Boy on Hold Page 4

  Tyler’s silhouette was backlit when he opened the door. Hen saw the full police uniform, from his shiny shoes to his dark sunglasses to the emblem on his cap.

  “Tyler Trout?” After taking off his sunglasses, the policeman panned the room. His smile didn’t seem happy, but smug. “Ah, Derek Hogg? Excellent. Two for one. Come with me, boys. We’d like to take you to the station for questioning.”

  Bernie hopped off the stool and brushed past Hen. “Hold up, officer. What’s this all about?”

  Hen scurried under the kitchen table to hide, moth wings in his chest.

  The policeman’s voice sounded harsh inside their house. “Bernie Hubbard? You’re here too? Sorry, uh. I’m meant to take these boys in for questioning about the events that transpired last night.”

  “That was my ma’s house,” Bernie said.

  “I know that, sir.”

  “You don’t think these boys had anything to do with it, do you?”

  “Mr. Hubbard, our job is to cross the Ts and dot the Is. They might have information that could help us. That’s all.”

  “Tyler’s mother will be worried. She’s not back from work yet.”

  “No need to worry. Not yet.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not authorized to discuss details. But this is standard procedure…”

  They rambled on like voices from the radio, using big words Hen didn’t understand. Hen let the words float away, and stared at the floor. Hen caught some crumbs with the pad of his finger. He flicked them across the floor like sleet pebbles.

  In the front room, the radio voices shut off. Front door swished closed.

  Bernie came back to the kitchen. “Well, your ma isn’t gonna like that.”

  Hen’s insides spun like he was on a carnival ride. Everything was mixed up. Tyler had gone with that policeman. When would he be back? In time to take Hen trick-or-treating later? Maybe Bernie would take him. Hen felt tears coming. The thought of candy made his belly sick. He didn’t feel like dressing up in a silly costume, anyway.

  Bernie finished fixing the window, sighing through his nose. Hen didn’t move. He stayed under the table collecting crumbs, hoping Tyler’s B mood didn’t follow him to the station.

  Trick-or-treaters long gone, Marcella finally found time to sit and process what Bernie had told her: Tyler was taken to the police station for questioning. That simple sentence boggled her mind. Did they really think he had something to do with what happened to Sally?

  A dark mass of fear clogged her chest like a cement block. She bit a fingernail, trying to think around a growing headache. Sure, Tyler and Sally had their issues. But Derek was at the heart of it. More than once, Sally had warned her: “That Derek Hogg is bad news. Tyler will only find trouble with him, mark my words.”

  Marcella had to agree. The spawn of Leon Hogg never had a chance of being good news. But, geez, Tyler and Derek had been best friends since birth. He lived right next door. Was Marcella supposed to forbid the friendship? For what reason? Puberty? Bah, it wouldn’t take anyway. Tyler marched to his own drum. That drum—offbeat as it was—had nothing against Sally. Did it?

  She swallowed hard, mentally pushing down that cement block. Hen might know.

  Just last week, while bringing laundry up from the basement, she’d overheard a conversation between them. “What do you do over there at Old Mother Hubbard’s?” Tyler had asked, like he couldn’t believe Sally was actually a good person. “Is she nice to you? She doesn’t yell at you in that witch voice like she does to me and Derek, does she?”

  “Be quiet, you hooligans!” Hen had cackled, mocking Sally.

  Too shocked to intervene, Marcella had simply passed through with her overflowing basket. She’d stayed in her bedroom, folding towels and blue jeans, fuming silently. Now, she thought, she should’ve defended Sally, who was not only a neighbor and friend, she was Marcella’s savior. They should all kiss her polka-dot socks. Bills were paid and food was on the table thanks to her babysitting Hen.

  Tyler hardly appreciated his own mother. How could she expect him to acknowledge what Sally had done for them? Still, the idea that Tyler broke into Sally’s house was ridiculous. Assault? Absurd! Attempted robbery? For what? Tyler had been working at Leon’s Diner since last spring. He brought in money on his own merit. He didn’t need to rob anyone, no less Sally.

  The whole thing was just preposterous.

  Yet, instead of taking Hen trick-or-treating, Tyler spent the evening at the police station. And he was still there. Being questioned. How did that happen? What if he needed legal counsel? She couldn’t afford a lawyer. Bail? Oh, please. No. That darkness in her chest seemed to spread to her whole body.

  She stared at her blank waitressing pad on the table, willing a plan to magically appear. To-dos she could check off. Steps she could take to save her firstborn.

  “Tyler Trout,” she said aloud, tripping over her tears. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She tapped her pen onto the paper. The same pen she used to take pancake and onion ring orders five days a week, ten hours a day, so that she could feed her own children and buy them clothes. And shoes. The same pen she used to take notes as she read her ridiculous Marketing 101 textbook with the lightning bolt on the cover. She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or hit something. She should’ve known, really. She should’ve known better than to try. Girls like her didn’t get second chances at life. A dozen good decisions would never undo the big bad ones she made early on.

  Why on earth would she study marketing, anyway? What good would marketing do? How would marketing help Tyler?

  She gripped the pen with both hands, feeling like she might explode. How satisfying would it be to break it open, letting ink fly all over her sturdy, clean table? How right that would feel—

  Rap-rap-rap.

  Who could that be? Too late for trick-or-treaters and Bernie was at the hospital.

  Marcella rewrapped her cardigan and squinted through the window at the familiar, oversized man.

  Ugh. The darkness turned to nausea.

  She opened the door but left the chain on. “What do you want, Leon?”

  “Be a doll an’ let your neighbor in.”

  “It’s late. Go home.”

  “Aw, come on, Marce. Serious now. We should talk. Our boys are—”

  “No,” Marcella shout-whispered at him. “Not our boys. Never our boys.”

  “You know what I mean. Derek and Ty are in trouble. We gotta work together on this.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Geez, come on. Lemme in? It’s raining.”

  She undid the chain with a sigh. Leon stepped inside, still wearing his greasy apron. He helped himself to her fridge, grabbing two Miller Lites. He slid one to her, grinning like a rabid dog. “Wish you’d come back to work for me, doll.”

  “Ha.” Never in a million years. Even though she had to drive thirty minutes to Ticonderoga for work now, she’d never go back to Leon’s. He made her stepfather look like a hero. Leon would never again smack her ass as she carried a pot of hot coffee to the front tables. He’d never lick his lips and call her darlin’ in that syrupy, lewd voice in front of customers—folks from church, her son’s teachers. He’d never again follow her out to the dumpster and insist on a kiss, petting her breast for a sickening moment. “Never.” The word hardly conveyed her bitterness.

  “What? I didn’t treat you well?” He rubbed his distended, horse-like stomach. “You didn’t make a fortune in tips?”

  “Oh, please. You had me dress like a slut.” She glared at him. “Treated me like one, too.”

  “Marce, Marce, Marce. You tortured me. You don’t know what you do to a man!” His outstretched arms revealed fresh sweat rings. A rancid odor wafted across the room.

  Marcella shifted in her seat, thankful for her thick cardigan. She tried to shake it off. “Are you here to talk about Derek and Ty or not? How we can help them? Something we can do?”

  Leon’s gri
n dropped. “Yah. ‘Course. Damn kids. Yanno, I can’t say I didn’t think I was the cat’s meow when I was his age, but damn Derek Hogg thinks the world begins and ends with Derek Hogg.”

  Marcella hid her surprise behind her beer bottle. Leon had always coddled his son unjustly—massaging excuses in his signature, aggressive charm to teachers since the boys were in kindergarten. Tyler was always left to suffer through detention alone.

  “I tell ya, Derek didn’t do that to Sal. No way. Even if she was an old bag that didn’t do nothin’ but yell at ‘im and threaten to call the cops on ‘im and think she was all in charge of the whole damn town.”

  Marcella straightened. “Wait. You’re talking about Sally Hubbard, right?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yah. Old Mother Freaking Hubbard.”

  “Miss Sally is probably the kindest person I’ve ever met. She’s taken care of Hen since he was born. If it wasn’t for her—” Her throat caught. A wave of panic gave her a hot flash. Oh, no. What if Sally didn’t get better?

  Earlier today, she got a shock: Bernie told her Sally was in a coma. A coma.

  Marcella shot up from the table. The linoleum tiles rotated beneath her feet. For no good reason, she flung open the junk drawer and rifled through it. Bits of crayon, expired coupons, and unopened mail swirled through a sheen of tears. Tyler’s report card from last quarter. Or was it last year? Didn’t matter. Cs and Ds. Always Cs and Ds. At least he was passing. Right?

  She shut the drawer, hopelessness pressing on her. “Don’t speak of her that way.”

  Leon’s voice got soft. “Hey, I’m not sayin’ it doesn’t suck. No matter who it is. I’m just sayin’. Derek wouldn’t beat up an old lady. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  She leaned over the sink, woozy. “I know Derek didn’t do it,” she said, surprising herself. “Neither did Tyler.”

  “They ain’t gonna take our word for it, are they?” Leon sounded scared. That was a first.

  Marcella caught her reflection in the window. Tried to find Tyler’s image through the glare, like she’d done just this morning outside Derek’s car. That maternal instinct hit her like a shockwave. Where was her boy? Behind those moody, ice-blue eyes still remained that scared little boy. He was in there somewhere. She had to believe it. And he still needed her. Maybe now more than ever.

  She spun to face Leon, folding her arms. “Why not? Why wouldn’t they take our word for it?”

  He gazed at her, his jaw slack and eyes half lit.

  “Leon, you practically run this town. Every official goes to your place. You schmooze with all of them. You have them eating out of your hands. Why wouldn’t they listen to you?”

  She’d said the right thing. His thick face opened in a slow smile. His eyes gleamed. He puffed his chest. Drained his beer.

  He nodded. A single, brisk nod. “You’re right.”

  As wild as his mind could be, Ty couldn’t imagine a situation that would land him in the police station—even for questioning. He knew he and Derek were in trouble, but he had a hard time pinpointing what he’d done wrong. Impossible images were stuff of nightmares. Had they gotten into his head?

  That tingle of shame he’d felt earlier had to do with Hen’s bracelet, didn’t it? And he’d made amends today, with the bike ride. They had fun. Until the leaf thing. Damn. Ty didn’t want to think about that.

  He reached inside his kangaroo pocket where he’d tucked the book Mrs. Finley loaned him. He fanned the pages with his thumb incessantly, like a toddler with his blankie. He let Derek do all the talking.

  “We went to Leon’s for some food, and then went to the bonfire.”

  Ty’s mind reeled. It kind of came back to him now. They had gone to the bonfire that night. Earlier. Ty had hoped Roxanne Russo would be there, wearing that high-necked sweater. She’d pass a joint with her glazed cranberry nails, smiling at him in that quick, secret way she always did. Like a wink. An invitation.

  It wasn’t an invitation, though. Not for him, anyway. And they hadn’t seen Roxanne Russo at the bonfire. The night had gone a completely different way.

  At the station, Derek said nothing of going to Miss Sally’s—which they’d done. Or did they?

  That’s when it got murky.

  Ty couldn’t focus. That red eye on the security camera kept blinking at him, like it was sending a message. And the PA system in the station must’ve been on the fritz. It kept ringing static really loud all during the interrogation. Remnants of that whistling, screeching sound somehow formed into his name. He swore he heard it. “Tyler Trout” rang through the static, like someone was trying to reach him and had a bad connection.

  After the twenty-question game with Officer Clapp, they got a stern warning that sounded more like a threat. It made Ty feel watery inside. Relief wasn’t an adequate word for how he felt getting out of the station. He lit a cigarette as soon as his feet hit the pavement. The sky overhead was a foreboding opaque. Chalkboard black, a late-night, endless kind of dark. He had no watch. Morning was forever away.

  Yet something heavy pulled him from that freedom. That familiar heat behind his eyes spread through his limbs. Derek standing next to him felt like a low rumble, a danger signal.

  Fight or flight. He had to make a run for it.

  “Where ya goin?” Derek called after him.

  To Severance Beach. Ty just decided.

  “C’mon. Let’s get the hell outta dodge.”

  Ty winced. It was like Derek used one of those voice changers. He sounded like the officer. Like they had coached him there in the station. Ty picked up his pace.

  “Where the hell you goin’?”

  Distance grew between them. Not enough. Ty wasn’t sure how much would be enough. He only wanted the lake. Not Schroon, the big one. But Paradox, the calm one. Home. He needed to be near it. Breathe the air that came off it. Imagine himself as part of the Adirondacks that nestled it. Feel the water.

  “Hey! What’s your problem?” Derek’s voice-changer voice was far away.

  Ty threw on his hood, cinching it best he could. His eyes burned from the smoke. Derek kept on his heels, asking over and over in that voice-changer voice: What are ya doin? Where ya goin? What’re ya thinkin?

  He ran faster. Not fast enough. He tumbled to the ground. Smoke mixed with the kicked up dust and sand. Tiny stones poked through the knees of his jeans, jabbed the palms of his hands. He was down. Derek’s footfalls clacked behind him like horses’ hooves.

  Gritting his teeth, he clenched his eyes shut.

  “Screw off, Derek!” Ty shouted at the pavement in front of his face.

  Then it all went silent. Slowly, sounds of Derek backing off came to, as he murmured a curse under his breath. Ty waited, squeezing everything shut. Shutting everything away. Until he knew Derek was gone.

  Finally.

  Behind him, Derek’s truck revved and peeled away.

  “Screw off.” His voice filled the lonely street. He blinked. Snorted a laugh. It was over. His cigarette had fallen onto the pavement, still lit. His eyes cleared. The night was his.

  Screw off, Derek. He chanted it over and over under his breath as he turned onto Alder Meadow Road. His Chucks crunched the sand and pebbles on the pavement. He jonesed hard for pot. Or the other thing. He searched his pockets, knowing they were empty but digging anyway.

  As he walked, his anger toward Derek faded to a dull bitterness. Why did he get so mad? He was numb all over. Cold, too. He picked up his pace. One step after another. His knees ached from the running and the stones. Still, he kept going. He thought about hitchhiking. His mother would have his head. Tonight, he had nothing to lose.

  Cars were sparse at this hour. Especially on the back roads. When headlights cast his long shadow up ahead, he stuck out his thumb. Didn’t bother to take off his hood, though, which didn’t help. There was a reason Miss Sally called him a hoodlum. Couldn’t think about that. Or her or Hen or Marcella, either. Or Derek, for that matter.

  The car didn’t
stop anyway. He flipped them off as they passed. Whatever. He was almost to the lake anyway. He tossed his butt aside and that’s when he saw it. Something by the road. What was it?

  He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes. Yes, it was definitely there. He wasn’t seeing things. A figure huddled by the side of the road. Dark clothing. Or wrapped in a blanket. Was it a shadow? No, definitely not a shadow. A person. A girl curled in a ball. Rocking. Distressed. What was she doing out here all alone at this hour? He could hear her crying. She was about fifty yards from him. Oh, no. He ran to her, panicked.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Dizzy, he nearly tripped into her.

  “Sorry. Hey, can you hear me?”

  He took back his outstretched arm when she recoiled.

  “Are you hurt? Do you need help? I can help you.”

  The hell he could. What could he possibly do? He had no car. He had no CPR training. He was as useless as a rat.

  “Shit,” he muttered, turning toward the road again. Now, the real panic set in.

  But then another car came toward him. A miracle! Headlights poured over him. Heavenly lights. Ty waved his arms. Did jumping jacks. “Hey, stop! Help!” He shouted, feeling a sudden, inexplicable joy.

  The car zoomed by—so close to the shoulder Ty nearly got sideswiped.

  “What the heck?”

  Quiet settled around him.

  Too quiet.

  Ty spun around, searching. What? It couldn’t be.

  She was gone. No crying girl in need of help. Not a trace of her.

  He was alone.

  “No, no, no.” That whirring started in his chest again, like a spinning top. His breath caught. Tears pricked. He pulled at his hair.

  His heart raced well before he started running. He ran anyway. He ran and ran and ran and ran until his legs shredded from fatigue.

  He made it to Paradox Lake before dawn. Had he really been out all night? He had to calm down. Give himself some quiet time, as Hen called it. He went to the beach—no permit needed at this hour—and fell into the sand.