certain she’d burn the house down with the candles. For her last Christmas, Kent and Adam had gone in together on a set of wall-mounted candles with mirrors behind them. They threw the light around the room and caught the stained glass and painted everything with surreal, tinted glows. Marie loved them.
He lit all the candles now, one at a time. There were thirty-three in the room, from small tea candles to a massive stump-shaped thing that crackled like a wood fire. Initially, he’d debated whether he should light them, knowing they’d burn down eventually and have to be replaced, and he did not want to replace anything that had been sacred to her. But she’d loved to have them lit, loved the flickering glows and the incense mix of smells, and so he decided that was best.
When they were all lit, Adam sat on the floor with his back against the wall, facing the bed, the way he used to on the nights she called him in to talk, or when he simply barged in to pester her. She hated that—hence the sign she’d put on the door—and that made it all the more entertaining for him. If he heard her talking on the phone, he’d beeline for the room, crash through the door, and loudly say the most embarrassing thing he could think of.
Marie, the doctor called to say your toe fungus is contagious.
Marie, you left your training bra in the bathroom.
Marie, Dad’s pissed that you stole his porn again.
Then there’d come the shout of indignant outrage, the thrown shoe or book or whatever was handy, and the cry for their father. Hank Austin would come up the steps and, depending on his mood, kick Adam out with a smile or with true irritation. Then Marie would slam the door but not lock it—locked doors weren’t allowed in the Austin house—and when she finally emerged, Adam would look at her and smile. She’d try to keep the anger, she’d try so damn hard, but it always melted. She was not someone who could hold anger.
He sat on the floor and looked at the bed, remembering tossing a football back and forth with her and giving her hell about boys, watching the flush rise in her cheeks as she hotly denied every suggested crush. He’d made a lot of jokes about chaperoning her to dances and sitting behind her at the movies. Protective older brother, that was his role, and he played it so well.
Until the night it mattered.
“Hi,” he told the empty room. Silence answered. Colored lights danced as the candles burned amidst the stained glass. “I’ve got something to tell you. You won’t be happy. It’s bad, Marie, but I’m going to make it right. I promise you that. I’m going to make it right.”
His voice had thickened, and he didn’t like that, so he paused. He wanted a drink, but he would never drink in this room. Never. When he felt steadier he said, “Good news first, okay? Kent won. They’re undefeated. They should have a shot at it, Marie, they really should.”
He always gave updates about Kent, told her the results of every game, and this return to normalcy helped a little. He could breathe easier and his voice was his own.
“All right, then,” he continued. “Let me tell you the rest. Let me tell you what I did, and what I will do to fix it.”
He bowed his head and spoke to the candlelit floor. He toldher all there was to tell, and then he told her that he was sorry, again and always, and he got to his feet and blew out the candles, one at a time. Once the last of the light was extinguished and the room was lost to darkness he slipped out, closed the door behind him, and went to see Rachel Bond’s mother.
12
A DAM HAD IMAGINED THAT the girl with the glitter nail polish had grown up somewhere pretty and safe and secure. When he saw the shitty apartment building, one in which he had two current clients and countless former, he was at first surprised. Then he remembered why she’d come to see him—her father had been in prison for years, her background was not anything that suggested upscale
He lit all the candles now, one at a time. There were thirty-three in the room, from small tea candles to a massive stump-shaped thing that crackled like a wood fire. Initially, he’d debated whether he should light them, knowing they’d burn down eventually and have to be replaced, and he did not want to replace anything that had been sacred to her. But she’d loved to have them lit, loved the flickering glows and the incense mix of smells, and so he decided that was best.
When they were all lit, Adam sat on the floor with his back against the wall, facing the bed, the way he used to on the nights she called him in to talk, or when he simply barged in to pester her. She hated that—hence the sign she’d put on the door—and that made it all the more entertaining for him. If he heard her talking on the phone, he’d beeline for the room, crash through the door, and loudly say the most embarrassing thing he could think of.
Marie, the doctor called to say your toe fungus is contagious.
Marie, you left your training bra in the bathroom.
Marie, Dad’s pissed that you stole his porn again.
Then there’d come the shout of indignant outrage, the thrown shoe or book or whatever was handy, and the cry for their father. Hank Austin would come up the steps and, depending on his mood, kick Adam out with a smile or with true irritation. Then Marie would slam the door but not lock it—locked doors weren’t allowed in the Austin house—and when she finally emerged, Adam would look at her and smile. She’d try to keep the anger, she’d try so damn hard, but it always melted. She was not someone who could hold anger.
He sat on the floor and looked at the bed, remembering tossing a football back and forth with her and giving her hell about boys, watching the flush rise in her cheeks as she hotly denied every suggested crush. He’d made a lot of jokes about chaperoning her to dances and sitting behind her at the movies. Protective older brother, that was his role, and he played it so well.
Until the night it mattered.
“Hi,” he told the empty room. Silence answered. Colored lights danced as the candles burned amidst the stained glass. “I’ve got something to tell you. You won’t be happy. It’s bad, Marie, but I’m going to make it right. I promise you that. I’m going to make it right.”
His voice had thickened, and he didn’t like that, so he paused. He wanted a drink, but he would never drink in this room. Never. When he felt steadier he said, “Good news first, okay? Kent won. They’re undefeated. They should have a shot at it, Marie, they really should.”
He always gave updates about Kent, told her the results of every game, and this return to normalcy helped a little. He could breathe easier and his voice was his own.
“All right, then,” he continued. “Let me tell you the rest. Let me tell you what I did, and what I will do to fix it.”
He bowed his head and spoke to the candlelit floor. He toldher all there was to tell, and then he told her that he was sorry, again and always, and he got to his feet and blew out the candles, one at a time. Once the last of the light was extinguished and the room was lost to darkness he slipped out, closed the door behind him, and went to see Rachel Bond’s mother.
12
A DAM HAD IMAGINED THAT the girl with the glitter nail polish had grown up somewhere pretty and safe and secure. When he saw the shitty apartment building, one in which he had two current clients and countless former, he was at first surprised. Then he remembered why she’d come to see him—her father had been in prison for years, her background was not anything that suggested upscale
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