Who I'm Not (11 page)

It was a good question. Danny's was in November, so that was what I had to say. I'd have to check the birth certificate back at Shan's for the date. I was getting sloppy. The thing was, I didn't want to tell Gillian
Danny
's birthday. I wanted to tell her mine—except I wasn't sure when it was either. There were a lot of years in the Bad Time when no one bothered to ask, and if anyone did, I always said it was the month before— I wasn't going to tell anyone I'd forgotten. When I was with Harley and Darla, Darla asked me one time. We were up in Washington State. It was raining. We'd scored big all week.

“Whaddya mean, last month?” Harley had demanded. It was hard to lie to Harley. He could practically always tell, maybe because he was such a good liar himself. “I bet he's just saying that. Whaddaya think, Dar? I bet he's just scared we'll give him the paddywhacks.”

“Could be.” Darla half smiled, reaching for her smokes.

Harley said, “All right, he won't tell, so we get to pick one. How about today?”

“Today?” I said. I didn't like being teased. I didn't like paddywhacks either.

“Why not? What's today? Check the paper.”

I remember it was a Spokane paper. I picked it up off the RV seat. “March twenty-ninth.”

“Bingo. That's your birthday. Remember it.”
Pop
went Harley's gum. That night we had pizza in a restaurant and the waiters sang “Happy Birthday” and Harley and Darla let me spend twenty bucks in Barnes & Noble. I got a book of Sherlock Holmes stories. I put the steak knife under my mattress again, just in case they remembered the paddywhacks.

I had to answer Gillian's question, so I said, “Not until late spring.”

When I left her that afternoon, I went back to the store and bought the card she'd liked. Neither of us was going to be here in February.

TWENTY-FOUR

The birthday party for Shan was up at Uncle Pete's place, in the country north of town. We picked Gillian up in the family van. The Dewitt house was classy and old-looking, on the steep hill of a street where even the doghouses were probably mansions. There was a FOR SALE sign staked into the front lawn. It was pretty clear that the Garden Fairy hadn't flown by in a while.

You could tell Shan was pleased I'd invited Gillian. She made a fuss over her, asking after her mom and sister. Gillian wore a red hoodie over her jeans, and she had a jacket with her. Uncle Pete had promised a bonfire after dinner.

Uncle Pete's place was a summer cabin—a cottage, they called them up there—that he'd added on to and converted into a house. It was by a lake the size I wished Lake Ontario was. I knew from some of the home movies I'd watched that Danny had gone there a lot. Pretending to be forgetful was only going to take me so far. I asked Pete first thing what had changed since I'd been away, and he took Gillian and me on a tour. He said he'd taken the dock in for the season and that his boat was in storage, and I came up with a couple “memories” of fishing that I'd watched at Shan's. Then he showed us how he'd redone the kitchen and put in a new bathroom “that you won't remember.” He was right. I said it was good to be back.

Uncle Pete's grown kids were there too, with their own kids. After supper we all took lawn chairs down to the fire pit by the water and Uncle Pete got the bonfire going. The dark came on as Matt and Brooklynne and Uncle Pete's grandkids ran around with hissing sparklers. Gram and Grampy were blathering about getting ready to head to Florida. I sat next to Gillian, sunk in one of those saggy fold-up chairs that have beer-can holders in their arms. The heat from the fire was on my face and the night air was at my back. Uncle Pete passed out sticks for toasting marshmallows. From the joking, I got the picture that Danny had been some kind of marshmallow-toasting fanatic, which didn't make me happy. I don't much like marshmallows for one, and I haven't been crazy about getting close to fire ever since Wayne the Bible thumper held my hand over the stove element. You better believe I wasn't getting near those sparklers.

“C'mon, Danny,” Gillian said. She was already crouching, reaching into the heat. The light from the fire made her seem to glow too. I was about to say I had to use the washroom first and then slip back to the house to hit the purses when I noticed something. The sleeve of her hoodie had pulled up, and in the firelight two pale ridges on the underside of her wrist were showing. They gave me kind of a jolt. I knew what they were. I'd met kids in the Bad Time who'd done that to themselves. She had just turned to look at me, probably wondering why I hadn't said anything, when headlights swept the lawn and a car with a bad muffler pulled in. We all turned.

“Better late than never,” said Uncle Pete. The motor cut out. There was a splash of light from inside the car. Two people. The doors clunked and they came toward us, surrounded by kids' sparklers: Carleen and Ty.

All at once Shan was beside me. “I didn't know if they were coming or not, hon.”

I looked at her. Gillian stood up, and Shan touched her arm. “He's really sorry for what happened. He slipped, he knows, and he wants to apologize. And Gillian, I wouldn't have let you come, hon, if I didn't know it would be one hundred percent okay. Our Ty's had some issues, and I'm so sorry you had to be involved. If you'd been hurt I'd never have forgiven myself and neither would Ty. But this—this is just going to be fun. It's my birthday!”

Gillian looked kind of worried. I probably looked the same way.

“C'mon, you two,” Shan coaxed. “He won't be in your face. He's shy. Just let him take his time and you'll see.”

Roy had come up behind her. His eyes caught mine and rolled. It might have been the one time we felt the same about something. He'd calmed down after I'd gotten the card and given him an extra ten bucks for Shan's gift.

Carleen was in jeans and a Dale Earnhardt NASCAR jacket. Her face was a hatchet, sharp and dangerous in the firelight. Tyson was a step or two behind her. This time he had on a ballcap and a jean jacket over a hoodie, and he was carrying a can of beer. People called out hellos and he lifted the can like a toast. “Yo.”

“Sorry we're late,” Carleen said, then to Shan: “Happy birthday, dreamboat.”

Shan went over and kissed her. Carleen made her way around the circle until she got to Gillian and me. Gillian's sleeve was back over her wrist.

“Hey, Momma,” I said.

Carleen looked at us. If her face was a hatchet, her eyes were razor blades. There was a hard gleam in them. “Sorry about the other night. Understand, I had to deal with Ty. He's not good with, uh, surprises.” There was a little something on her breath, vodka maybe; it was hard to tell. All I could smell for sure was cigarettes. This time, with everyone watching, she went all the way and gave me something like a hug. I introduced Gillian. Carleen went through the motions. Then she turned to Tyson and jerked her head at me.

Tyson had stayed at the edge of the firelight, sipping his beer and talking to Uncle Pete. He was still bouncing and rolling but not as badly as at the grocery. Now he came over to us. I think he was trying to look casual. He looked about as casual as a funeral. “Hey-ey-ey” he said, with kind of a hoarse little chuckle breaking up his voice. “Um. Little, uh, bro, can I—can I…talk to you for a sec?”

He led me a few steps away. He turned, and the fire lit up his skeleton face. He was twitching so much now that one of the kids could have waved him around in the dark to watch the sparks fly out of his eyes. “So, uh, listen, I'm really sorry, dude. I was just so…surprised and, like, it'd been so long and…so I didn't recognize you…” The words rushed out, stumbling. He gave me the family sneer. I gave it back.

“'S all right.”

“No, lissen, dude, I was outta line. Lissen, I gotta level with ya…” He fished half a joint from the top pocket of his jacket, fired it with a lighter and sucked some in. His hands shook the whole time. “You want? No? No, I gotta level with ya. It'd been so long and I'd thought, you know, even after I heard that you—like, you know I got a little problem, right?” Now the words were racing each other. He spread his hands as if I was supposed to size up a shirt he was trying on. I nodded. “Lissen, you want a beer or anything?” He yanked one out of the pouch of his hoodie.

“No, it's okay.” All I wanted was for him to get done.

“Okay, so I got a problem and sometimes I don't even get things right, even when I hear them, and it had just been so long and I'd got it in my head that you were, like…”

“What?” I said. “Dead?”

“Whoo-oh, don't even
say
that, man. 'Cause you're not. You're one hundred percent alive, dude, and thank God for it.” He squinted as he took another hit off the joint. “Thank God for it. But when you, uh, you know,
popped up
like that, oh man, I freaked. You know?” He blew out smoke.

“Sure.”

“Anyway, uh, this is just to, just to say sorry, you know? And like I know things weren't always right between us, dude, but I—I kept somethin' of yours all the time, like a momen, monu—
memorial
of you, in case you came back. So now I wanna give it back to ya, but just between us, okay? This is just between you and me, bro to bro.” He reached into another pocket, his jeans this time, and pulled something out. He took a last quick hit off the roach, threw it on the ground, grabbed my hand and pushed something into my palm. We stood there with him clamping my hand between his. “Between us, okay? No Shan, no Ma, just us. Brothers. All the way.” I nodded. His eyes were like the bonfire now. He had a surprisingly strong grip, and his hands were grave-digger cold. “You may need this some time, man. I couldn't save you last time. This is for you. Never can tell. Just us? Brothers? All the way?”

He was waiting for an answer. “All the way,” I said. “All the way.”

And I was, too. I just didn't know it yet.

TWENTY-FIVE

“I saw you and Tyson had a little brother time there.” Shan sounded pleased when we got home. Then she said, “He didn't want to give you drugs, did he?”

“He was smoking weed,” I said. “I didn't want any.”

She made a clucking sound. I didn't say he was a crackhead, crankhead, whatever he was. It didn't matter; probably we both knew that already. I said, “He apologized. Said welcome home. I think he's pretty bent up right now. Tell you the truth, I'm kind of glad he's in Peterborough.”

She nodded, looking tired. “He tries, hon. I know you remember him being crazy bad before you disappeared. He should have picked you up that day. He tore himself apart about it after.” Her voice was pleading. It was as if she was convincing herself as much as me.

I said, “I know. You told me. He didn't.”

“I know he wanted to. He just can't always help himself. He hangs with some bad people up there, I think. Bad influences. And Momma tries to…” She bit her lip. Her shoulders began to shake. “Oh God…sometimes, this family…”

“Hey,” I said. “We're here now.” She gave me this huge apple-blossom smile and went to hustle Brooklynne off to bed.

Major dopers are nut cases. I'd met them before, with Harley. The “memorial” Tyson had given me was nothing special, far as I could see: a cheap gold neck chain with a letter
D
hanging from it. The clasp was broken. It was about as exciting as the other junk Carleen had brought over. I put it in some rolled-together socks at the back of my drawer. I figured I had more important things to think about.

Sunday, I checked the telephone book. There were four Griffins. I wrote down the addresses and looked them up on a town map I'd found in the kitchen junk drawer. After supper, I asked to borrow Matt's bike. Gillian had shown me how to fix the flat with a little kit she had. It was getting dark earlier now. I pedaled under streetlights.

At the second address, a silver Camry was parked in the drive. It was a good-sized, suburb-type place a block from Gillian's, on a street not as fancy. A light was on in back, in what I guessed was the kitchen. I stood under a tree, away from the streetlight, and watched until I saw Griffin. He had a plate and a glass. Blue TV light flickered on in the front room. I moved closer to the house. I don't know what I was going to do. A dog started to bark. I rode away.

TWENTY-SIX

It spooked me, seeing Griffin alone in the blue light of the TV. It was as if he had nothing to do except come after me. I had to get ready to run. I was on pins and needles until the bank card and PIN number arrived the next Tuesday. “Strictly a desperation move,” Harley had told me. “A one-shot before you move on, 'cause you can't go back—it burns the ID. Never tried it myself.”

We'd been sitting in a coffee shop someplace down south. Atlanta, maybe. Wherever it was, it was raining and the waitress kept calling me “sugar.” Harley'd spooned about five sugars of his own into his mug, and a bunch of those little cream containers too. Before energy drinks got popular, I used to watch him put sugar in Coke.

“What you do, see,”—he stopped to sip—“is you open an account with the ID, get a pin card. Then, just before you're going to split, go to a branch bank machine and key in a check deposit for whatever.”

I was eating a cream-filled donut. I remember wiping cream off my chin. “What do you deposit?”

“Nothing. That's the beauty part. You just stick a piece of paper into one of the deposit envelopes, feed it in and punch in anything—five hundred, say. The machine will give you cash against it right away. If you time it right, it's at least a good eight hours before they clear the machines and find out they've been burned. By then you're long gone.”

I figured five hundred would get me food and a bus to Reno and leave some for a cushion. I wouldn't work the scam until the last minute. As soon as I did, Danny wouldn't just be a runaway—he'd be wanted for theft.