Читать книгу The Saint - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 6

CLAIRE HAD ALREADY WARNED Steve six times that he was going to be late, so she bit back the seventh as she heard him come shuffling down the stairs, yawning and scratching his bare chest.

“Morning,” she said, stifling an answering yawn herself. She hated football practice mornings. Five-thirty was just too darn early for human beings to be awake, much less bashing each other around on the football field. The sky outside her kitchen window was still black. She couldn’t even see the apple tree, which was no more than ten feet away.

“Mmlng,” Steve mumbled pleasantly as he entered the kitchen, squinting against the bright overhead light. She wasn’t sure he’d had any sleep at all last night. She’d heard him still up at three, talking on the telephone to Michelle, his new girlfriend. He’d sounded so stupid and sweet she hadn’t had the heart to break it up.

But he’d pay for it today. He wasn’t naturally an early riser. Left to his own devices, like most teenagers, he’d sleep till midafternoon. She yawned again. Once, back when they were kids, they had both loved to sleep late. But she hadn’t had that luxury in years. Not since their mother died.

As Steve slouched into the kitchen, she pulled out his chair, which he promptly used to stash his heavy backpack. He always ate standing up. Even very sleepy seventeen-year-old boys were too full of energy to sit. She felt sorry for his teachers.

“The pancakes are getting cold.” That was really the seventh warning, of course, but it sounded better than “damn it, Steve, step on it, for heaven’s sake,” which was what she wanted to say.

Or did she? Setting a glass of milk on the table, she took a deep breath and tried to find her perspective. Maybe she was just nagging because she was exhausted and resented getting up an hour early to see him off to football practice.

Or maybe she was a little bitter because he still walked and talked and slept like a kid, while she could hardly remember what that kind of freedom felt like.

But that wasn’t fair. Allowing Steve to finish out a normal childhood had been her choice. And besides, she didn’t care if he was late for football practice, anyhow. In fact, if he got booted off the team altogether, it would suit her just fine.

That, however, was about as likely as snow in July. The Heyday High School Fighting Zebras were one win away from the state championship, and Coach McClintock would never risk losing his star quarterback now. Steve could probably show up late, doze off during push-ups and make paper airplanes out of the playbook without causing his coach to bat an eye.

And the little rascal knew it, too. She watched him pull a grungy T-shirt over his head, his curly brown hair emerging from the neckline even more tousled than before, if that was possible. Aware of her disapproving scrutiny, he grinned and ran his fingers through it.

“Sorry, officer,” he said. “I didn’t know the hair police would be here. I left my comb upstairs.”

He was waking up, she saw. And, as usual, waking up sassy. He was so damn cute, that was his problem. She reached out and yanked the curl that dangled farthest down his broad forehead.

“Ouch,” he said. But he didn’t mean it.

Standing close to him like this, she realized he was wearing a ton of cologne. He smelled as if he’d bathed in the stuff. It seemed odd, given that he was headed out to run around in the mud, until she remembered that Michelle sometimes stopped by the football field to sneak in a few quick kisses before practice.

“The pancakes,” she repeated slowly, as if he didn’t speak good English, “are getting cold.”

“Yum.” Steve grabbed the top one off the stack and, holding it in his big fist, munched on it as if it were a piece of dry toast. “I love cold pancakes.”

She turned back to the stove, hiding her smile. He probably did. He loved everything. He’d probably eat the box the pancake mix had come in, which was a good thing, because she hadn’t ever learned to cook very well.

“So did you finish your English paper?”

The silence that followed her question was ominous. She could hear Steve chewing earnestly, and when she looked, he was studying the front page of the newspaper as if he held a doctorate in foreign affairs.

“Oh, Steve, no. No. Don’t tell me you didn’t write your paper. You promised that if I let you stay out—”

“I wrote it.” He gave her a look. “I did. I wrote it.” He grabbed another pancake. “I just didn’t print it. I’m out of ink.”

She managed, once again, to hold back her exasperated response. She had to be careful. She didn’t want to become the enemy here. The two of them had always been close, even before their mother died. After the accident, they’d become even closer, a tight team, as if they understood it was just the two of them now, two of them against the whole world.

Lately, though, Steve had seemed to be pulling back. Rebelling, even—just a little. He spent more time at football practice than he did at home. Coach Kieran McClintock seemed to have become his new hero, the one he confided in. Which was fine with Claire, really it was.

Except that she wished football didn’t take so much of his time. He was going to need a scholarship to get into college. Coach McClintock seemed to think he could get one for football, but was that realistic? Coming from a tiny nowhere-town like Heyday?

“Claire? Don’t give me that look. It’s okay about the English paper. Mrs. Keene said all the football players could turn it in on Monday. Full credit.”

“She gave an extension to the football players? Just the football players?” Claire knew how unpopular that would be with the other teachers…and perhaps the other students, as well. If the principal heard about it…

“Well, yeah. She knows we’ve been practicing every minute.” He gaped at his watch in open-mouthed horror. “Oh my God, look how late it is!”

Too bad he hadn’t joined the drama club instead, she thought. He could have used some pointers about overacting.

“Steve. I’m serious. You can’t let her give special deals to the players. If you can’t get your work done on time, you shouldn’t be playing football in the first place.”

He groaned as he hoisted his backpack over his broad shoulder. “God, don’t start. We do this every morning. It’s like Chinese water torture. I told Coach you’re on me about this every friggin’ day, like grass on dirt.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

That stung, and she couldn’t help reacting. She wondered what other domestic complaints he shared with Kieran McClintock. The stingy allowance, which was all she could afford. The crummy dinners, which were all she could manage. The nagging, the criticizing, the clinging. “And what did he say?”

Steve paused. “Well,” he said slowly. “He said he felt really sorry for me. He said it must be tough to have such a nasty old shrew in the house.”

Like a fool, she fell for it. “What? That takes a lot of—”

She was so tense she hardly noticed the sparkle in Steve’s hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” he went on, gathering steam. “He said, boy, your sister sure is an ugly old bag, isn’t she? I don’t know how you stand it. He said the night he took you out on a date he almost couldn’t eat, just looking at your ugly mug across the table.”

“Steve.” She sighed. He was joking, of course. He had been ribbing her about that dinner for days. “He didn’t take me out on a date. We just went to dinner and—”

“Yeah, right. And I guess you haven’t had a huge crush on him since you were about fifteen years old, either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But it was pointless to deny it. When she’d been fifteen, and Steve was ten, he’d found her diary. Kieran’s name had been on every page, surrounded by hearts and exclamation points. And always the same plaintive question, Why won’t he notice me?

Steve had made himself insufferable for weeks, swanning around, his hand to his forehead like Sarah Bernhardt, wailing, “Why won’t he notice me?” It hadn’t stopped until Claire had found an F on a math test under his bed and threatened to tell their mother.

“That was ages ago,” she explained calmly. “Besides, all the girls in Heyday have crushes on Kieran McClintock when they’re fifteen. It’s in the bylaws, I think.”

Steve arched one eyebrow, but, because he had matured a tiny bit since he was ten, he let it go. Claire was relieved. She didn’t quite know yet herself what was going on between her and Kieran. She wasn’t ready to discuss it with anyone else, even Steve.

“So what about the astronomy test? Are you ready for that at least? Did you study?”

“Yeah.” He wolfed down one last pancake. “Sorta.”

“Stevie.” She folded her arms and blocked the doorway. The astronomy test wasn’t until Monday, but… She suddenly dreaded being alone. When Steve was here, she didn’t have time to brood, but when he left, the house always seemed dark and lonely.

“I’m late, Claire.”

“Can you still name the seven important moons of Saturn?”

He cocked his head and grinned. “No, but I can still name the Seven Psycho Dwarfs of the Eerie Alternate Universe. Mopey, Sleazy, Frumpy, Weepy, Queazy and Dork.”

“Great.” That list was from seventh grade. “Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone is going to be asking you those on a test. And besides, that’s only six.”

He put his hands under her arms and lifted her up, moving her away from the door. “Oh, yeah?” He kissed her on the cheek and yanked open the door before she could stop him. “I guess I forgot to mention Bitchy.”

She laughed as she watched him go. “Stevie,” she said one more time.

He paused by the door of his ratty old Mustang, which he’d bought and restored with money from mowing lawns. God knew she couldn’t have afforded to buy him one.

He looked like the Cheshire cat in the darkness. All she could see was his smile. But it was a very cute smile. It made her smile just to see it.

“What?”

She hesitated. They never told each other to drive carefully. It was a strange but deeply entrenched superstition between them. They’d never known their father very well—he left the family before Steve was even born. Then, three years ago their mother had been struck by a drunk driver who drove his car up onto the sidewalk. So now it was the just two of them. And they never said “drive carefully.” It was simply understood.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just love you, dork.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, she should have been on her way to work, but she was making a detour to the high-school football field. She had found a new ink cartridge and printed Steve’s term paper out. She wanted him to have it when he got to English.

Half a mile from the field, traffic ground to a halt—something that almost never happened in the little town of Heyday, which had a population of somewhere between five and six thousand, depending on whether the local college was in session.

But Poplar Hill was a narrow, two-lane, tree-lined road, and the high-school rush hour had just begun. She growled under her breath and then yawned again. God, she was so tired she didn’t even have the energy to be properly annoyed.

Drumming the steering wheel, she craned her neck, but she couldn’t see anything. She didn’t have time for this. She hadn’t had a spare minute in the past three years. College and work, handling the house and raising her little brother… At only twenty-two, she was so tired she felt about fifty.

She couldn’t be late today. She was in her first year of teaching seventh grade at Heyday Middle School, and she had a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes. She wasn’t a football player, so she was expected to be on time and fully prepared.

Darn it, she should never have printed out Steve’s paper. All the parenting books, which she’d devoured in secret as soon as she’d realized she was going to have to take over the job, said you should let your kids suffer the consequences of their own mistakes.

But Steve was such a good kid, really. And hadn’t he suffered enough already? No one should be an orphan at fourteen.

So maybe she overindulged him. Or maybe not. Oh, heck, she didn’t have a clue what was right. Maybe even real parents struggled to find the proper balance.

She eyed the area, wondering where she might be able to wriggle her car into a U-turn. The ground was soggy on the easements from last night’s pre-winter rain, and the pines were still dripping wet.

It always rained in Heyday in November. Probably someone had skidded on the slick pavement and kissed fenders with the car in front of them.

But why such a snarl-up? A few people—parents, high-schoolers, even teachers—had exited their cars and were walking forward to see if they could get a look at the problem. Claire didn’t have time for gawking. She rolled down her window. Maybe she could persuade the guy in front to inch his car forward so she could get free.

Oh, good. It was Doug Metzler from the bank. He’d be eager to help her. He knew that if she lost her new job she wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage—and his bank held the note.

“Doug,” she called. “Do you mind moving up a little? I can’t get out.”

The balding, middle-aged man whipped around as if she’d shot him. He stared at her, a strange, blank expression on his normally pleasant face.

“Claire!” He put both hands up toward his cheeks, and they froze there. “Oh my God.” He began looking around, as if he needed help. “Oh my God.”

She had time for only a couple of half thoughts. Was Doug drunk? Crazy? Had she caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing? But even in those confused fractions of seconds, her subconscious must have registered something more sinister, because instinctively she began to climb out of her car.

“What’s the matter, Doug?”

The man didn’t speak. She’d just barely set both feet on the soggy ground when Officer Bill Johnson appeared.

“Claire,” the policeman said. His face was gray, and, unless she was imagining it, his voice shook. “Claire, don’t go up there.”

She tilted her head, confused. “I wasn’t going to,” she said. “Why? What’s going on?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Doug Metzler was still frozen in place. A few others had joined him. They were all staring at Claire. Something sick and liquid began to boil in her stomach, like the beginnings of an internal earthquake.

“What’s going on?” She gripped the door, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking just like Officer Johnson’s voice. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the line of cars. Was that a blue flashing light? Was that larger vehicle an ambulance?

She looked back at the young policeman. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Steve,” Officer Johnson said, and this time his voice did break. “Claire. It’s…it’s Steve.”

No. No. That was ridiculous. This had nothing to do with Steve. Steve was at football practice, tossing that little brown ball high into the blue morning air for some other teenage boy to catch. Yes, Steve was safe at football practice, boyish and muddy and sweaty.

And happy. Steve was always happy.

She shook her head. “No,” she said.

“Yes,” the policeman said. “You see he… Steve…”

Claire felt her mind going limp, balking like a child, refusing to be led to whatever terrible place he was trying to take her. Bill Johnson was so young, she thought. Just a kid. What did he know? He was no more than four years older than Steve himself.

He tried again. “It… Steve must have been going very… It was an accident, a terrible accident.”

She frowned. Look at him, he was close to tears. He looked so distressed, so completely undone. She wondered if she should put her arm around him. But she discovered to her horror that she couldn’t move her arm. How odd. It was like sleepwalking. She couldn’t feel any part of her body.

And when she spoke, her voice sounded strange. Hollow and slow, like something recorded at the wrong speed. “What do you mean an accident? What do you mean it’s Steve?”

“I guess it was just too dark.” Officer Johnson’s face was suddenly running with tears that gleamed in the rising sun. “I guess he was going too fast. I’m sorry, Claire. I’m so sorry. I guess he hit a tree.”

“Hit a—”

But the legs she couldn’t feel decided right then to fold up under her like wet paper. She slid down, still holding on to the open car door. The muddy ground was cool and dark as she met it.

She lost track of time, just a little, like a clock with an unreliable battery. When her heart began to tick again, she was surprised to hear Kieran McClintock’s voice, very close to her.

“Claire,” he said. “Claire, are you all right?”

She realized she was in his arms. She looked up at him.

“He said Steve had an accident,” she whispered, as if she needed to keep the news a secret. As if making the information public would make it true. “Can you take me to him? I’m not sure I can walk, but I have to get there. Steve needs me.”

Kieran’s face worried her. Anguish was written all over his handsome features, turning his clear blue eyes to hot, shadowed volcano beds. Turning his rugged jaw to jagged steel, his full, wide mouth to a razor line of bloodless white.

“Claire, sweetheart, Steve never made it to practice. He had an accident.”

Strange, she thought, that a mouth so fierce, so twisted with pain, could speak in such gentle tones. His arms tightened around her. “It was very bad. He didn’t make it, Claire. He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

He shut his eyes, and it was a relief not to have to look into their tortured depths.

“Yes, he said. “I’m so sorry, Claire. Steve’s dead.”

Dead…

Not playing football, not laughing, not running, not even breathing.

Dead.

She shut her eyes, too, as the knife blade of the word sank deep into her chest. She felt her heart’s blood gush everywhere, she tasted the metallic hot ice of the cruel steel, and then, thank God, the terrible black universe began to disappear again.

My little brother is dead.

She wasn’t sure whether she spoke that sentence or merely thought it. But she heard herself say the next one.

And you killed him.