“A little.”
“So you want to see if you can come help or what?”
It’s been months since I’ve worked on anything more complicated than Juliet’s old Honda, but my hands itch for the chance to get at something challenging. I glance across the kitchen at Alan. If I walk out of here without clearing it first, I guarantee you he’ll be on the phone with someone in law enforcement, and I’ll be in handcuffs fifteen minutes later.
He’s still sitting there, staring at the tablet, ignoring me but listening to every word I say. Tension hasn’t left the kitchen, and it’s turned to a haze between me and him.
I wish I could ask Mom.
She’s taking a nap.
Fear twinges inside me. I don’t want to think about it too hard, and I don’t want to bother her if she needs the rest. I put my hand over the phone. “Hey, Alan. My community service supervisor wants to know if I can help with something today.”
His eyes flick up. For an eternal moment, he regards me with an unreadable expression, and I’m certain he’s going to say no, just to jerk my chain.
Then he swipes at the screen. “Go ahead. Make sure you’re home before dinner.”
I almost drop my spoon.
Frank Melendez doesn’t live far, but I’m surprised how much his neighborhood looks like mine, another older, middle-class suburb with short driveways, occasional sidewalks, and fenced yards. For some reason I expected him to live in the projects. Juliet’s email digs at me, reminding me I’m just as guilty of judging people on one snapshot of their lives.
It’s easy to find the right place because I can see the glistening orange Chevelle from down the block. This guy had to have paid a fortune for the paint job, because that shade of orange looks custom-matched. Two men are standing in the driveway, staring down at the engine block. A massive German shepherd sprawls on the pavement between them, ears pricked and alert. When I park, the dog trots over, tail waving.
I put out my hand and wait, hoping I’m not about to lose it.
“She’s all right,” calls the man standing with Melonhead. “Skye’s the welcome wagon.”
The dog confirms this by pressing her face under my hand. I rub her behind the ears and walk up the driveway.
“Hey, Murph,” Melonhead says. “This is my neighbor, John King.”
The man is middle-aged with graying hair. He’s wearing a lime-green polo shirt, and he looks like the kind of guy who’d go golfing with Alan. I want to dislike him for that alone, but he gives me a warm smile and holds out a hand—not the kind of reaction people usually give me. “Murph, is it? Frank says you’re an expert on engines.”
“Declan Murphy.” I shake his hand. He’s got a firm grip, but it’s not overpowering. “And I don’t know about ‘expert.’ Frank only saw me fix a lawnmower.”
His smile falters the tiniest bit, but then he glances at my car. “Did you have a hand in rebuilding that Charger?”
“I did most of it myself.”
He gives a low whistle. The full smile is back. “You’re a lucky kid. I know guys who would kill for one of those.”
So do I. I shrug. “My dad lucked out and found the body and half the engine in a junkyard. He started it when I was young. I finished it.” I wince, thinking of the air-blasted body. “Well, not the paint. Not yet.”
“Saving up for custom?”
“Sort of.” I had been, yes. Until Alan told my mother that every penny in my savings account should be used to pay for my legal defense. I don’t like where this line of questioning is going to lead, so I nod toward his Chevelle. “This is beautiful. What’s going wrong?”
He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “I put a new Holley carburetor on her, and I can’t seem to get it adjusted.”
I lean in for a closer look. The engine is spotless. I bet this guy takes better care of this car than he does of his wife. “Yeah? What’s it doing?”
“The idle is all wrong, and I was looking for speed, but now it’s gone sluggish. I’ve been tinkering with it for two weeks, and I was telling Frank I was ready to give in and take it to a shop, but that feels like cheating.” The men chuckle.
I can already see the problem, but I need to hear it to be sure. “Can I turn it on?”
He hesitates, and I can see him trying to figure out whether letting me turn the key is a good idea. “Sure. Keys are in it.”
The interior is as stunning as the outside. You can smell the leather of the seats. The engine roars when I turn the ignition, and I listen, breaking down the sounds coming from under the hood. He’s right about the idle. After a minute, I can smell burning fuel, and I turn it off.
John is watching me expectantly, and there’s a light of challenge in his eyes. “What do you think?”
“I think your Holley is too big.”
He chuckles again, but it sounds strained. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s a seven-fifty, right? I think it’s too big. When you were talking, I thought maybe it was the choke, but then I got a listen. I bet you’d do better with a six-fifty. I could probably get it to run a little better, but—”
“Wait a minute.” The smile is completely gone. “I just put that in. All it needs is some tuning.”
He reminds me more of Alan every minute. “You wanted my opinion. I gave it to you.”
“You’re telling me to get a whole new carburetor?” He looks like I told him to eat a fistful of sand.
“Well. Yeah. You’re drowning your engine. Like I said, I can try to adjust it—”
“No. It’s okay.” He looks pissed, but I can’t tell whether it’s at himself or at me. “I’ll have the mechanic look at it tomorrow.”
I bristle. I can feel the familiar tension crawl across my shoulders, travel up my neck, and settle into my jaw.
Frank is watching this interaction, and his expression has lost the good humor, too. “Nothing wrong with a second opinion, right, Murph?”
“Sure.” I shrug, but it feels forced.
A little girl’s voice speaks from somewhere, sounding tinny. “Papi? Papi? Can I get up?”
Melonhead pulls a baby monitor from his pocket. “I’ve got to get back inside, John.” He claps his friend on the shoulder. “At least you’ve got some ideas when you call the shop tomorrow, eh?”
“Yeah. Sure.” John’s jaw seems tight, too. “Thanks for your help, kid.”
He might as well be saying Thanks for nothing.
Before I can say anything, Melonhead waves me along. “Come on, Murph. I’ll get you some lemonade.”
It’s bizarre to be inside his house. The aged brick front and beige siding look like every other house on this street, but the interior is open, with few walls, and very neat and tidy.
“Just let me get Marisol,” he says, leaving me in the living room.
The fireplace doesn’t have a mantel but is instead surrounded by varying shades of gray stone. A collage of photos hang in silver frames above it. Most of the pictures are of a baby girl who must be a younger Marisol, but one picture features a younger Melonhead with a beautiful woman hanging her arms around his neck.
From their expressions in the photograph, you can tell that time stops when they look at each other.
“Declan!” A little girl shrieks with excitement, and then I have almost no warning before she tackles my legs. “You came to play with me!”
If only girls my own age would react this way when I walk into a room. “Sure,” I say. “We can play the lemonade game.”
Her nose wrinkles. “The lemonade game?”
“Yes. I drink some, and then you drink some, and then you win.”
She giggles. “I like this game.”
Melonhead is watching us. “You’re very kind to her.”
“I figure I can’t piss her off by telling her she spent five hundred bucks on a worthless upgrade.”
“‘Piss me off’?” she parrots. “What’s ‘piss me off’?”
Her father’s face darkens, an
d I wince, chagrined. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Come sit down.”
When Marisol is settled with crayons and we’re sitting with sweaty glasses on the table between us, Melonhead gives me a leveled look. “Do you really think he needs a new carburetor?”
I shrug and take a sip from the glass. “I know he does.”
Melonhead nods. “Before you got here, he said he might have made a mistake. I think he was hoping you’d tell him he was wrong.”
My eyebrows go way up. “So he knew?”
“I don’t think he wanted to admit it to himself. He tinkers with that thing every weekend, but he’s just a hobbyist.” He pauses. “You could really hear the problem?”
I trace lines in the condensation along the glass. “It’s not a big deal when you’re used to it. I’m out of practice, but his was pretty obvious.”
“You said your dad was a mechanic?”
I nod. “A good one. He used to own a custom shop, did restorations, hot rod upgrades, those kinds of things. I was in the shop with him almost every day. I could practically rebuild a transmission before I could walk.” I don’t want to think about my father, but my brain is happy to supply me with memories. I remember getting into a heated argument with one of the shop guys over the correct ignition timing on a Chevy Impala, and Dad could barely stop laughing long enough to tell the guy I was right. I was eight years old. “He taught me to drive as soon as I was tall enough to work a clutch and see over the steering wheel at the same time. I would move cars in and out of the shop without a thought.”
Darker memories slide in there, too. The times I had to drive a lot farther than the distance from the back lot to the front of the garage. The times I would put on a ball cap and stretch to make myself as tall as possible because I was worried the cops would spot me and figure out a kid was driving.
In retrospect, I wish a cop had caught us. Maybe Kerry would still be here.
“Where’s your dad now?” Melonhead asks.
His voice is just a little careful, and normally I’d dodge the question because there’s too much pain and guilt wrapped around these memories. But Melonhead doesn’t judge me—if he did, he wouldn’t have asked me to help out his neighbor. He wouldn’t let me be around his daughter. This feeling of sanctuary is almost foreign, and it’s something I usually only feel at Rev’s.
“He’s in prison,” I say quietly, my eyes on my glass. “He was drunk and he wrecked his car. My sister died.”
Melonhead puts a hand over mine. “Ah, Murph. I’m sorry.”
The touch takes me by surprise, and it’s so unfamiliar that it’s almost uncomfortable. I pull my hand away and rub the back of my neck. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
“Do you ever see him?”
I shake my head. “Mom never goes, so I never do, either.”
“Your mom’s remarried, yes?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that going?”
I look at him and give him a half smile. “What, are you my court-appointed therapist now?”
“No, I’m just trying to figure you out.”
I take a drink of lemonade. “There’s not much to figure out.”
“You work hard. You don’t give me much grief. You’re smart. I don’t get kids like you through the program much.”
“I just don’t want to be hassled.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” He pauses. “You have a drinking problem, Murph?”
“Obviously.” I snort and drain more lemonade. “I mean, you know my record, right?”
“Yes. I do. Do you have a drinking problem?”
I shrug, then shake my head. I can remember the burn of the whiskey as if it happened yesterday. I don’t remember much after that, but I still clearly remember the burn. “No.”
“Did you?”
I shake my head again. “It was just one day. One stupid day.” The second-worst day of my life, in more ways than one.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
The room shrinks incrementally, and sweat has begun collecting between my shoulder blades. He’s going to push, and I’m going to explode out of here, leaving a Declan-sized hole in the drywall. “Not really, no.”
“Hey.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle shake. “Take it easy. I didn’t mean to ramp you up.”
I take a breath and let go of the glass. I didn’t realize how tightly I was gripping it until I let go. “Sorry.”
Marisol bursts into the kitchen with papers in her hands. “Declan! I draw you!”
She thrusts it in front of me. It’s a colorful stick man with brown hair.
“This is amazing,” I tell her. Somehow my voice is steady. “Can you draw me another one?”
“Yes!” She runs out.
The kitchen falls silent again. My eyes fix on my glass.
“Can I tell you one thing?” Melonhead says.
I swallow. “Sure.”
“One day isn’t your whole life, Murph.” He waits until I look at him. “A day is just a day.”
I scoff and slouch in the chair. “So what are you saying? That people shouldn’t judge me on one mistake? Tell that to Judge Ororos.”
He leans in against the table. “No, kid. I’m saying you shouldn’t judge yourself for it.” He pauses. “Do you have a court-appointed therapist?”
I give him a look. They’d have to drag me in handcuffs. “No.”
His eyebrows go up. “You think there’s something wrong with having someone to talk to?”
“I don’t need someone to talk to. I’m fine.”
“Everyone needs someone to talk to, kid.” He hesitates. “Do you have anyone at all?”
I trace another finger through the condensation on my glass, then lift my eyes to meet his. “Yeah. I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
From: The Dark
To: Cemetery Girl
Date: Sunday, October 6 11:58:35 PM
Subject: The whole story
With your mom, does it ever feel like you’ve buried all kinds of memories in a box, but when someone tugs at one, they all break free? That happened today. Someone started asking about my father, and now I can’t stop thinking about him.
My mom used to think my dad hung the stars. She wasn’t alone. He could do no wrong in my eyes—in a lot of people’s eyes. He was a friendly guy, always had a smile. Got along with everyone. He could talk about sports, he could talk about politics, he could make my sister laugh at the dinner table, even when she was in a mood. He would gallop around the backyard with my sister or me on his back, chasing whoever was still on the ground. He owned his own business and made good money. Everyone thought we were the perfect family.
They didn’t know he drank alcohol like it was water.
A lot of people put drinking on a shelf beside anger and violence. They don’t realize that happy drunks can be just as dangerous as the crazy, violent ones. More dangerous, really, now that I think about it. People ask Mom why she didn’t leave him sooner, like he was beating the hell out of her on weekends or something. He never laid a hand on her. He wasn’t that kind of drunk. He loved my mother. He loved us kids. That was never a problem.
We all loved him back. Maybe that was the problem.
When I was really little, I thought that because Dad was happy, everyone was happy. It took awhile for me to understand the strained expression on my mother’s face when he’d come home lit. Around the time I turned nine, I began to figure it out. His voice would turn different. He was too permissive, too forgetful. I lost track of how many times he forgot to pick me up from school, and I started walking home just so the teachers would stop asking questions. I used to go to work with him on the weekends, and sometimes he’d forget to take me home with him. Mom would come and fetch me later, shaking her head to the other guys about her “scatterbrained” husband.
They all knew, I’m sure of it, but they never did anyth
ing. She didn’t, either.
Like I said, happy drunk. Everyone loved him. Harmless, right?
I’m sure you know what’s at the end of this road. I told you he killed my sister.
When I was thirteen, I started driving him home on the weekends. I know that sounds crazy, but he’d taught me to drive young. It’s kind of like how kids on a farm can plow a field when they’re seven or kids who grow up hunting can fire a rifle as soon as they’re strong enough to carry one. We were always the last to leave the shop, to lock up, so it was easy.
I was always so scared someone would catch me—but I didn’t have any alternative. I’d learned that dad’s swerving on the road wasn’t a game. It was a threat. One time, he hit something and kept going. I still have no idea what it might have been, but sometimes I have nightmares that we hit a person. I remember asking him over and over again if we should go back and check, but he wasn’t even aware we’d struck anything. I told Mom about it, and she shook her head and told me that I was overreacting.
So one Saturday afternoon, I made a decision. I hid his keys.
He stumbled around his office, slamming doors and checking pockets, getting agitated. I hung in the corner, the keys trapped in my pocket, almost shaking with the tension of what could happen.
“Maybe we should call Mom?” I said.
He grunted. “Your mother’s working.”
“What are you going to do if you can’t find your keys?”
I hoped he’d say that we’d call a cab, or he’d call one of the guys back to drive us.
No, he swept everything off his desk—everything, making a mess—and yelled, “Damn you people. I’ll tear someone a new one for stealing my keys.”
It was the first time I’d ever seen him turn the corner to mean drunk.
I started “helping.” I “found” his keys real quick. I was shaking, and I didn’t want him to drive, especially now. I kept my voice light, like I was joking, “Maybe I could drive home. See if anyone catches us.”
For half a second, I thought he was going to snatch the keys out of my hand. He didn’t. He laughed and patted me on the back and said “Good boy.”
That was the beginning.
I never told anyone then, not even my best friend. I loved my father, and I knew this was the only way to keep him out of trouble. I was tall for my age, and I’d wear a baseball cap, so no one ever glanced twice. It’s amazing how many people will look the other way when they don’t think something is a big deal.