Beyond Midnight (17 page)

"
Your shoes are right there, Aunt Mary,
"
she said, pointing to the black Cobblers.
"
But you can
'
t come with me. When Becky gets back you
'
ll have to explain—no, on second thought, you should go home. It
'
s better if you don
'
t—no. Becky will wonder where I am. Can you tell her without frightening her?
"

The old woman was plainly trying her best to understand Helen
'
s rush of instructions. She nodded vigorously, if cluelessly, at the end of her niece
'
s hurried speech.

And meanwhile Helen wanted to fly, not drive, to her son
'
s side.
"
Just sit still. Right here,
"
she said in a general
'
s voice. She added more gently,
"
Make yourself a nice cup of tea. I won
'
t be long. There won
'
t be any traffic this time of night. I have to go. Really. I have to go.
"

Leaving her shoeless aunt to fend for herself, Helen grabbed her trench coat and ran out the back hall steps to her car, parked on a cobbled square they
'
d carved from the garden. Thank God Becky wasn
'
t using the Volvo tonight; what would she have done then? She drove through the streets like a madwoman, aware that this time she didn
'
t have a troop commander to escort her, aware that a kid with a sprained ankle was not the same as a trooper shot dead.

Russ had defied her. There was no other word for it. He
'
d done exactly what she
'
d told him not to do, and done it spectacularly well. Her heart seesawed between pity and rage. How terrified he must have been when the car hit the guard rail, then skidded across both lanes into the median ditch. It was a miracle they hadn
'
t hit another car. What were they doing? Horsing around? She didn
'
t even know the driver; how dared Russ get into a car with him?

Tonight, a friend
'
s car; next time, a borrowed car; the time after that, a stolen one.
In the mood she was in, it seemed inevitable. And she didn
'
t know what she could do about it.

If he had a father.
Boys needed them so much. Ten was an awful age to lose one. At ten, Russ had been old enough to understand, young enough to resent the loss. Ten was awful.

How would Hank handle this? She could almost hear him in the car alongside her:
"
I
'
ll beat the living crap out of him, that
'
s how.
"
Not that he
'
d ever do it. He
'
d never raised a hand to his kids. Not once. But he might say it to her, to let off steam.

She wished
she
could say it. She wished she could say to someone,
"
I
'
ll beat the living crap out of him.
"
It would make her feel so much better. But there was no one. All she could do was slam her hand on the wheel in frustrated fury.

By the time Helen got to the emergency room she was a wreck. After the inevitable directions and delays, she found him: sitting on a blue plastic chair, his cool haircut looking mussed and uncool, with two aluminum crutches— cr
u
tches!—propped up beside him. Her little boy. Black and blue and lame. The sight of him ripped her heart in two; she could feel it tearing inside her breast. Her Russ. Their Russ. He might have died.

"
Hey, kiddo,
"
she said quietly when he saw her. Striking a pose of nonchalance, she kept her hands in her coat pockets. She didn
'
t dare throw her arms hysterically around him, not with Scotty sitting in the chair next to him, looking even more wary than her son.
"
Did they say you
'
re gonna live?
"

His chin trembled.
"
I
'
m fine, Ma. Just a twisted ankle. I didn
'
t even want it bandaged, but they wouldn
'
t listen.
"
The lips firmed into a macho sneer, then began to wobble again.

She thought he might cry, which would
'
ve been a delight and a disaster, so she said briskly,
"
Well, then, let
'
s get home.
"

She turned to Russ
'
s pal.
"
I assume,
"
she added dryly,
"
that the sleepover at your house is off for tonight, Scotty?
"

Scott stared at his Nikes.
"
Yeah, I guess so.
"

"
Is someone picking you up?
"
she asked him, looking him over. He was tired but unhurt. He must
'
ve been wearing his seat belt, then. Another hero.

Without looking at her, Scotty said,
"
This is the hospital my mom works at. I
'
m waiting for her to get off her shift.
"

"
Where
'
s your dad?
"
It was an intrusive question, but Helen didn
'
t care.

"
He had to fill in for someone at the mall.
"

So having a father didn
'
t make a difference after all. A kid could screw up brilliantly with or without one.

"
You should
'
ve let me know that your parents weren
'
t going to be home tonight, Scotty,
"
she said sternly.

The boy squirmed.
"
It wasn
'
t for long.
"

"
It doesn
'
t
take
long!
"

"
Ma-a-a. . .
"
came Russ
'
s tired bleat of protest. Helen brought herself up short. Best not travel down that road tonight. She was upset. They were upset. It was all she could do not to bang their heads together.
"
I
'
ll be—
"

She was going to say,
"
in touch with your mother,
"
but she de
ni
ed herself the satisfaction of even that small threat.
"
Good night, then,
"
she said wearily.

After hobbling to his feet, Russ made a fierce attempt to keep ahead of her as they began the long process of checking themselves out of the hospital. She decided he was keeping his distance because he didn
'
t want to
ri
sk a reprimand in public, which was fine with her. It gave her the breathing space she needed to get herself under control.

Once he was settled in the car, however, he surprised her by saying,
"
I suppose you want all the gory details.
"

The truth was, she assumed she
'
d have to pull the gory details out of him one by one. Nonetheless, she said,
"
No. Not tonight.
"

They drove in silence for a bit. Then he blurted,
"
Oh, why don
'
t we just get it over with! What
'
s the sense of dragging it out?
"

Did he really want to confess and apologize? She wished. No, it was more likely that he
'
d worked up a defense worthy of F. Lee Bailey, and he wanted to use his material while it was still fresh in his mind.

She wasn
'
t going to give him the satisfaction.
"
No. Tomorrow, I said.
"

He fell back into sulky silence. Once home, he refused her help managing the front steps; but he had such a hard time with them that Helen insisted he sleep on the sofabed in the family room.

"
Either that, or go up the stairs on your fanny.
"

"
No
way!
"
he said with a truly offended scowl.

So that was that. The family began to disperse. Aunt Mary
'
s tense vigil was over; pale and exhausted, she headed across the hall to her own apartment. Becky had the wisdom to confine herself to a brief word or two of sympathy for her brother. Her only question was:
"
Would you like your
music
?
"

"
Yeah—no,
"
Russ said. Everyone knew he didn
'
t allow Becky in his room.

Still, the deprivation showed in his face, along with the f
l
at-out pain. Before this, Russ had never suffered anything but bumps and scrapes in his life. This was new, this fleeting brush with his own breakability.

"
I
'
ll get you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt,
"
Helen said briskly, though she wanted desperately to hug and comfort him.
"
And I
'
ll put them in the downstairs bathroom for you. Do you want your own pillows?
"

"
No—yeah.
"
It meant his mother would be going into his room, but it couldn
'
t be helped. He did want those pillows.

Helen went upstairs and, ignoring the
DO NOT
DISTURB
sign on his door, into his bedroom. The room was a mess, of course, but even she could see that the mess had a rhythm to it. When you threw open the door you saw closet, bookcase, desk, computer—things you were permitted to see. Over in the corner, far to the right of the door, that
'
s where the bed, the music, the locked trunk, and the shrine were. It was almost a room within a room, a place where Russ Evett could be himself, away from any possible ambush by nosy relatives.

She walked over to his bed, resisting the urge to pick up dirty clothing along the way, and got both pillows, cased in a black and purple pattern that Russ had picked out himself. She lifted the pillows to her nose and smelled: They were due, but not overdue, for a wash.

She began to leave, then paused in front of the shrine. It was all still there, more or less as Russ had arranged it after his father
'
s funeral. The candid eight-by-ten shot of Hank in uniform, arms folded across his chest, as he leaned against the hood of his state trooper
'
s car; the badge; the Ray-Ban sunglasses; even the flag that the family had been given at the funeral, still in its reverential folds—
i
t was all
there, carefully arranged atop the small three-drawer chest that once held Hank
'
s h
andkerchiefs and socks and not-
quite-worn-out wallets.

He loved you so much,
she thought, touching her fingers to her lips and then to the photograph.
What
i
f it
'
s not enough?

She sighed, then scooped up Russ
'
s CD player and a few scattered CDs from his desk and went downstairs.

"
Here you go,
"
she said, tossing the pillows on the opened-out sofa bed.
"
And I thought you might want this,
"
she added, placing the player and disks on the small table alongside.
"
Is there anything else I can get you, Russ?
"

"No."

"
A sandwich?
"
she ventured.
"
You must be hungry.
"

"No."

It was her cue to get out and leave him with his thoughts, but she kept on hugging the stage.
"
A glass of milk? And some cookies, maybe?
"