The Red Hunter(18)
Josh turned to face his brother, who had lifted his empty orange juice glass and was peering into it.
“I can help you around here,” said Rhett. Josh looked around and saw what Rhett saw—water stain on the ceiling, rusted hinges on the door, floor that needed replacing. Dad wouldn’t be happy with the way the place looked. Never walk by something that needs repairing without repairing it. But between working and caring for Ma, the days seemed short. And there wasn’t a whole lot of money.
“Alright then,” Josh said.
He wasn’t surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth, even though he never intended to say them. He always gave in to Rhett, always did what his brother wanted, whether Josh wanted to or not. It was a compulsion, almost a biological imperative. “I’ve got some work in the shop—some shelves I have to put together, a chair that needs fixing.”
Rhett looked up with a smile. “Yeah?”
“If you want to get started on those, I’ll follow up with that other job.”
“The Bishop place,” said Rhett. He pinned Josh in a dark stare. “That’s what Ma said.”
“Look. We’ve been all through this,” said Josh, lifting his palms. “There’s nothing there.”
Rhett’s eyes had the hard glint of bad ideas. Josh understood then—why Rhett was back. The Bishop place under renovation, the phone call, the other news. That tight knot in Josh’s throat expanded. Rhett hadn’t changed, not one bit.
But then Rhett leapt up and took Josh into a hard hug. “You won’t be sorry, man. You’ll see. Let me get another cup of coffee and I’ll get right to it.”
Josh would be sorry; he knew that. He was already sorry. He had spent a lifetime being sorry for doing things his brother had asked him to do. Josh had the strong urge to call his sponsor, Lee. One of Lee’s big things was staying away from the people and places that reminded you of what it felt like to be high, to do wrong, to lose yourself. Some relationships are like pythons: they wrap around you, slowly squeezing until you can’t breathe. Josh wondered what Lee would say when Josh told him Rhett was back; he could already feel the air being pressed out of his lungs.
six
In the damp, sunny morning that followed, the drama of the night before seemed far away.
“Just—” Claudia said, trying not to lose her patience before nine in the morning. “Can you push the hair out of your eyes?”
A sullen eye roll, a toss of her head, then a careless brush of bangs. Big fake smile. Claudia had never touched Raven in anger, not a spank on the bottom, not that angry arm grab she’d seen too many times on the playground. But lately she thought about it sometimes. She really did. Wasn’t that horrible? Sometimes Claudia just ached to smack that teenage, know-it-all look right off her face. But not really. It was extremely annoying, though.
She snapped a picture instead. Could you say “snap” when you took a picture with your smartphone? It wasn’t a snap exactly anymore, was it, even though the device issued a facsimile of that noise? The photo was a good one with that morning light coming through the trees, catching Raven’s hair and making it shine purple. Her smile didn’t look fake at all. It was radiant, like the natural flush on her daughter’s cheeks, the shine in her eyes. Raven leaned cheekily against the barn door, which was leaning against the structure now that Claudia and Raven had pushed it upright. Teamwork.
“Do you ever feel bad about exploiting me in your blog?” Raven asked.
“Uh,” Claudia said, putting a finger to her cheek and glancing up as if considering. “No.”
She filtered the image. “Chrome” was her favorite. And it was perfect—bright and moody at the same time, heightening colors, lightening lights.
“You’re the one always going on about internet predators,” said Raven. “What if there’s someone out there, trolling for pictures of nubile young girls in any context?”
It struck a chord, as it was no doubt intended to do, opened a cold place in her belly.
“Uh . . .” said Claudia brilliantly.
She’d done some thinking about this subject, some discussing with her new agent and with Martha. But ultimately they’d decided that since Claudia’s blog was about home renovation, rebuilding, single parenting, and life in general, the occasional photo of Raven (just called “R” online) was not a violation of her personhood. Claudia had never revealed the address of the house, the town they were in. Since she used a different name for her blog—Claudia Davidson, her mother’s maiden name—their identities were protected. Of course, if Raven didn’t want to be a part of it, that was another matter.
“I don’t have to use it,” said Claudia, lowering her phone and looking seriously at her daughter. “I mean, if you don’t want to be a part of this, it’s totally fine. We’ve talked about this. You know that.”
Raven glanced over at the door, then back at Claudia.
“No,” Raven said. “It’s okay. I like doing this with you. It’s fun.”
They locked eyes for a moment and then both started to laugh.
Now, in the bright morning sun, the night before seemed funny. Wasn’t that always the way? Nothing ever seemed as bad when the sun came up. She and Raven huddled on the stairs, the earnest young cop, Claudia catching sight of herself in the mirror, seeing what a crazed middle-aged wreck she looked. Then lying awake all night worrying. The French call them les pensées qui viennent dans le nuit, “the thoughts that come in the night.” Most nights, Claudia fell asleep hard and fast, almost as soon as Raven was asleep. But often she would wake around three, usually with a start, thinking that she heard something. She’d shuttle over to Raven’s room, where the girl was always sprawled across her bed, arms thrown wide, mouth agape, sound asleep.