Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) (17 page)

The dude in the Xtreme was a smart mouth, tryin’ to show off for the ladies. It didn’t matter. Nothin’ did. Wesley was flying high, and there were no more voices. He kept his own mouth shut, produced the white bag from the waist of his pants, got the four fifty, and made for the house. Easy money for him and Badino.

Back inside his parents’ part of the house, it was warm, dark, and smelled like, what? Chinese? Wesley nudged his boots off by the rug in the kitchen and crept out to the family room. A lone spotlight lit up the large painting of Madison’s over the fireplace—of a barn, a field, and a stormy sky.

He stopped on the big, soft Oriental rug in the middle of the room, admiring the watercolor, feeling his face grow warmer, hearing the tap-tapping of his racing heart and enjoying the keen sense of alertness and sensitivity to the once-again-conquerable world around him.

The sound of a TV came from back in the den. He walked that way. Dim light sliced through the small opening leading into the room.

Wesley went closer, right up to the door. His dad was alone, seated on the leather ottoman two feet from the TV, his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands in the prayer position in front of his face. Only he wasn’t praying. He was concentrating on a basketball game.

“No, no, no.” Eddie raised a fist toward the TV. “Don’t give him that! How can you leave the best guy in the NCAA wide open from twelve feet? Gimme a break!”

Several bandages dotted his face. He wore shiny blue sweats. And he was glued to the game with such intensity, there simply had to be more at stake than just good old Ohio spirit. Besides, Eddie had attended Ohio Wesleyan, not Ohio State. Something funky was going on in the old man’s world.

“Come on, Buckeyes. Make it happen. Work it in. There he is, wide open! That’s right…yes!” With the basket, Eddie stood abruptly, pumped his fist, and then swigged from a glass that was forming a ring on the TV. Setting it back down, he paced in front of the tube like a coach in front of his bench.

Wesley headed for the stairs to his apartment, trying without success to recall the last time his dad had paid as much attention to him as he was that game. But this was old news. Been that way all his life. Nothing was going to change. Forget it.

Crossing back through the family room, he became curious about his mom’s whereabouts. Grabbing the banister, he leaped up the stairs two at a time. Passing David’s old room, a bathroom, and Madison’s room—where light shone from beneath the door—he went to the end of the hall and tapped on the door of the master bedroom. No answer.

After knocking again, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The smell of his mother’s perfume was strong. Although there was no sound, the bluish glow from the home shopping channel on the wall-mounted TV lit up the elegant room. Near the TV, half covered in gold satin sheets and a down comforter, Mom lay on her side, black sleeping mask covering her eyes. She looked tiny in that enormous bed.

Wesley crept to her side. A flask of something—it smelled like whiskey—lay on the nightstand, along with three bottles of prescription medicine. Two of them were open. There were still plenty of pills in all three.

He tucked her arm that was hanging off back onto the bed and pulled the soft covers up to her chin. She didn’t move. He stood over her and stared at his mother. After a few seconds, he lifted the mask to the top of her head so he could see her whole face. He kissed her softly on the cheek, smelling the whiskey that seemed to ooze from her pores.

“What are you doing?” came Madison’s loud whisper in the doorway.

He pulled the mask back down over his mother’s eyes, went to the door, and exited in front of his sister.

“Checkin’ on Mom.” He walked back toward the steps.

Madison shut the door quietly and followed him as far as her room. “She passed out again.”

He kept walking.

“Who was that you met out front?”

He turned around and faced Madison. “None of your business.”

“Yeah, it is my business. You know why? Because as long as you keep doing whatever you’re doing, I’ve got to stay here.”

“Oh, really?” He walked toward her. “Why’s that?”

“’Cause I’m afraid someone’s gonna get hurt. What was in the bag?”

He entered her room and nodded toward the window. “I saw you and Aunt Karen looking down at me today.”

“So?”

“So, did she tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Never mind.” He started to leave, thinking Aunt Karen might not know he was at Twin Streams after all. But he stopped when he saw the small black Bible on her dresser. Picking it up, he leafed through the first few pages, saw Karen’s name, and smirked.

Madison pointed to the rash around his eye. “What did you do?”

“She gave this to you?” He wagged the Bible at her.

“Aunt Karen’s sweet,” Madison said. “So’s Uncle Everett. No matter what you say. Your eye is a mess, and your wrist is bleeding.”

He looked down and wiped the blood on the front of his shirt. “No worries.”

“She said something happened at their house last night.” Madison took the Bible out of his hands and set it back on the dresser. “And that they saw a white Yukon.”

“What happened?” His mind flashed back to Twin Streams, the manger scene, the dogs—how berserk Badino had gone.

“She wouldn’t say. Was it you?”

He walked out into the hallway.

“You were with Tony Badino last night,” Madison prodded. “He’s supposed to be nuts. I heard he’s into Satan worship.”

“What? Where’d you hear that?”

“A friend who would know.”

He blew it off. “What’s goin’ on with the old man? You see he got banged up?”

“Yeah.” She plunked down on the bed. “Said somebody tried to take his wallet on the subway.”

“Right.” Wesley leaned against the doorframe. “And he fought back?”

“I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but whatever it is, Uncle Everett bailed him out. You need to be nice to him and Aunt Karen. They’re good people.”

“What makes them good? Tell me!” He thrust a finger at the Bible. “Is it ’cause she gave you a book?”

“They care about people like us. People who don’t care about them or deserve to be loved.”

“It wasn’t always that way and you know it.”

“Well, it is now.”

“Oh, and that means we automatically forget how he left David high and dry? Misled him? The poor kid was crazy! He thought he was going to another world! And you just want to let it go?”

Wesley’s insides were churning like the pistons in a roaring engine.

“Uncle Everett’s sorry. They both are.”

“Sorry ain’t good enough.”

“Oh, what a jerk. You’ve never made mistakes? What more do you want them to do?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

He could almost hear the voice, the one in the wall, calling itself Vengeance.

Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he wanted Everett Lester to pay.

Back downstairs Wesley stalled, fearing the dreaded voice would come calling again when he returned to his apartment. He pulled the fridge door open, lighting up his parents’ kitchen. Nothing appealed. He meandered to the front door, staring out at what many would call “the perfect home.”
Little did they know.

He headed for the den to take one more peek in on his dad. Putting his face up to the light, he peered through the crack. But he got too close and the door opened about four inches, squeaking slightly. He turned and crept away.

“Wes?” his dad called.

Wesley froze, then turned around slowly.

His dad stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the den.

“What is it, son?” He turned sideways and raised his arm toward the inside of the room. “You want to come in?”

Wesley walked toward him and hesitantly stepped into the room.

“Buddy, what’d you do to your eye?”

“Some kind of rash.” Wesley pulled his sleeve over his wrist. “It’s been itching. No biggie.”

His dad examined him, up and down, slowly—but not too closely. “It looks really bad. Maybe you need to go see Dr. Wegryn. He may want to give you some steroids or something to knock that out, whatever it is.”

Wesley shrugged, just to give him some kind of feedback. He eyed his dad’s face. “What happened? The cuts?”

Dad sloughed it off. “Some pickpocket tried to lift my wallet on the subway.”

“And.”

“I tried to fight him off. Other people helped. He took off.”

“Did you get the wallet?”

“Yeah, luckily.”

Wesley looked at the TV, which made his dad fix his gaze back to ESPN also.

“Ohio State–Michigan.” Dad sat back down on the ottoman. “Sold out in Columbus. Nineteen thousand, two hundred people. It’s halftime.”

“Who’s winning?”

“Buckeyes, but not by enough.” He laughed.

Wesley took a seat on the couch as the third quarter got under way.

“Yeah, sit.” His dad shot him a glance, then was drawn back to the tube. “Come on now, Buckeyes, break this thing open.” He reached for his drink, but it was empty, so he set it back on the wet ring. “This kid Poorman is playing a heck of a game. He’s hit, like, four three-pointers.”

Wesley couldn’t care less. His knees bounced. He examined the dried blood on the inside of his elbow.

What are you doing here, anyway?
“That’s enough for me.” He rose from the couch.

Dad’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “You just sat down.”

“I know. I’m beat.”

“Okay, my man.” His dad gave him a momentary look. “Sleep well.”

Wesley stood there for a moment, saddened by the cold but familiar reality that he’d received the extent of his father’s attention. “’Night,” he said, as his dad cursed at an Ohio State turnover.

Wesley headed toward his apartment.

For once, I wish we could just sit and talk. No TV, no newspaper, no rushing out the door. Just talk. Is that so much to ask? Maybe I could even tell him how scared I am. Of the grip this drug has on me. Of the voices. Maybe he could even convince me I’m not losing my mind.

17

EVEN THOUGH THE SHADES
were drawn, light had filtered its way into the master bedroom at Twin Streams by the time Karen finally awoke Sunday morning. Before she even opened her eyes, she was back out in the yard the night before, gawking at the baby Jesus figure and the haunting words in red, pouring out her soul to the police, and watching them take pictures and drive away with the evidence in tow.

A blanket of desperation covered her body. Oh, how she wished her infertility were only a bad dream. But she was awake enough to realize that was not the case. Perhaps God would change His mind and knit Everett’s baby together in her womb.

Oh, Lord, please, let me get pregnant, someday, some way…

She lay still, listening to the furnace chugging along—as it had all night—trying its best to keep the somewhat drafty old house warm during the New York cold snap. With a harsh cough, Karen swallowed back the pain in her throat and noticed how dry the insides of her nose and mouth had become overnight. She opened her eyes, and Everett wasn’t on his side of the bed.

I hope he’s making coffee.

But he was supposed to be at church. She shot up and looked at the time. “Ev?”

A white piece of paper was folded up next to her clock. “Karen” was written on the outside. She unfolded it.

Good morning, babe!

I couldn’t wake you. You needed the rest. Be strong in the Lord. Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll find out more soon.

The coffee’s on, and I’m headed for the first service. I’m nervous but excited. Say a prayer for me, if you’re up in time. I’ll see you at the second service. We can sit together after my song. Stay warm. Be careful; the roads might be icy.

Love ya,

Ev

Karen was glad she’d slept in. She stretched and yawned, relishing the light and the hope of a new day. “Father in heaven,” she prayed, eyes closed and hands lifted, “let Your Spirit flow through Ev this morning. Give him peace. Let him feel Your love. And, dear God, let the words and music penetrate people’s souls. Also, protect us from evil…”

Putting on her robe and slippers, Karen greeted Rosey in the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Everett made it strong, and she had come to like it that way. Rosey remained sitting at attention by the refrigerator, looking deprived. Karen went over to her bowl, bent down, and felt it—still slimy.

“You rascal.” Karen snickered at the dog. “You really are the Pretender. Daddy already fed you, and you know it.” The Pretender was a nickname Rosey’s breeders had given the collie, because she pulled the same “deprived” trick on them when she was a pup. Karen sidestepped the memories of Millie that sought to fill her mind.

The red needle on the thermometer outside the bay window pointed to seven degrees. “Brrrr.” She let Rosey out, feeling her stomach turn slightly when she saw the spot where the baby Jesus figure had been returned, and beyond that, out to the ridge and Millie’s fresh grave.

Even Rosey appeared somewhat shocked by the quiet cold as she walked gingerly on the icy grass, did her business quickly, and made a beeline for the back door.

The
Bedford Post
was on the island in the kitchen, still in its clear, wet plastic bag. Karen got it out and took it to the kitchen table. Although she didn’t need to clip coupons anymore, it was a habit and something she enjoyed doing as she went through the Sunday paper. Fifteen minutes and a second mug of coffee into her review of the paper, she zeroed in on a story in the local section under the heading “Police Reports.”

In-Store Detective Attacked at Wal-Mart

WHITE PLAINS—An in-store detective for the local Wal-Mart is in stable condition after being assaulted in the parking lot of the store Friday evening when he confronted two would-be shoplifters as they left the store.

One of the two suspects kicked the detective in the throat while the other ran for a white GMC Yukon, in which the two escaped. During the fray, the attacker dropped several boxes of cold medicine, the ingredients of which are commonly used to “cook” the fastest-growing social drug in America: methamphetamine.