I sit in silence for a moment and watch his face, expecting
the usual stupid smirk to appear, but he looks sincere. The idea of
anyone reading my stuff terrifies me, but there's a little part of
me that wants to... not
show off
, exactly, but just prove to Rafe that I'm more
than a little girl with prissy sweaters and stupid cartoon panties.
I want him to see that there's something more to me than that. That
I've got actual thoughts in my head, and that I'm... I don't
know,
valuable,
I guess.
Worthwhile.
"OK," I say, wondering if I shouldn't just
snatch the notebook away and hide it back in my purse. "You can
read it, but you have to give me something in return."
Rafe narrows his eyes. "You don't need a
kidney, right? I think I need both of mine."
I laugh. "No, I don't want one of your organs."
Ouch, bad choice of
words. Now I'm picturing his cock.
"Here's the deal. You get to read my
story, and you have to answer any question I ask. Honestly, too. No
bullshit. No jokes. Deal?"
Rafe thinks for a moment before nodding,
and picks up the book. "Deal. Now shut up for a minute. If I'm
going to have to answer some embarrassing question I'm gonna damn
well enjoy this story first. Look, here comes your burger. Plug
your mouth with it."
The waitress sets down our plates, and I
dig into my curly fries and watch Rafe like a hawk as he reads. At
first he picks at his fries and chews on a pickle, but after a
minute he ignores his meal and just stares at the pages. For
several long minutes he's silent.
"Ha!" I almost jump in my seat at the
sudden laugh.
"What? Something funny?"
Rafe doesn't look up from the page, but
keeps chucking. "Yeah, the bit at the train station with the tuk
tuk and the cow in the road. That's so true."
By the time he finally puts down the book
his burger is cold, mine is almost gone and my mouth is burning
from the spicy sauce. I watch as he stares into space for a moment,
deep in thought. Finally he speaks.
"The tuk tuk driver. He's supposed to be a kinda God
figure, right? I mean, not
God
God, but some kinda deity?"
I nod. "Yeah, I guess so."
He stares at the notebook for another
spell.
"And the... what's he called, the
Mahara-something, his palace was empty inside? That was supposed
to, umm, represent his soul?"
I nod again.
Rafe sets down the book. "Wow," he mutters,
and narrows his eyes. "You really wrote that?"
"Yeah, I wrote it. Why?"
"It's just... I don't know, I didn't expect that at all. I
mean, it feels like something Paulo Coelho would have written. You
know, like some wise old dude who spent his whole life just
thinking
about
stuff."
I laugh uncomfortably. "You think I write
like an old man?"
Rafe shakes his head and smiles. "No, not at all. That was
just...
fuck,
that was really good. Have you ever tried to get it
published?"
"Jesus, no! I'm not even
close
to good enough to get anything
published."
Rafe looks me in the eye. "Who told you
that?" he asks.
I look away. "Nobody, I just --"
He cuts me off. "Someone told you that,
didn't they? Come on, I can tell by the way you said it. Some idiot
said you weren't good enough, and you were crazy enough to believe
them. Who was it?"
Damn, he's got my number.
"Nobody, really. Just... I don't know, my
English teacher in high school told me it was a little, umm,
immature, I think he called it? I think he said a girl my age
shouldn't try to over-stretch herself writing about stuff like
this."
Think
isn't the right word. I know damn well that's how he
described my writing. I cried about it for a whole week, and didn't
pick up my pen for a month.
Rafe laughs and toys with his fries. "So
this English teacher, what is he, some kind of world famous author
who decided to slum it in a suburban high school for a while? I'm
guessing he has a few bestsellers under his belt?"
"Well no, but –"
"So what the fuck does he know about good writing? He
sounds like a bitter prick who was never good enough to get his own
stuff published. This shit is
good.
Don't let anyone ever tell you
different."
"Thank you," I mumble. I don't know whether
to burn with embarrassment or break into a grin. Nobody's ever said
anything that nice about, well, anything I've ever done.
"So this is what you wanna do?" he asks.
"With your life, I mean. You wanna be a writer?"
I nod. "Yeah. Ever since I was old enough
to pick up a pencil." I smile at the memory. "My dad was a travel
writer, you know? My real dad, I mean. He used to take me down to
Pier 39 and tell me crazy stories about all the boats coming into
the harbor.” I smile at the memory. “He'd point to one and describe
its journey down the Amazon, the sailors fighting off crocodiles
and crashing over huge waterfalls and stuff. It was all bullshit,
of course. They were just little yachts and car ferries that had
never gone more than a few miles from shore, but I was just a kid,
you know? I saw all these boats in the harbor and believed they'd
really all sailed in from China, Europe, the Antarctic... Dad made
the world seem like an exciting place."
Rafe smiles. "What was his name? Maybe I
read some of his stuff?"
"Lawrence Pierce. You probably wouldn't
have –"
"
Dispatches From the High Pamirs
, right? Damn, I loved that
book!"
"Wow, you really read it?" I'm amazed
someone Rafe's age would have even heard of that book.
Rafe nods enthusiastically. "Are you kidding me? I read
that thing so many times it fell apart in my hands. That and
The Great Railway
Bazaar
by
Paul Theroux. Jesus, I remember reading that part about the journey
from Baku to Turkmenbashi a dozen times over. Your dad waking up on
a sinking boat in the middle of the Caspian Sea, and only realizing
he'd survive when the blood red Karakum sunrise lit up the
Turkmenistan coast. That gave me the chills."
I shake my head in wonder. "I can't believe
you read that book. I'm just... sorry, I just didn't peg you as
someone who reads that kind of thing."
"Don't judge a book by its cover,
Princess," he laughs.
"Well, I guess you're right. Anyway, yeah,
ever since I was a little kid I wanted to follow in my dad's
footsteps, you know? I want to roam the world, get into crazy
situations and write about it. Seems a lot more fun than sticking
around here and working in an office."
"Then do it," Rafe says. "If that story is
anything to go by your dad passed on his writing chops to you. It
seems a shame to waste that talent."
I can feel myself blushing as Rafe sucks on
his straw. I don't know if I'm more proud or embarrassed, but I
feel like I need to change the subject away from me. "OK, it's my
turn," I say.
"Your turn for what?"
"For the question, remember? No bullshit,
no jokes. Just a straight answer."
Rafe cringes. "Shit. Well, a deal's a deal.
Shoot."
I think for a second for a clever way to ask it, but
nothing comes to mind.
Fuck it.
"Why did you beat up those guys last night?
Seriously, the real reason. Don't just say you were
drunk."
Rafe waits a long moment before speaking,
as if he doesn't want to answer, or doesn't know how. Eventually he
drops the shredded napkin. "I need a smoke. Wanna go outside?"
Before waiting for an answer he slides out
of the booth and makes for the door, slipping his Marlboros and a
lighter from the pocket of his jeans. I wait a minute, but figure
I'll never get an answer from him if I let him walk away from the
question.
I catch up with him as he leans back
against the hood of mom's Jeep and lights his cigarette, and I wait
silently until he decides to speak.
"What do you know about me, Madison?" he
says, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.
"Hey, there's no need to get
defensive."
Rafe shakes his head. "No no, I'm really
asking. How much do you guys know about... well, you know... what
went on before I arrived?"
I have no idea what he's driving at. "You mean your whole
life story? Not much. Dad only told us what your lawyer told
him
,
and it wasn't much. She said your mom took her own life a few years
ago, and your dad – your other dad, I mean – vanished a while
before that. He said you've moved around a few foster homes, but he
didn't really know anything else."
Rafe nods. "Yeah, that's pretty much all I told him." He
takes a sharp drag on his cigarette, as if he's mad at it.
"I
am
aware, you know,
that I'm not easy to live with. I mean, I know you've had to put up
with a lot of shit from me this past week."
I move in beside him on the hood, and put
my hand on his shoulder. I don't dare touch him anywhere else, but
even this tiny physical contact sends a tight little shiver of joy
pulsing through my body. "Hey, you've not been that bad."
Rafe laughs. "You're a terrible liar,
Madison." He flicks away the butt and turns to me, taking my hand
from his shoulder and into his grasp. "I couldn't help myself last
night. I'm sorry if I scared you. It's just... there are certain
things that send me flying off the handle, and last night one of
those things happened."
He pulls out his cigarettes again and
stares at the pack for a moment before replacing them in his
pocket, as if he didn't remember he'd just smoked.
"I don't remember exactly when my dad – the
asshole I grew up with, I mean – started to hit my mom, but I think
it was when I was around seven. He was a first responder. Y'know,
on 9/11? He was a retired cop, and he picked up a little work
running security at... I don't know, I think it was some office in
downtown Manhattan. He was on his way to work when the towers fell,
so he went along and pitched in with his old buddies. Spent two
weeks in the wreckage, breathing all that shit in the air. It was
crazy. I remember he used to come home caked in dust that covered
every surface in the apartment for weeks afterwards. Our place
stank like a construction site for months.
"Anyway, he got sick, and it wasn't just from all that shit
he breathed. I mean, that was what made him cough up a lung after
climbing a flight of stairs, but it wasn't the worst of it. It was
what he saw that really fucked him up. He started drinking when he
got too sick to work, and that's when it got bad.
Man,
he was a mean
drunk."
I squeeze his hand. I have no idea if Rafe expects me to
say anything, or what I possibly
could
say. Some wounds can't be healed with
words.
"He started beating mom pretty badly after the drinking got
bad. I remember she set up a little cot for me in the closet of my
bedroom. Y'know, just a few blankets and pillows and stuff, like a
little nest. On the nights dad went out she'd tell me I could camp
out in there. I always thought it was like a special treat. I
didn't figure out for a long time that she was trying to hide me
from dad when he got home. It never really occurred to me why she
put a lock on the
inside
of the door."
I see a tear appear at the corner of Rafe's
eye, and he quickly wipes it away. I squeeze harder. "Hey, we don't
have to talk about this if you don't want to."
He shakes his head. "No, it's good to get
it out. I've never really talked about it before. Anyway. I guess a
couple of years went by before I figured out what was really going
on. Stupid, right? I mean, this guy was beating the crap out of my
mom every other night, and spending the rest of the time
apologizing to her, and it never dawned on me why she was always
slapping on makeup to hide the bruises.
"I was around nine when I finally started
to stand up and protect my mom. I can't fucking believe it took me
that long. I just wish..."
Again he wipes his eyes, then pulls out his
cigarettes and lights another. The glowing tip shakes as he takes a
drag.
"I started sneaking out of my closet after
mom went to bed, and I'd go sit on the stairs a couple of floors
down from the apartment. Dad would always get home around two in
the morning, and I always made sure I was waiting for him."
I feel the tears prick at my own eyes now.
I want to hug him, but I don't want to break whatever spell is
compelling him to spill out his secrets.