The Night Shift(6)

“Where you been?” Chris asks his older brother. It’s nearly ten o’clock. Vince has just rushed in and is clanking pans around the kitchen. A block of ground chuck sizzles in the skillet.

Vince turns and cocks an eyebrow.

Chris’s eyes flash. “A girl?” At twelve years old, Chris is both fascinated and perplexed by the opposite sex.

Vince dumps the powder and noodles into the pan.

“Not just any girl.”

“Is she hot?”

Vince whirls around and gives him a hard glare. “What’d I tell you about respect? You wanna be like him or like us?” He says this a lot to Chris. A reminder that neither wants to turn out like their dad. The man who punches first, asks questions later, and who’d driven their mother to flee.

Chris frowns. He doesn’t like to disappoint Vince, who’s filled with teenage wisdom, never mind that he sells dope on the side.

Vince says, “She’s— I can’t explain it. But you know how we talk about getting out of this shithole life?”

Chris nods. Nirvana, Vince calls it. Like the band. That’s why Vince puts so much pressure on Chris to get good grades.

“By the way, you get the grade on that book report yet?” Vince says, eyes narrowed.

“Not yet, I will after the break,” Chris says.

“Anyway, the new life you’re gonna get with that brain of yours? She smells like that.”

“Smells?” Chris says, bunching his face.

“It’s just a—”

The front door flies open and Vince scurries to put the gray slop on the plate. The smell of booze wafts from the doorway and Dad’s face turns dark when he sees that dinner isn’t on the table. Their father works at a self-storage company near the Linden sewage plant. His shift is from eight to eight, then he drinks at the bar until he gets hungry, and expects his meal hot and waiting for him or someone’s getting the belt. New Year’s Eve is no exception.

Their dad takes his seat, the chair scraping loudly on the cracked linoleum. Vince puts the plate in front of him. His brother goes to the sink to fill up a glass with tap water when Dad lobs the full plate at the back of Vince’s head. After hitting its target, the plate smashes to the floor, ground beef and oozy gravy spattering all over his big brother and the kitchen.

Vince turns, his eyes wild, but he isn’t seriously hurt. “Why’d you—”

But their father is already on his feet. He rams his fist into Vince’s gut.

“Too much damn salt!”

Chris starts to rise from his chair to defend his brother, or at least make sure he’s okay. But even doubled over, Vince glances up at Chris and gives a small shake of the head. Don’t.

Their father staggers to his bedroom.

Chris runs over to his big brother. “You all right?”

Vince stands upright, touches the back of his head, then studies the mix of red and brown on his fingers. He gives Chris a wistful smile. “I thought the salt would hide the taste of the spit.”

Chris smiles back at him.

Looking Chris in the eyes, Vince says, “Promise me you’ll keep those grades up and you’ll leave here and never look back. If you let it, the stink of him will cling to you forever. Promise me you won’t let it.”

“Nirvana,” Chris says, “I promise.”

Later that night, Chris wakes to the sound of cracking wood. He hears shouting and heavy footsteps, lots of them. Chris thinks someone is breaking into their house.

He runs out of his bedroom to Vince’s room, but his brother isn’t there.

Dad’s voice booms from the living room. “I knew you was no good! I swear, I regret the day you was born!”

Chris musters the courage and heads to the living room. It’s filled with men in uniforms. Two of them are standing in front of his father, who’s on the sofa, still ranting. Vince is facedown on the floor, a cop’s knee drilling into his back, roughly putting on handcuffs.

Vince is hoisted to his feet, one eye nearly swollen shut, his mouth bleeding.

Chris is scared, confused. All this for selling pot?

The cops drag Vince out, leaving behind a broken doorframe and their father, who’s angry about the damage and will take that out on Chris.

The sound of Chris’s phone mercifully pulls him to the present.

It’s Ms. May. His adoptive mother, who he still doesn’t call Mom, but she doesn’t mind. He contemplates swiping her to voice mail, but she rarely calls while he’s at work. It might be about Clint, his adoptive father, who’s been having health problems.

“Christopher, how are you doing, dear?”

“I’m great, Ms. May. I’m actually at the jail for work. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine here. I was baking an apple pie and I know how much you love them and just wanted to check in on my favorite person.”

Chris puts two and two together and realizes why she’s calling. It isn’t because of a pie.

“I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news,” she continues, confirming his suspicions, “but there’s been an—”

“At the ice cream store,” he interrupts, “yes, I saw that. Just awful.”

“Oh, you saw it. I thought you might, and I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. I thought it might bring back some unpleasant—”