Spring Rain (8 page)

Billy jumped from the chair and solemnly held his hand out to Clay. Leigh’s heart gave a little misbeat as she watched the exchange.

A click, click, clicking noise and a whuffle sounded, getting louder as it neared the room.

“Oh no,” muttered Clay, turning from Billy to the door. He was too late.

A little Jack Russell terrier raced into the room and onto the bed in one fluid motion. He stood there like a royal prince, ears at attention as he surveyed his subjects.

“Down, boy,” Clay called, snapping his fingers and pointing to the floor. “You need to get down.”

“Wow! Who’s he?” Billy asked, eyes aglow. “Come here, guy.”

The little dog ignored both commands and settled on Ted as the favored one. His hind end began to rotate under the strength of his wag. He lunged for Ted’s face, tongue ready for a slurp of affection.

“Down, boy,” Clay ordered again. “Down, Terror.” At the same time, Billy came out of the chair and dove onto the bed, grabbing the dog.

Terror happily turned his attention to the boy, delighted to make a new friend, washing Billy’s face as he laughed with abandon. Tangled together, they rolled to the edge and off, landing at Leigh’s feet. The little piece of meringue at the corner of Billy’s mouth was gone.

“Oh, Mom, wait until Mama sees him!”

That would be a meeting worth witnessing, Leigh thought with a brief smile. She put her hand on Billy’s back.

“Come on, guy. Calm down. And don’t jump on Uncle Ted’s bed like that again.”

Instantly, Billy was on his feet, Terror forgotten. “Did I hurt you, Uncle Ted?” His eyes were wide with concern.

Ted shook his head and put out a hand, hanging it over the bed to the dog. Terror immediately snuffled his new toy. “I’m okay. You guys didn’t bump me.”

Leigh and Billy both slumped in relief.

“But where did this cute little guy come from? And who is he?” Ted asked, his weariness gone for the moment.

“He’s mine.” Clay watched the dog happily licking Ted’s fingers. “His name’s Terror.”

“Terror the Terrier.” Ted raised an eyebrow at Clay. “I didn’t know you could be that corny. Or do I mean cutesy?”

Leigh looked at Ted, surprised at the acid tone of the comment.

“He’s great, Clay,” said Billy as he happily collapsed next to Terror. “And I love his name. Is he?”

“Is he what?” Clay asked.

“A terror?”

Clay shook his head. “Anything but. And I didn’t name him. He came named.”

“A gift from one of your many admirers?” Ted asked, again with that edge of acid.

Clay didn’t answer, and Leigh looked at him. He was studying the tray of pie, and he must be clenching his teeth if the muscle leaping in his jaw was any indication. A starburst of wrinkled material shone just below his left shoulder where she had grabbed him earlier.

Ted snorted. “I thought so. Always did have a way with the ladies.”

Leigh reached for Ted’s hand, abandoned now that Terror was chewing on Billy’s crusty sneaker. She squeezed gently and shot a warning glance at him. This was not the way to welcome your brother.

He scowled at her but kept silent.

Billy stood, a wiggling Terror in his arms, refusing to lie docilely on his back like the cat did. “Easy, boy. Oh, man, Mama’s going to kill you.”

“Who’s Mama?” Clay asked.

“Our cat that we adopted. She had kittens, but we gave them all away.” He looked up at Leigh accusingly. “Mom wouldn’t let me
keep any even though they were so little and cute.”

Clay looked at Leigh with that Wharton raised brow.

She ignored him. “They were going to grow up to look just like Mama, Billy. And you can’t make me feel guilty no matter how hard you try.”

He grinned at her. “It’s always fun to see if I can.”

She grinned back. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yep,” he said proudly.

“And he’s going to be a famous rock musician and make millions and keep us all in the style to which we’d like to become accustomed.” Julia came into the room with the tea tray. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she looked from one son to the other. “Sorry it took me so long. The water had gotten cold.”

Clay took the tray from her and turned to put it down. He stopped abruptly and frowned. All available surfaces were covered with medical supplies or books or people.

“Put it on the bed,” Julia said.

“Here, Grandma Jule. You sit here and relax.” Billy waved toward the comfy chair. “Clay and I can pour the tea.”

Clay looked a bit startled but didn’t disagree.

“Thank you, Billy.” Julia settled herself.

“No problem,” he assured her. “The oldest always gets the best seat.”

Julia barely flinched at the backhanded courtesy. “As I said before, thanks, Billy.” She reached down and petted Terror who now sat at her feet, tongue lolling as he gazed at her with adoration.

“He likes you,” Billy said.

“That’s because I rescued him from the car where someone who shall be nameless had left him. He was crying, weren’t you, baby?”

Terror responded to the loving tone of voice by climbing onto her lap.

Leigh made herself busy handing out desserts while Billy instructed Clay on the art of pouring tea.

“Uncle Ted likes a smidge of cream and two spoons of sugar. That’s right.” He took the mug and carefully walked to Ted’s bedside table. “And Grandma Jule uses one tiny spoonful. She’s trying to cut down so she doesn’t get fat. Or so she says. I personally think it’s because she wants to impress Dr. Traynor.”

“Dr. Traynor?” Clay looked at his mother, questions written all
over his face.

“Ted’s doctor,” Julia said blandly, meeting his look steadily. “Good man.” She turned to Billy. “Did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?”

“Yeah.” He grinned unrepentantly. “My mom.”

“And how true that is,” Leigh said as she offered a piece of pie to Ted. She wasn’t surprised when Ted held up a hand and shook his head. Yesterday herpes sores had appeared on his lips and in his mouth. Dr. Traynor had started him on medication immediately, but eating was painful for the moment and would become an ordeal if the virus moved down his throat and into his esophagus.

“Junket?” she asked.

“I think I can manage that.”

Julia jumped up and plumped pillows behind him. Leigh handed him the dish of custard and a spoon, then sat on the arm of Julia’s chair. Clay watched, leaning against the far wall, out of the way. Somehow, Terror had weaseled his way back onto the bed. He lay beside Ted, panting, watching the Junket carefully.

“Oh, Julia.” Leigh rolled a piece of pie around in her mouth. “This is delicious.”

“It is,” Clay agreed. “I’d forgotten what a good cook you are, Mom.”

“She’s the best,” Billy said. “Can I have Ted’s piece?”

“Please?” Leigh said as she handed it to him.

“Please.” He grinned and went to stand beside Clay, leaning against the wall in imitation.

Leigh pulled her eyes from the two—it was too painful to contemplate them together, too dangerous—and looked at Ted. His hands lay in his lap, his dish of Junket sliding south, his spoon dangling from his fingers. Terror was edging forward ever so slowly.

Leigh reached for the spoon and the dish. “Here, Ted. Let me help. Open your mouth and make like a little bird.”

As she fed Ted, she was aware of Clay watching them. Watching her.

Act naturally. Act naturally.

It was going to be a very long week. Or two weeks. Or month. Or whatever.

H
E STOOD IN THE
dark, watching. He liked spying like this. It made him feel powerful, like he knew stuff no one else did.

Well, he did. He knew stuff that Leigh-Leigh didn’t, that was for sure. His chest swelled with the importance of it all. Besides him, only Johnny knew, and Johnny was dead.

He sighed. He missed Johnny. The man was slime; there was no doubt about it, but he’d never had a better friend. Sure, Johnny made fun of him a lot, even called him Worm all the time.

He sighed. He could still hear Johnny chanting in that mocking voice, “Hey, Worm! Nobody likes you, everybody hates you, guess you’ll go eat worms. Big, fat juicy ones; little, tiny, skinny ones—oh, how they wiggle and squirm. First you’ll bite off their heads, then suck out their guts, then throw their skins away. Nobody knows how you can eat worms three times a day.”

Then Johnny’d laugh and scratch his belly, and Worm would laugh with him.

People mocking him was nothing new. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he didn’t get mocked. But Johnny never hit him. Never. Once Johnny even told Dooley, self-proclaimed king of their
cell block, to leave Worm alone and pick on someone his own size. Dooley picked on Johnny for a few minutes, and Johnny never defended him like that again. But he still remembered that day with pride. No one had ever stood up for him before. Or since.

He smiled in the darkness. Yeah, Johnny had been his best friend. Ever. He shrugged and admitted the truth. He had been his only friend. Ever. And Johnny’d shared his secret with him, or at least part of it.

He still felt bad that Johnny got iced in the shower. To die naked must be very upsetting. At least he knew he’d be embarrassed if it happened to him.

Johnny was the reason he was here. The secret. The treasure. That was why he stood in the night and watched through windows. That was why he was going to be rich. Nobody’d make fun of him ever again.

Nobody’d ignore him ever again.

Nobody’d beat on him ever again.

He’d been watching for the past several nights, and he was finally getting a feel for schedules and routines. It made him feel professional, not like the two-bit crook he’d been before. He shook his head at how stupid he’d been. No wonder he got caught. But that was then. This was now.

Every night they all gathered in that upstairs bedroom where the guy with AIDS lived. It was like they were saying good-bye to him in case he wasn’t there in the morning or something. Talk about spooky.

Personally he wouldn’t have nothing to do with an AIDS guy. What if you caught it or something? Then where were you? He shuddered. Even the treasure wouldn’t do you no good then.

Tonight the doctor wasn’t up there, but some new guy was. The brother? Probably. Clooney said the AIDS guy had a twin. It must be weird being a twin. Like looking in the mirror all the time.

He knew lots about these Whartons because he had asked careful questions of the people he met on the beach, especially Clooney, the guy with the metal detector. Clooney liked to talk like no one he’d ever met. In the joint everyone kept to themselves most of the time, and growing up, no one talked to him either. His dad hated him and his mother thought he was just a poor joke.
And that was one of the nicest things she said.

He flinched in the cool night air as he heard her voice just like she was standing in the driveway with him.

“Get out of my sight, you little creep,” she yelled. “I don’t want nothing to do with you. You’re so ugly you make me sick!”

Since he looked like her—everybody said he did—he was never sure why she yelled that all the time. But it always made him feel bad, so he stayed out of her way as much as he could.

He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see her even though he knew she couldn’t be here. He’d stood by her grave when she got buried. He’d smiled through the whole service. If only she’d stop living in his mind like she stopped living on the earth, he’d be very happy.

He heard some barks from that upstairs bedroom and smiled, Ma forgotten. He liked that little dog. It had come with the guy who was probably the brother. He’d almost let it out of the car himself after the guy went inside without it, but the lady came out and did it first. He hoped the dog lived in the house, not the garage. He didn’t want anyone or anything protecting Leigh-Leigh.

Clooney told him she didn’t have nobody but the lady and the AIDS guy and the kid, and only the kid lived with her in the garage, so he wasn’t worried. What was a kid? It was good that Clooney was a blabbermouth.

Not that he really wanted to know lots of the stuff Clooney told him about the Whartons with their fancy painted house and garage, but he couldn’t just ask about Johnny’s kid. Too obvious. So he listened carefully to everything Clooney said because you never knew what might be important. If he had learned anything during his time in the can, it was that knowing your marks was the secret to success.

He just wished someone had told him that before.

After several days of talking with Clooney as he dug those stupid little holes in the sand and collected all kinds of worthless junk, he knew more about the whole neighborhood than he wanted to.

The stuff he’d learned sort of surprised him. He’d always thought that people who lived in pretty houses had pretty lives, unless, of course, you were Mafia. Then you killed each other all the time. But no. Rich guys were as bad off as he was. The guy in
that big house a block over, the one with all the glass, beat his wife, just like his own old man used to beat Ma. At least Ma used to slug back, which is more than the rich lady did. She just drank until she passed out.

He hadn’t believed Clooney at first. He did now though. He went and checked their trash last night, and it was full of booze bottles. He peered in the windows, amazed that people forgot that windows weren’t just for looking out of. And there was wifey passed out on the sofa with her mouth open and a spilled glass hanging from her hand. An empty bottle sat on the carpet beside her. She had a beautiful shiner and a bruise on her arm where the guy must’ve grabbed her and twisted. He knew that that really hurt.

He’d sat in the swing on their deck for a long time thinking about what a waste it was to have all that money and be no better off than his pathetic family. When he got the treasure from Leigh-Leigh, he wasn’t going to beat on women or drink himself into a stupor. Well, maybe once in a while for fun, but not always. No way.

He looked up at the window of the Wharton house again, and he saw them all gathered around the bed. If he was the sick guy and everybody stared at him like that, he’d get the willies.