Shine

  I did. The purple Sharpie he and I had used to add our names to the graffiti door had come from school, courtesy of our sixth grade teacher’s top desk drawer. When Patrick found out, he made me promise to return it. Heck, he escorted me to Mrs. Padrick’s room the next day and watched me do it.

  “Jesus, Cat,” Beef said. “He could have come home with me. I could have taken him back in the morning. Or I could have helped him with his dang closing duties.”

  He lifted the brim of his ball cap and rubbed his head. “But no. I left him alone at the Come ’n’ Go. Lights blazing, and Patrick inside like a fucking lamb for the slaughter.”

  “Yo, Beef, I’ve got a delivery for you,” Dupree called. “Hey—what the . . . ? Where the fuck are you?”

  Beef tugged his cap back in place. He pushed off the cement wall and headed back to our table.

  I walked with him, speaking quickly. “You didn’t know. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “There you are,” Dupree said. “You’re messing with my head, man. For real.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I repeated.

  Beef’s expression didn’t change.

  Dupree slapped a sheet of paper on the table in front of him, saying, “Peanut butter and mayonnaise, heavy on the mayonnaise.”

  “Peanut butter and mayonnaise?” I said. I pulled myself back to the moment, because for a reason I couldn’t put my finger on, it seemed important not to reveal anything to Dupree. Not that I had anything to reveal, but Dupree made me want to hold everything in tight. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Ah, but we got customers who swear by it. Ain’t that so, Beef?”

  “Yeah,” he said, grabbing the order sheet.

  “We get all sorts of crazy orders,” Dupree elaborated. “Peanut butter and mayonnaise, turkey with fried pickles, tongue with spicy mustard.”

  “Shut up, Dupree,” Beef said. “She doesn’t care.”

  Dupree gave me an eyebrow waggle. “You ever tried tongue, Cat?”

  “Shut up, Dupree.”

  Beef was himself again, standing up for me like I was his adopted little sister. I was glad. But I was perfectly capable of handling Dupree by myself.

  “Yeah, I’ve had tongue,” I said. “You got some you want me to sample?”

  “Hells yeah. You want it now?”

  “Bring it on. And bring me a knife, one of those sharp ones you keep in the back. I like my tongue cut up real fine.”

  Dupree’s laugh rang out loud and big, and I smiled before I could stop myself. I’d forgotten how fun it could be to sass someone, even if that someone was several-screws-loose Dupree.

  “It was good seeing you, Cat,” Beef said, already halfway out of the store. “You should come by more often.”

  I watched him strap on his helmet, kick-start his Suzuki, and roar out of the parking lot. Too late, I realized he’d left with nothing.

  “Wait,” I said. “What about the sandwich?”

  “Huh?” Dupree said.

  “The sandwich he’s supposed to deliver. Are you stoned, Dupree? For real?”

  “Almost always,” he quipped. He cracked up. “But dang, you’re right. Can’t deliver a sandwich without the sandwich, can you?”

  I shook my head. Dupree was useless. I headed toward the door, but before I got there, Dupree called out, “You know your buddy Patrick ain’t no saint, right?”

  I stopped. My radar went off—ping ping ping—and I turned around.

  “No, as a matter of fact I don’t know that,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’d say Patrick’s as close to being a saint as anyone can be.”

  “Well, I agree that he acts saintly. I’ll give you that. But there are certain things that a person—a loyal person—should keep to himself. You get me?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. I didn’t like it. “Then I’ll make it easier,” he said. “Nobody likes a tattletale.”

  “How is Patrick a tattletale?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Hey. Sometimes people bring stuff down on their own selves, that’s all I’m saying.”

  I had to take two full breaths before I trusted myself to speak. “Are you saying Patrick deserved what happened to him?”

  “Cat, c’mon. You know me better than that.”

  “Do I?”

  “I ain’t happy Patrick got hurt. Don’t misunderstand.” He searched my face. “There’s just one thing I want to tell you, and I want you to actually hear it.”

  He paused as if waiting for some sort of response.

  I made an impatient circle with my hand. “Fine. What?”

  “The sun don’t shine on the same dog’s tail all the time,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  I breathed in and out carefully, trying not to show anything on my face. But I thought about how Destiny said that Dupree was one of Wally’s boys: a meth dealer or a runner or both. According to Destiny, Tommy and Beef were, too—or had been at one point.

  What if Patrick had known? Would Dupree have seen him as a threat? What about Tommy? What about Wally?

  And Beef. If Beef knew the others were muttering about Patrick—voicing concerns about loyalty and the importance of keeping one’s mouth shut—what would he have done?

  Nobody likes a tattletale.

  I left Huskers, because I needed to get away from Dupree. I considered what he said, though. I considered it from various angles, all subject to a variety of interpretations.

  One: Dupree was sharper than he pretended to be. His stoner act was just that, regardless of how much dope he actually smoked.

  Two: Dupree was not only sharp, but potentially dangerous. Had he threatened me before I left Huskers? Was that what his “the sun don’t shine” story was about?

  Which brought me to three: Wally. Wally was nasty as rotten lunch meat, living out in his trailer with his flea-ridden dogs. His eyes were constantly bloodshot, he had a chronic cough, and he was coated with filth and stink.

  All things considered, I was left with a plan of attack that made my stomach lurch. First, I needed to keep Dupree in my sights, whether literally or figuratively. I needed to be very, very careful when it came to that boy.

  Second, I needed to talk to Wally. I didn’t want to, and I wasn’t at all sure I’d find the courage to make it happen. Wally was worse than any fairy-tale witch, and his trailer wasn’t made of candy. Just the thought of him terrified me.

  I’d think on it. For today, I was done.

  I HAD CHORES THE NEXT DAY, AND NO WAY AROUND them. Collect kindling, even though fall was a ways off. Water and weed the garden. Laundry, laundry, and more laundry. And finally, tend to the dang green beans so we’d have them ready for dinner.

  I hated green beans. First I had to pick them. Then I had to string them, pulling the tough top part straight down the spine of each bean on both sides. Then I broke them. Then I washed them until the water ran clear. Then I cut out the black spots made from bugs. Though fixing green beans was one of my least favorite chores, I stretched it out today. I was working up the courage for what I had to do next.

  I knew Wally would talk to me. He liked girls, and the younger the better. Every winter he came into town for the Christmas pageant, because seeing little kids in angel robes gave him a boner. In the summer, he’d show up at the lake where younger kids went swimming—not Suicide Rock, but a lake with a dock and a lifeguard and a tiny snack shack—and it was the same thing all over again. His thing made a tepee out of his swim trunks, right there in front of God and every living soul.

  Once he asked Gwennie if she wanted him to teach her to float on her back. I was ten. She was nine. We’d both known how to float on our backs for years. We wrinkled our noses and said ewww and ran off laughing. Gwennie probably should have told her daddy, but she didn’t.

  When I finished prepping the beans, I put them in a two-quart pan to soak, ’cause Daddy liked them super soft. I threw in a big ol’ chunk of fatback for flavor, and also for its grease, and then I went
to get my bike. It was a long ride to Wally’s trailer, which was deep in the forest. I hoped on the ride over I’d come up with a brilliant scheme to get him to talk to me without arousing his suspicion. I wasn’t feeling overly enthusiastic, as this was a man who gave his “boys” pistols. I could well be the most foolish girl in the county.

  I was halfway down the driveway when Christian called out to me. I stopped. “Yeah?”

  He cut across the yard, looking strong and tough with his sun-kissed skin and his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because you’re my sister.”

  “Like that’s ever mattered before.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve been acting strange, Cat.” He stood in front of me and took hold of the handlebars. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed, either.”

  “Let go,” I said.

  “Then tell me where you’re going. I’ll go with you. We’ll take my Yamaha.”

  I didn’t know what he was up to. His shoulders were hunched, his body’s way of telling me he was concerned. But why? He didn’t care about me. Or maybe he did, but not enough.

  To prove it, I said, “You’ll give me a ride to Wally’s? Hey, thanks.”

  “Wally? That fucking rock spider? No way!”

  “Yeah, well . . . thanks anyway, bro.”

  I wrenched free and took off, ignoring his cries of “Hey! Get back here!”

  I pumped so hard my quads burned. Partly for speed, more to flush out my confused emotions. I wanted Christian back. I wanted him to be there for me. But how could I let him in when I couldn’t trust him for fear of being burned?

  A few moments later, Christian’s motorcycle roared to life, and I heard the pop of gravel on the road to my right. He was coming after me, but guess what? I could cut though the woods and he couldn’t, not without getting whacked up by branches and scraping the paint on his bike.

  It was coming up on six o’clock in the outside world, with the sun just starting to think about setting. In the woods, it was darker, thanks to the thick overhang of branches and leaves. Everything smelled loamy. The approach of twilight, along with the insect sounds that heralded it, made me feel alone in a way of separating me from all things human. Usually, I liked being in the woods for that very reason, but tonight the chorus of crickets was suffocating rather than reassuring. An owl on the hunt hooted. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  I’d never actually been to Wally’s before, but I knew I was close when a pack of dogs started barking, drowning out everything else. They were loud and wild. They triggered a deep-seated clench of fear.

  Most likely they were chained up, but I decided to continue on foot so that I didn’t surprise them, or vice versa. I climbed off my bike and leaned it against a tree. Nailed to the trunk was a plank painted with the words POSTED: NO TRESPASSING.

  My skin prickled. People who chose to live deep in the woods tended not to be overly social.

  I walked in the direction of the barking. My nerves were raw, and I flinched when a twig snapped beneath me. Why had I thought visiting Wally was a good idea? I couldn’t for the life of me remember. He was a meth cooker and a lech, and for all I knew, he may have beamed Patrick in the skull with a baseball bat. On top of that, he had dogs. Big dogs. I still hadn’t thought of what I was going to say to Wally when I saw him, or what he might say to me.

  And his dogs—what might they do? Eat me?

  I reached a clearing, and further ahead, I made out Wally’s decrepit trailer. In front of it, three Dobermans snarled and strained against their chains. It occurred to me in the pounding of my pulse—which I could hear in my head, it was so strong—that there was brave, and then there was stupid, and God knew I didn’t want to end up bound to a tree trunk, something horrid jammed down my throat.

  A loud crack made me jump, and my heart tried to fling itself out of my rib cage. I turned on my heel and was fast-walking to my bike when Christian roared up on his motorcycle and stood on the brakes, spraying up dirt and pine needles.

  The dogs fell into a frenzy.

  “God, scare the crap out of me next time,” I said, even as my body went slack with relief. I almost wanted to hug him.

  Christian was off his bike and at my side before I realized he’d cut the engine. “You don’t belong here,” he said, grabbing my wrist.

  No, but now that he was here, I was brave again. I headed again for Wally’s trailer.

  “I mean it, Cat,” he said. He scanned our surroundings. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”

  “Chill,” I said. I tried to shake him off, but he stayed beside me, radiating a low thrum of energy. His anxiety cranked up my anxiety, and I took shallow breaths. Something had to be going on if Christian was so determined to keep me away.

  “Well, heyyyyyy,” a man said. Wally. He cracked the door of his trailer with the business end of a shotgun. A bare lightbulb revealed pocked skin, stubble, and a single eyeball. We were several yards away, but I sensed madness in that eyeball, and I remembered what Aunt Tildy had told me about Wally way back when.

  “That man’s got the crazies,” she said. “You stay away from him, you hear?”

  Wally used his gun to push the door wider. He nodded at Christian like he knew him, a fact I filed away. Then he took a good long look at me, the kind of look that made me want to cross my arms over my chest. Two of the dogs kept barking. The other grew rigid and growled deep in its throat.

  “Aw, now, they won’t bother you none,” Wally said. He whistled sharply and said, “Down.” The dogs dropped to their haunches and shut up.

  “So Christian, this your sister?” Wally asked, gesturing at me with that dang shotgun. He leered. “You sure has growed up. Growed up real fine. Come in, come in.”

  I followed Wally into his trailer. Christian was furious. I felt it coming off him. But he followed, too.

  Inside, I fought not to gag. I’d seen plenty of filth in my life, but no place as filthy as this. Wally had given up on the notion of a trash can eons ago, apparently deciding the floor was as good a dumping ground as anything. My quick survey showed greasy pizza boxes, crumpled newspapers, and moldy plastic containers. Rubber tubes in random lengths. Empty aluminum foil dispensers, their sharp metal teeth waiting to bite some fool’s bare foot.

  The room smelled of spoiled food, body waste, and a chemical odor I couldn’t identify. Sweet and rotten at the same time.

  I must have wrinkled my nose, because Wally laughed.

  “Home sweet home,” he said, gesturing with fingers that were burned at the tips. He smiled, his lips peeling back from the ugliest set of teeth I’d ever seen. They were yellow, with dark spots of decay. Quite a few were missing. “Now, what can Uncle Wally do for such a pretty gal?”

  I couldn’t think what to say. I panicked, because crap, my ride through the woods hadn’t given me any ideas, and now I was a stupid little girl again. Rock Spider, Christian had called Wally, because rock spiders worried their way into small, tight cracks. I saw Gwennie and that ratty pink bathing suit she used to wear, with the elastic fallen out of one leg hole so that the fabric rode up and exposed her pale bottom cheek.

  “I . . . um . . .” I was wondering if you’d share your client list with me, and by the way, are you the one who bashed in Patrick’s skull?

  Wally stepped closer. He had a limp. With a wink, he said, “Are you two members of our state or federal law enforcement team? I gotta ask, you understand.”

  “What? No,” I said.

  “She’s not here for that,” Christian said tersely. “That so?” Wally asked me. “You a straight arrow like your brother?” He paused as a coughing spell wracked his pipe-cleaner-thin body. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His hands shook and he leaned on his shotgun for support.

  “Well, good for you. Mebbe you’ll keep your looks after all.”

/>   Was Wally saying Christian didn’t do meth? If so, thank God for small blessings.

  “If you ain’t here for that shit, what are you here for?” Wally asked.

  “Oh,” I said. “About that. I just . . . I guess I just . . .”

  Christian exhaled. “Come on, Cat.” To Wally, he said, “She was riding her bike. She got lost.”

  Over Wally’s shoulder, I saw a cramped kitchen, with buckets in the sink like the kind Aunt Tildy used when she mopped the floor. Beyond were a short hall and a closed door.

  “Can I use your bathroom?” I asked. I figured it had worked with Gwennie, so why not try with Wally?

  “No,” Christian said.

  Wally chuckled. “Sure you can.” He pointed. “Down the hall and through the bedroom. You want me to show you the way?”

  “I can find it,” I said, just as Christian stepped between me and the hall. He took on a soldier’s stance, his arms folded over his chest and his feet spread wide.

  “You can wait till we get back home.”

  “No, I can’t,” I said, slipping sideways past him and fast-walking down the hall.

  “Little girls got little girl parts,” I heard Wally say to Christian. “Soft and tender, them girl parts.”

  “Shut up,” Christian said.

  “Can’t do their business in the woods like we can, now can they?”

  “Shut up,” Christian said, sounding for all the world like the growling Doberman out front.

  Wally’s bedroom looked like his kitchen, but with bigger heaps of laundry. Near the bed, which was nothing but a mattress on the floor, was a pile of magazines. The top one was called Barely Legal. I also spotted a roll of paper towels, a metal clamp, and, inexplicably, a blender.

  I took in what I could, careful not to touch anything. But much as I’d hoped for an easy answer, there was no manila folder labeled USERS. No list of names by the phone, which was plugged into the wall and connected to an answering machine.

  With my toe, I nudged open the bathroom door. I recoiled from the odor, then tried again, breathing shallowly. There was a pee-crusted toilet with dark stains rimming the bowl. The bathtub was clearly never used for taking baths, as it was filled with funnels, coffee filters, and other items I assumed were for cooking up meth. A pair of rubber gloves lay over the rim of the sink, and those rubber gloves skeeved me out more than anything.