by Diane Kelly
“Is that right? That’s great, hon. Just great. I’ve missed you so much!”
“I’m making good grades. “Mostly B’s but I’ve got an A in Hist—”
“You think you could come by? You know, so we can talk in person? I’d love to see you.”
Dub hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What do you mean ‘not a good idea’? I’m your mother. Your mother, Wade. How can you turn your back on me?”
There it was. The same old guilt trip. “I’m not turning my back—”
“Just come by for a little bit,” she said, her voice softer now, sweeter. “Come see where I’m staying. I’ve got things together now. I just want you to see. That ain’t too much to ask, is it?”
There was a long silence during which Dub nearly hung up the phone. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. “He isn’t there, is he?”
“Oh, hell no! I am done with that sorry son-of-a-bitch.”
“You sure?”
She huffed. “Would I lie to you?”
Yes. Yes, you would. Over and over and over again. And I’d be stupid enough to keep believing you …
She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Come on over. I’ll make you dinner. I’ve got corn dogs in the freezer.”
Frozen corn dogs. Dub supposed most teenage boys would be thrilled to eat junk food but, even though Wesley’s homemade meals tasted like rubber, they meant something. That Wes cared.
“Come on,” his mother said. “You’ll break my heart if you don’t come by.” She gave him the address. “You got that, hon?”
Dub felt sick. He put a hand to his eyes. “Yeah. All right. I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up the phone, rounded up his history book, and slid it into his backpack. Might as well make good use of his time on the bus to get the required reading done. He put on his favorite hoodie, the white one with the black tornado, the Gainesville State School mascot. He didn’t dare wear it to school here. Though the name of the reform school appeared only in small print on the top left side, things were bad enough already without him reminding people he had a criminal record. But on the east side of town where his mother lived the sweatshirt could give him some street cred.
Wes was out shopping for groceries, which meant Dub could avoid the usual grilling about where he was going and when he’d be back. Sometimes he wasn’t sure his foster fathers totally trusted him. They probably shouldn’t. He left a note on the kitchen counter.
Gone to library. I’ll be back by dinnertime.
D.
He caught the number 6 bus on 8th Street, switching to an eastbound number 24 on Berry. He’d just finished the chapter in his history book when the bus arrived in the Morningside neighborhood. It pulled to a stop with a whoosh of the air brakes.
Dub looked out the window at the rundown apartment complex where his mother lived. The place was made of that god-awful pink brick they used way back. The gray awning over the walkway was torn, a loose corner flapping in the wind. Three young men of various races hung out in the parking lot, sitting on hoods of beater cars, drinking beer. Damn. He wished he’d brought something for protection. A piece of pipe. A knife. His brass knuckles.
Dub should get on a westbound bus and head back to Fairmount. That’s exactly what he should do. But instead, he found himself jumping up from his seat and hollering “Wait!” as the bus driver began to close the doors.
“Hurry up!” the driver called back to him. “I’ve got a schedule to keep.”
Dub hurried to the front of the bus and climbed down the steps to exit onto the sidewalk. The doors slid closed behind him with a shwuck, as if shutting him out of the new life he’d left behind. He slid the back of his hand across his forehead, like he could wipe away the thought. Stupid. All he had to do to go back to his new life was get on another bus. Hell, he could probably call Wes to come pick him up. Wes was close to his own mother. He’d understand Dub’s need to make sure his mother was safe.
As Dub crossed the street, making his way toward the complex, he noticed the three men stiffen. He knew what that meant. They saw him coming and planned to defend their turf. As much as he wanted to turn and run right now, he knew that was the worst thing he could do. One whiff of weakness and these guys would be on him like white on rice.
As he came near, he mustered his inner tough guy, walking in a loose-limbed swagger, one that said I ain’t scared of you pussies.
He forced himself to lock eyes with the black man, who seemed to be the leader. Dub knew looking away would be a sign of fear. The man had short hair with a swirl design shaved over each ear and eyes that were dark and dangerous and hard and soulless. The eyes of a man who didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. The eyes of a man who’d make you sorry if you crossed him.
Dub was all too familiar with eyes like that.
One of the others, an Asian guy with a neck tattoo, stepped forward, his eyes narrowed until they were only dark slits in his face. He leaned to the side to take in Dub’s backpack, got in Dub’s face, and said, “What the hell you doing here, college boy?”
Dub was years away from college, but he wasn’t about to let these thugs know how young he really was. For once, he was glad his experiences had aged him, taught him how to take care of himself. And he thanked the puberty fairy for not holding out on him.
“You don’t want to fuck with me,” Dub said coolly, his eyes locking on the Asian man’s now. Wes may have learned how to behave at cotillion, but Dub had learned it on the streets. “I just got out of the joint.”
Of course the “joint” had been the state school for juvenile offenders, but these guys didn’t need to know that.
The Asian’s eyes opened wide now and his brows arched. “Prison? No shit?”
Funny how being incarcerated made people fear him in nice neighborhoods, but got him respect in places like this.
The black guy cocked his head. “What you doin’ here?”
“None of your fucking business.” No sense telling them he’d come to see his mommy.
The man chuckled, slid off the hood of the Dodge he’d been sitting on, and extended a fisted hand with scabby, skinned knuckles. He’d either been in a fight or worked with machinery. Dub’s money was on a fight. If this guy had a decent job, he wouldn’t be hanging out in a parking lot like this in the afternoon.
“Welcome, brother,” the man said. “I’m Marquise. ’Cause I’m hard and cut—” he lifted his shirt to show off a tight set of abs, “like a diamond.”
Dub wondered if Marquise used that lame line on women and whether any of the women were stupid enough to fall for it. He also doubted whether the name was legit. Dub understood guys like this. They might hang together, but sharing personal information? Not gonna happen. Nonetheless, he curled his fingers and bumped fists with the man.
The guy lifted his chin to indicate the Asian. “The nosy one is Long Dong.”
The Asian smiled, but it was more evil than friendly. Guys like this didn’t make friends. They only hung with people who could provide them with some type of benefit, whether it be sex, drugs, cash, or alibis.
Marquise hiked a thumb toward the Latino. “That’s Gato.”
Dub knew from his third period Spanish class—in which he’d earned a B+ the last six weeks—that gato meant cat. He could see why the guy had the name. His moves were sleek and catlike as he slid down the hood of the car and stepped over to give Dub another fist bump.
“WC,” Dub said, introducing himself.
“WC?” Marquise asked.
Dub wasn’t about to tell him the initials stood for Wade Chandler. His name was none of their business. Besides, they might laugh at the fact that his mother had named him after a character on Friends. “WC,” Dub repeated. “White Chocolate.”
“White Chocolate?” Marquise grinned. “I like that, man.”
Dub raised a hand and headed off. “Later.”
The men engaged in speculation as he walked away.
/> “I bet he’s going to see Yolanda. Get hisself a little sumthin-sumthin’,” said Long Dong.
Dub had no idea who Yolanda was, and he didn’t want to find out. The only girl he was interested in was Jenna.
Eyeing the numbers on the apartment doors, Dub spotted 215 and took the stairs up to it. He hesitated again before knocking.
Last chance, dude, he told himself. Turn around and go back to Trent and Wes’s house. What did this woman ever do for you?
Still, he found himself rapping once on the door. Rap. His mother might not have ever done much for him, but that didn’t excuse him from doing anything for her. He needed to protect her—not only from Leandro, but from herself.
Dub heard the grating noise of a chain bolt being slid open and the click of the dead bolt as it unlocked.
She opened the door only a crack at first, the frown on her face spreading into a wide smile when she spotted Dub on the walkway. “You came!”
He didn’t know why she seemed so surprised. He’d told her he would. Then again, a lot of people had made promises to her that they hadn’t kept.
“You look good,” he told her as she opened the door to let him inside.
“’Cause I’m not using anymore,” she said. “Those days are behind me.”
Dub had heard those same words before. They’d turned out to be a lie. He could only hope she spoke the truth this time.
She closed the door behind him. “Nice place, huh?”
Nice? Hardly. It was a tiny one-bedroom apartment with stained carpeting and cigarette burns on the kitchen countertop, nothing like the beautiful home Trent and Wes—and Dub—lived in. But, compared to some of the other shitholes his mother had rented, this one was a freakin’ palace. No sense putting the woman down. She’d do that herself.
“Yeah. Not bad.” Dub laid his backpack on the breakfast bar.
“Let me take you on the grand tour.” She led him first into the kitchen. He opened the pantry to find only a half loaf of white bread, a jar of store-brand peanut butter, and a bottle of imitation maple syrup. The freezer held only frozen waffles and the corn dogs she’d mentioned earlier, while the fridge contained a quart of milk, a bottle of yellow mustard, and a dozen paper-wrapped Taco Bell burritos. Not a fruit or vegetable in the house, not even a can of peaches. Some things never changed.
But had his mother changed?
She claimed she had, but was it the truth?
She led him from the kitchen into the living room, where a single faux-leather recliner faced a small television sitting atop a plastic bin. No coffee table. No lamp. And no baby grand piano like the one Trent played. He’d even taught Dub a song or two.
Dub stepped to the back of the room and pushed the dusty curtains aside to find a sliding glass door that led to a patio overlooking the apartments’ murky pool. He turned back to find his mother looking up at him, her face anxious, like a child seeking a parent’s approval. He supposed it made sense. Their roles had been reversed for as long as he could remember.
She led him into the bedroom next. It was a small room, barely wide enough for the full-sized mattress that lay directly on the floor. At least the pink-and-red striped comforter she’d spread over it looked clean. Her Taco Bell uniform hung from a hook on the back of the door. The rest of her clothes were stacked in a plastic bin on the floor of the open closet.
They walked back into the living room. Rather than take the only chair in the room, Dub leaned back against the breakfast bar. “I’m really glad you’re doing okay, Mom.”
He was happy her life seemed to be going good now. Happy and relieved.
Wondering about the time, he reached for the cell phone he always kept in his jeans pocket. It wasn’t there.
Damn.
Had it fallen out of his pocket on the bus? Or had he been so thrown off balance by his phone conversation with his mother that he’d left it back at Trent and Wes’s house?
“What time is it?” he asked.
His mother glanced at the clock on the stove. “Five forty. Why?”
Dub retrieved his backpack from the counter. “I need to get going.”
“But you just got here!”
“I know. But it’s a long bus ride back home and I’ve got homework to do.”
“No!” Tears brimmed in Katrina’s eyes. “Don’t leave me, Wade. Please!”
The desperation on her face and in her voice stabbed him in the heart.
“I can’t stay,” he told her, feeling his resolve begin to break down even as he spoke. “You know that.”
Not long before his most recent arrest, which led to him being sent to Gainesville Child Protective Services had, once and for all, deemed Katrina an unfit mother and given up on attempts to reunify the family. She’d been a jobless, homeless drug addict. After being lied to and stolen from time and time again, Katrina’s immediate family had cut all ties with her, so Dub had been sent to live with distant relatives in Katrina’s hometown of Memphis—relatives who quickly grew tired of the burden and cost of housing and clothing and feeding a young boy. His own relatives had less patience for him and less concern for his welfare than the foster home he’d lived in when he was younger. When they heard Dub’s mother had worked things out with Dub’s father and now had a roof—a leaky one—over her head, they’d put him on a bus back to his mother in Fort Worth.
When Dub had later been arrested, the social worker was enraged to learn the boy had been returned to his mother against court orders. Probably not unusual, though, Dub guessed.
“Give me another chance, Dub!” His mother grabbed his arm, inadvertently digging her nails into his skin. “I’ll show you! I’ll be a good mother!”
Too late for that. Dub didn’t need a mother anymore. He was nearly a man. He could take care of himself. Now it was his mother who needed taking care of.
He felt himself weakening. She needed him. And if anyone found out what he’d done last Sunday and wanted to come after him, they wouldn’t know to look for him here.
Seeming to sense that Dub was giving in, Katrina wrapped her arms around him in a bear hug, sobbing into his shoulder. “You’re all I’ve got, Dub! Without you I’ve got nothing!”
He hated to disappoint Trent and Wes, hated to lose all the progress he’d made, but what could he do?
He had to stay. He had to keep his mother safe. Because no matter how Dub’s situation turned out, he knew that, at some point, his mother would take up with Andro again. She couldn’t help herself.
And this time Andro was liable to kill her.
SIXTEEN
EXTRA CREDIT
Megan
On Saturday morning, in recognition of Valentine’s Day, I put a white collar with red hearts on Brigit. Just because the dog was a K-9 officer didn’t mean she couldn’t look festive, right? Besides, she had a date with Blast tonight. Might as well look like she’d made some effort, even if he wouldn’t appreciate it. Her male counterpart would probably prefer she roll in garbage prior to their meet-up.
As I dressed myself, the morning news played on the television, the forecaster mentioning that warm air flowing up from the Gulf of Mexico would create early-spring conditions, but that the Canadians were fighting back by sending a simultaneous cold front down from the north. This international weather war would be fought out over the Southern Plains region which included Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. In other words, we Fort Worth residents should be prepared for the potential of rapidly changing outdoor conditions today. Thus forewarned, I grabbed my rain poncho, my FWPD windbreaker, and my heavier police-issue jacket, preparing myself for any eventuality.
Before heading off to work, I stopped by my apartment manager’s office and knocked on the door. Dale Grigsby answered the door, his pimply paunch, as usual, not quite covered by the T-shirt he wore. He held half a cherry Pop-Tart in his hand. The entire other half seemed to be in his mouth. “What?” he said, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed cherry pastry paste.
I handed him
an envelope. “I’m giving my notice. I’m moving out at the end of the month.”
Frankie had already given me a set of keys for the house on Travis Avenue and I’d paid her prorated rent for the remainder of February. I planned to move my things into the house tomorrow.
Grigsby tossed the envelope onto a table next to the door. “You’ve got to give thirty days’ notice,” he said, “You’ll owe me for part of March, too. Read your lease.”
“So now you’re a stickler for rules?” I spat. “Need I point out the numerous building code violations you’ve ignored?”
Grigsby frowned and took another bite of his Pop-Tart.
“Besides,” I added, “don’t you have a waiting list for this place?”
Few apartments in town offered rent as cheap as Eastside Arms. The low rent was what led me, and every other tenant, to the place. It sure as hell wasn’t the ambiance.
Grigsby chewed the bite and swallowed. “All right, all right. You always were a pain in the ass. No skin off my nose if you go.”
I blew him a kiss. “I’ll miss you, too.”
Yeah, right. I’ll miss him when hell freezes over.
At 8:00 A.M. the day was already warm. The newscaster on the local NPR affiliate predicted near record-breaking high temperatures by the afternoon. You wouldn’t get any complaints from me. The day before had been cold and wet and dreary. As short as Texas winters were, I was already in the mood for spring. With any luck, that Canadian cold front would stall out over Oklahoma.
Brigit and I picked up our car at the station and headed out on patrol, our first destination Owen Haynes’s house. The driveway was still empty, the curtains drawn. Detective Jackson had informed me that she’d stopped by the house twice more during the week, but had no luck. Looked like Haynes and his girlfriend might have flown the coop permanently. But whether it was to flee arrest for Samuelson’s murder was unclear. I checked with the neighbors again, but still nobody claimed to have seen anyone at the house.
As I waited at the stop sign at Carlock and Hemphill, an SUV came roaring up the road, nearly running up on the curb as the driver swerved around a smaller vehicle.