Drowning Is Inevitable (6 page)

“Jamie,” I whispered.

Jamie turned to me, and his eyes softened. I think he'd forgotten I was there.

“I think you should go home,” he said.

I did, too, but Mr. Benton was between me and the door.

“Now why would she do that?” Mr. Benton asked. “It looked to me like the party was just getting started.”

I heard the slur in his voice now.

He knocked Mrs. Benton's hands off his chest and turned the music back on. “Y'all wanted to dance, so dance.”

“I don't feel like dancing anymore,” Mrs. Benton whispered.

He ignored her and turned the music up. She attempted to step away from him, but he grabbed her. “I don't remember asking you what you wanted to do.” He shoved her toward the center of the room, and she stumbled. Jamie caught her.

“You wanted to dance in the kitchen with your boy. So carry on.”

He turned to look at me. “You can finish cooking supper. I'm starving.”

Jamie and his mom held hands but stayed still.

“That's not dancing,” Mr. Benton bellowed. He went to the shelf and pulled down a bottle. “Come on now. You have to move to dance.” He took a glass off the shelf and poured himself a drink. “Don't make me tell you again.”

They swayed awkwardly, and my hands started sweating.

“The food's not going to cook itself,” Mr. Benton said to me.

I faced the stove and turned the heat down. My fingers shook. I picked up the dough cutter and finished cutting the strips Mrs. Benton had been working on.

“I'm sorry,” Mrs. Benton said as she tripped on Jamie's feet. Her voice trembled.

Mr. Benton sat at the table and watched them. “Isn't that sweet?” he asked.

It took me a second to realize he was talking to me.

“Don't you think? Isn't that just the sweetest thing you've ever seen?”

The way he said
sweet
made my stomach hurt. He was looking at me expectantly, so I nodded.

He knocked his drink back and slammed the glass on the table. “It's my turn.” He stood and pulled Mrs. Benton from Jamie. “When's the last time we danced? Hmm?”

“I—I don't know.”

Jamie stepped back but didn't take his eyes from his mom's face. Mr. Benton pulled her in close and squeezed her tight. She grimaced, and he loosened his hold. He hummed and stroked her hair.

“Why are you always crying?” he asked her. He wiped a tear from her face with his thumb. “Every goddamned time I look at you, you're crying. Do you know how that makes me feel?” He looked offended and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Do you?” He shook her, and Jamie tensed.

She didn't say anything. He pushed her away from him. “Go clean up your face.”

She didn't move.

“Go!” he yelled.

She turned and left the room. For a few seconds I didn't know what to do, so I just stared at the doorway she'd left through. Mr. Benton read my mind.

“Do you know what you're doing over there?” he asked. “Did Ms. Josephine teach you how to cook?”

I nodded.

“You're not talking tonight?”

“Y-yes,” I said. “She taught me how to cook.”

“Then prove it,” he said.

“She's going home,” Jamie said. “I'll finish cooking.”

“Don't tell me what she's going to do. I decide who does what in this house. But you can finish supper.” He smiled at me. “I'm not done dancing.” He grabbed me and pulled me to him roughly.

“You've grown up pretty.”

His hands moved to the small of my back, and I tasted bile in my throat. He was nothing like the man I used to know. His eyes were bloodshot. His skin hung loose, like he was wearing an ill-fitting Mr. Benton suit.

“You don't come around much anymore,” he said. “You used to be over here all the time.”

“Leave her alone,” Jamie said.

I pushed against Mr. Benton's chest. “I'm really not in the mood to dance.”

Mr. Benton ignored both of us. “You're almost as pretty as your mama,” he said. “That Lillian was a looker. She never looked my way, though. Thought she was too good for me.” His arms tightened around me. “Are you like your mama? You think you're too good? That why you stopped coming over?”

Jamie grabbed my arm and wrenched me free, shoving his dad back. “Don't touch her again,” he said.

Mr. Benton stumbled, his speech really slurring now. “Oh, you're protective of her.” He chuckled and righted himself. “Sorry, I didn't realize she was your girl. Wait, but she's not your girl. She goes with that Barrow kid. You twist yourself up for a girl that's not even yours? You know her mama was crazy, don't you?”

My face burned.

“And her grandmother is batshit crazy too.” His voice got louder with every word he spoke. “You're wasting your time on a screwed-up girl that's not even yours. You're just as stupid as your mama!”

Mr. Benton was so caught up in his rant that he missed his warning. I didn't. I saw in Jamie's eyes the exact moment he changed.

“I hate you,” Jamie said.

“What?”

“I said I hate you.”

It was the quiet way Jamie said it that scared me most.

“I hate your guts, and I wish you were dead.” Then he charged, and his hands wrapped around his dad's throat.

They scuttled backward, bumping into the table. “You're so stupid.” He spit the words in his dad's face. “You're the meanest piece of shit in this town. We all wish you were dead.” He squeezed his hands tighter around his dad's throat. “You're never going to touch her again.”

He wasn't talking about me anymore. “Do you hear me? Tonight was the last time you push her, or hit her, or scare her. Never. Again.” With each word, his fingers tightened around his dad's throat.

“Jamie, stop!” I pleaded.

He ignored me. Mr. Benton's drunken state put him at a disadvantage, and he couldn't pry Jamie's fingers loose. He opened his mouth wide, his hands slapping at Jamie's body.

“Jamie, let him go. Let's just go,” I said.

“Jamie?” Mrs. Benton came in the kitchen. “What are you doing? Stop it! Let him go!”

Jamie looked over at his mom, and Mr. Benton took advantage of his distraction to get out of his hold. He was breathing heavily and rubbing his throat.

“You think just because you're eighteen you're a man now?” he huffed. “This is my house!”

Mrs. Benton ran to Jamie's dad, putting her hands on his chest again. It was the wrong thing to do. He shoved her, then drew his hand back and brought it down hard. The force of it knocked her to the floor.

“You're always in the way,” he said, stepping over her.

“You're going to regret that,” said Jamie.

Mr. Benton laughed and started moving toward Jamie. “You're gonna regret putting your hands on me.”

Jamie pulled a knife from the block on the counter. “Stay away from me. Get out of here. Go be a stupid drunk somewhere else.”

Mr. Benton didn't listen. He lunged for Jamie. Jamie's mom screamed from the floor, reaching for them. Mr. Benton pushed Jamie back against the counter, trying to knock the knife out of his hand. They were grunting, and I saw flashes of the knife and then blood. I started praying again, this time my plea:
Jamie, Jamie, Jamie!

“Stop!” I screamed.

They didn't listen. I grabbed the handle of the skillet, lifted it, and swung. It bounced off the back of Mr. Benton's head. I felt the reverberations down to my elbows.

“Stop!” I screamed again.

Mr. Benton stopped. The whole world stopped.

He slumped to the side. Then Jamie pushed him, hard. He fell, his temple smacking against the corner of the countertop with an audible crack. He collapsed to the floor, blood slowly seeping out onto the white linoleum—too much blood to be coming from the tiny tear in his skin on his scalp, and I remembered what my grandmother said about head wounds. Then I saw the knife sticking out of his stomach, only the handle visible.

“Tom!” Mrs. Benton scrambled across the floor to him, her face a picture of horror. “Oh my God.” She took his face in her hands. “Tom?” She looked down at the knife, then patted his face. “You're okay. You're okay.”

But he wasn't. He was on his back, unconscious, his blood spreading in all directions.

She cradled his head in her lap. “You're okay.” She rocked him. “Oh my God, my God, my God,” she prayed over him. “Call nine-one-one!”

Jamie dropped to his knees and leaned over his dad. He was praying now, too. “My God, my God,” he said. He was sweating, and his hands and shirt were covered in his dad's blood—blood I was now standing in. It was seeping toward the cabinets, picking up dirt and tiny bugs. Jamie's hand went to the knife.

“Don't pull it out!” I yelled. “He'll bleed more.”

“Call nine-one-one!” Mrs. Benton repeated.

But Jamie didn't call anyone. He stared at his dad's face, then stood and stared at me. “Jamie?”

He turned and shot out the back door, the screen door bouncing off the jamb.

“Call nine-one-one!” Mrs. Benton begged.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and chased Jamie out of the kitchen. My head and movements felt funny, like I was moving underwater.

“Jamie!” I yelled.

He was running into the woods behind our houses, the white of his shirt flashing through the branches of the trees.

I ran after him. “Jamie, stop!”

I sprinted, pushing through the brush, the tiny branches clawing at my body, scratching my legs, pulling at my hair. My skin burned. I'd never catch him. A branch slapped me in the face, and I felt my skin rip, my eyes tearing.

“Please!” I begged, my voice loud in the night.

“Please stop!”

He stopped suddenly and whirled around. I crashed into him, knocking us both to the ground. I saw stars. I scrambled to sit up and grabbed him, scared he was going to take off again. We stared at each other, our breathing loud, Jamie's eyes wild. He tried to pull away from me, and I tightened my hold, the blood smearing between us, making it hard to get a good grip.

“No. Stay with me. Stay with me.”

“I have to get out of here.”

“We have to get your dad help. He's hurt. Bad.”

Jamie shook his head. “No.” He pushed himself up.

“We'll tell them he was hurting you. I hit him to try and stop him. He attacked you.”

“I had the knife. I attacked him first. They won't understand.” He was crying. “There are things you don't know.”

“I meant what I promised the other day,” I said. “I won't let anything bad happen to you.”

“Then get me out of here.”

I knew leaving was the wrong thing to do, but I'd do anything to protect the boy who always defended me.

“Okay,” I said.

We snuck back to the edge of our yards.

“Stay here,” I said.

I left him in the cover of the trees and sprinted to my grandmother's house. I ripped open the front door, deciding not to stop until I got to my mom's room. The back door was open, and I heard the creaking of my grandmother's rocker.

“Lillian? You're home early,” she said.

I grabbed my backpack and started frantically shoving clothes inside. My hands were shaking; my entire body was shaking.

“Yeah, I just came back to grab something,” I yelled to her, the trembling in my voice now.

Beth Hunter's letters were spread on the bed from earlier. I didn't want my grandmother to read them. I stuffed them back in my mom's shoebox and shoved it down into my bag. I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note saying I was taking a trip and not to worry. The bloody prints on the letter contradicted my words. I promised I'd be back before my birthday. I didn't know if I was lying. I almost signed my name, but knowing that'd upset her, I signed Lillian instead.

I heard my grandmother coming down the hall. “What did you forget?” she asked.

My breath was coming too fast, and my chest hurt. I left the note on the pillow and darted to the window, lifted it, and dropped down to the ground. I ran back to Jamie.

He hadn't moved. My relief at finding him still sitting there made me realize I'd thought he might not be.

“Let's go. We have to leave now.”

He didn't respond, not even a blink.

“Jamie?” I squatted down next to him. In the time it had taken me to get a bag and come back, there was already less of him. He was shutting in on himself, disappearing right in front of me.

Sirens sounded in the distance. I didn't know if it was an ambulance or the police. I grabbed him frantically. “Come on. We have to run. Jamie!” Just like that night I kicked and clawed myself out of Max's truck, I felt a surge of power course through my veins. I might be able to pick him up and carry him. It wasn't necessary, though, because at my yell he came to and stood on his own.

“We have to go.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him along.

We ran. White-knuckling my phone, I called Max. He answered on the third ring.

“Hey,” he said. He sounded out of breath.

“I need you. Where are you?”

“Magnolia's. What's wrong?”

“I'm with Jamie. We're almost at Ferdinand Street. Can you come get us?”

“I'm on my way.”

The line went dead.

I squeezed Jamie's hand. “He's coming.”

We were standing at the corner of Ferdinand Street when Max's truck came careening around the corner. It skidded to a stop, and Max jumped out. One of his eyes was swollen, and his clothes and hair were disheveled. Maggie was with him.

“I was at Magnolia's when you called, and Max said you sounded … ,” she said, her mouth opening, her words dying.

“Holy shit,” Max said. He looked from me to Jamie, at our held hands, at all the blood. “What happened?”