Bloodline(59)

The leopard, not the springbok.

When Sunday rolls around and Deck asks if I still want to attend church, I behave as if he’s offered me the moon. I even make chocolate-marshmallow bars for the fellowship meal after the service.

The Catholic sermon is rule bound and oddly violent with threats of harsh punishments and notions of an unforgiving God. I act as if Jesus is speaking directly to me the entire time. I let the engagement ring glitter on my finger and catch the light to distract myself.

It’s beautiful.

I will keep it, once I escape. I want Deck to go with me, but if he takes much longer, I will leave without him. Protecting my baby is all that matters.

We’re seated in the front pews with the other Mill Street families. All of them Fathers and Mothers. The Schramels and the Bauers, the Lilys and the Schmidts. Do the women look happy?

I study them as they watch the priest.

They appear purposeful. Like they have a place in this world. It’s different from how the people in the rear of the church look. It’s not just because those people have darker skin, are migrant workers judging by their dress and rough hands. It’s that the people in the back seem like they cannot quite relax. Not like the Mill Street families can.

When I twist my head, I spot Angel Gomez, the beautiful child I first noticed at the school musical, with his family. He’s still impossibly lovely, with his dark curls and deep-brown eyes. His mother and sister are doting on him, bribing him with a cherry-colored lollipop to keep him quiet.

I catch the mother’s eye and smile. She smiles back.

My sight is pulled to the right by the vision of Clan Brody arriving late to church, Catherine at his side. It takes all my will to not gasp out loud. His face is covered in green and yellow bruises, his eyes swollen nearly shut. Deck must feel me go rigid.

He glances in the direction I’m staring, then leans over to whisper in my ear. “Heard he was so drunk when he left our place the other night that he fell down his own stairs.”

Deck laughs.

I stroke my neck, wondering what Clan has done to displease the others. The net is closing in.





CHAPTER 43

Deck wants to meet with the Fathers after the fellowship gathering.

“Are you going to tell them about our move?” I don’t want to bother him, am afraid it will cost me, but I can’t stop the question from spilling out. I need to know what he’s planning, at least as much as he’ll tell me.

He kisses my forehead. “Everything I do from this day forward is about making the move smooth.”

I lean into him. “Do you need me to stay?”

“It’s probably better if you don’t.”

I pull back, studying him. “Why not?”

“You look tired,” he says, brushing my cheek. “That’s all.”

That’s how I find myself walking home alone and noticing for the first time that I’m moving like a woman who’s expecting. I am five and a half months pregnant.

There is no longer any outfit that can hide my condition.

I’m tempted to jog. To see if it’s still possible. To see how fast I can move.

A car pulls up, driving slow enough to roll alongside me. I look over. Kris is behind the wheel of the blue Chevy Impala with Florida plates, the same one I spotted outside unit 6 of the Purple Saucer. It’s a nice car, or at least it was. A rear panel has been replaced with a sheet of black metal, and rust rims the wheel wells.

“Need a ride?” he asks. He’s wearing a soft-looking tie-dyed shirt, its blues and greens and purples faded by age and sun. His curling hair and impish smile are as attractive as ever, but the lust I felt for him is no longer there.

I lean in, looking for evidence of Stanley Lily in his features and build. It’s impossible to say, as eroded as Stanley is. I glance around to see who’s watching us before opening the passenger door and sliding in. “Thanks. Remember where I live?”

“You want to go straight home?”

“It’s closer than Siesta Key.” I shouldn’t be in this car. Eyes are always watching me.

He laughs. “True enough.”

He drops a relaxed hand on my shoulder. “You won’t believe Siesta Key once you get there. It’s beautiful. If it was a different life, I’d drive there right this second, just take off.”

“With me?”

Smile lines bloom beyond the edges of his sunglasses. “If you like.”

He starts driving. I don’t have a plan. I don’t even really have interview questions. It just feels good to be with him. The attention. The freedom.

“Take a right here,” I find myself saying. Mrs. Grant didn’t exactly pinpoint where Paulie’s home had been. Lilydale isn’t that large, though, and there can’t be an abundance of abandoned Baptist churches around.

The Sunday traffic is slow on this warm, bright day. We cruise through the sleepy neighborhoods I’m familiar with, then toward the edges of town, where the houses are mismatched and in need of paint, kids and dogs playing in the yards. The south side of town looks like a whole different realm from Mill Street.

We locate the church in under fifteen minutes. “Pull in here,” I say.

Kris does. “This place should be condemned.”

He’s right. The single-story square of a church was charming in the not-too-distant past, judging by the prim, smug-looking white paint protecting its exterior. But now, “Nixon for President” posters are choking the entrance (Ursula would feel vindicated), and red paint has been poured across the front stairs. The glass is busted out of the windows, and the bushes are overgrown, the grass a wrestling tangle of weeds.