The Red Hunter(48)

“Ten minutes!” someone called.

His eyes were so dark, his gaze so level.

“What do you mean, that you don’t know?”

“Melvin Cutter—raped my mother.” She didn’t say the words very often. They sat in her mouth, tasted bitter. “But she had also been with my father—her husband—that night. They never got a test. They didn’t want to know, didn’t want it to matter.”

“But they told you about the rape.”

It never seemed odd until he said it.

“They’re big on honesty.”

He seemed to consider. “A certain kind of honesty, I guess. The truth, just not the whole truth. Like telling you a meteor is headed to Earth, just not telling you how big or whether or not it will destroy the planet.”

She hadn’t thought of it like that. Her mother had her reasons and all of them were clear to Raven. Claudia and Ayers told Raven exactly what they knew and why they had decided not to know more. She wanted to explain this to him, but instead she just stared down at Ella’s boots which were so gorgeous but so painful. Raven’s feet were throbbing. She wished she’d let Troy come back with her.

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

Did she feel anything? Anything that joined them? Anything that was similar, kindred? No. He was a stranger, not a pleasant one.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he said. “I’ve spent my whole life running away, pushing away, hiding from any connection I might have to Melvin Cutter. And here you are, chasing after him.”

His tone was musing, not judgmental. “I’m not chasing after him,” she said. “He’s dead.”

He blinked, moved back a little as if she’d hurt him. Maybe it did hurt. Maybe all of this hurt him, and that’s why he was so angry. She was starting to see her mother’s wisdom.

“Five minutes!” That same gravelly voice. Conversations seemed to quiet, people left the room. Drew rose to his feet. He was small, not much taller or bigger than Raven.

“Then what do you want?” he asked.

“I want to know where I came from, where I belong,” she said. Tears were threatening, tingling at the back of her eyes and tightening her throat.

“Why do you think where you came from has anything to do with where you belong?” His voice was gentle, almost pitying. “I certainly don’t believe that. I can’t. I have to believe that we create our lives. Do you get that?”

She shook her head. She did get it—and she didn’t. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He shifted as if to move past her, but then he put a hand on her arm.

“Sounds like you have two nice parents that love you,” he said. “I’d take that if I were you and leave the rest of it alone. The alternatives are dark.”

She felt a heat where his hand rested. “What if you’re my half brother?”

He smiled a little. “What if?”

Then he left her standing there. The room had cleared. She was alone except for a couple of girls that lounged on the couches. Outside, she heard the music start up again.

“How old are you, sweetie?” one of women asked. She was giving Raven a look she’d seen before, a nasty up and down, a sneer over something hollow in the eyes. Behold the look of jealousy, her mother told her once. Not pretty, is it? But it didn’t feel like jealousy, that would mean she had something others wanted. And what could that possibly be? It felt like disdain, like hatred. It drained; it hurt.

Raven didn’t answer, just bolted from the room and down the hall, and past the bouncer. What’s wrong, mami? Everything okay?

Troy was flirting with some girl who looked like she might be in her twenties. He had that face on, that kind of smarmy, smiley, trying-too-hard look. The woman, a pretty, freckle-faced redhead just looked bored, like she was babysitting. Raven ran past him and heard him call her name. Then she was out on the street, breathing hard, taking in big gulps of the frigid air. Her chest hurt, and then big sobs took her over. People just looked on, indifferent. Then Troy was behind her, wrapping her up and leading her away. She burrowed into him, weeping like a complete loser, absolutely powerless to stop. They leaned against a building until the storm of her emotion passed and she’d left a big wet stain on his New School tee-shirt.

When she finally looked up at him, his was the very face of loving friendship—accepting, concerned, present. He didn’t ask her what happened. He knew she’d tell him everything when she found the words. Why do you think where you came from has anything to do with where you belong?

“I want to go home,” she said. She wiped at her nose with the sleeve of Ella’s jacket, shivering.

He nodded, looked to the street for a cab. “To your dad’s place?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I need my mom.”

He looked down at his watch and then back at her.

“Okay,” he said. “If we hurry, we can make that last train.”





seventeen


When I got back to the hospital, Mike was there, sitting on the floor in the corner like a Buddha, legs folded beneath him, hands in prayer at his chest, head bowed. He was just a bulky shadow, breathing deep, in measure to Paul’s labored breath. White light made a rectangle on the floor. Outside more white rectangles, portals into other lives, other moments, hopefully, most of them better than this one. I sank into the chair, didn’t say anything.