Swallowing Stones Page 8

Jenna noticed how deep those eyes were, so deep you could fall right into them. “I’m fine.”

  Jason was there waiting for her when she stepped out of the rest room. Amy slipped out behind her. Jenna saw her heading across the lobby and out to the mall. Apparently she was not planning to see the rest of the movie.

  Suddenly remembering Jason, Jenna said, “You’re missing the movie.”

  “I was worried about you. What happened?”

  Jenna tried to shrug it off. She didn’t want him worrying. And she definitely didn’t want to tell him what had happened—that for reasons she couldn’t explain, even to herself, she sometimes grew panicky when she was near him.

  “Maybe I should go home,” she said.

  He stared at her intently. Suddenly his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He shook his head. “Jeez, I’m such a moron. I can’t believe I took you to that movie, all those people shooting at each other … I …”

  Jenna gently put her hand over his mouth. “It’s okay. It wasn’t the movie. Really. Besides, I’m the one who suggested it.”

  Jason’s bony shoulders slumped forward. “We could go to another show,” he suggested hopefully.

  “Some other time, okay?”

  Reluctantly he agreed to take her home, and they headed back to the bus stop. Jenna was grateful that he didn’t ask any more questions.

  On the bus going home, she began to wonder if her panic around Jason was somehow connected to her father’s death.

  Maybe she shouldn’t be dating anyone right now. She was supposed to be mourning, right? Only so far that hadn’t happened. It had been three weeks, and she hadn’t once cried. She didn’t count the sneaky little tears that sometimes came while she slept.

  It was almost dark outside, and the lights in the bus caught her image in the window. She stared back at her reflection and wondered if her father’s death was always going to be there, sitting between her and Jason like some massive, unmovable rock.

  michael

  9

  michael lay awake almost half the night, as he often did now. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamt he was flying. At first, as he leaned into the wind, arms extended like wings, the sensation of the air lifting him was exhilarating. He imagined this was how a bird felt, as light as feathery seeds released from their pods, floating gently on a breeze. He soared upward into the sky, never once fearing he would fall. He flew over treetops and rooftops, over fields and gardens, until his body suddenly curved in an arc and headed toward the earth. Then he saw the man below on the roof. And that was when Michael knew he was not a bird at all. He was, in fact, a bullet.

  Frantically he twisted his body to the right, then to the left, but it stayed on course no matter how hard he tried to steer it away. His body began to pick up speed as it headed downward. Faster and faster, it streaked toward the unsuspecting man on the roof.

  Michael tried to scream a warning. He tried to get the man to move, to get out of the way. But no sound came from his burning throat. It was going to happen, and he could do nothing to stop it.

  Michael managed to wake himself just as the top of his head was about to strike the man’s skull. He lay in a damp pool of sweat, barely able to breathe. His heart was pounding so loudly the sound of it filled his ears, blocking out the soft chirping of the crickets. He gripped the edges of his bed and held on until his heart began to quiet and he was able to take a deep breath.

  He knew this was happening because he had seen Jenna Ward at the pool earlier that day. He had stared across the pool into her face and suddenly realized there would never be anyplace on earth where he could hide.

  At first he had wanted to believe that the person dangling her feet in the water merely resembled Jenna Ward. So while he automatically moved his head from side to side, pretending to keep a sharp eye on the swimmers, he studied her from behind the metallic shield of his sunglasses. There could be no doubt. It was Jenna Ward. No one else had eyes like hers. Those eyes had haunted him from the moment he first saw her picture in the newspaper.

  Until that morning he had been secure in his belief that the Wards were not members of the community pool. It had never occurred to him that Jenna or her mother might come as someone’s guest. But when Jenna had shown up, all he had been able to think about for the rest of the day was how he was going to make it through the summer if she continued to come to the pool.

  Now, as the cicadas buzzed loudly beneath his window, his mind once again searched in vain for a way out of all this. He thought of quitting his job. But he needed the money. He could look for other work. But it was late in the summer and all the seasonal jobs were already taken. And deep down, he knew working someplace else wouldn’t protect him from running into Jenna Ward. She could show up anywhere. Anytime.

  The glare from the streetlight outside spilled across the lower part of his bed. It was still dark. The air in his room was stifling. Michael glanced over at the digital clock. It was only a little after three. He knew it was pointless to lie there. He wouldn’t be able to sleep. So he kicked aside the damp sheet. And because he usually slept naked on hot, humid nights, he slipped on a pair of boxer shorts.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was startled by muffled sounds coming from the TV. Someone was up, although the house was completely dark except for the muted light coming from the television screen. He hesitated, worried that it might be his father or mother. They would question him, wonder what he was doing up so late.

  Finally he crept into the kitchen. If he was quiet enough, they might not discover he was up. But as he stood in the middle of the dark room, he couldn’t think of why he had come there. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want anything to drink. What had he planned to do? Watch television, maybe. But now he couldn’t. He thought about going out on the patio. At least it would be cooler outside. But just as he reached for the doorknob the overhead fluorescent light blinked on.

  Josh stood in the doorway, wearing only his baggy pajama bottoms, his arms folded. “Are you sleepwalking?”

  Michael was so stunned by the sudden appearance of the light and then Josh that he merely shook his head and let his hand fall away from the knob.

  “Because if you are, I’m not supposed to wake you.” Josh moved cautiously toward his brother. “I’m supposed to take your hand and lead you back to bed.”

  “I’m awake,” Michael told him.

  “You don’t act like you’re awake.” Josh took a step back and studied his brother’s face. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Outside.”

  “In your underwear?” Josh rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and made clicking noises with his tongue. “The neighbors’ll think you’re a pervert.”

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning, you little dork. Who’s going to see me?” This whole conversation was ridiculous. Why was he even arguing with Josh? He didn’t owe him any explanations. Michael stared down at him. “What are you doing up so late, anyway?”

  “It’s summer.” Josh was obviously annoyed that the pressure was now on him. “I can stay up as late as I want.”

  Michael noticed his brother was still carrying the remote control. “And that’s when all the best R-rated movies are on cable, right?”

  In the fluorescent light it was difficult to tell whether Josh had turned a shade paler, but Michael was sure he had. He nodded at his brother. “Right. I figured as much.”

  Josh sat down at the kitchen table and laid the remote in front of him. “So what? I like to see naked girls. So what?”

  Michael opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk. What could he say? He liked to look at naked women, too. He wasn’t going to be a hypocrite about it. He took a swallow of milk right from the carton.

  Josh kept watching him, but he didn’t say anything. Michael handed him the carton. Josh took a swallow. It was as if they had made a silent pact and were now sealing it.

  Michael pulled a package of Oreos from the cupboard and tossed
it on the table, then brought out two glasses and filled them with milk. For a while the two of them just sat there dunking cookies silently until Josh, his teeth speckled with dark crumbs, said suddenly, “Hey, did you hear the cops are about to nail Charlie Ward’s killer?”

  The lump of white icing Michael had licked off his cookie suddenly stuck in his throat. “How do you know that?”

  “I heard Dad talking about it with Mr. Epel next door.” Josh looked pleased that he could tell his brother something he didn’t know. “Mr. Epel said the cops showed up at the Finleys’ house two blocks over. They were going door-to-door asking people questions.”

  Michael fought to keep the panic out of his voice. “Why this neighborhood?”

  Josh tilted his head to the side and stared up at the ceiling, trying to recall more of the conversation between Mr. Epel and his father. “Well, Mr. Epel said he heard that the ballistics team had narrowed down the area where the bullet came from to four blocks.”

  It was all true, then. The nightmare was real. Michael could no longer pretend, as he sometimes did, that there was a chance he hadn’t fired that fatal shot. The bullet had come from somewhere in his neighborhood. The chances of someone else in such a small area shooting off a gun around noon on that same day were probably one in a million. He had spent weeks trying to get used to the idea that he had committed this hideous act. But always, somewhere, there had been hope. A bullet traveling a mile or more through the air could have come from as far away as the next town over. There had always been the outside chance that someone else had fired a gun into the air that Fourth of July afternoon. Now that chance no longer existed.

  “Are you saying our block is one of the four?” Michael’s words felt slow and labored. Part of him didn’t want the answer to that question.

  Josh shrugged and reached for another cookie. “The cops aren’t saying which blocks.” He popped the whole cookie into his mouth. “Why would they?” he said, spraying crumbs as he talked. “I mean, jeez, nothing like alerting the murderer in case he wants to beat feet or anything. They’re just gonna show up at your front door and … surprise!” he shouted, leaning his body across the table and spitting chocolate crumbs in Michael’s face.

  Michael wanted to punch him right in the mouth, but he had both hands clamped tightly around the sides of his chair, trying to ground himself.

  Josh narrowed his eyes at his brother. “So, been doing any target practice lately? You know, with that rifle Grandpa gave you on your birthday?” A snide grin spread across his face.

  Michael stared him down. “Are you trying to say I shot Charlie Ward?” Michael was gripping the edge of his chair for dear life. But he managed to keep his voice calm. Each word came out carefully weighted.

  Josh backed off, aware that he’d gone too far. “Hey, I was just kidding.”

  “You don’t kid about something like that.”

  Not wanting to get himself in any deeper, Josh picked up the remote and headed for the door. “Want to come watch TV?” Michael knew this was his brother’s way of trying to get back on his good side.

  So after a few minutes had passed—and because he had nowhere else to go—Michael followed Josh into the living room, and for the next three hours he stared at the flashing images on the television screen without seeing one single thing.

  in spite of his best efforts, his pledge not to impose on her, Michael found himself gravitating back to Amy’s house on lonely, hot nights. Nights when even the bats flew too slowly to catch their quota of mosquitoes. On those nights he cocooned himself in Amy’s overstuffed living room and played Monopoly or Scrabble. Sometimes they watched rented videos or made Rice Krispies squares. But they never went out anywhere.

  Michael had learned a lot about Amy and her family during those weeks. He learned that her mother and father had died in a car accident when Amy was only seven, that Amy had been in the car but had survived, although she had a broken leg and fractured ribs. He also found out that her father’s parents had taken Amy in and raised her, and that Pappy was her only living relative.

  On some nights her grandfather watched a movie with them or joined them in a game of Scrabble. Michael liked Pappy. He was a short, wiry man with milky blue eyes, thick white hair, and a goatee that looked like a soft wad of cotton. And he invented such ridiculous words when they played Scrabble that it was easy for them to challenge him, which didn’t bother Pappy in the least. He thought the only real fun in playing the game was making up crazy words.

  But on other nights, when Pappy went next door to Tony Rico’s house to play a few hands of poker with his friends or took a stack of back issues of Popular Mechanics upstairs to read in bed, Michael and Amy would sit in the dark with only the flickering light from the TV splashing colors on Amy’s face. And Michael would move a little farther away from her on the couch. Because if he didn’t, he would have reached for her. He would have circled his arms around her waist and slid her down on the cushions. But he wouldn’t allow himself to do that. If he did, he would have to admit he was using Amy. Admit that she was allowing herself to be used. Then he would have to stop coming to her house. He had already taken enough.

  But on this particular night in late July, Michael found that even sitting on the floor across from Amy, drinking root beer and playing Scrabble, was not enough to quiet his mind. No one had shown up at his front door yet, but he knew it could happen any day if what Josh said was true.

  “I don’t think quitch is a word,” Amy told him.

  Michael stared down at the board. The Scrabble piece he was holding felt sticky. “Are you going to challenge it?” he asked.

  Amy watched him closely, as if she was trying to gauge his mood. “Well, it is a triple word score. That’s a lot of points.”

  “So challenge it.” He was hardly able to keep the irritation out of his voice, although he knew it wasn’t Amy he was upset with.

  Amy stared down at her lap. She was sitting cross-legged on one of the couch cushions they had put on the floor. “I guess it could be a real word. I mean, I’m not doubting you or anything.”

  “Jeez, Amy. This is a game. People make up words if they think they can get away with it.” Michael swung his hands out, palms up. “They want to win!” He reached over and snapped up the dictionary from the coffee table. “Doubt me,” he said, handing it to her.

  Amy took the dictionary without looking at him. She seemed to take a long time fumbling through the pages. Then Michael noticed the surprised flutter of her dark lashes, and when she looked up, her delight was so open and childlike that he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understood. He was not to be trusted.

  “It’s a real word,” she said softly. “I should have believed you.”

  Michael’s jaw tightened. He had had no idea that quitch was a real word. He thought he had made it up. He took the dictionary from her. Sure enough, there it was. Quitch was a kind of grasslike weed. He closed the book and let it rest heavily in his lap. Finally he said, “I thought I made it up.”

  “But it’s okay, because you didn’t.”

  “No, it’s not okay. I was trying to cheat.” Michael was growing agitated. He needed to get away from Amy. “Look,” he said, getting to his feet, “I’m pretty tired tonight. We’ll finish this some other time, all right?”

  Amy didn’t say anything. She lifted the Scrabble board from the floor, careful not to jar any of the letters, and gently set it on the coffee table.

  Michael was already walking toward the door. Amy crossed the room and stood in front of him. She rested the palm of her hand against his chest, as if she were trying to feel his heartbeat. “You never try to kiss me,” she whispered, keeping her eyes on her hand.

  Michael’s body tensed, filling with desire. He told himself that he did not want this to happen. He told himself that Amy was just a good friend.

  “That time in your garage,” Amy said. “At your birthday party …” She sucked in her breath, as if that m
ight give her the extra courage to somehow get through this. “Didn’t you like kissing me?”

  “Sure.” Michael covered her hand, the one still touching his chest, with his own. He could feel the chemistry between them. His heart was racing.

  “Then why?”

  He thought of Darcy suddenly. She had been in Ocean City with her parents for two weeks. But she was supposed to have gotten home that day. Michael wasn’t at all sure what Darcy would do if she found out he’d been spending so much time with Amy. Probably break up with him. And really, wasn’t that what he wanted? Wouldn’t it be easier for her if she was the one to break it off? Still …

  “Amy …,” he began, about to remind her of Darcy. But she was looking up at him now. Waiting. Suddenly there didn’t seem to be anything he could say. He leaned forward, pulling her body as close to his as he could, breathing in the scent of her hair, brushing his lips against her ear, her eyelid, her cheek, as if he could never get enough of her. And as his lips came to rest on hers he realized he’d been fooling himself all along. Now, for the first time, he admitted to himself how much he really wanted her.

  “Amy,” he whispered, “I have to go now.” If he stayed another minute, it would be too late. He reached behind her and fumbled with the doorknob.

  Amy had her head tilted to one side, watching him, as if she was trying to understand something. “Then go,” she said simply, stepping aside and helping him to push the door open wider.

  Each casual step down the front walk cost him; the strain of keeping his body loose and unhurried was unbearable. He would have run if Amy hadn’t still been standing at the door.

  How had he let this happen? Darcy was probably back and waiting for his call. He had enough problems to deal with. The last thing he needed was to get tangled up with another girl. And not just any girl, Amy Ruggerio. Yet even as her name entered his thoughts the intense feeling he had experienced at her front door only moments earlier spread through his body like wildfire.

  He took a deep breath. Whatever was going to happen would happen. There was no point in fighting it. He understood that now. Because this was a world where things you never thought could happen to you did. And where you didn’t always get to choose your fate, or the people you loved. Sometimes it just happened.