My father is staring at her. So am I.
“Please, Paul,” she says. “He's gone. Nothing is going to change that. Please.”
It's quiet in the house. My mother is in her room. The door is closed. My father has gone out. He didn't say where he was going. He's been gone for hours. But before he left, I heard him make a phone call. I heard him say, “Detective, about that reward...”
I am lying on the couch in the family
room. I wonder how long my mother has known about Danny. I wonder who told her. It wasn't my father and it wasn't me. Did Danny tell her? Did he get in trouble again and call her for help? Or did she find out by accident?
Sometimes she would go to Danny's place to drop off food for himâhome-cooked meals. Sometimes when she was there, she tidied up the place for him. Did she find something or see something? Did she keep it to herself or did she talk to him about it? Did she make him promise not to tell my father, just like my father made him promise not to tell my mother? If that's what happened, was Danny proud of himself? Was he proud of how much my parents loved him and how little he had to do to earn their love?
I think, if he were here now, I'd tell him how much I hate him. I'd tell him how stupid he is. And if he laughed at me the way he always did, I'd hit him. I'd hit him and hit him and hit him...
Because there I was, telling Titch that whatever else he was, he was my brother and he was a good person. There I was, mad at Titch because he was lying to
me
. There I was, being a hypocrite.
After a while, I roll off the couch and hunt in the cupboard under the tv for the phone book. I look up the phone number for the bar where Titch works. I call and a man answers. It sounds like the bartender. I make my voice deeper so he won't know it's me. I ask for Titch. The bartender hangs up without saying another word. I call back. The phone rings into voice mail. I don't leave any message. I don't want to get Titch in trouble with the bartender. I try a few more times, hoping that Titch will answer. But every time I end up in voice mail.
When I come downstairs the next morning, my mother is dressed in the clothes she usually wears to work.
“I'm going to the office,” she tells me.
“But it's Saturday.” Sometimes my mother goes to the office on Saturday. Most of the time, she doesn't.
“I'm behind,” she says. “I need to catch up.”
“Where's Dad?”
“He went out.”
“Where?”
“He didn't say.”
“Did he say when he'll be back?”
She shakes her head. I have the feeling she didn't bother to ask him. I get a sick feeling in my stomach. After last night, I wonder what is going to happen with my parents. My father can't stay in the spare room forever. I wonder if he will move back into the bedroom soon. If he doesn't, I wonder where he will go.
My mother leaves for the office. I go into the kitchen to get something to eat. I make tea and toast for myself, and I sit down at the table to eat. I flip through the tv listings. I flip through the fashion
section. When I get up to put my dishes in the dishwasher, some of the newspaper falls onto the floor. I pick it up, and that's when I see it.
It isn't big.
It's one of those really short stories that they run along the side of the page. It's two short paragraphs. It says that someone was shot dead downtown last night. A kid. Anthony Pastorelli, known to his friends as Titch.
I stare at those two short paragraphs until the tears blind me.
Then I sink down onto the floor, and I sit there for what seems like forever. Titch is dead. Someone shot him.
I reach for the phone. I think of calling my mother. But she doesn't know Titch and she doesn't want to talk about what happened to Danny anymore. I think of calling my father instead. I start to punch in his cell phone number, but I don't finish. Instead I get up and pull Detective Rossetti's phone number off the fridge.
While I am dialing, it occurs to me that maybe he won't answer. It's the weekend. Cops have days off, don't they?
But he does answer. He sounds surprised to hear that it's me. He sounds even more surprised when I tell him why I'm calling.
“I know him,” I say.
“Was he a friend of yours?” Detective Rossetti says.
I say, “No.” I explain how I met Titch. Then I ask him if he knows what happened.
“He was shot,” Detective Rossetti says. “As far as we can tell, he died instantly.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“He was shot in an alley a block from the bar where he worked,” Detective Rossetti says. “So far we can't find anyone who heard or saw anything.”
“What about the gun?” I say. I watch cop shows just like everyone else. “Was it the same gun that killed Danny?”
Detective Rossetti hesitates. Then he says, “No, it wasn't. Whoever killed Anthony left the gun right there. Probably
whoever did it got the gun just to kill him. There's no prints. Nothing we can use. I'm sorry, Megan.”
I don't know how I end up at the bar, but I do. When I get there, it's the middle of the afternoon. I open the door, half expecting the bouncer to block my way and tell me to get lost. But the bouncer isn't there. I walk right in. I look around and see there are maybe a dozen people scattered around the place, men mostly, drinking beer. I see the bartender behind the bar. He looks at me as I walk over to him.
“I heard about Titch,” I say. “I heard what happened.”
“You did, did you?” the bartender says. His voice is hard.
“I talked to the police. They said he was shot not far from here. You didn't hear anything?”
“I told you to stay out of here,” the bartender says. “And I told him to stay away from you. But neither of you listened.
You kept coming around. People saw you come around. They saw you pestering him. And now look.”
I stare at him. “You think what happened to Titch is
my
fault?”
“I told you he didn't see what happened,” the bartender says.
“But he did,” I say. “He did see.”
The bartender's face gets even harder. “Did he tell you that?”
I shake my head. “He didn't tell me anything. I just know it, that's all. I know he saw.” He saw, and he was ashamed of himself that he saw and that he hadn't said anything. I don't know what else to say. I start to turn away.
“Hey,” the bartender says. I turn back to face him. “Titch was a good kid,” he says.
“I know.”
“He didn't have any parents,” the bartender says. “He didn't have a nice dad like you have. I bet you have a nice mom too. Titch didn't have that either. He had
me. That's it. He worked hard. He was no genius, but he was doing okay in school. None of his teachers complained about him. He was going to graduate this spring, and then you know what he was going to do? He was going to try to get a job at one of those animal rescue places, you know, where they take in dogs that get abandoned or that were screwed up by their owners and they look after them? That's what he wanted to do. He wanted to look after animals.”
“He wanted to get a dog.”
“Yeah,” the bartender says. “He wanted to get a dog. And what happens? Your brother happens, that's what. Your smartass brother. Thought pretty highly of himself. Thought he could take on anybody, anytime. Smart talker too. Always mouthing off to people. Well, you know what about your brother? He wasn't as smart as he thought he was. A nice kid like Titch is dead, and for what? For scum like your brother.”
I feel myself shaking all over, but I don't say anything. I don't say anything at all. I walk out of the bar, and I take the bus home.
When I get there, I see that my father's car is in the driveway. I go into the house.
My father is in the kitchen. He's making spaghetti sauce. I see a loaf of Italian bread and a bulb of garlic. My father makes the best garlic bread I've ever tasted.
He smiles when he sees me. It isn't his usual thank-God-it's-Saturday-and-I-can-kick-back smile. This one is a tired smile. A sad smile.
“Your mother called,” he says. “She won't be home for supper. But that doesn't mean we can't have a good meal, does it?”
I wonder if he knows about Titch. I wonder if I should tell him. I wonder what good it would do.
It's so quiet in the house.
I go over to the stove and sniff the sauce. I tell him it smells great. It really does. I say, “Is there anything I can do?”
My father's smile gets a tiny bit bigger. “You can make the salad,” he says. Then he says, “I love you, Meggie.”
James C. Dekker is a first-time author and a fresh new voice in teen fiction. He lives in Toronto, Ontario, and, as far as he knows, is not known to police.
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