. He coughed and spit blood into the sink, then wondered what part of his body it came from.
Tawny marched the towel-wrapped kids out of the bathroom. She pulled some clean clothes from her backpack while the kids danced around. They dressed in front of the TV. Charlie slipped Toy Story into the DVD player. Romy and Wyatt slipped into sleeping bags to watch the movie while their mother took a shower. Charlie thought they’d adjusted to their new surroundings quickly. Then again, this was a calm and secure place, unlike what they’d endured for the past … actually, he had no idea how long they’d squatted in the church, or where they’d been before that.
Tawny emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. “I feel better. But I’m exhausted. I need to lie down.”
“You want one of my shirts?” Charlie limped to the armoire and pulled out a blue T-shirt.
When she put it on, it hung almost to her knees. She smiled and said, “You’re a big man.” The towel dropped to the floor and she picked it up, then tossed it toward the bathroom. She collapsed on the bed and gave Charlie a winsome smile. She could be a model, he thought. Why shouldn’t he love her—that is, when he was able? She’d proved herself. She’d saved his life. There was no longer any need to judge. I’m no better than her. All right, then. I’ll do something about it just as soon as I quit pissing blood.
He sat on the couch for a while, staring at the movie. Tawny fell asleep. Wyatt did, too. Then Charlie took a shower, washing away the blood and street grime. When he returned to the sofa in gym shorts and a T-shirt, Romy watched him with her all-seeing eyes.
“Don’t you like the movie?” he asked.
“I’ve seen it before.”
“Can I turn it off?”
“OK.” She wriggled out of the sleeping bag and sat beside him.
“You should go to bed,” he said.
“I will. Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Can I play with your daughter sometime?”
“That would be nice. But I don’t see her much.”
“Did they take her away?”
“Yes.”
“I hope they bring her back to you. Then I can play with her.” She stood on the couch and hugged his neck. “That’s what I’ll pray for,” she whispered. “Thank you for being good to us. I missed you not coming around. I’m glad you came back. I knew it was you, and you were in trouble. I went outside to help you.”
“Well, thank you. That was very dangerous. You’re very brave. How did you know it was me?”
“I know these things.” She gazed into his good eye. “Don’t cry, Charlie. Don’t cry.” She patted his face, managing to find a spot that didn’t hurt.
“I can’t help it. My eyes hurt. You go to bed now, sweetie.”
“OK.” She slipped off the couch and went to her sleeping bag, arranging it on the mat just so. “I like you. Are you going to take care of us?”
“I like you, too. I’ll find you a place to stay, and … things are going to be better.”
“You can sleep with Mommy if you want to. That’s what men do.”
There was nothing he could say to that.
He sat still for a couple of minutes, then he remembered the prescription painkillers left over from January’s shooting. He got up and swallowed a couple. He sat in the darkness and listened to the children’s gentle breathing. Its familiarity was soothing. He felt a little better already.
He realized he’d survived only because a little girl thought he was worth saving. Otherwise, he would have ended up in the Dumpster like Shaundra. There was a word for what he’d experienced, but his enfeebled mind couldn’t think of it right then. Something he’d received, a gift he’d done nothing to earn.
“Hey,” Tawny said, sounding groggy. “You need to rest. Come be with me. I won’t bite. Unless …”
Charlie limped to the bed, then fell beside her. He listened to her breathing, no longer afraid of anything she might give him now that she’d given him his life.
“Hold me,” she said.
It took awhile to find a way to snuggle that didn’t hurt. Tawny laid her arm across his chest and whispered, “I kept hoping you’d come back. I mean, I know we had a fight. But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
“No.”
“Just promise me—”
She paused to look at his ruined face. The painkillers had kicked in. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s good,” he said.
Charlie stared at the ceiling and realized he’d be leaving this place soon. Moving to where, he didn’t know. He would miss this ceiling. Of all the ones he’d stared at in his life, this one was the best, with its train shadows that danced in the middle of the night. Thinking of trains reminded him of that DVD out there by the tracks. He cleared his throat and mumbled drowsily, “I saw you before I ever met you. On my computer once. With a basketball team.”
“A basketball team?” Tawny groaned. “Oh, that.” She chuckled. “So … what did you think of my performance?”
“Changed my life,” he murmured, then drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Charlie woke from a terrible nightmare—Beck was being crushed in a machine, and he was selling tickets for the event—to the sound of ear-splitting screams. Half the visible world was gone; his left eye, swollen and crusted shut, produced a ball of clarifying torment to match the piercing sound in his head. His body played a reveille of misery. For an instant, he didn’t know where—or who—he was. He was a new man in a strange place, born of a grinder into a world of pain, awakened from lifelessness by blows from a baseball bat.
Endure, he told himself, and focused on the screaming: It came from a child in meltdown. The little one was at the door, trying to get out. Struggling to his feet, still in shorts and a T-shirt, Charlie staggered toward the brown girl with the mophead curls. Romy. That was her name.
“Mommy left us! Mommy’s gone!” She turned to Charlie, sobbing violently, tears streaming down her face, hyperventilating. “I want Mommy!”
“When did she leave?” Charlie asked, his mind dulled by equal parts sleep and trauma.
Romy shook her head furiously and kept babbling.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll bet she went downstairs to the bakery to get you something to eat.” He glanced toward the kitchen and noticed his wallet lying open on the counter. He limped over to check. He wouldn’t begrudge her money for breakfast.
Two hundred-dollar bills were gone. Whoops. That was more than a couple of muffins and a quart of juice. His Visa card had vanished
, too. His good eye darted about wildly. The Volvo keys? Not where he’d left them. He glanced at the hook by the door. The BMW and loft keys were still there. Then he saw a note on the legal pad. He rubbed his right eye, blinked several times, and read:
Charlie,
I can’t take care of Romy and Wyatt anymore, so I’m going away. I don’t plan to come back. I’m sorry for taking your things, but they’re just things. Please let me use your card and don’t call the police. I won’t charge a bunch of stuff. I just need a new start. I know you’ll take good care of the children. Wyatt is a great kid, and my girl is special. You’ll see. You’ll be better for her than I am. I’m leaving their documents with you. You’re their only hope. Tell them I love them. This is a blessing for you. You’ll see.
—T
P.S. You should go to a hospital. Maybe they can help you with that asshat problem of yours, too.
Beneath the pad, she’d left a manila envelope. He opened it and saw Social Security cards and birth certificates. Neither had a father’s name written on them.
No. This can’t be happening. “I’m going to check on your Mommy,” he told Romy, who had fallen to the floor and was curled up, sobbing rhythmically. He grabbed his keys. Wyatt was still asleep. She popped up and held out her arms. “OK. OK. Come with me.” He picked her up and walked out the door, locking it behind him. He wanted to run down the hall, but he was slowed by a punctured knee, broken toes, and a three-year-old around his neck, so he was reduced to hobbling to the elevator.
To his horror and dismay, the Volvo was, in fact, gone. He stomped the garage floor in anger and frustration, aggravating the pain in his foot where he’d been spiked. He limped over to the vacant space and gently lowered Romy to the floor. She sucked her thumb while he stooped like an Old West tracker, balancing himself upon fingertips on the oil-soaked concrete. He grunted. Each passing minute diminished the chance of her return. No way of telling when she’d left or which way she’d gone. He stood and sighed, brushing his hands together as he stared at the entrance.
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