The First Stone (25 page)

“They weren't,” said Carly. “But that was before you showed up. She's been a different person since then—eating better, putting a hundred percent into herphysio, really taking control of her recovery. Her change in attitude made a world of difference. And you made that happen, Reef. We're all very grateful to you.”

“So's her Mom,” Brett said. “I think she's in the room with Leeza now if you'd like to meet her. I know she really wants to meet you.”

Reef looked at his feet. “Uh … I'm not much for meetin'—”

“She's really nice. You'll like her, I promise.” Brett turned her wheelchair and rolled down the hallway. “Come on.”

Reef continued to stare at his feet, his face revealing the agony of his sudden self-consciousness.

Carly put her hand on his shoulder. “You did a really good thing, Reef. You need to let people tell you how they feel about what you did.”

He looked up and she smiled. “Go on,” she said.

The silence in the family room was a solid thing. Colville studied the faces of the young men as they sat in the circle, waiting. All but one of them, from Alex on his left to Owen on his right, wore the same look. Haunted. Helpless. All but Reef. Reef's face was empty, as though everything in it had been wrung out. A dishcloth in a dry sink.

Everyone waited.

The boys had been there that morning when the call came. Had seen Colville run to the truck and tear out of the driveway, then return later with Reef. Or someone who looked like Reef. The person who sat in the circle with them now. But surely not the person who'd sat there every other evening, his eyes barely masking the bored sneer behind them. This was a different Reef. Hollow. Depleted. A body that breathed.

Everyone waited.

The boys knew some of it, had heard him shouting up on the third floor. Not shouting, really, which would have implied the manufacture of words. More like sounds than speech. Patternless. Without form orfunction. Yet threaded throughout had been Frank Colville's low tones, his comments stitching meaning into the torn fabric of that morning.

Everyone waited.

The sounds had lasted a long time, and then Colville had come downstairs alone. He shook his head when Alex offered to go up. “Give him some time,” he'd said. And they had. They all had. Morning had become noon, then afternoon, and afternoon had stretched into night. And then Reef had come down. Not the Reef they knew, though. Some other Reef.

Everyone waited.

And then they didn't have to wait any longer.

This other Reef drew a breath, the sound ragged and shallow. Then he spoke.

Even before they neared her room, Reef heard evidence of Leeza's good news: she was singing. Her voice was terrible—someone more charitable might have called it “untrained”—and yet oddly beautiful, in the way that storm clouds have beauty, their tattered edges like dark lace against the lighter sky behind them. She was humming an old Bruce Springsteen song, every few seconds breaking into remembered words and phrases so the effect was like hearing one side of a conversation. A dialogue between Leeza-then and Leeza-now.

When they reached the doorway, Brett grinned at him broadly and then sped off. Standing there, Reefcould see Leeza in her wheelchair by her locker, putting something into the lower compartment. She was bending at the waist, and a gasp momentarily interrupted her singing as her position put strain on the flesh around her metal pins, but then she continued, Springsteen's lyrics accompanying her task once more.

Something else was different. On Leeza's bedside table were framed photographs that had not been there during Reef's earlier visits. Some of them were photographs of Leeza and another girl, and some were pictures of the girl alone. The girl looked much like Leeza, her hair the same shade of blond, her smile the same crooked line that suggested an effort to keep from laughing, probably at the antics of the photographer.
Ellen
, thought Reef.

“Hi,” he said.

“Ow!” He'd startled her and, turning quickly, she'd bumped her head on the open locker door. But she smiled when she saw the person in the doorway. “Reef!” she said.

“What're you doin'?” he asked.

“Housecleaning. Or locker cleaning, actually. Making room for some more things.” She beamed. “I'm getting these off tomorrow!” She pointed at the metal on her leg. “I'll actually be able to wear clothes again!”

He entered the room and stood by the end of her bed. “Brett told me. Must be a relief, huh?”

“You have no idea!” Leeza trilled. “And,” she continued more softly, “everyone agrees that I have
you
to thank for that.”

Reef felt his cheeks burn. Hotter than salsa this time. Stove-hot. “I didn't do anything,” he said. He picked up one of the photographs. “You look like her,” he said gently.

“We both took after our mom,” Leeza explained. “Which is another reason why I'm glad you're here. My mother wants to meet you.” When Reef glanced around the room, Leeza added, “She went down to the cafeteria to get me another milkshake.” She shrugged. “It's a mother thing. She hasn't been here for a while, and she thinks she has to make up for lost time.” She made a face. “I've drunk enough milk and eaten enough foods with milk in them to last me a lifetime! When I get out of this place, the first thing I'm going to do is drop-kick a carton of 2 percent as far as I can.”

As if choreographed, a strawberry milkshake carton fell to the floor in the doorway, a plastic straw oozing pink liquid onto the tiles.

Leeza turned to see her mother standing above it, Diane's face as white as the cotton blouse she wore. She looked as though someone had struck her in the stomach, her mouth working oddly yet forming no words.

“Mom?” Leeza asked. “What's wrong?”

But her mother just stared, unable or unwilling to speak.

“Mom, are you going to be sick?”

Clearly this was a possibility, as something resembling revulsion flickered back and forth across her mother's face. “You!” she cried.

Leeza turned in the direction her mother was looking and saw Reef, his face a darker mirror of her mother's wide-eyed astonishment.

“You
bastard!”
her mother shouted. “What are
you
doing here?”

Reef recoiled as if slapped, the backward motion bringing him up against Brett's bed. He dropped heavily onto it.

“What's wrong?” Leeza cried. “Do you know each other?”

Diane turned to her, her voice shrill and insistent. “Don't you know who this is?” She swung back to Reef. “What are you doing with my daughter? Haven't you hurt her enough? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Footsteps hurried down the hallway and Carly Reynolds appeared in the doorway behind Diane. “Mrs. Morrison, is something—”

At the mention of her name, Reef groaned.

“Mom,” Leeza sobbed, “this is Reef! The one I was telling you about, the one who helped—”

Her mother shook her head violently. “No!” she shouted, and Leeza could hear in her mother's voice an emotion she'd heard only once before. Diane's hands shook as she pointed at Reef. “This is …” and then her voice cracked and she could not speak.

“Mrs. Morrison,” said Carly. “What's wrong? Is there something I can do?”

Diane turned, as if only now aware of the nurse behind her. Her voice was little more than a croak:”You can get that goddamn son of a bitch out; of my daughter's room!”

Carly turned to Reef, who had managed to pull himself to his feet, his shoulders hunched, drawn in toward his body. He looked unsteady, unsure if his legs would support his weight. “Reef?” Carly asked.

“Mom, what have you
done?”
Leeza cried.

Her mother reacted as if she'd been slapped. “What have
I
done?” she managed to ask. “It's what
he's
done! That,” and she paused, groping for words, “that
monster
is the one who
put
you here!”

Leeza looked at Reef. “What's she saying?” she choked. “What does she mean?”

“Leeza …” Reef began. And then he ran.

“… and then I ran,” Reef said. His voice was little more than a whisper, and the others had to strain to hear him. “I didn't even know where I was going, what I was doing. I didn't wait for the elevator. Just ran down the stairs. Six flights,” he said softly, his eyes aimed at some point between his feet as he spoke.

The others in the room somehow knew he hadn't finished, wasn't through the telling yet. They waited for him to go on.

“I kept running. All the way down. I almost fell twice. Wished for a second I
would
fall.” He slopped, swallowed audibly. Took a breath. “And when I got to the lobby, I ran into the guy who greets people.

Slammed right into him. Knocked him clear off his feet.” He dragged a hand through his hair, down the back of his neck. “I stopped to help him up.” He paused, managed to continue. “But … but he helped
me
. Called the person in charge, Shelly. Who called here.” His voice, like an intermittent radio signal, trailed off, became stronger. “I put her in that place. Me. Like Rowdy did to Jink. Except Rowdy used his hands. Looked Jink in the face while he did it.” He drew another ragged breath. There was nothing more to say.

But, of course, there
was
more. Far more.

“What are you gonna do?” Alex asked quietly.

Reef did not look up. He did the only thing he
could
do. He wept.

No one in the classroom said a word for a moment. A few looked at each other self-consciously and one or two squirmed slightly in their seats. Reef was used to those reactions. He gave them a few more seconds. Then he asked, ‘Anyone have any questions?”

Several hands shot up.

“Yes?” said Reef, nodding at a boy near the front.

“How much money d'ya make doin' this?” the boy asked.

“Robbie!” Mr. Brighton admonished, silencing several students in mid-laugh. “Didn't we talk beforehand about appropriate questions? Maybe you need to see me tomorrow at noon hour so I can refresh your memory.”

“No, that's okay,” Reef said to the teacher. “Actually, it's a good question.” He turned to the boy. “I don't get a cent for doin' this, Robbie. It was one of the requirements of my probation.”

“Probation?” Robbie asked.

“One of the things I had to do to keep from goin' to jail.”

That comment elevated a dozen eyebrows, and several other hands waved in the air.

“Yes?” He pointed to a girl sitting near the back.

“Did someone get in trouble for puttin' you in the same place as that girl?”

Reef looked at the teacher and smiled. “Another good question,” he said. He turned to the class. “It was no single person's fault. The judge just said I had to volunteer at a rehabilitation center. I'm a young offender, so the facilities didn't know who I was or what I'd done. It was just a fluke that I ended up where I did. A one-in-a-million chance,” he said, and he thought briefly of Marlene Eisner feeding coin after coin into those casino slot machines. She'd never understood odds like those. Never would.

“Yes?” he said, nodding toward another girl, this one with long red hair. Almost the same color as Scar's.

“Can she walk now?”

“Yes,” Reef replied, quickly pointing to another hand.

“How do you feel about havin' to tell your story to people like us?” asked a boy near the front. He spoke quietly, as if unaccustomed to asking questions. He had a soft voice, and he reminded Reef of Alex. It had been a long time since Reef had seen him, and he wondered if things were better than the last time they'd spoken.

“I haven't told you everything. There's too much for one hour.” Reef took a deep breath. “But even tellin'this much is hard.” He smiled ruefully. “Imagine havin' to go to a place like this and tell total strangers what a jerk you been, the idiot things you done. Tough, huh?”

There was a murmur of assent.

“When the judge made that part of my probation, I hated even the
thought
of doin' it. I figured it was a power trip, her havin' fun at my expense.” He looked around the room. “But she was a lot smarter than I gave her credit for. Now I'm glad she did it.”

“Why?” asked the boy with the soft voice.

Reef nodded toward Mr. Brighton. “Do your teachers ever get you to think back over things you done in class? Maybe ask you to write about what you learned?”

Someone else spoke up. “They call it ‘reflecting.”‘

Reef smiled. “That's one word for it. I'm not sure it's the best one, though. When I think of reflectin', I think of a mirror. The thing you see in a mirror is always the same as the thing in front of it, only the reverse.” He leaned back against the teacher's desk. “When I think back over things …” He glanced around the room. “I mean
really
think them through, like I have to do when I'm tellin' others about ‘em, like today—you know what I mean?”