Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(51)

“I feel awful.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It’s been a really bad day.”

“The worst.”

Lucy said, “Crap.”

I hugged her tight and stepped away.

“So how’s Ben?”

“Quiet.”

She turned back to the chopping board and continued chopping.

“Cooking helps.”

“Always. Mind your fingers.”

I left her to it, changed into gym shorts and a T-shirt, and lugged some workout gear onto the deck. I was setting it up when Ben got home. He saw me from the living room and came outside. His T-shirt was wet and sweat trickled from his hair. Lucy was still in the kitchen, frying her anxiety in bacon grease.

I said, “Good run?”

“Really good. Ran to Coldwater. Gonna work out?”

“That’s the plan. Want to join me?”

“Sure.”

Ben had enrolled at a karate dojo in Baton Rouge and had gotten pretty good. Lucy believed Ben’s interest in martial arts stemmed from me. I liked knowing it had. He watched me rope my old heavy bag to the rail. The bag was a beast. Sixty inches tall, its leather was cracked and patched with duct tape, and it weighed a solid one hundred ten pounds. Heavy bags were usually hung so they moved when they were hit, but I didn’t want it to move. I roped the old bag tight to create an immovable object.

I set up facing the bag and waved Ben away with a finger flick.

“Stand back. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Ben said, “Ha ha.”

I attacked the old bag with aggression and purpose. Right front kick, right roundhouse kick, left front kick, left roundhouse kick, right reverse spin kick, left reverse spin kick. The wraparound gardener, the ponytail gardener, the meatball, Leifertz and Osch. The strikes hit fast and sounded like muffled explosions.

I looked at Ben and wiggled my eyebrows.

“Wanna see it again?”

“Bring it!”

I did it again. Faster. This was male bonding at its finest.

I stepped aside so he could square up.

“Don’t try the combos yet. We’ll work into it. Give me a right front rolling to the right roundhouse, okay?”

He did it. He was awkward rolling into the roundhouse, but he had good power.

I said, “Now from the left.”

He kicked from the left. I gave him a small adjustment as he rolled, and this time he was smoother.

I said, “I heard you and your mom had a moment.”

His expression immediately closed.

“I guess.”

He kicked from the left again but kicked too quickly. He immediately kicked from the right, but didn’t square up.

My voice was even and quiet.

“Breathe. Always breathe. Stay within yourself.”

He kicked. He kicked again. They were sloppy. He kicked hard, but they landed weak. He kicked twice more before he spoke.

“She’s driving me crazy.”

“She’s worried. Not saying it shouldn’t bother you. Just saying.”

“She told you about the letters.”

“Uh-huh. You mind?”

He kicked.

“You should hear them, Mom and Berteau. They act like there’s something wrong with me and if I don’t feel what they think I should feel I’m gonna go psycho.”

“About your father?”

“All of it. Him, the box, those guys, what happened. I don’t want to talk about it all the time. Mom wants to talk about it. All. The. Time. Maybe Mom should be in therapy instead of me.”

“You think they’re projecting?”

He kicked hard again. He launched a beast of a spin kick and barely brushed the bag with his toe.

“I’m sick of it.”

“Don’t blame you. I’m sick just hearing about it.”

Ben stared and suddenly laughed.

I said, “Buddy, feel what’s true to you. If you want to talk about this stuff, or anything, twenty-four-seven, I’m yours. If not, then not, but I’m here.”

I wondered if Corbin Schumacher had ever said such a thing to Joshua. He probably hadn’t.

Ben rested a hand on the bag. The air was cooling. Being out on the deck felt good. He picked at a patch.

“They expect me to care. I don’t.”

“Their expectations are another box.”

“Yeah.”

“You went through some pretty heinous stuff.”

“Not that. The letters. Him.”

Richard.

Ben stopped worrying the tape and tapped the bag with a soft rhythmic tap-tap-tap as light as water dripping from a faucet.

“I hardly ever think about him. I don’t love him or hate him or miss him. I don’t feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for Mom. He’d get in her face, all red and shouting, and scare her so bad. Mom’s tough, but he was awful.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I nodded and felt I should’ve been able to offer more. Ben was small back then, a little boy.

He said, “Like now, when I remember him, you know what I feel?”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing. He’s something that happened a long time ago and he’s gone.”

I touched his head.