In an Instant(71)

Take the job, I cheer, encouraging her. Chloe is bored, intermittently depressed, and constantly lonely, and those damn pills are still in the lining of her suitcase.

“How much does it pay?” she says.

“It’s volunteer.”

“Nothing?”

“A little thought and a little kindness are often worth more than a great deal of money.”

“You’re quoting John Ruskin to get me to work for slave wages?” Chloe says.

“You’re right—that was horrible. You’re obviously far too smart to work here,” he says, his eyes widening with respect that Chloe recognized the quote and its author.

I have no idea who John Ruskin is, but it doesn’t surprise me that Chloe does. My sister is freakishly smart, and her memory one that snatches bits and pieces of information and doesn’t let go. School has never held much interest for her, but she knows more than just about anyone.

Brutus is not happy. He screams at the top of his wee kitten lungs. Chloe pulls him from the box and strokes him, causing Lindsay to get upset at being left alone. Chloe picks her up as well, holding her in her other hand. Using her chin, she pets each of them in turn.

“Well, I guess we’re done here,” the boy says. He sets Britney back in the box, and she starts to cry. Chloe’s hands are full. The boy turns and starts for the door. “Go ahead and leave them, and I’ll get to them when I’m done cleaning the cages.”

“They’re hungry,” Chloe protests.

“Yep,” he says. “Formula’s in the fridge.” He nods toward the minifridge in the corner. “Microwave’s beside it.” Then, without a glance back, he continues on. Only I see his lips curl into a grin of triumph when he hears the door to the fridge open and Chloe’s muttered swears.





83

It’s Easter, and Vance and my dad are faced off in the kitchen, both of them looking so slovenly I realize why God created women. A man without a woman is a disoriented and pathetic creature. Bags and boxes of half-eaten food along with dishes and silverware and clothes are piled everywhere, as though cabinets and drawers have no purpose. Both have been living in the same three sets of clothes for over a month, and the one trip they made to the Laundromat resulted in everything that was white turning dishwater gray.

“I’m going, and you should go too,” Vance says, with attitude that reminds me of the old, cocky him. “I need to see Chloe. You want to stay here and feel sorry for yourself, that’s your business. Give me the keys.”

“Go to hell.”

“I’m sure that’s where I’m headed, but I’m not there yet. Now give me the keys, before I come over there and take them.”

“You think you can take me,” my dad guffaws. “Even with one leg, I can kick your skinny butt from here to next Sunday.”

“Is that a challenge, old man?”

“That’s a fact. Come on. Give it a try. I’ve got a little pent-up energy I wouldn’t mind working out on your sorry, ungrateful ass.”

“Ungrateful? What the hell do I have to be grateful to you for?”

“Stop your yapping and put up or shut up.” My dad pulls the keys from his pocket and dangles them in front of him.

“How about we make it interesting,” Vance says. “If I get the keys from you, you have to come with me.”

“And when you don’t get them?”

“If I don’t get them, I stay,” Vance says, his voice getting caught with the thought of not seeing Chloe.

“That’s stupid. If you don’t get the keys, you’re staying anyway.”

“No. I could hitchhike back,” he says. “But, the deal is, if you win, I’ll stay until I finish the search for Oz.”

My dad considers this. “Fine, you’re on.”

Shoving the keys in his pocket, he drops one of his crutches and awkwardly assumes a fighting stance, though his leg brace and crutch make it look more like a rehabilitation exercise.

Vance huffs through his nose and circles, trying to figure out the best angle of attack. He’s definitely not a fighter. His hands are balled, but the thumbs are sticking up, and I feel bad that he never had a dad around to teach him how to make a proper fist.

His attack shocks me and surprises my dad. Arms out like he’s lunging for a tennis ball, he dives and rolls, smashing into my dad’s good leg and sending him crashing to the floor.

My dad spins onto his back like a turtle, his damaged leg held up and his crutch whipping around wildly. He looks utterly ridiculous. They both do.

Vance scrambles away from the slashing weapon, then grabs hold of it and wrenches it from my dad’s grip. My dad, still on his back, holds his fists in front of him. Vance pops to his feet and circles again. My dad follows, spinning himself on his back with his good leg.

When Vance leaps, my dad lands a solid wallop to his jaw, and Vance’s head snaps back, and before Vance can regain his senses, my dad has him in a choke hold.

As my dad strangles him, Vance wriggles his fingers into my dad’s pocket, trying to get the keys. His face is red and his eyes bulge, but he continues to dig, and just as his air is about to run out, that’s when I see it: the slight relenting in my dad’s face along with the slightest shift of his hips to make it easier for Vance to pull the keys free.