As Night Falls (3 page)

A car sped by, braking hard when the stoplight flashed red.

Nick and Harlan weren't ready for it. They weren't quite there yet; maybe five or six more cones to go. Nick juggled possibilities. He could speed up to ensure they made the next red—although getting Harlan to move faster was like shoving water—but if a car wasn't there for that light change, then they would have to change course and find a way to stall. Nick supposed they could literally reverse, walk back up the road and make sure their cones formed the nice, smooth curve the guard had asked for. But even though Nick tended to like things tidy since his I'm-a-changed-man conversion inside, straightening cones at a work site might look a bit suspicious.

On the opposite side of the bridge, Old-School and the other inmate were moving slowly, enjoying their freedom. Nick focused so hard, it felt like a string was about to snap in his head. He tried to match Old-School and the other inmate's pace.

The light switched to green, and the waiting car drove off.

Nick eased a cone out of Harlan's arms, lining it up with the one that'd come before.

The guard reached Nick and Harlan's side of the bridge, nodding at them and pivoting before crossing back over the creek that swelled beneath.

No car.

The long, waving road was empty.

Everything inside Nick seized up. His lungs felt like a solid mass of concrete, his veins a web of cement. The thick orange rubber of the cone buckled in his grip.

And then, as if he'd willed them into existence, two cars appeared over the rise.

Nick kept his gaze aimed down. If either driver saw him as they passed, they would read the glee in his eyes. Everything always worked out for Nick. Things fell into place where he was concerned as if they'd been ordained, as if
he'd
been ordained.

Harlan was regarding both vehicles with interest. Did Harlan remember what they were doing here? That would be something—Harlan's memory was usually for shit. For a second it occurred to Nick to wonder whether Harlan even wanted to live on the outs. Or could he just not stand to go back inside if Nick wasn't there? Nick needed Harlan for obvious reasons. His size, his ability to intimidate. But in a way, Harlan seemed to need him, too. The awareness gave Nick a strange feeling; that and the presence of the cars made him send Harlan a brief, approving nod.

Harlan's broad brow creased.

Nick drew as close as he dared to the temporary light. It was a metal thing on stalks, like some kind of massive heron or stork.

Harlan trudged over beside him, his shoes throwing up clods of dirt.

Nick stooped to set a cone down, at the same time taking a quick glance through the window of the first car. Its driver was young, his head bobbing back and forth, although Nick couldn't hear any music playing.

Perfect.

A teenager who didn't know anything, and would be overpowered in a cinch.

The light hadn't changed—by Nick's mental timer, it still had forty-five seconds to go—but the kid was already pulling forward, like choking up on a bat. He was trying to shave seconds off his waiting time without having any idea what that would do to Nick.

Then the kid turned his head sideways, and his eyes caught Nick's.

The guard began making his return trip over the bridge. His usual militaristic march had come back, firm and in control. “Jesus,” he said as he drew near. “He looks even bigger out in the open, don't he?”

Harlan's cheeks stained red, a wide swath of terrain. His golf ball–sized Adam's apple gave a jump, propelled by a rumble too low to hear.

The second car—a big, fancy SUV—remained in place, not rolling forward like the other one. Through the windshield, Nick spied a lone female driver, looking down, studying her nails.

The light was going to go green in thirty seconds.

The kid's impatience could be an asset: he would be gone by the time Nick forced the woman in the second car to drive off.

Nick started to assemble a smile for the guard. “Yessir.”

The guard aimed a crisp gaze at him. “Don't ‘sir' me,” he said, that earlier hum of nerves erased from his voice.

Nick crushed his smile.

Twenty-five seconds.

The light glowed like a ruddy burn, SUV stalled just before it, first car already moving on. Lucky there were no traffic cops out here, Nick thought, quashing another grin. He hoped the kid did jump the red.

Old-School crossed back over the bridge, coming up behind them. “We all done on our half of the bridge. Want us to get started here?”

The guard rotated slowly. “You questioning my instructions?”

“No, I am not,” Old-School said, standing there in his dignified way.

The other inmate walked across the bridge, joining them.

The guard let out a scoff of dismissal. “Back on the bus. You two—” He swung around in Nick and Harlan's direction. “—finish up this section. And make it fast.”

Old-School let the other inmate head off first.

The SUV inched forward, readying itself for the light change.

S
andy didn't recognize the SUV that had pulled up in their drive. She tried to get a glimpse inside, but couldn't see through the tinted windows. She wasn't even sure whether it was a girl at the wheel, or a boy. She made a mental note to ask Ivy later who her chauffeur had been.

The passenger door nudged open a few more notches—they made them so heavy these days, and designed to swing back—and Sandy watched her daughter climb out.

Ivy had an August birthday and thus was the youngest in her class. Most of her classmates had begun driving already. Sandy and Ben had discussed the idea of keeping Ivy out of her friends' cars, but it proved contentious. The kids were moving on, entering that fuzzy realm between childhood and maturity, and holding Ivy back would only make her rebel. It wasn't her fault that she was fifteen to everyone else's sixteen or seventeen.

Whoever the friend had been began to execute a careful exit, taking the SUV around the half-moon of gravel, then driving off at a reasonable pace.

Sandy watched her daughter flounce up the wide stone steps, newly rounded hips twitching. Probably a boy in the car, then. Mac stepped forward and Ivy graced him with a pat. Mac panted, his tongue lolling out, and Ivy pinched the tiny bud of her nose. How pretty her daughter had become—transformed from merely cute—seemingly overnight.

“Your breath stinks, Mackie,” Ivy said.

The dog's regal shoulders sloped. He turned around in a circle, sticking close to Ivy. Sandy reached out and touched Ivy's arm as the girl went by. Ivy glanced back in passing.

“No hello?” Sandy asked lightly.

“Hello,” Ivy said.

These days, her daughter could make obedience sound like defiance.

Sandy made sure the porch lantern was turned on against the waning light. How had the rest of the afternoon slipped away? Not only Ivy: Ben too was late today.

Sandy drew the front door shut, listening for the catch of the handle—firm, somehow reassuring, although of course nobody locked their doors way out here—then looked over her shoulder. Ivy had already disappeared into the house.

Banging in the kitchen beckoned. Sandy followed the sounds to the center island, where Ivy was arranging a motley array of condiments: mayonnaise, mustard, something spicy in a jar that had probably expired months ago.

“I made dinner,” Sandy informed her daughter. “Spaghetti and tomato sauce. No meat.”

Ivy slapped two pieces of bread onto the bare counter and added cheese.

Here's where you say,
But you prefer Bolognese, Mom,
and I reply,
It's no problem, I'm happy to accommodate.
Sandy went on, conversing with Ivy in her head, which is where the two of them seemed to have their best discussions these days, when she realized that Ivy had also placed a piece of paper down on the counter, a greasy slick of mayo now staining it.

Sandy looked while Ivy raised her sloppy sandwich to her mouth and took a bite.

The paper on display appeared to be a history test, although it was hard to tell from all the stark red slashes across it. Three of those slashes made things clearer, though.

“An F, Ive?” Sandy said, truly shocked.

Ivy shrugged. She took another bite.

Mac lowered himself down beside Ivy's feet, ignoring a comet trail of crumbs on the floor. They'd worked hard to train him not to scavenge, not that Mac had put up much of a fight. Their dog didn't really fight about anything. Sandy watched her daughter rip off a clump of crust from her sandwich, dangle it by her fingers, then drop it deliberately. Mac hesitated before tonguing up the tidbit, swallowing with a grateful gulp.

Never mind, Mackie,
Sandy thought, upon seeing his remorseful glance
. In a war of wills with a teenage girl, even a dog can't win.

She found room on Ivy's test to sign, then took one of her daughter's hands off the sandwich and folded the page into it. It was a treat to touch Ivy, even like this. “Why don't you put this away?” Sandy said. “We can tell Dad about it some other time.”

Ivy stowed the paper in her knapsack. When she straightened up, she was looking at Sandy. “That's it?”

“What do you mean, ‘that's it'?” Sandy echoed.

Ivy glared at her.

Sandy blinked. “Ivy, look, I signed your test. I'm not punishing you. I'm not even insisting we tell Dad yet and you're—”

Ivy spoke over her. “Are we ever going to tell him?”

“What?”

Ivy shoved the remainder of her snack into her mouth, speaking in a garble. “You heard me. Are we ever going to tell Dad? About my test?”

Sandy sighed. “Why are you doing this? It's like you're looking for trouble.” It occurred to Sandy that that wasn't exactly the right explanation. But, like reaching for an object in the dark, she couldn't quite grasp what was correct either.

Ivy wiped her hands off on her jeans, which clung in a way her clothes never used to.

“You know why,” she said.

Sandy shook her head. “I really don't.”

Ivy stared at her.

Sandy knew better than to engage in a blinking contest with a fifteen-year-old. She turned to busy herself with kitchen tasks, speaking over her shoulder.

“Look, honey, why don't you finish your homework? Then you'll be ready to come down and sit with us at dinner, even if you're not hungry.”

Ivy picked up her knapsack. As she headed toward the kitchen archway, she turned back and said, “Who said I wouldn't be hungry?”

Sandy took this as the peace offering it seemed to be. “Well, good. I made a salad, too. All the vegetables you could want tonight.”

“Did you get the dressing I like? That really good kind, with basil?”

Sandy nodded. “Mmm, and the sesame. I love it, too.”

For a moment, they traded smiles, and it was like having the old Ivy back. The one who'd been so interwoven into Sandy's days that for a long time she had worried Ivy would never find her own independent sense of self. Ivy had already turned eleven—a tween, especially by the standards of her older friends—when they'd begun to rehab their old house in town with the help of a local historic restoration specialist. Ivy had been as interested in the wallpaper swatches and discussion of finishes as Sandy herself. She'd foregone birthday parties, and trips downstate with her best friend, to join Sandy at the lumberyard, pricing scallops and gingerbread trim.

Then they'd gone and sold that house, and now Sandy had the uneasy sense, like the first twinges of a coming illness, that she and Ivy had lost something far more precious. Not just a piece of her childhood, but the whole loving tenor of it.

“Mom?” Ivy said.

Sandy nodded, bearing down so as to be able to face whatever Ivy was about to bring up—her grades, school, the move maybe. Sandy would confront whatever it was with honesty instead of parental sleight of hand. “Yes, honey?”

“Would it be too big of a hassle for you to make garlic bread tonight?”

Sandy bit her bottom lip, masking a smile. “Already on it.”

“Oh good.” Ivy walked through the archway, Mac at her heels. “It fills me up a lot more than just plain pasta.”

Sandy felt like she'd been given a governor's pardon. She suppressed the urge to offer one final homework reminder, unwilling to disturb this jumpy, fragile rapprochement, like the first skin on a mold. But she knew how annoyed Ben would be if Ivy's homework wasn't started by the time he got home. Her husband was the ultimate worker ant, believing nothing should be done later that could be tackled now.

“I'll heat up a whole loaf,” Sandy said, then added, “but go do your homework, okay?”

“I don't have any.”

Sandy had begun searching the depths of the mammoth fridge for butter; now she lifted her head. “You sure? Because this would be the first time since middle school that you didn't.”

“I did it with Cory,” Ivy said. “The guy who brought me home.”

“Ivy—” Sandy knew Ivy was lying, but she had no idea why. First the test, now this. Although her daughter's grades had dipped a bit this year, it hadn't been that big a deal because Ivy had started out so high, with a 4.5 GPA in mostly honors and AP's. But that Ivy was shape-shifting lately, morphing from one creature into another mysterious, unknowable one.

“What?” her daughter said, brazenly. “You want to check? Look through my things?”

Fights with Ivy never fully went out these days. They were like a fire whose bed of embers always lay ready to spark. Sandy's patients had shared stories of their own teenagers, so she knew that this was normal. But that didn't make it any more enjoyable, especially for someone who had always craved peace, built her entire family around it.

“What I
want,
” Sandy said, moving a little closer to her daughter, “is for you to go upstairs, finish your homework, then come down and join Dad and me for dinner. What I want is for us all to have a nice meal. What I want—”

A flicker of emotion changed the set of Ivy's mouth. “Are you calling me a liar?” she cut in.

“No,” Sandy said. “I'm not. I'm just saying that I'm pretty sure you do have homework. I have no idea why you would say that you didn't.”

“Good,” Ivy replied, and at first the reply sounded nonsensical. “Because you're the liar.”

The accusation hit Sandy like a club. “What?” She stepped forward, surprised when Ivy shrank. “What are you talking about? When have I ever lied to you?”

Suddenly, shockingly, Ivy was crying. She swiped at her face, transferring a beige smear of mustard from her hand to her cheek so that her face was for a moment that of the little girl she had been, oh, five minutes ago.

“I don't know, Mom,” Ivy said, and sniffled.

Sandy took another step, thinking to comfort her daughter, but Ivy turned away. All the pepper and posturing of a teenager was gone, replaced by a child's despondent shuffle. Mac matched Ivy's pace out of the room.

At the border between the dining and living areas of the big, open space beside the kitchen, they both paused.

Sandy looked down. Mac was watching her with one dark, trembly eye and one bright blue one.

“I don't know when or why or what you're lying about, Mom.” Ivy took in a breath deep enough to make her chest swell. “I just know that you are.”