Authors: j. leigh bailey
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The back of his neck was burning and the rooftop he was standing on was hot enough to melt the soles of his work boots. Brad wiped a drop of sweat away from his eye. They’d finished the job at the Bay Street house, even after having to redo the main room, and now they were working on re-shingling a two-story house on the other side of town. The labor, especially in the intense heat, was grueling.
They’d all long since discarded their shirts as they pulled away old shingles with the clawed end of a hammer and a flat pry-bar. If it weren’t for the work gloves, Brad’s grip would have slipped off the hammer’s handle a dozen times over. As it was, the sweat and the heat turned the gloves into saunas for his hands.
He stopped to take a swig from the water bottle tucked into his tool belt. The water was hot, but at least it was wet, so it took the edge off his thirst. There was no way he was drinking as much liquid as he was sweating off, but he didn’t think he was near dehydration. Chuy, the crew chief for this jobsite, had them off the roof at regular intervals to get something to drink and to apply sunscreen. Despite the SPF 30, he’d be roasted red by the end of the day.
“What I wouldn’t give for some cloud coverage,” Danny said, reaching for his own nearly empty bottle of water.
“Or a smaller house.”
This roof had a ton of damaged and curling tiles, which meant they were replacing them all. The forecast called for heavy rain the next day, so they had a lot of work to get done in a short window of time. Brad and Danny were on the east side of the house working on one steep slope while Ray and Chuy were on the other.
Brad put the water bottle back into his tool belt and braced himself on the roof. Sliding the pry-bar along the seam of a shingle tile, he lifted until the first nail popped partially out. Then, using the claw of his hammer, he pulled it free. He repeated this process for the other three nails and tugged the shingle loose, sliding it down the roof where it fell to the ground to be picked up and disposed of later.
He had a rhythm going—
pry
,
pull
,
pry
,
pull
,
pry
,
pull
,
pry
,
pull
,
toss.
He repeated the refrain as he worked, until his head was full of
pry
,
pull
,
pry
,
pull
,
toss.
It helped keep him from constantly watching the clock or obsessing about how little time had actually passed. It became an almost trancelike state.
Pry
,
pull
,
pry
,
pull...
It was too hot, too miserable for conversation, so it was easy for his mind to wander.
He barely noticed when a form blocked the sun. “Hey, it’s break time.” Danny looked down at him, bare chest glistening in the sun, tool belt slung low on his hips.
“Damn, you’re sexy,” Brad said before he realized the words were even in his head.
A look of shock replaced Danny’s quick grin. Danny reared back, a neon-orange substance splattered on his chest. His heel caught the edge of Brad’s work boot and Danny tilted backward, arms flailing.
“Danny!” Brad jumped forward, reaching for Danny’s arm. The second swipe of his arm connected, their fingers touching. Brad grabbed hold as best he could, but the grip—fingers curled around fingers—wasn’t secure enough. The momentum of Danny’s fall pulled Brad down with him. Brad dug his heels into the worthless shingles, trying to slow the slide toward the edge of the roof.
He twisted to land on his back. His elbow hit the roof. The nerves in his arm went numb and his hand lost its grip on Danny’s. He watched in horror as Danny tumbled to the edge, his hands clawing for purchase. The gutter along the edge didn’t slow his descent at all as it ripped free. And Danny was gone.
Dimly Brad heard the shouts of the rest of the crew, orders to call 911 and “don’t move him.” He scrambled to his feet and ran as best he could to the nearest ladder. By the time he reached the grass, his whole body shook and pain throbbed in his arm. He searched frantically for Danny and found him surrounded by the crew. On shaky legs, Brad pushed his way to the center of the group to see him.
Next to the twelve-yard waste container where they disposed of old shingles, Danny lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed and his right arm resting at an odd angle along his side. Nausea surged in Brad’s stomach. He could see the edge of the arm bone pushing at the tan skin. “Oh my God.”
“Come on, Danny. Wake up. Open your eyes.” Ray had crouched next to Danny’s still form. His eyes met Brad’s. “He—” Ray stopped to swallow, “—his arm hit the Dumpster on the way down. He hit his head. I don’t—I don’t know—” He stopped talking when Chuy strode to them from the work truck.
“I called 911,” Chuy said. “They should be here any second. They said don’t move him in case there’s spine or neck damage.”
Brad blanched. Spine or neck damage? Like paralysis? Brad couldn’t stomach the idea of Danny unable to walk, or move, of him being stuck in a wheelchair. Turning his mind away from those horrifying thoughts, Brad pointed to the bright orange mess on Danny’s chest.
His still-moving chest
,
thank God.
“Paint.” Ray pressed his lips together in fury. “From a paint gun.”
“Paint gun? But how? I didn’t see anyone around here, did you? And why would they be shooting a paint gun?”
“I didn’t see anyone,” Chuy agreed, “but I don’t know what else it could be.”
“And, what, somebody just happened to be shooting a paint gun and just happened to hit Danny?”
Sirens wailed in the distance so he tried to relax. The paramedics were here. They’d get Danny to a hospital, patch him up and everything would be fine. Danny would be fine.
Everything that happened after the ambulance arrived was a complete blur for Brad. At some point someone looked at his arm and cleaned and bandaged the scrapes he hadn’t even known were there. Somehow he made it to the hospital with the others, but he didn’t remember the trip. He was pretty sure he hadn’t driven, though.
In his mind he kept reliving the whole thing. It had taken only seconds, but it seemed to have lasted hours. Every time he watched it play out, Brad tried to find some way in which he could have acted that would end up with Danny being okay. But each time Brad was too slow, too clumsy. If his foot hadn’t been angled the way it was, Danny wouldn’t have tripped over it. If he’d reacted faster, he’d have been able to get a secure grip on Danny’s hand and keep him from tumbling over the edge. But every time it happened the same way, with the same results. Except that in his mind, he could see Danny’s eyes while he fell. Those dark, dark eyes, blaming him, accusing him, asking him
why.
Mr. Ortega rushed in only seconds after Brad’s arrival. Five minutes later, Aurora escorted a worried Mrs. Ortega into the lobby. People came and went through the waiting room, offering comfort and coffee. By the time the doctor came out to see Mr. and Mrs. Ortega an hour later, it seemed like the entire Ortega clan and the whole Ortega construction company had congregated there.
Brad wanted to rush forward and demand answers.
Was Danny okay?
How badly was he injured?
Is he conscious yet?
He stayed back, though, to let the family in. Like the others from the construction crew, Brad sat forward in the mint-green chair, trying to hear the doctor’s words. At something the doctor said, Mrs. Ortega slumped and leaned into her husband. Brad clutched at the armrest of the chair.
What did he say?
Mr. Ortega closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “
Gracias a Dios
,” he said.
Something sour and twisted in his stomach loosened. His Spanish wasn’t very good, but he knew enough to understand
thank God.
As soon as the doctor left, the crowd swarmed Mr. and Mrs. Ortega, demanding an update. Brad moved forward too, unable to stay back any longer.
“He will be fine,” Mr. Ortega said. “The doctor says he has a concussion and a broken arm. That is it. Maybe he will have some sore muscles, but there are no other broken bones.”
“Is he awake?”
When everyone turned to look at him, Brad realized it had been he who asked the question.
“He woke for a few minutes—long enough that they are not worried about a coma or brain damage—but they gave him something for the pain, so he’s sleeping.”
Brad crossed his arms over his chest and nodded.
Once the news had been shared, aunts and cousins assured Mr. and Mrs. Ortega they’d take care of feeding the family and watching the kids and anything else that needed to be done while they took care of Danny. Brad had never seen anything like it. It was a broken arm, not a terminal illness, but they rallied the troops all the same, making sure everyone was cared for.
The Ortega family truly was incredible.
Brad had never felt more like an outsider looking in. Even at Norton Academy, it wasn’t this bad. He’d been as out of place, but he hadn’t cared. Now...now he wished, and wishing would break his heart.
He tried to leave the room, though he had no idea how he’d get back to his apartment. Well, the walk would do him good.
“Brad!”
He stopped at Mrs. Ortega’s voice calling his name. She bustled over to him and cupped his shoulders in her small, capable hands. “Forgive us,” she said. “We did not stop to make sure you were okay. You are fine?”
Brad shifted in place, hands curling to pop his knuckles. “No. Please, don’t worry about me. I’ve only got a few scrapes. Danny was hurt. Your attention should be on him.”
“Thank you for helping Danny.”
He stared at her, not understanding. “I didn’t do anything.”
“My Ray, he told us you tried to grab him, to keep him from falling.”
“But I didn’t stop him.”
“Ray told us if you had not grabbed him the way you did, he would have hit the Dumpster with his whole body, not just his arm. You pulled him over enough to avoid that.”
Blood rushed out of his head, and he swayed where he stood. Had it really been that close?
“Do you want to see him? The doctor said a couple of people could stop in for a short time. They are keeping him overnight because of the concussion, but he’ll come home tomorrow.”
He’d have begged for the chance, but the waiting room overflowed with family members hoping to make sure Danny was okay, to see it for themselves. “No,” Brad said, “I’m sure it’s only family allowed and there are others anxious to see him.”
“Nonsense. You are family.” Mrs. Ortega took his hand and led him to the nurse’s station to find out what room Danny was being taken to. Mr. Ortega looked at them and nodded.
The closer they got to Danny’s room, the tighter he gripped Mrs. Ortega’s hand. A small whiteboard sign with
Ortega
written on it hung above the room number. Mrs. Ortega opened the door and gestured for Danny to enter. He searched her gaze and she gave his arm a reassuring pat.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. He’d been afraid Danny would look more battered than he had when the ambulance picked him up. But, if anything, he looked better. His face was pale, and there were dark smudges under his closed eyes, but otherwise, he looked like Danny. Brad approached the bed and traced Danny’s black brow. His skin was warm, vital.
“Get better soon, yeah?” He bent over Danny’s still form and kissed his forehead. “Love you,” he whispered, then turned and walked out of the room.
He didn’t say anything to Mrs. Ortega, but he gave her a big hug and kissed her cheek. “Thank you. You better go in now.”
She patted his arm again. “You’re a good boy, Brad.”
In the waiting room, most of the people had cleared out. Ray, however, waited for him. “Papá asked me to take you home.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can find another way.”
“Nah, it’s cool. Mamá and Papá will stay with Danny. They don’t need me hanging around underfoot.”
“Okay. That’s fine. Thanks.”
The sun was still blazing overhead, which seemed wrong somehow. Cloudy skies or midnight darkness would be more appropriate given the events of the afternoon.
They were stopped at a red light when Ray said, “It’s my fault, you know.”
“What?” Brad turned to look at Ray. The other guy stared straight ahead, both hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.
While Brad watched, the knuckles on Ray’s hands turned white as he squeezed. “It’s my fault, Danny getting knocked off the roof.”
Brad ran his hand through his hair. He could barely handle his own guilt, let alone adding Ray’s onto the pile. “Unless you had a paint gun on the other side of the roof no one saw, it’s hardly your fault.”
“No, I didn’t hit him with the paint gun. It was supposed to be me.”
Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. “You! It
was
you in the house that night, the one those guys were threatening. Are they the ones who beat you up earlier this summer? And the warning? It was all directed at you. I knew it, but Danny didn’t believe me.”
Someone honked and Brad realized the light had turned green. Ray accelerated through the intersection. “Yeah.”
“Oh my God! You stole the equipment too. You stole from your father?”
“Yeah, and let’s not forget I made sure suspicion landed on you, the new kid with the two-hundred-dollar jeans.” Self-hatred colored Ray’s voice.
“But why? Danny trusted you. Your family...” Brad thought about the erratic behavior and the times Ray had come home drunk. “Is it drugs? Did you get involved in drugs somehow?”
Ray looked insulted. “It’s not drugs. Christ, I’m not stupid.”
Given the way Ray had gotten Brad accused of theft, he didn’t feel bad about insulting Ray. “You owe somebody ten thousand dollars and they are willing to hurt you for it. What is that if not stupid?”
“I did everything I could think of. I emptied my savings account. I pawned the tools. I even sold some of my clothes. I couldn’t keep up with the payments. I had to drop out of school because I had to use my tuition money.”
“How on Earth did you end up owing someone that kind of money?”