Forbidden Fruit (10 page)

G
lory did as she promised her mother. Her every waking moment she devoted to being the good girl her mother wanted her to be. She walked instead of ran, prayed instead of sang; she neither laughed too much nor too loudly; she never complained, talked back or expressed a wish that ran counter to her mother's.

The days became weeks. Still, her mother did not ask Mrs. Cooper or Danny back. Still, Glory sometimes awakened in the night to find her mother looking at her in
that way.

At first Glory didn't understand. Then she realized what her mother was up to: she planned Mrs. Cooper's return to be a birthday surprise. So Glory waited eagerly for her eighth birthday to arrive. She counted the days, then the hours. She continued to be the best girl she could be.

Her birthday finally arrived. That morning, she raced down to breakfast, eager to welcome Mrs. Cooper back, eager to see her soft smile and kind blue eyes. Eager to ask about Danny.

Instead, she was greeted by grim Mrs. Greta Hillcrest, the new housekeeper.

Disappointment, so bitter she tasted it, welled up inside her. Turning, Glory ran to her bedroom and locked herself inside.

She threw herself on the bed and cried, cried until she had no more tears. She had been so certain her mother planned to surprise her; she had worked so hard to earn that surprise.

Now she knew the truth.

Her mother would never rehire Mrs. Cooper. Because no matter how hard Glory tried, no matter how much she wanted it, she would never be a good enough girl for her mother. She would never be able to make her happy or proud, she would never be the daughter her mother longed for.

Glory hugged herself hard. She didn't understand what she had done, she didn't know why she always fell short. But she did fall short. And she always would.

Her mother had known that. All along, Glory realized, suddenly angry. Even as she had been making the deal, she had known Glory wouldn't please her. She'd never had any intention of rehiring Mrs. Cooper.

Anger took Glory's breath. Her mother had lied. She had tried to trick Glory. All along, she had known that her daughter would never be a good enough girl to please her.

The anger built inside Glory; it stole her tears, her hurt and disappointment. And it brought her, oddly, a measure of peace.

Much later, Glory gazed at her birthday cake, at the eight flickering candles. Around her, the last chorus of “Happy Birthday” ended and the assembled group burst into applause. For as long as she could remember, every birthday she had wished for the same thing—that her mother would love her.

Not this year, Glory decided defiantly, chest aching with her unshed tears. She would never again waste one of her wishes on her mother.

Taking a deep breath, Glory blew out her candles.

New Orleans

1980

H
e'd had it.
Santos dug his duffel bag off the top shelf of the bedroom closet. He had taken all the paid-for caring, all the phony concern he was going to. He was out of here.

And this time the state wouldn't find him. This time they wouldn't be able to drag him back; they wouldn't be able to force him into another foster home.

In the year and a quarter since his mother's murder, the state had provided him with four foster families. Each family had been a learning experience. The first had taught him not to think—even for a minute—of them as a real family, as his family. He was nothing more than a job for them, a crusade, an income-earning cause.

The second family had taught him not to cry—no matter what was said or done to him, no matter how much he hurt. They taught him that his pain was a private thing, something that mattered only to him. He learned quickly that when he exposed his true feelings, he opened himself to ridicule.

The third family had taught him to expect nothing from other people, not even basic human decency. He had learned nothing from this, his fourth family, because he had no spot left that was vulnerable to such a lesson. He had no hopes, no illusions, no small, secret wishes of love from them. He had closed himself off from his foster family and everyone else, as well.

Consequently, he had been labeled difficult and uncommunicative by the families who had taken him in and by the social workers, his teachers and the school administrators.

Santos fisted his fingers. In a little over a year, he had suffered through the aftermath of his mother's murder, he had lived with four different families in four different areas of the city and had attended four different schools. He had lost all his old friends and made no new ones. His whole life had changed. And yet, he was branded as difficult and sullen. It was just as his buddies had always said, the system sucked.

This time they wouldn't find him.

Santos emptied his drawers and stuffed his meager belongings into his duffel. They wouldn't find him because now he understood where he had gone wrong, the mistake he had made each time he'd run away.

He hadn't run far enough.

He had to leave New Orleans. If he stayed, they would find him, they would drag him back, put him in another home. He couldn't bear another “new” family. He couldn't bear another school, new surroundings, new faces. Not ones that were forced on him. He was sixteen now, practically a man. He could make it on his own.

He had planned his escape carefully. He had saved—a dollar here, a dollar there—fifty-two dollars. He had studied a Louisiana map and decided on Baton Rouge as his destination. It was big enough to disappear in, it was a university town with a lot of kids and was close to New Orleans. A mere ninety or so miles.

Santos hadn't forgotten his vow to find his mother's killer. As soon as he was old enough to be beyond the state's grasp, he would return to New Orleans and make good on that vow.

His mother.

A catch in his chest, he fished a small jewelry box out of the back of his desk drawer, leaving behind the school supplies he would have no need for now. He opened the box and drew out the earrings, made of colored glass beads.

Carefully, almost reverently, Santos trailed the earrings across his palm. Inexpensive, more than a little gaudy, his mother had loved these earrings. “Austrian crystal,” he could hear her telling him the day she had bought them. He remembered her laughing as she clipped them on. They had almost brushed her shoulders, they were so long. She'd called them shoulder dusters. With his mind's eye, he could see her wearing them, see how they caught the light when she moved, sparkling like colored diamonds.

The memory was at once sweet and painful, and he laid the earrings back onto their bed of cotton, then tucked the box with the rest of his things into his duffel. He began to zip the bag, then thinking better of it, retrieved the box and slipped it into one of the front pockets of his jeans. The earrings would be safer there.

His mother had had nothing of monetary value, but these earrings meant more to him than a thousand real diamonds. He couldn't bear to lose them.

He finished zipping his bag, then took one last glance around the room that had never felt like his. He had no regrets, he thought. Not about leaving this family without a goodbye, not about sneaking out in the middle of the night or about the twenty dollars he had borrowed from the coffee can in the pantry. This family would not be sorry he had gone, and as for the money, he would return it when he could.

Santos crossed to the window and carefully slid it open. After checking below, he tossed out his bag, then headed out into the night.

 

Thirty minutes later, Santos climbed into the front passenger seat of an almost-new Chevy van. “Thanks, man,” he said to the driver who had picked him up. He rubbed his hands together in front of the heater vent. “I was afraid I was going to freeze before I got a lift.”

“Glad to help.” The guy smiled and held out a hand. “I'm Rick.”

Santos shook his hand, though it made him feel strange. “I'm Victor.”

“Good to know you.” Rick slipped the van into gear and eased back into traffic. “Where are you heading, Victor?”

“Baton Rouge. My grandmother's in the hospital.” Santos leaned toward the vent and rush of warm air again. “She's in pretty bad shape.”

“Sorry to hear that. But you're in luck—” he flashed Santos a smile “—I'm heading back to L.S.U. I can take you all the way in.”

He was on his way.
Santos smiled. “Great. I really didn't want to go back out in that cold.”

“I've got a thermos of coffee in back, if you want some.”

“No, thanks. I can't stand the stuff.” Santos glanced around the interior of the car. It looked even newer from the inside than it had from the outside. There wasn't even a parking or inspection sticker on the windshield. “How long have you been at L.S.U.?”

Rick glanced at him, then back at the road. “I'm graduating this year. In psychology. I'm going to have a ‘doctor' in front of my name.”

Santos thought of what his mother had said about staying in school, and experienced a pang of regret. And guilt. He hadn't kept that promise to her. Or any of the others, either.

He pushed the regret away, though not without effort. “What does a doctor of psychology do?”

“Works on people's heads for a living. You know, help nut cases work out their problems. We studied all sorts of abnormal shit. You wouldn't believe some of it, Victor. Unfucking-believable.”

He doubted that. Santos pictured his mother's face, twisted in death. He swallowed hard. He had a feeling he would believe it all.

“I'm kind of tired,” Santos said. “You mind if we don't talk for a while?”

“No problem.” Rick flashed him a smile. “You look wasted. If you need to crash, have at it. I promise I won't fall asleep at the wheel.”

Santos glanced at the guy, finding something about him disturbing. Something about the man affected him like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Thanks, but I'm okay.”

Rick shrugged. “Suit yourself. We've got a couple-hour trip ahead of us.” He flipped on the radio, playing with the dial until he found a station he liked. Suddenly, the Rolling Stones' classic “Satisfaction” filled the quiet.

Santos leaned back in his seat and gazed out the window, watching the traffic, scarce though it was this time of night, gazing at the eerily dark buildings they passed.

Seconds became minutes as the van ate up the interstate. Relaxation crept up on him; his limbs and head grew heavy, his head lolled back against the seat. It felt as if his muscles were loosening for the first time in a year. It felt good.

Santos drew in a deep, even breath, lulled by the rhythm of the van and the highway. This time they wouldn't find him, he thought sleepily. This time they wouldn't be able to drag him back. And when he was older, he promised silently, when he was safe from their reach, he would come back and find his mother's killer.

Santos awakened with a start. As he often did, he had been dreaming of his mother. And of Tina. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and found that he was sweating. In the dream, both women had been crying out for his help. He had tried to reach them in time, but he had been too late. Both had slipped through his fingers, falling into a great, dark chasm he had known was death.

The van hit a rut or pothole and lurched sideways, and Santos came fully awake. He blinked and looked around, disoriented and confused.

“Welcome back, man.”

Santos smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I had no intention of dozing off.” He caught a yawn. “How long was I out?”

“Not long. Thirty minutes.”

It felt longer, Santos thought, rolling his cramped shoulders and neck. A lot longer. He ached as if he had been sleeping hard for a long time.

He glanced out the window. They appeared to be on a deserted country road. He frowned, a prickle of unease moving up his spine.
Something about this ride felt wrong.

He shook his head, hoping to clear the sleep from his brain. “Where are we?”

“On River Road. Near Vacherie.”

“River Road,” Santos repeated. He had studied the map, had planned his route. Baton Rouge was a straight shot from New Orleans—Interstate 10 west all the way.

Why were they on River Road?

As if reading his thoughts, Rick said, “A chemical truck overturned on the spillway. They've got the whole damn bridge closed down. I figured we could take River Road clear to Baton Rouge.”

Santos struggled to recall if River Road went to Baton Rouge. He couldn't even picture it on the map.

“Ever visited any of the old plantation homes, Victor?” Santos shook his head, and Rick continued, “They're located all along River Road, and they're really something. Back then, they needed the river for everything, their supplies, to ship out their crops, for travel. You should go see one someday.”

Santos rubbed his forehead. How could he have fallen asleep? he berated himself. How could he have been so stupid? So trusting and naive? “Won't River Road take us a lot longer?”

“Not longer than sitting in traffic, waiting for a chemical spill to be cleared away. I don't know about you, but I don't want to chance breathing in any of that shit.”

“Good thinking,” Santos murmured, willing away his unease. Rick was an okay guy, he told himself. Taking River Road sounded like a sensible idea.

Then why couldn't he shake the feeling that something was wrong?

“You okay, Victor?” Rick looked at him in concern. “You look a little pale.”

“I'm fine.” Santos inched a fraction closer to his door. “Just tired.”

Rick began to talk, telling Santos more about L.S.U. and psychology. Every so often, Rick questioned Santos about his life and his family, and each time Santos steered the conversation away from himself and back to Rick.

And as the other man talked, Santos kept repeating to himself that Rick was okay, that the ride was cool.

But he didn't believe his own assurances. Something
felt
wrong. Santos couldn't put his finger on it, but whatever it was lay heavily in the pit of his gut, warning him to get the hell away.

“You can be straight with me,” Rick was saying. “Your grandmother's not really sick, is she? There's no one waiting for you. No one in the world.”

Santos looked at the man, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. Rick took his gaze from the road and smiled at him, an open, friendly, you-can-trust-me smile.

People weren't always what they appeared to be.

The last year had taught him that lesson. Big time. Santos worked to look totally surprised—even a little indignant—at Rick's comment. “Of course, my grandmother's sick. She's very sick. And she's waiting for me.” He shook his head. “Why did you say that?”

“Look,” Rick said, handling the van effortlessly, hardly looking at the winding road, “I've been around. A kid like you, your age, out alone this time of night. It doesn't add up. You're on your own, aren't you?”

Without waiting for Victor to reply, he added, “I could help you. Give you a place to stay for a while, whatever.”

“But why would you? I'm nobody to you.”

“Because I've been where you are now, Victor. I know how tough it is. Believe me, it's a lot tougher than you can even imagine.”

A part of Santos wanted to capitulate, to come clean and accept Rick's help. The guy's offer sounded so sincere, so inviting. But another part, the cautious part, the part that had learned more about people and their real motives than he had ever wanted to, didn't believe the man's offer was anything but a lie. Or a trick. People didn't help other people for no reason.