it bother me because jealousy is a mean, unpleasant feeling that only eats you
from the inside, and I do not need to stand here, an almost-eighteen-year-old
with a really sexy girlfriend, even if she’s not allowed to see me anymore, and
worry about the fact that my stepbrother seems to own thousands of Legos.
“It’s okay.” He is sorting through a chest that contains—believe it or not—
more toys, when I see them: two old-fashioned wooden stick horses, one
black, one gray, that sit forgotten in a corner. These are my stick horses, the
same ones I used to ride for hours when I was younger than Josh Raymond,
pretending I was Clint Eastwood from one of the old movies my dad used to
watch
on our small, non-flat-screen TV. The one, incidentally, we still have
and use.
“Those are pretty cool horses,” I say. Their names are Midnight and Scout.
He swivels his head around, blinks twice, and says, “They’re okay.”
“What are their names?”
“They don’t have names.”
I suddenly want to take the stick horses and march into the living room and
whack my father over the head with them. Then I want to take them home
with me. I’ll pay attention to them every day. I’ll ride them all over town.
“Where’d you get them?” I ask.
“My dad got them for me.”
I want to say,
Not your dad
. My
dad. Let’s just get this straight right now.
You already have a dad somewhere else, and even though mine isn’t all that
great, he’s the only one I’ve got
.
But
then I look at this kid, at the thin face and the thin neck and the
scrawny shoulders, and he’s seven and small for his age, and I remember what
that was like. And I also remember what it was like growing up with my
father.
I say, “You know, I had a couple of horses once, not as cool as these here,
but they were still pretty tough. I named them Midnight and Scout.”
“Midnight and Scout?” He eyes the horses. “Those are good names.”
“If you want, you can have them.”
“Really?” He is looking up at me with owl eyes.
“Sure.”
Josh Raymond finds the toy he’s looking for—some sort of robocar—and
as we walk out the door, he takes my hand.
Back in the living room, my father
smiles his camera-ready
SportsCenter
smile and nods at me like we’re buddies. “You should bring your girlfriend
over here.” He says this like nothing ever happened and he and I are the best
of friends.
“That’s okay. She’s busy on Sundays.”
I can imagine the conversation between my father and Mr. Markey.
Your delinquent son has my daughter. At this moment, she is probably lying
164
in a ditch thanks to him
.
What did you think would happen? Damn right he’s a delinquent, and a
criminal, and an emotional wreck, and a major-disappointment-weirdo-
fuckup. Be grateful for your daughter, sir, because trust me, you would not
want my son. No one does
.
I can see Dad searching for something to say. “Well, any day is fine, isn’t it,
Rosemarie? You just bring her by whenever you can.” He’s in one of his very
best moods, and Rosemarie nods and beams. He
slaps his hand against the
chair arm. “Bring her over here, and we’ll put some steaks on the grill and
something with beans and twigs on it for you.”
I am attempting not to explode all over the room. I am trying to keep
myself very small and very contained. I am counting as fast as I can.
Thankfully, the game comes back on and he’s distracted. I sit another few
minutes and then
I thank Rosemarie for the meal, ask Kate if she can take
Decca back to Mom’s, and tell everyone else I’ll see them at home.
I walk across town to my house, climb inside Little Bastard, and drive. No
map, no purpose. I drive for what feels like hours, passing fields of white. I
head north and then west and then south and then east, the car pushing ninety.
By sunset, I’m
on my way back to Bartlett, cutting through the heart of
Indianapolis, smoking my fourth American Spirit cigarette in a row. I drive
too fast, but it doesn’t feel fast enough. I suddenly hate Little Bastard for
slowing me down when I need to go, go, go.
The
nicotine scrapes at my throat, which is already raw, and I feel like
throwing up, so I pull over onto the shoulder and walk around. I bend over,
hands on my knees. I wait. When I don’t get sick, I look at the road stretched
out ahead and start to run. I run like hell, leaving Little Bastard behind. I run
so hard and fast, I feel like my lungs will explode, and then I go harder and
faster. I’m daring my lungs and my legs to give out on me. I can’t remember
if I locked the car, and God I hate my mind when it does that because now I
can only think about
the car door and that lock, and so I run harder. I don’t
remember where my jacket is or if I even had one.
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