Vicious Grace

Page 27

Sunday afternoon left the place sparsely populated. David was sitting on a soft couch, a large cup of coffee looking small in his hand. With clean clothes and a better night’s sleep than I’d had, he looked more like a retired NFL player. The round burn of the shotgun on his neck looked better too. When he caught sight of me, he smiled and rose. I walked over. His smile faltered.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Peachy,” I said.
“Do you want anything?”
I sat down in the chair across from his couch, then waited, looking up at him until he took his seat too.
“All right,” I said. “I’m here. Tell me what you’ve got.”
“Well, I don’t have anything solid,” he said. “It’s more a feeling. I was thinking about all the—”
He stopped, looked around uneasily, and hunched in close before he went on.
“All the dreams. They’re horrible. All of them, but it’s not like they did me any damage.”
I shrugged, unconvinced. Maybe he didn’t remember what he’d looked like on Friday. Undamaged wasn’t the first word that came to mind.
“When I was dreaming that I was Grandpa Del, maybe it was because he was trying to reach out to me. And he can only do it through dreams,” he said. He was getting excited now. I could see the enthusiasm in the smile that flirted with his lips, the way his broad, thick hands patted at the air. I wondered if this had been what it was like for Eric, watching Aubrey and Kim discover the secret world of riders and magic. The idea depressed me.
“And so he’s sending you a year’s worth of soul-destroying nightmares? Wouldn’t a couple ‘Hey, Dave, could you get me out of this box’ dreams be a little more likely to keep you from killing yourself before you could help out?”
“That bothered me too. But there was this movie I saw when I was a kid. I don’t know the name, but it was all about this guy who was in a coma. Trapped between life and death. And he kept pulling other people into his dreams. What if it’s like that? What if Grandpa Del is trying to reach out, only he’s dreaming too?”
“So you’re thinking that maybe he’s been kicking the crap out of you because . . . ?”
The door swung open and two surprisingly lovely women came in. One was blond, the other a redhead with a complexion that said the color hadn’t come from a bottle. They had the kind of looks that made men lose their car keys. David glanced at them, dismissed them, and turned back to me.
“You swim much?” he asked. “You know not to go in after someone who’s drowning. Throw them something or get them a stick, and you’re fine. But if they get ahold of you, they’ll try to climb up you, and you both drown. I think Grandpa Del is flailing like that.”
I could feel my mind wrapping around the idea even as my head shook its own decisive no. There was something about it I liked. That I wanted to be true. That maybe the thing under Grace was scared, alone, and thrashing in its sleep. Maybe it was one of the good guys, and so maybe Eric was too. I had to put it aside now and focus on David.
“Listen to yourself,” I said. “You don’t go after someone who’s drowning. Because you might get hurt or worse, and you sure can’t help that way. Right?”
“Right.”
“And what’s your plan? Go to Grace Memorial?”
David opened his mouth. At the counter, one of the beautiful women broke out in a peal of laughter. She wasn’t paying attention to us, but it still had the feel of the universe mocking us. David blushed and shook his head. His face could have been put in a dictionary beside chagrin.
“I’m going in after the drowning guy,” he said. “Because I’m an idiot.”
“You’re being called,” I said. “You’re trying to answer. That’s not dumb. But it is dangerous.”
“You want me to go home,” he said. His voice was sour.
“I do. I want you to wait until we know what we’re looking at. And I swear as soon as I know something, I will tell you.”
He sighed, staring into the black surface of the coffee. The espresso machine hissed and spat. Pink Martini gave way to some modern big-band swing. I took his hand. It was warmer than I expected, and when his fingers squeezed mine, I made myself smile.
“Trust me,” I said.
In my imagination, a vampire I’d known once took a drag on his cigarette, smiled with ruined lips, and said Being new to the game makes you an easy mark, kid. Happens to everyone. It would have been simple to use David now. It was almost harder not to. He wanted me to ask him for something. I could tell him to write me a check for his whole savings, and he would. I could tell him to go to Grace Memorial just to see if the hospital attacked him.
Or I could keep him safe. Give him a real life and the chance to live it. Push him away and tell him to run like the devil was after him. It probably was. And that was the one thing I could say that he wouldn’t listen to.
“I trust you,” he said. “Just don’t leave me out.”
“Promise,” I lied.
SIXTEEN
I sat at the table for a while after David left, then went up and bought myself a latte I didn’t want so that I could keep sitting. The music moved on, landing on eighties nostalgia, some guy telling me it was always mesh and lace and offering to stop the world and melt with me. But the coffee wasn’t bad if I put enough sugar in it, and the emotional equivalent of a loose scab was forming in my heart. I knew the grief and anger and fear were there, but if I didn’t jar myself or scratch at it, I could ignore them. I wasn’t, for instance, in tears. That was a start. I could almost think Aubrey might leave me without breaking down.
The Sunday afternoon crowd stayed light. Behind the counter, a nice-looking blond guy and a hatchet-faced woman who seemed too old to be steaming milk for a living talked about television while they cleaned the wood-grained laminate and straightened stacks of prepackaged biscotti. The beautiful girls were joined by two equally beautiful guys. They laughed and flirted and raised arch eyebrows. The trains of the El came by now and then, the clatter of their passage competing with the music. I remembered Kim sitting at the Bump & Grind Café with a latte and heartache of her own. I even remembered feeling sorry for her.
The scab shifted a little, threatening to slip off and expose the wound. I looked out the window, forcing myself back to the here and now. Either it was later than I’d expected or the clouds were thickening. The darkness had spread from under the El and was loitering in the street. I considered calling Ex or Chogyi Jake. Or a cab. I wanted to talk to Aubrey. I wanted to talk to Uncle Eric.
This was the moment when I needed a best friend. Sad and sobering, but I didn’t seem to have one who wasn’t already hip-deep in the problems I wanted to get away from. I pulled my cell phone out of my backpack and stared at it. There were almost two hundred contacts in the phone book, most of them put there by Eric. A few that were particularly mine. None of them felt right. All those numbers and no one to talk to.
Except.
My heart sped up just a little as the whole plan popped into my head. It wasn’t like thinking of it so much as remembering something I’d already planned. I picked up my cell phone and went back to the counter, digging through my backpack as I walked. The blond guy trotted up with a professional, practiced smile.
“Get you something else?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Stay there for a minute. Here.”
I still had the same wallet I’d had at ASU. The fake leather was cracked and the fabric underneath showed through. I opened it, pulled out a hundred, and put it on the counter.
“I need a little favor,” I said. I started dialing my old phone number. The shape of the digits on the number pad were familiar and alien at the same time. “Just ask for Curt.”
“Curt?” the guy said.
The phone on the far end started ringing. I passed my cell across the counter.
“Curt,” I said. “You know him from school.”
The blond guy mouthed school? and then I heard the click and a compressed, distant voice saying hello.
“Hi,” the blond guy said. “Is Curt there? This is John. From school.”
The voice on the other end muttered something. The blond guy widened his eyes and pursed his lips in a little mock-naughty oh, enjoying the game of it. A new voice came on. Younger. Male. Questioning.
“Curt?” the blond guy said. “Great. Hang on.”
He handed the phone back to me. I pushed him the hundred. He looked at me like I was being silly and pushed it back.
“Hey, little brother,” I said. “How’s the Bible belt treating you?”
There wasn’t even a moment of shocked silence.
“Sure, I’ve got the syllabus in my notebook,” Curt said. “Let me just get to my room, okay?”
He sounded so much older than when I’d left home. There was gravel in his voice now. I supposed he was probably shaving. It broke my head. While he bumped and clattered down the hall to his room, I made my way back to my table. A long way away, a door shut.
“Hey,” he said softly. “What’s up? What are you doing?”
“I’ve been traveling with some friends. We’re in Chicago.”
“Wicked.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It got a little weird. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“Well,” Curt said, “everything here is a fucking opera production. Jay’s thinking Carla—that’s the fiancée—got knocked up on purpose so he’d have to marry her. And it turns out her mother’s Mexican, and Mom is dead set on making sure no one at church knows about it. Dad is saying that Jay should have thought about all that before he sinned, which effectively puts him on the same side as Carla and our new Latino branch of the family. Oh it is high, high drama.”
“Yeah?” I said, leaning back. “Tell me all.”
For almost an hour, Curt poured out gossip and trivia and the family’s dirty laundry. He never asked how I was doing. He never asked what was going on with me or if I had a boyfriend or if I was happy or what I was planning to do next. He was the perfect self-involved teenage boy, and I loved him for it. When at last my father’s distant bellow demanded to know who Curt was talking to and why it was taking so long, Curt signed off with “Call me back and I’ll tell you the rest.” I put my phone back in my pack. I’d run the batteries down below half their charge on that call alone, but it had been worth it. I didn’t know if it was the reminder of a life larger and broader than my own occult minicabal and our very real problems or only the glimpse of the world I’d escaped, but I felt calmer. Still angry. Still hurt. But calmer.