.
In front of my dad, he’s not nearly so defiant. He’s shoved his fists into the pockets of his sweatshirt and he’s not looking at any of us. “What now?” he asks miserably, and I’m already feeling pretty bad about that when I look up at Kit and find her watching him, sympathy and kindness written all over her face. So I did look like a brute then. I resist the urge to kick my toe at the gravel, feeling more like a teenager than River probably does.
“I called the police,” she says, surprising me. But she’s still got eyes on River. “Maybe before they get here you can explain yourself?” She doesn’t say it with any malice or judgment—she says it as if she’s begging him, really, to have some good excuse for destruction of property, to have something to say that would justify us letting him off the hook. I think if Kit looked at me that way, I’d probably confess sins I’d never even committed, just so I’d be doing what she wanted—she’s that persuasive, at least to me. In the warehouse, I’d wanted to bring her every single piece of hardware we had so I could see the look she got on her face when she opened something new.
But River doesn’t say a word, and her face falls a little in disappointment.
“I guess he wanted to smash something up,” I say, and it’s paltry, but the best defense I can muster on the kid’s behalf. It’s ridiculous that I’m even attempting this, but it’s not all that hard for me to feel kinship with an angry adolescent.
Dad scoots his wheelchair forward a little and peers up at River. “What happened to your hair?” He doesn’t ask this so much as exclaim it, his voice a boom in the awkward silence.
River’s eyes snap to mine, in question, like we’re in this together. I shrug. “Better off answering him,” I say.
“I—uh. I dyed it.”
“Speak up!” Dad shouts, and I wince. This is awful.
“I dyed it,” says River.
“On purpose?”
River only raises his chin in defiance. My eyes meet Kit’s over Dad’s head. The corners of her eyes are crinkled in amusement, but her mouth is set tight, fighting off a smile. I resist the urge to smile back. I’ve still got to play guard dog here, at least until the cops arrive.
“On purpose,” River answers.
“Well, it looks ridiculous,” Dad says, shifting in the chair. “And you’re trespassing. And you busted up my truck. What are you going to do about that?”
River shrugs, and my dad rolls his eyes. “Reminds me of you,” he says to me, and Kit really does smile then. Fuck. “You got a job?” Dad asks, the force of his stare so strong that River looks back at him. Dad repeats the question.
“No,” says River. “I’m only fourteen.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I had a job when I was eight.” I have to duck my head to hide my laughter. Dad may have worked around the salvage yard when he was eight, but he says this as if he worked fifteen hours a day in a factory. Any minute he’ll break out the I had to make my own toys! speech he used to give me when I’d tell him what I wanted for Christmas. He did not actually make his own toys, I found out later from my grandpop.
When the police cruiser pulls into the lot, I get a little shiver in my stomach. Jesus, I wish this hadn’t happened. It’s ridiculous, but I still feel sick as hell whenever I see a police car, in any context. River has kept his I-don’t-give-a-shit posture, but his skin is pale beneath his weird swoop of purple-gray hair, and I feel so sorry for him that I head over to the cop first.
Lucky for River, it’s Sergeant McKay, an old buddy of my dad’s who’d been more kind to me than I’d deserved a number of times. He tells me he’s seen the kid around before, but never in this kind of trouble, so he’ll probably have to take him in. When I follow him back over to where River stands, I feel the kid’s dread as if it’s my own. I can still smell that police station, if I really think about it. My heart’s still hammering with adrenaline, maybe a little residual fear, and I can barely focus on the tense, awkward exchange going on between McKay, my father, and River.
Kit saves me by speaking up, asking whether McKay needs her to answer any questions—she tells him she’s really got to be on her way. I see River’s eyes slide to her, a little desperately, like maybe she’s his one source of protection here, but just as quickly he’s looking back down at his boots.
“You go on ahead, ma’am,” McKay says.
Kit nods and turns to my dad. “Mr. Tucker, it was very nice to meet you. You have a lovely—uh—store?”
“Come back any time,” he says, but he’s obviously preoccupied, and I step forward to walk with Kit toward her car, a shitty little silver hatchback. This answers one question relevant to my purposes for Beaumont—Kit’s probably not getting paid what she’s worth.
“So,” she says, but breaks off, her brow furrowing in concern as she looks back at River.
“He’ll be all right,” I say.
“I mean, I know he totally wrecked your dad’s car, but he looks so young.”
“Yeah. McKay is a good guy, though. He’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”
She nods, hitches her bag higher on her shoulder. “Thanks for showing me the hardware.”
“Well, you’re walking out empty-handed. That’s no good. You’ll have to come back.”
The right side of her mouth lifts as she looks at me. Kit’s eyes, when you’re inside with her, look as dark as her hair, nearly black, but out in the hot sunlight, they remind me of the black cherry stain that used to be my favorite to refinish with back when I worked here—under all that darkness, they’re a rich, warm, glowing brown.
“We’ll see,” she says, and I can see her making the effort to pull herself back in, to become the person I met last week—or maybe she’s making the effort to see me as the person I was last week. Her shoulders have stiffened, her chin has raised a fraction. But it’s the effort. It’s the effort that tells me I’ve made progress.
Progress about Beaumont, I have to scold myself, as she drives away.
* * * *
My dad and I argue the entire way home, even as I’m helping him maneuver his goddamn gigantic rented wheelchair through the back door. “This house,” I say, my teeth gritted, “isn’t suited for this thing.” I’ve got to push him over the threshold so slowly to avoid scraping up against the woodwork, and this kind of care is so physically antithetical to the frustration I’m feeling right now that my knuckles have turned white around the handles.
The day went downhill after Kit had left, things with River taking an unexpected turn that started this whole argument with Dad. And there’d been the frustrations of keeping up, of reminding myself of some of the more obscure tasks that needed done around the yard—I’d forgotten that you had to rotate which vents you opened on the second floor throughout the day. I’d forgotten that Thursdays were the days Dad did some online bidding through a private auction site, and he’d had trouble doing it himself one-handed. I couldn’t tell how much of my anger at Dad was about what he’d done, or about how overwhelmed I’d felt at everything I’d had to do.
How did Dad handle this on his own, even when he was well?
Sharon’s in the kitchen again setting plates out on the table. She looks up at me, and then down at Dad, and says, “I’m guessing today didn’t go so well. You went back too early, Henry.”
“Don’t tell me what’s what, Sharon. I’ve heard it for the last fifteen minutes from this one here,” he says, thumbing back at me.
“Oh, yeah?” I say, finally clearing the door enough to shut it behind me. “Why don’t you tell Sharon here about the new project you’ve taken on? Or, wait, that we’ve taken on, since I’m sure I’ll