like it’s coming from the bottom of an old bucket full of gravel.
“Charlie, b’y,” it calls out. “Jesus, I knowed it was you, soon as I seen ya.”
I turn and there’s two people coming at me together: Constable Tubby, his belly busting outta his shirt, and this other guy I never saw before. Even so, I know right away who he is. He’s got the same curls, same face, same big steps when he walks—same as my dad, except harder, tougher. The hair’s grayer and the face has got wrinkles, like how my dad might look if he camped out in the woods for a month.
It’s my uncle. Nick Sykes.
Then he’s in front of me, kneeling down so he can look me in the eye, stinking of cigarettes when he opens his mouth to talk.
“Jesus, you look like your dad,” he says. He’s close now, close enough to see he’s not exactly like my dad. He’s missing two bottom teeth, for one thing. And he’s got big old hairs shooting outta his eyebrows and ears, like weeds coming up through a schoolyard in summer.
“That’s close enough,” says Tubby.
Nick Sykes gives him a glare. “Close enough, my arse,” he says. “I’m not on friggin’ parole, ya know. This is my nephew, who I never had the chance to meet till today. If I commits a crime with him, arrest me. If not, piss off.”
He looks at me again.
“Now,” he says, “let your uncle get a good look at ya.”
It’s when he puts his arms out that I see the hand—the right one, the one sitting on my shoulder. It’s a giant claw— the middle three fingers missing, the other two bent inward, black and cracked and wrinkled.
“Looking at my clinker, are ya?” says Nick. He pulls it off my shoulder and holds it up.
“Got that in a fire,” he says, then looks up at the cop. “Trying to put it out. Anyways,” he goes on, “don’t let that bother ya none. It don’t hurt no more, and it’s got its uses.”
He opens it and closes it two or three times, the black nails clicking each time it shuts. He stands up and gives my hair a toss with his good hand.
“You and me should have a talk sometime—after all this racket dies down.”
I don’t say anything.
“Ya needs ta get ta know yer family, now yer old man’s gone. Ya gotta have somebody lookin’ out for ya in this world, Charlie, b’y. That’s the key to gettin’ along.”
The hand is back on my shoulder.
“That’s the key,” he says, looking right at me, the claw giving a squeeze that keeps getting tighter.
Does he know what my dad gave me, back in the hospital? I wonder, trying to pull away from a squeeze that’s starting to hurt.
“Family’s the key to a happy life,” he says, finally letting go. “I mean, if yer family don’t look out for ya, who will?”
“We will,” says Dezzy, doing his best to look official. “I appreciate you’re breaking no laws, Mr. Sykes, but for now, Child Services is Charlie’s legal guardian, and it’s our job to oversee who he associates with. You’re welcome to attend the service, of course,”
“Oh, I appreciates that,” says Nick. A bit of spit comes outta his mouth when he says it.
“Sarcasm aside,” Dezzy says, “it’s a family service so you’re free to attend. But I’ll be sitting with Charlie, and right now he wants to change into a clean shirt. Charlie?”
We head over the bathroom, and I slip past Dezzy while he holds the door.
“Don’t bother locking it,” he says. “I’ll stand guard out here.”
Inside, it’s like Frankie said, and soon as Dezzy shuts the door I get up on the toilet seat and open the window.
“All right in there?” Dezzy calls.
“Yup,” I say. My heart’s beating so fast I figure I could see it thumping in my chest if I looked down. “I’m just having a pee,” I say, figuring that’ll keep Dezzy on the other side of the door for a bit. But only for a bit, I know, so quick as I can I toss my backpack out the window and go through right behind it, tapping my foot down to find the oil pipe.
“Charlie, b’y,” it calls out. “Jesus, I knowed it was you, soon as I seen ya.”
I turn and there’s two people coming at me together: Constable Tubby, his belly busting outta his shirt, and this other guy I never saw before. Even so, I know right away who he is. He’s got the same curls, same face, same big steps when he walks—same as my dad, except harder, tougher. The hair’s grayer and the face has got wrinkles, like how my dad might look if he camped out in the woods for a month.
It’s my uncle. Nick Sykes.
Then he’s in front of me, kneeling down so he can look me in the eye, stinking of cigarettes when he opens his mouth to talk.
“Jesus, you look like your dad,” he says. He’s close now, close enough to see he’s not exactly like my dad. He’s missing two bottom teeth, for one thing. And he’s got big old hairs shooting outta his eyebrows and ears, like weeds coming up through a schoolyard in summer.
“That’s close enough,” says Tubby.
Nick Sykes gives him a glare. “Close enough, my arse,” he says. “I’m not on friggin’ parole, ya know. This is my nephew, who I never had the chance to meet till today. If I commits a crime with him, arrest me. If not, piss off.”
He looks at me again.
“Now,” he says, “let your uncle get a good look at ya.”
It’s when he puts his arms out that I see the hand—the right one, the one sitting on my shoulder. It’s a giant claw— the middle three fingers missing, the other two bent inward, black and cracked and wrinkled.
“Looking at my clinker, are ya?” says Nick. He pulls it off my shoulder and holds it up.
“Got that in a fire,” he says, then looks up at the cop. “Trying to put it out. Anyways,” he goes on, “don’t let that bother ya none. It don’t hurt no more, and it’s got its uses.”
He opens it and closes it two or three times, the black nails clicking each time it shuts. He stands up and gives my hair a toss with his good hand.
“You and me should have a talk sometime—after all this racket dies down.”
I don’t say anything.
“Ya needs ta get ta know yer family, now yer old man’s gone. Ya gotta have somebody lookin’ out for ya in this world, Charlie, b’y. That’s the key to gettin’ along.”
The hand is back on my shoulder.
“That’s the key,” he says, looking right at me, the claw giving a squeeze that keeps getting tighter.
Does he know what my dad gave me, back in the hospital? I wonder, trying to pull away from a squeeze that’s starting to hurt.
“Family’s the key to a happy life,” he says, finally letting go. “I mean, if yer family don’t look out for ya, who will?”
“We will,” says Dezzy, doing his best to look official. “I appreciate you’re breaking no laws, Mr. Sykes, but for now, Child Services is Charlie’s legal guardian, and it’s our job to oversee who he associates with. You’re welcome to attend the service, of course,”
“Oh, I appreciates that,” says Nick. A bit of spit comes outta his mouth when he says it.
“Sarcasm aside,” Dezzy says, “it’s a family service so you’re free to attend. But I’ll be sitting with Charlie, and right now he wants to change into a clean shirt. Charlie?”
We head over the bathroom, and I slip past Dezzy while he holds the door.
“Don’t bother locking it,” he says. “I’ll stand guard out here.”
Inside, it’s like Frankie said, and soon as Dezzy shuts the door I get up on the toilet seat and open the window.
“All right in there?” Dezzy calls.
“Yup,” I say. My heart’s beating so fast I figure I could see it thumping in my chest if I looked down. “I’m just having a pee,” I say, figuring that’ll keep Dezzy on the other side of the door for a bit. But only for a bit, I know, so quick as I can I toss my backpack out the window and go through right behind it, tapping my foot down to find the oil pipe.
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