Letters to the Lost, Page 4

  “Hey,” I call. He ignores me and tries again. Now it won’t catch at all.

  I kill my own mower and climb down. “Hey!”

  He lets the key go and looks up, his expression impatient. “What?”

  “It sounds like your fuel line.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  I hate that. I hate when people treat me like some kind of idiot who can barely tell time. “I know it sounds like your fuel line. When’s the last time you checked the filter?”

  “I don’t maintain the machines, Murph. They have a service plan.”

  “Then your service plan is crap.”

  “Your soovis plan is crap,” Marisol says. She bounces in the seat. “Come on, Papi. Go, tractor. Go.”

  “Thanks a lot, kid.” Melonhead looks aggrieved. He lifts her off the front of the mower and sets her on the ground. “I thought I was late before. Now I’m going to have to work on Saturday.”

  “Do you have tools? I might be able to fix it.”

  “I don’t think you should be messing with it.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” The hell with it. I offered. I climb back on my own mower and fire it up.

  I’m driving it out of the shed when he calls out behind me. “All right! Come see what you can do.”

  The tractor is a mess. It takes me an extra minute to get at the engine because the hinge is rusty. I don’t know who’s been taking their money, but this thing hasn’t been maintained at all. While I’m in here, I check the oil pan. The oil is black and thick as soup. I tell him so.

  “What makes you an expert on tractors?” he says. His daughter is crouching between us, like she’s a key player in the repair effort. Her eyes dart back and forth. She repeats almost every word I say.

  “I didn’t say I was an expert on tractors. This is basic stuff.” I wipe my arm across my forehead before sweat can get into my eyes. “An engine is an engine.”

  “You know cars?”

  I shrug and keep my eyes on the engine as I slide the oil pan back into place. I’m used to Melonhead running on at the mouth, but he usually doesn’t talk to me. “More about the insides than the outsides.”

  “Can you fix it so it’ll run tonight?”

  “Maybe. The fuel filter needs replacing, but I can probably clean it enough.” I pull it free and blow on it.

  Marisol leans forward and tries to do the same thing. I hold it out for her to give it a shot.

  Melonhead watches this, and I pull it back, remembering how he grabbed her away from me.

  “It’s nice of you to let her help,” he says.

  I feel myself blushing and glance back at the engine. Rev is really better with kids. I don’t get much practice. “It’s not like she can hurt it.”

  “I not hurt it!” she says indignantly.

  I smile. “Besides, she sounds like she’s taking notes to make up a manual later.”

  He hugs her. “She’s my little parrot.”

  She squirms free. “I helping!”

  “You are,” he says.

  I wipe at the outside of the filter, then blow on it again. “I can’t guarantee it’ll hold all night, but this should get you through a section or two.”

  “Did your father teach you this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he a mechanic?”

  “Not anymore.”

  He must hear the note in my voice, because I can hear his hesitation. He wants to ask. I’m surprised he doesn’t know my whole history from the judge, but maybe he only gets the details of my crimes and not my father’s.

  He must think better of it. “Thanks, Murph.”

  I push the filter back into place, then look at him. I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, but a little slides in. “My name is Declan.”

  Melonhead doesn’t miss a beat. He holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you. My name is Frank.”

  I blink. “Frank?”

  He shrugs. “You’d feel better if I told you to call me Francisco?”

  Now I look away, almost ashamed. It’s not like I called him Pedro or something.

  Though maybe that would have been better than Melonhead.

  He claps me on the shoulder. “Your dad didn’t teach you to shake hands?”

  I pull the work glove off my hand and reach out to shake his.

  “You’re not a bad kid to have around, Declan,” he says.

  I snort. “You just haven’t known me long enough.”

  My stepfather is sitting in the living room when I walk through the door. I usually check before walking in, but all I want is a soda and a shower and a chance to hole up in my room and not be accountable to anyone. A football game is on, the volume roaring. Alan and Mom bought the big-screen for each other as a wedding present. Mom can’t stand loud noise, so I’m not surprised when she’s not sitting next to him. Her car is in the driveway, though, so I know she’s home.

  I want to tell Alan to turn the damn volume down so she can enjoy the television, too.

  I don’t. I don’t even look at him.

  He watches me, though, like he’s waiting for me to rage out. You could grab hold of the tension in the room.

  “Where have you been?” he says.

  What a dick. He knows where I’ve been. I stride past the couch toward the kitchen.

  “I’m talking to you.” He’s half shouting over the television. “Don’t you ignore me.”

  I ignore him.

  I expect him to follow me into the kitchen, but he doesn’t.

  Alan sells insurance. I’ve seen him in full-on sales mode, and the bull practically oozes from his pores. The rest of the time, he’s pretending to be a tough-guy sports nut. It’s some kind of miracle that he’s not sitting in front of the television with a foam finger and a felt pennant.

  I have no idea what Mom sees in him.

  No, that’s not true. I know exactly what she sees in him: a sweet-talker who figured out how to get in her pants.

  You know what I see in him? Another prick who’s going to let her down so hard that a fall from a cliff would hurt less.

  Not that anyone’s sitting around asking for my opinion.

  The refrigerator yields cold lasagna. I scoop some onto a plate but don’t bother to heat it up. I grab a Coke and a fork and prepare to run the Alan gauntlet one more time.

  He’s glaring at the kitchen doorway when I emerge. The television blares behind him.

  “I asked you where you were,” he says.

  I keep right on walking.

  He stands up. Blocks my path.

  Alan isn’t a big guy, but he’s not small, either. I have no idea what would happen if he took a swing at me. The only thing that keeps me from hitting him is that I know how much it would upset my mom.

  I wonder if the same is true in his case.

  I meet his eyes. We’re dead even for height. Most people back down from me, but Alan doesn’t. He knows what I did and he knows what I have to do, but it’s still humiliating to have to admit it out loud. “I had community service.”

  “That ends at eight o’clock. It’s after nine.”

  “My boss was late. We had a problem with one of the mowers.” The plate in my hand is starting to feel heavy.

  “You’re supposed to report there and come home immediately after.”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  It takes everything I have to keep the food in my hands instead of flinging it down. “I’m not lying to you.”

  “If I had my way, you wouldn’t be driving at all.”

  My jaw is tight. I push past him before he can goad me into an argument. “I guess it’s a good thing you don’t get your way, then, huh?”

  Actually, it’s a good thing I had an expensive attorney, or I really wouldn’t be driving at all.Alan doesn’t stop me, and he doesn’t say anything as I ascend the stairs. I’m closing the door to my room when I hear his voice, bitter and resigned. “You’re going to end up just like your father.”
/>
  The television should be too loud for me to hear him clearly, but he wasn’t quiet about it.

  I slam my soda on the dresser and fling my door open so hard it bounces against the wall. My breathing is loud in my chest, and I have to force myself to stop at the top of the stairs.

  “What did you just say to me?” I yell.

  Now it’s his turn to ignore me.

  I hit the wall so hard the pictures rattle. “What the hell did you just say to me, Alan?”

  “You heard me.”

  I hate him.

  I hate him.

  I hate that he’s here. I hate that he’s not my father. I hate that he makes my mother happy. I hate that he doesn’t make her happy enough.

  I hate everything about him.

  The door at the other end of the hallway opens, and my mother stands in the doorway. Her dark hair is in a loose ponytail, and she clings to the molding like she might duck back inside if it’s too scary out here.

  That sucks some of the rage right out of me. My one hand is so tight I’m digging nails through my palm, and the other hand clutches a shaking plate of lasagna. My shoulders are hunched, and I’m sure my eyes are fierce.

  I should apologize, but I can’t. There’s too much weight behind it. I owe her apologies for much bigger things. The letter from the cemetery was right: fate does seem to conspire against us. The guilt sits on my shoulders and presses me into the floor until I’m unable to move.

  My mother doesn’t move, either.

  I wonder if she heard what Alan said. I wonder if she agrees with him.

  I turn my back on her and enter my room. I don’t slam the door, but the sudden silence is loud, despite the football game roaring downstairs.

  She won’t come in. She hasn’t come in for years.

  Maybe—

  No, nothing will change.

  I drop onto the corner of my bed. I don’t want the lasagna anymore. I keep hearing Alan’s voice in my head.

  You’re going to end up just like your father.

  He’s right. I probably will.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My father is in prison.

  I’ve never visited him. I don’t think my mother has, either, but it’s not like we talk about it. It’s a family secret that’s not really a secret at all.

  The real secret is that sometimes I want to see him. It’s weird admitting that, even to you. I’ve never told anyone, not even my best friend. It would be easy to hate my father, but I don’t.

  I miss him. Not the same way I miss my sister. Never like that. She and I could fight like it was the end of the world_she was a little sister after all_but when it counted, we were close. People sometimes say that losing a family member is like losing a limb. Her death was like losing half of myself. I miss her, but I know I’ll never get her back. There’s no undoing it.

  But I miss him, too, in a different way.

  And prison isn’t forever. Well, not for him.

  That’s wrong, isn’t it? How messed up am I that I miss the guy who killed her?

  I almost used a different expression than “messed up,” but I remembered what you said about your mom. My best friend is the same way. He hates when I swear, so I make an effort. Usually.

  I disagree with your mom, though. Words are words. Dropping an f-bomb wouldn’t make me an idiot any more than saying “sesquipedalian” makes someone intelligent.

  Both those words can easily make someone sound like a real douchebag, though.

  Now I feel like I should cross out “douchebag.” Your mom probably wouldn’t like me much.

  I looked up your mother’s photograph. I don’t think it’s depressing. I don’t think it’s hopeful, either. It’s life. When everything goes to hell around you, the only way to go is forward. Those kids on the swing set know it. The guys with the guns do, too.

  How old are you? You mentioned honors photography, so I’m guessing you’re in high school. Do you go to Hamilton?

  Or maybe it’s better if we don’t know anything about each other.

  Your call.

  “I need your opinion on something.”

  Rowan lifts a hand and blows on her nails. She’s painting them a pink so light it’s almost white, and the opaque nails combined with her light hair and skin makes her look even more ethereal than usual. Her bedroom furniture is all white, trimmed with gold, and her carpeting is lavender. All she needs is a pair of wings.

  “You’re hiding,” she says.

  I straighten. That’s out of the blue and has nothing to do with what I was about to ask.

  Then again, maybe it’s exactly on target. “I’m hiding?”

  “From your father.”

  Oh. I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  She starts a second coat of polish. “He wasn’t trying to hurt you, Jules.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She glances up. “You said yourself that her editor offered to take them. It’s not like your dad dug them out and listed them on Craigslist.”

  She’s right. I know she’s right. I study my own nails, short and round and unpolished. “It feels like he’s punishing her,” I say softly.

  “Maybe.” She hesitates. “Anger is one of the stages of grief.”

  This conversation is making me jittery. I didn’t want to talk about Dad at all. Or Mom. “Is that your psych class talking?”

  She puts down the nail polish and turns the desk chair to fully face me. “Last night Mom asked me if she should call your dad.”

  “What?” My voice drops two levels. I glance at the door, ready to bolt. “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been here until almost midnight for the last four days.”

  “Fine. I’ll leave.”

  “No! Jules—stop!” She blocks me before I can make it out the door. Her hands fall on my shoulders, gingerly so she doesn’t smudge the polish. “Wait. Okay? Wait. Mom also said you’re always welcome here. Always.” She pauses. “We’re worried about you.”

  Rowan and her mother could be sisters. Seriously, people say so all the time. Mary Ann was twenty-two when Rowan was born, and she takes care of herself. You’d think Rowan would rebel by dyeing her hair black and eating Snickers bars for dinner, but she doesn’t. They tell each other everything.

  I shouldn’t be surprised that they’ve been talking about me.

  I am surprised at how envious I am. It hits me all at once.

  “I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me.” I glare at her because this is the first time I realize she doesn’t get it. “That’s the problem. He didn’t even know it would.”

  She hesitates.

  “Say it.” I harden my voice. “Whatever it is. Say it, Ro.”

  “Maybe you should let my mom call him.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Maybe he needs a little . . . support. So he can help you.”

  “Sure.” I can’t even keep the disdain out of my voice. I turn for the door again.

  “Come on,” she says, following me down the hallway. “You’re my best friend, Jules. I want to help you.”

  “I know. I just—I don’t want it right now.”

  “Please stop.”

  I do stop, in the foyer. The overhead lights are bright, turning her hair to spun gold, making her blue eyes pop. My hair hangs dark and straight, and I’m wearing a touch of blush and lip gloss only because I’m sick of people telling me I need to get some rest.

  “You seem so angry all the time,” she says quietly, carefully.

  “I am angry.”

  The words are out before I can consider their impact. Maybe she’s right; maybe this is a stage of grief. I feel like I’ve been stuck on anger for a while now, though, and the rut has been dug so deep there’s no escaping it.

  In fact, if we stand here much longer, I’m afraid this anger is going to rattle me apart.

  “I need to go,” I say quickly, and grab the doorknob.

  “Jules—” She stops short and sighs. “I didn
’t mean to chase you off.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “What were you going to ask me about?”

  I was going to ask her about the letters, but I can’t now. She wouldn’t understand. She would read our conversations about death and suicide and hopelessness, and she’d get it all wrong.

  My father would definitely be getting a call in that case.

  I look at her. “It’s nothing. It’s silly. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

  She starts to follow me out the door, but I put my hands up. “Enough, Ro. Enough. I just want to drive around for a bit. I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you going to the cemetery?”

  It’s late, well after dark, and if I tell her yes, she’ll flip out. “No. Not tonight.” I jog down the steps. Rowan didn’t throw me out, but her house doesn’t feel like a refuge anymore. Not with her mother sitting around, waiting to analyze my grief.

  “Good night, then,” she calls.

  “Good night,” I call back.

  I feel like a bad friend, but I can’t help it. I can’t force what I’m feeling to fit between chapters two and six in some handbook dealing with the death of a loved one.

  My car is way at the end of the block because someone was having a birthday party after school. Now the street is deserted, and my car sits alone in the shadow of an elm tree. I half expect Rowan to come after me, but she doesn’t. The sidewalk is pitch-dark, and my sneakers whisper against the pavement with every step. Nighttime has stolen the heat from the air, and now a breeze lifts my hair and cools my neck.

  I inhale, breathing in cut grass and tree bark and humidity.

  A man coughs nearby. I jump a little, startled. I glance around, but I don’t see him.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My hands fumble with the keys.

  The lock gives, and I drop into the driver’s seat. The air inside the car clings to my skin, smelling of slightly stale coffee and too-warm upholstery. Anger wars with unease as I press the key into the ignition and turn it.

  Nothing happens.

  I try again.

  Nothing. The accessory lights flicker and die.

  I hit the dashboard. “Damn it.”

  My voice is loud in the confines of the car, and I wince. Sorry, Mom.

  For what it’s worth, I think I agree with Letter Guy. Words are just words.