The Night Visitors(21)
Chapter Nine
Alice
IT’S USELESS TRYING to get Oren to admit that he came out by another path. “Maybe you didn’t realize it was a different way,” I suggest as we wait on the lower drive for Mattie.
“Duh-uh. Didn’t you hear what I just said? I walked backward in my own tracks.”
Duh. That’s what Davis would say when he was pointing out how stupid I was. How I just didn’t get it. “Well, I know what I saw,” I say. I’m keeping my eye on the drive for Mattie’s car, standing in front of Oren as if that will protect him if the cop comes back. “There were footprints leading out of the maze on a different path.”
“Well, Jesus, Alice, I guess there couldn’t have been anyone else in the maze.”
The voice is so much like Davis’s that I spin around to stare behind me, sure that Davis has somehow shown up to taunt me. Yeah, Jesus, Alice, how could you be so stupid to believe that I’d die of that pathetic little stab wound? Like I’m ever going to let you take my boy away from me. But there’s just Oren standing there, his face purple with rage. Somehow it’s scarier to know that hateful voice came out of this little boy.
“Please don’t speak to me in that tone,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.
“You called me a liar!”
“I didn’t call you a liar.” Davis always accused me of calling him a liar when I confronted him with a discrepancy, like why were there only two beers left in the six-pack if he drank only two or why did work call to ask where he was if he was at work. “I just thought you might have gotten mixed up.”
“You’re the one who’s mixed up, stupid-face! Just because you followed someone else’s footprints—”
“They were the same boots!” I cry, pointing at his boots. “And the same duckfooted prints.”
His face turns the color of a bruise. I’d forgotten how much he hated when Davis made fun of him for splaying out his feet. “I am not a duckfoot! I am not!” Then he hits me.
It’s the teeniest, lamest punch on the arm but it knocks the wind right out of me. “Oh great,” I say, cradling my arm. “So now you’re hitting me. Just like your father.”
He gives me a hateful look that hurts much worse than the punch and then takes off straight up the road, dragging the sled behind him, his oversized boots slapping the pavement like big angry duck feet. I’ve said the very worst thing I could have said to him, but I’m not sorry. He’s being a little shit, and if no one stops him he will grow up to be just like Davis. A spoiled little boy in a man’s body always blaming someone else for his problems. Let him see how far he gets on his own or how he’ll like it if that cop gets him first.
I’d forgotten about the cop.
“Oren!” I call. “Come back. I didn’t mean it.”
But Oren speeds up, stamping in the puddles from the melting snow, the sled bouncing behind him. I run after him, but he’s gotten a head start and I’m soon out of breath. That’s what I get for taking up smoking again. “Or-ren!” It comes out in a wheeze, hoarse and ugly.
I know that Oren’s taking his anger at his father out on me because I’m safe. I won’t hit him back. But I’m tired of being the safe one. Look where it’s gotten us: homeless, on the run, waiting on the charity of nuns and social workers. It’s time I took charge. Time I taught the boy a lesson. I’m only inches from Oren, reaching out for his arm, when I hear the words in my head. Davis’s words in Davis’s voice. I’m the one who has become just like Davis.
My hand is already on Oren’s arm, fingers curling around his skinny biceps. I only want to stop him to tell him I’m sorry, but he jerks forward at my touch and I tighten my grip to keep him from falling—
I hear the pop as his shoulder dislocates and then the scream of pain, and Oren falls howling to the ground. I fall beside him, trying to cradle him in my arms, repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” and then “Let me see, let me fix it.” But he scoots away from me. I hear a car pull up and footsteps approaching. This is it. The police have gotten us. For a moment I’m almost grateful. This will all be taken out of my hands. Oren will be taken out of my hands. And maybe that is for the best. Because clearly I don’t know what the fuck I am doing.
But when I look up I see it’s not the cop; it’s Mattie. “What happened?” she cries, kneeling beside Oren. The little shit huddles against her like he needs her protection from me.
“Nothing. We had a fight and he was running away. I was afraid he was going to run into that cop. I was just trying to stop him.”
Mattie isn’t paying attention to my litany of excuses—how fast they trip off my tongue! I have learned a thing or two from Davis. She’s inspecting Oren’s arm, peeling off his jacket, wrapping her large capable hands around his shoulder and biceps. “Do you know what this reminds me of?” she asks in such a calm voice that Oren is startled out of his hysterics.
“Wh-what?” he blubbers.
“The time that Luke lost his hand in the lightsaber fight with Darth Vader.”
What a weird thing to say—and is she actually comparing me to Darth Vader?—but it delights Oren. “Am I going to lose my hand?” he asks, eyes popping.