I knew I shouldn’t have asked the question. As usual, about ten seconds too late.
“You got friends,” I said.
“I have people I talk to every day.”
“What do you call them?”
“I call them people I talk to every day.”
Her eyes crept up toward mine. There was a touch of annoyance in her voice and hard color rising in her cheeks.
“I like to be left alone. Sort of like you.”
I looked around the office. “Like me?”
“Sure. You’re not married. You work by yourself. Looks to me like you’re alone a lot.”
I wasn’t sure if she was attacking me. And if she was, whether it was out of spite or just plain old hurt. Either way, it was okay. She was a kid. And I’d been alone long enough to deal with any accompanying sting.
“Looks can be deceiving, Taylor. Let me ask you something else.”
“Go ahead.”
“You like ice cream?”
“Yes.”
It was a reluctant yes. But a yes, all the same. Ice cream usually helps to turn the page for kids. Adults aren’t so easy.
“There’s a great spot down the street,” I said. “Best hot fudge sundaes in the city.”
I got up. The girl got up with me, Sophocles and Catullus in tow. I turned out the lights and we left. We were halfway down the hallway when Taylor spoke again.
“You forgot to lock the door.”
I almost swore but caught myself. Instead, I went back down the hall and locked up. Then the two of us headed out for some ice cream.
CHAPTER 16
T he Bobtail sits at the corner of Broadway and Surf. It’s a throwback place with a long marble counter, soda jerks dressed in white out front, and hand-cranked ice cream made in the back. Taylor ordered a chocolate ice- cream soda. The guy behind the counter took a glass with a Coke logo on the side, fitted it into a metal holder with a handle, and cranked a good amount of chocolate into the bottom. Then he dropped in three scoops of ice cream, filled the glass with seltzer from a black-handled dispenser, and stirred with a long spoon. Real whipped cream and a cherry went on top and the whole thing was slid down the counter. Taylor pulled the paper wrapping off a straw and, for the second time, looked like a kid.
“Aren’t you going to get anything?” she said.
I ordered a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a cup. Taylor seemed happy with that and dug into her soda. Three minutes later, she hit bottom with her straw. I got her a spoon and she scooped ice cream from the depths of her glass.
“Pretty good,” she said.
“Told you.”
Taylor pushed her glass away and turned toward me. “Are we going to talk about my mom now?”
“Sure.”
I got up and walked us over to a table by the window. We sat in chairs made of thin white wire. The fourteen-year-old with the ice-cream soda got left at the counter. Taylor Woods was back. A kid with the problems of an adult.
“You think your mom’s in some kind of trouble,” I said. “Tell me about that.”
“Mom said you knew.”
“About your step-dad?”
“Yeah.”
For the first time, I sensed a crack in the faзade. It ran like a shiver through her voice and across her lower lip, finding a home in her eyes as her gaze slid to the floor.
“You like your step-dad?” I said.
A narrow set of shoulders offered a single shrug that said enough.
“You scared of him?”
She shook her head.
“You scared for your mom?”
Nothing.
“It’s okay to be scared for your mom, Taylor. And it’s okay to be scared for yourself.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not scared of him. You wouldn’t understand.”
I thought about the guy who once called himself my father. The death of quiet inside an apartment. A footfall on the doorstep and voices down a hallway. A quiet, dangerous sort of rumble. Something you developed an instinct for. Ten years old and creeping through the kitchen as the voices got closer. Out the back door and into the fading sunlight. Melting into the streets, into the safety of the neighborhood. I’d wait until well past midnight before heading home. Marking time with whoever was around. Listening to Bruce, walking the streets, drinking beer as I got older, fighting anyone and anything. Believing it was just another day of normal. I understood more about “Dad” than anyone would ever want. More than the kid in front of me probably ever needed to know. At least, that’s what I thought.
“What’s he doing to your mom, Taylor?”
She looked out the window and onto Broadway. A couple walked by, arms linked, a stroller filled with a baby in between. They looked pretty happy, but I didn’t think it registered with my young friend.
“He’s killing her, Mr. Kelly. Bit by bit, he’s beating my mom to death and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”
Taylor wiped at a tear as it slid down her cheek and seemed angry over it.
“When was the last time?” I said.
She pulled at a napkin. I looked across at the ice-cream guy behind the counter, another teenager, this one on his cell phone and in another world.
“It’s all the time. Every day, sometimes. Then it’s quiet for a while. Then it’s bad again.”
I wanted to reach out, maybe touch the girl’s hand. Instead, I settled for more conversation.
“Okay, Taylor, go on home. Don’t say anything to your mom. I’ll come by and have another talk with her.”
“When?” The tears had stopped as quickly as they started. She dried her cheeks, folded up the napkin, and put it on the table.
“When is he gone?” I said.
“He’ll be gone next week. Wednesday or Thursday night, for sure.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s staying downtown. Some city event for the mayor. My mom is supposed to go with him, but she’s too sick.”
“What does that mean?”
Taylor narrowed her eyes and never looked more like her mother.
“It means he came home last night and busted her face open. Now she can’t be seen with him and his work pals.”
“How bad is it?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll stop by next week. We’ll get a plan together.”
“I already have a plan,” she said.
