Night Fever. Diana Palmer
been a good boy, trying to help with the chores and look out for Mack, his younger brother. But in the past few months, he’d begun to change. His grades had dropped. He had become moody and withdrawn. He stayed out late and sometimes couldn’t get up to go to school at all. His eyes were bloodshot and he’d come in once giggling like a little girl over nothing at all—symptoms, Becky was to learn, of cocaine use. She’d never seen Clay actually use drugs, but she was certain that he was smoking pot, because she’d smelled it on his clothes and in his room. He’d denied it and she could never find any evidence. He was too careful.
Lately, he’d begun to resent her interference in his life more and more. She was only his sister, he’d said just two nights ago. She had no real authority over him, and she wasn’t going to tell him what to do anymore. He was tired of living like a poor kid and never having money to spend, like the Harris boys. He was going to make himself a place in the world, and she could go to hell.
Becky hadn’t told Granddad. It was hard enough trying to excuse Clay’s bad behavior and frequent absences. She could only hope that he wasn’t headed toward addiction. There were places that treated that kind of thing, but they were for rich people. The best she could hope for, for her brother, would be some sort of state-supported rehabilitation center, and Granddad wouldn’t agree to that even if Clay would. Granddad wanted nothing that even looked like charity. He was too proud.
So here they were, Becky thought, staring out over the land that had been in her family for over a hundred years, hopelessly in debt, and with Clay headed for trouble. They said that even an alcoholic couldn’t be helped unless he realized he had a problem. Clay didn’t. It was not the best ending to what had started off as a perfectly terrible day anyway.
Chapter Two
Becky changed into jeans and a red pullover sweater and gathered her long hair into a ponytail to cook supper. While she fried chicken to go with the mashed potatoes and home-canned green beans, she baked biscuits in the old oven. Maybe she could straighten Clay out, but she didn’t have a clue as to how. Talking wasn’t going to do the job. She’d tried that herself. Clay either walked away and refused to listen, or flew off the handle and started cursing. And to make matters worse, lately she’d noticed bills missing from the jar containing her egg money. She was almost certain that Clay was taking them, but how could she ask her own brother if he was stealing from her?
In the end, she’d taken the remaining money out of the jar and put it in the bank. She hadn’t left anything around that could be sold or pawned for easy cash. Becky felt like a criminal, which added to her guilt about resenting her responsibility for her family.
There was no one she could talk to about her problems except Maggie, and she hated to bother the older woman with her woes. All her longtime girlfriends were married or out on their own in other cities. It would have helped if she’d only had that. She couldn’t talk to Granddad. His health was precarious enough already, without taking on Clay. So she’d told Granddad that she’d handle it. Maybe she could talk to Mr. Malcolm at work and have him advise her. He was the only person outside her family who might do that.
She put the food on the table and called Mack and her grandfather. He said grace and they ate as they listened to Mack’s complaints about math and teachers and school in general.
“I won’t learn math,” Mack promised her, staring at her with hazel eyes just a shade lighter than her own. His hair was much lighter, almost blond. He was tall for a ten-year-old, and getting taller by the day.
“Yes, you will,” Becky told him. “You’ll have to help keep the books one of these days. I won’t last forever.”
“Here, you stop talking like that,” Granddad said sharply. “You’re too young to talk that way. Although,” he sighed, staring down at his mashed potatoes, “I reckon you feel like running away from time to time. What with all of us to look after...”
“You stop that,” Becky muttered, glaring at him. “I love you or I wouldn’t stay. Eat your mashed potatoes. I made a cherry pie for dessert.”
“Wow! My favorite!” Mack grinned.
“And you can have all you want. After you do your math and I check it,” she added with an equally wide grin.
Mack made a terrible face and propped his chin in his hands. “I shoulda gone with Clay. He said I could.”
“If you ever go with Clay, I’ll take away your basketball and hoop,” she threatened, using the only weapon she had.
He actually paled. Basketball was his life. “Come on, Becky, I was just kidding!”
“I hope so,” she said. “Clay is keeping bad company. I have enough trouble without adding you to it.”
“That’s right,” Granddad seconded.
Mack picked up his fork. “Okay. I’ll keep away from Bill and Dick. Just don’t bother my B-ball.”
“That’s a deal,” Becky promised, and tried not to look too relieved.
She’d done the dishes and cleaned up the living room and washed two loads of clothes while Granddad and Mack watched television. Then she supervised Mack’s homework, got him to bed, settled Granddad, took a bath, and started to go to bed herself. Before she could, however, Clay staggered into the living room, giggling and reeking of beer.
The overpowering maltish smell made her sick. Nothing in her experience had prepared her to deal with this. She stared at him with helpless fury, hating the home life that had led him into such a trap. He was at the age where he needed a man to guide him, a man’s example to follow. He was looking for a measuring stick, and instead of using Granddad, he’d found the Harris brothers.
“Oh, Clay,” she said miserably. He looked so much like her, with his brown hair and slender build, but his eyes were pure green, not hazel like hers and Mack’s, and his face had a ruddy look.
He grinned at her. “I won’t be sick, you know. I smoked a joint before I tanked up on beer.” He blinked. “I’m quitting school, Becky, because it’s for wimps and retards.”
“No, you aren’t,” she said shortly. “I’m not working myself to death to watch you become a professional bum.”
He glared at her dizzily. “You’re just my sister, Becky. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Stand and watch me,” she said. “I don’t want you hanging around with those Harris boys anymore. They’re leading you right into trouble.”
“They’re my friends, and I’ll hang out with them if I want to,” he informed her. He felt wild. He’d smoked some crack, as well, and his head was about to explode. The high had been beautiful, but now that it was wearing off, he felt more depressed than ever. “I hate being poor!” he announced.
Becky glared at him. “Then get a job,” she said coldly. “I did. I got one even before I graduated from high school. I worked at three before I found this one, and took night courses so that I could land it.”
“Here we go again, Saint Becky,” he said, slurring the words. “So you work. Big deal. What do we have to show for it?! We’re dirt poor, and now that Granddad’s ill, it’ll get worse!”
She felt herself getting sick inside. She knew that, but having Clay fling it in her face didn’t help. He was drunk, she tried to tell herself, he didn’t know what he was saying. It hurt all the same.
“You selfish little boy,” she said angrily. “You ungrateful brat! I’m working myself to death, and here you are complaining that we don’t have anything!”
He swayed, sat down heavily, and took a slow breath. She probably was right, but he was too stoned to care. “Leave me alone,” he muttered, stretching out on the couch. “Just leave me alone.”
“What have you had besides beer and marijuana?” she demanded.
“A little