but it’s something. It’s got to be: it’s everything I have.
I stare out the window and wait for the clock to strike nine.
* * *
Nothing could prepare me for what I see.
When Alec swings his front door open, the gauze bandage is gone. His eye is black, his cheek purple. Exposed, a long row of stitches curves down his face from his cheekbone to his jaw. The wound is nearly four inches in all: red, swollen, held tenuously together by slender black thread. I hear the sharp intake of my breath. The ground is no longer solid beneath my feet. I can’t take my eyes off it.
Alec doesn’t speak. He simply waits, expecting me to enter. Hand gripping the door frame, I step inside.
In the living room, I offer him everything—all the money in my account—to pay for his car, his medical bills, whatever he needs. I even offer him the beat-up Escort.
He just turns his head away, and the black stitches on his bruised cheek stare back at me. “I don’t want your old shit box,” he says. “Or your money.”
Beyond the couch where he lays stretched out, I can see rain falling on the pool, sending tiny rings rippling outward in the unnatural cerulean blue. I haven’t been in this room since the night we went to the party in Bethel and we’d come here first to mix margaritas at his father’s bar. Margaritas the color of that pool.
Alec shifts slowly on the couch and winces, as if it hurts to move. My body is tense, perched on the edge of a nearby chair, hand clenching the rejected bankbook. He looks horrible.
“So your redneck friend was here last night, the one who has the hots for your mother.”
“Redneck guy . . . ?”
“The one who drove us to the hospital.”
“Ron Bailey.” I have no right to be mad at Alec now, but he has no right to talk about Ron that way, either. “He’s a nice man, Alec.”
“Whatever. He was here.”
I swallow, hold my breath, wait. It’s as if hearing Alec say it will finally make it real. Ron knows, I think. He’s already been here. He knows now that I was driving.
“You wouldn’t believe what he said.” Alec looks at me as if he can see through me, inside me; his eyes accuse. Stitches like miniature railroad tracks carve through the purple mess where his cheek used to be.
“He told me not to go around bragging about the accidentto my friends or I could have a DUI on my head. Imagine my surprise.” He pauses. “I didn’t even know I was driving.”
“What did he say?” My words are a whisper.
“He said this thing will just blow over if I keep it to myself, don’t make a big deal out of it. Told me if I pulled a stunt like that again, it would be different.” Alec’s eyes never leave me. He is taking in every ounce of my reaction.
“So you told him . . .”
“So I told him, ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that,’” Alec says in mock politeness. “And he says, ‘I’m not doing it for you.’” There’s a faint smirk on Alec’s face. He looks straight into my eyes. “Maybe it’s you he has the hots for.”
I bristle, but I don’t want him to see my reaction. He’s baiting me, but I can’t bite. I have no right. I lost my rights when I drove his car into that tree.
“Why didn’t you tell him I was driving?” The words tumble out but they are low, barely audible. I am shaking again. Can he see that?
“Alec?” I repeat.
He lets me wait; it seems like days before he replies.
“Why didn’t you ?” he says.
“He—he—” I’m stammering now and I hate myself for it. “He didn’t ask me.”
“Right.” Alec’s eyes leave my face at last, drifting toward the French doors and the pool beyond. I cannot imagine what he is thinking, but it is clear that he is. It’s as if he’s no longer here in the room with me. He’s gone.
“I’ll tell him now . . .” I move toward the phone but Alec’s hand reaches it first, clamping the receiver down.
“Don’t be an idiot.” His voice is firm, like a father
I stare out the window and wait for the clock to strike nine.
* * *
Nothing could prepare me for what I see.
When Alec swings his front door open, the gauze bandage is gone. His eye is black, his cheek purple. Exposed, a long row of stitches curves down his face from his cheekbone to his jaw. The wound is nearly four inches in all: red, swollen, held tenuously together by slender black thread. I hear the sharp intake of my breath. The ground is no longer solid beneath my feet. I can’t take my eyes off it.
Alec doesn’t speak. He simply waits, expecting me to enter. Hand gripping the door frame, I step inside.
In the living room, I offer him everything—all the money in my account—to pay for his car, his medical bills, whatever he needs. I even offer him the beat-up Escort.
He just turns his head away, and the black stitches on his bruised cheek stare back at me. “I don’t want your old shit box,” he says. “Or your money.”
Beyond the couch where he lays stretched out, I can see rain falling on the pool, sending tiny rings rippling outward in the unnatural cerulean blue. I haven’t been in this room since the night we went to the party in Bethel and we’d come here first to mix margaritas at his father’s bar. Margaritas the color of that pool.
Alec shifts slowly on the couch and winces, as if it hurts to move. My body is tense, perched on the edge of a nearby chair, hand clenching the rejected bankbook. He looks horrible.
“So your redneck friend was here last night, the one who has the hots for your mother.”
“Redneck guy . . . ?”
“The one who drove us to the hospital.”
“Ron Bailey.” I have no right to be mad at Alec now, but he has no right to talk about Ron that way, either. “He’s a nice man, Alec.”
“Whatever. He was here.”
I swallow, hold my breath, wait. It’s as if hearing Alec say it will finally make it real. Ron knows, I think. He’s already been here. He knows now that I was driving.
“You wouldn’t believe what he said.” Alec looks at me as if he can see through me, inside me; his eyes accuse. Stitches like miniature railroad tracks carve through the purple mess where his cheek used to be.
“He told me not to go around bragging about the accidentto my friends or I could have a DUI on my head. Imagine my surprise.” He pauses. “I didn’t even know I was driving.”
“What did he say?” My words are a whisper.
“He said this thing will just blow over if I keep it to myself, don’t make a big deal out of it. Told me if I pulled a stunt like that again, it would be different.” Alec’s eyes never leave me. He is taking in every ounce of my reaction.
“So you told him . . .”
“So I told him, ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that,’” Alec says in mock politeness. “And he says, ‘I’m not doing it for you.’” There’s a faint smirk on Alec’s face. He looks straight into my eyes. “Maybe it’s you he has the hots for.”
I bristle, but I don’t want him to see my reaction. He’s baiting me, but I can’t bite. I have no right. I lost my rights when I drove his car into that tree.
“Why didn’t you tell him I was driving?” The words tumble out but they are low, barely audible. I am shaking again. Can he see that?
“Alec?” I repeat.
He lets me wait; it seems like days before he replies.
“Why didn’t you ?” he says.
“He—he—” I’m stammering now and I hate myself for it. “He didn’t ask me.”
“Right.” Alec’s eyes leave my face at last, drifting toward the French doors and the pool beyond. I cannot imagine what he is thinking, but it is clear that he is. It’s as if he’s no longer here in the room with me. He’s gone.
“I’ll tell him now . . .” I move toward the phone but Alec’s hand reaches it first, clamping the receiver down.
“Don’t be an idiot.” His voice is firm, like a father
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