Cold Calls (13 page)

“And speaking of places where we've been,” Garrett said, slowing down, easing the car to the side of the road. “You ever been out here?”

Eric glanced out the side window. “I don't know. Maybe.”

The car rocked to a stop.

Garrett put it in park, undid his safety belt, and turned to face Eric.

“What you did to that kid with the macaroni and cheese? You confused me. See, I really thought that you got it, that you understood why all my gay-lez-tranny kumbaya preaching was so important. And—spoiler alert—I thought you were cool. Well, you sure played me.”

Eric wanted to look away, but knew it wouldn't be good.

“But you know what? That's life, right? In some way, we all get picked on and we all pick on others. The circle jerk of life. Now, do I
like
what you did? Of course not. But that's not why we're here today. No, see, what pissed me off—I mean
really
pissed me off—is how you hurt April.”

“April? It happened after we broke up. It had nothing to do with us.”

Garrett grit his teeth. “Maybe not, but she was in love with you, shithead. I don't know why, but she was. And then you go and do something like that? First guy she ever falls for turns out to be an asshole, bastard, lying prick? How do you think
that
makes her feel?”

Eric felt his stomach drop.

She was in love with you.

Was.

As in not now.

As in never again.

“Pay attention, little man,” Garrett said, his finger an inch from Eric's face. “You ever do
anything
to hurt my sister again, and I will hurt you. Do you understand?”

Eric nodded.

“I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that,” Garrett said, flicking the tip of Eric's nose.

“I understand,” Eric said.

“Understand
what?
”

“If I do anything to hurt April, you'll hurt me.”

Garrett smiled and looked around at his friends. “See? He's not
that
stupid.” Then he looked back at Eric. “How fast can you run?”

“Run?”

“Yeah, how long would it take you to run, say, two miles?”

“I . . . I'm not sure . . .”

Garrett checked the clock on the dashboard. “Could you do it in under fifteen minutes? In what you're wearing?”

“I don't know. If I had to, I guess.”

“Here's why I ask. About two miles up this road there's this service area. Gas station, little store. Know what I mean? Well, this service area, it's also the final stop on the bus line. Or the first, actually, if you lived out here. Anyway, the last bus heading back into town pulls out from that station in seventeen minutes.”

“Sixteen minutes,” the guy up front said. “It just changed.”

“Sorry, sixteen minutes. And the next one isn't until five-something in the morning. You miss this one . . .” He shook his head, and the other passengers laughed. Then Garrett snapped his fingers, and the big guy to Eric's right opened the door and climbed out.

“I know you have to run,” Garrett said, “but before you go, do I need to remind you how stupid it would be to mention my name when you're explaining your way out of this one?”

Eric raised his head and looked Garrett in the eyes.

Part of him wanted to say something smart like “Thanks for the lift” or “Now who's gonna carry the piano?”

Another part was ready with every variation of every swear word he knew.

A part of him—small, but there—was scared and didn't want to get out of the car.

But the biggest part of him knew he deserved it.

And if the picture ever got out and everybody saw it—and everybody
would
see it, too, emailing it and posting it and printing out copies and passing them around, everybody getting a good, long look, April dying a thousand deaths with every knowing smirk—if that happened, he'd deserve what he'd get then, too. People—the good ones, anyway—would be on her side, their hearts breaking for her even if they did sneak a peek. They'd play it off, pretend it never happened. But they'd never forget. And they'd never forget who was to blame.

“No, it's cool,” Eric said as he slid out of the seat, stepping to the side so the big guy could get back in.

Garrett pulled away, then yanked the wheel for a quick U-turn. He rolled down the window and smiled at Eric. “Don't forget to stretch,” he said, and drove off back down the flat, empty road.

“
G
OD IS GOOD
,” F
ATHER
J
OE SHOUTED INTO THE MICROPHONE
, his smile bright in the early-morning gloom.

Nothing.

He held his arms wide, looking out at the dozen or so people scattered among the church's pews, waiting for a reply. They kept him waiting.

Shelly wondered how many more weeks he'd attempt that call-and-response thing before finally giving up. When he had tried it the other morning, the old people had glanced around at each other, then did the courteous thing and acted as if it never happened. Today they just ignored him. Shelly imagined what it was like at Father Joe's church in South Sudan—everyone shouting back, the tin roof rattling with their joyous response, the spirit of the Lord filling the whole congregation with contagious excitement, a sea of black hands reaching together to Heaven. But here, in this suburban church in this part of America? Nothing. They stood there, waiting silently for him to continue.

“All the time,”
Father Joe said, smile undiminished, his arms bouncing a bit, inviting participation.

Nothing.

Shelly would have liked to believe that the people were quiet because it was still so early—7:30 on a Tuesday morning—but she knew that if every pew had been filled, if there were people lined along the back wall and the choir loft packed like it was Christmas, it would have been just as quiet. But he kept at it.

What was it that Father Caudillo used to say? A stone doesn't have to speak to be moved.

The priest raised his arms a notch higher and drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he tried again.

“
All the time . . .”

She drew in a deep, shouting breath. “All the time . . .”

Okay, so she didn't shout it. At best it was a whisper in the cavernous church, but she said it, one little voice for them all.

Father Joe's smile grew.
“God is good!”

“God is good,” Shelly said, louder this time, but far from loud.

The priest opened his eyes and looked out on his congregation. “The mass has ended,” he said, clipping the ends off each word. “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

The remaining parishioners mumbled something in unison, then one by one they made their way out of the church.

Shelly stayed.

She sat down, then slid her butt forward to rest the back of her head on the hard wooden pew. It was too cold in the church to sleep, but it was quiet, which seemed like enough.

She'd been awake since five, when her father and a guest had giggled and stumbled their way up the stairs and into his bedroom. Shelly managed to get dressed and out of the house before the squeaking started.

For the thousandth time, she considered her options.

Moving back in with her mother and Aaron wasn't one of them.

They had moved again right after it had happened, so it wouldn't be like she'd be in the same house, with that same room and all the same memories that would come with it. A new house might mean a new start, a fresh beginning. But she knew her mother would never let that happen. The thing was, Shelly couldn't blame her. Invite a monster into your new home? Don't be stupid. Even before the police had arrived that night, before her mother had learned what she had done, Shelly knew she wouldn't be able to sleep in that house anymore.

There was an aunt who lived on a farm in Alsask, a speck of a town somewhere in Saskatchewan. Shelly had been there when she was in third grade, and she remembered enough about the place to know that
that
wasn't an option either.

Uncle Dave and Aunt Robin were in the navy, so that was out, and her grandparents lived in a retirement community that had a strict no-one-under-sixty rule. She hadn't tried contacting them and assumed they liked it that way.

There were relatives on her father's side too, but he was considered the successful one of the Meyer family, so there was no reason to even look there.

She had had friends before she had moved across the state with her mom and Aaron, but that was years ago, and she hadn't exactly kept in touch with any of them. She had a hard time making friends as it was, and the few that possibly almost considered her a friend back then stopped calling the night the police cars arrived.

Running away was an option. She could live in a homeless shelter or on the streets or find a nice gang to join, and she was sure she'd make it a good two, three days before freaking out.

The truth was, she was a lonely, friendless fifteen-year-old introvert with a father who pretended she didn't exist, a mother who no doubt wished it was true, and a past she needed to escape.

And—she was doing it.

Slowly, one day at a time, like the bumper sticker said. Creating a new life, a new image, a new self, burying the old one under eye makeup and hair dye. Every forced smile cracking the ice, letting real smiles spread, every choreographed conversation inching her closer to a time when she could talk without thinking, without worrying she'd slip up and say something scary, writing a new future to go with her new past.

So damn close to making it happen, to making it be the truth.

Then the caller and her threat to take it all away.

Her anger made her laugh.

“I know, I know,” Father Joe said as he walked down the aisle. “I meant to say that the hymn was a
folk
in A major,
but it came out wrong. Do you think that anyone noticed?”

“No, your accent's too thick for anyone to notice anything,” Shelly said. It was true, his accent did make English sound like a foreign language, yet that “folk in A” line had come through no problem, especially when he said it over and over. It was the shocked gasps from the old people that had made it so funny.

Father Joe took a seat in the row ahead, turning sideways to see her, his arm resting on the back of the pew. “Thank you for responding to my call during the service.”

“I thought you could use a little help.”

“It is so simple. I say, ‘God is great,' then everyone says ‘God is great.' Very common.”

“Not here. Try the Baptist church down the road.”

“Was there more participation at your St. Mark's church?”

“No, not really,” Shelly said, impressed that he had remembered anything from their short conversation. “I think if people shouted out like that, Father Caudillo might not have liked it.”

“Father Tony?” He clapped his hands, his already big smile somehow growing bigger. “Oh, no, Father Tony would most
definitely
not like it one bit.”

“You know him?”

The priest waved to the custodian, who looked annoyed that there were still people hanging around. “I know Father Coly, who is from Senegal, and he in turn knows Father Tony.”

“So you
don't
know him.”

“Not myself personally, no. But is that not often the way?
A
knows
B, B
knows
C,
thusly
A
knows of
C.
”

“Math's not really my thing,” she said, checking the time on her phone as she pulled a bus schedule from her coat pocket. It would be hours before the library opened, but there was a Starbucks nearby, and that would do.

“It is elementary, Miss Shelly. You know of someone you have never met, thanks be to your mutual friends and random acquaintances. And people you do not know and have never met find you through these same connections.”

Shelly froze.

“For instance, this is how I come to know Father Tony—”

She stared hard at nothing.

“—and how Father Coly comes to know Bishop Kussala—”

Pieces falling into place.

“—and how Bishop Kussala comes to know Sister Margaret Mary—”

The bus schedule slipping from her fingers and onto the floor.

“—and how Sister Margaret Mary comes to . . .” The priest paused and leaned in. “Are you all right, Miss Shelly?”

“She doesn't know me.”

“Oh, I think not. Sister Margaret Mary lives in Ghana. But that being the case—”

“She knows Heather,” Shelly said, her voice flat and low as she talked it through. “And the only reason Heather knows me is that we go to the same school.”

“Miss?”

Shelly started to smile. “It's not me she's after. It's Heather. And it's not Eric or Fatima, either. It's them.”

“Are you all right, miss?”

“It was never about
us.
It's about
them,
” Shelly said, jumping to her feet, stumbling her way out of the pew. “
They're
the connection.”

She pulled on her black Komor Kommando hoodie as she ran down the aisle. Behind her, Father Joe shouted an accent-thick blessing through his booming laugh.

E
RIC LEANED BACK, BALANCING THE LIBRARY CHAIR ON
two legs. “I'm not saying I don't believe you—”

“Are you sure? Because that's what it sounds like to me.”

He took a breath. “I'm only saying, I don't see what difference it makes.”

“Seriously? You don't see how important this clue is?”

“Not really, no.”

“You've got to be kidding. It's
obvious.
”

“Well, obviously it's not.”

She looked across the table to Fatima, who was already scribbling away in her notebook. “You get it, right?”