He looked back down the street to make sure the dog had gone, then, still trembling, rode nervously on toward home, grateful that he wasn't forced to try the arm-down-the-throat trick.
Chapter 4
Aaron hauled his bike up the cracked concrete steps of the aging two-story red-brick townhouse and bumped his way through the door to his home.
He kicked the door closed behind him, and as he went to lean his bike against a wall he caught his reflection in the hall mirror and his heart fell — add a red waistband and neckerchief and he was one of the unlucky runners at the encierro in Pamplona.
He jumped when his mother called to him from the dining room.
' Aaron, sweetie…? Is that you? '
' Coming… ' he coughed, then used his sleeve to wipe the dirt and sweat from his face. He attempted to straighten his matted hair, then sucked in a deep breath, pulled his lips back into something resembling a smile, and entered the dining room.
– The small dining table was covered with a crisp, white cloth and set for three. Aaron took his regular seat in the middle of one side, trying his best to appear normal.
Seated at the end to his right, his mother, Ashley Quinn, served him a beautifully prepared plate of food — a trick, considering she had stalled dinner for nearly an hour.
To Aaron's left, at the head of the table, sat his stepdad of four months, Thomas Davidson. During the four long years following the death of her husband, Daniel Quinn, Ashley had not re-married, or even dated, believing that no man could replace Aaron's father. Eventually, however, she met and married Tom — a decision that she and Aaron had lived to regret.
Tom hadn't spoken a word since Aaron arrived, silence being one of his preferred methods of torture.
Aaron cast about frantically for a plausible excuse for being late for dinner; but his stomach was sick and his head was spinning, so he came up empty. He picked up his fork and poked his potatoes.
'So, how was school?' Ashley asked brightly, attempting to lighten the somber mood. It was obvious that Aaron had been in some kind of trouble, but she didn't want to say anything in front of Tom.
Aaron watched with dismay as his dinner moved about the plate like a food commercial directed by Salvador Dali. He glanced up at the question, then back at his surreal plate of food, clearing his throat carefully to avoid puking on his peas.
'It was okay,' he managed, praying he sounded better to them than he did to himself.
'Go ahead, then,' Ashley said. 'Eat your dinner while it's still warm.'
'Sorry I'm late,' Aaron said, glancing at Tom. Then he forgot what he was going to say and had to ad lib. 'I was at the library and lost track of time.' Well, that certainly sucked, he thought miserably.
Tom poured gravy over a slice of steak then stabbed it with his fork and slid it between his teeth. A moist, brown dribble worked its way down through the stubble on his chin.
'That's it?' he said. 'That's the best you could come up with?'
Aaron's white lie was all he had. What good would it do to tell Tom about detention? Or the dog? He wouldn't understand. He was on their side.
Tom washed the masticated meat down with cheap Scotch, then leaned forward in his chair and changed the subject.
'I got a call today from the manager of the Community Plaza Bank downtown,' he said, sending a cloud of bad air Aaron's way. 'We need to be there before they open for business in the morning to fix a broken toilet.'
'But I've got school tomorrow,' Aaron said.
'I know,' Tom said. 'I've got a business to run, and I need your help.'
Aaron clenched his teeth, unable to speak. He couldn't miss any more school. No way. Not after ditching the whole first day and with detention and everything… He looked to his mother for support.
She looked back at him sympathetically, then turned to Tom. 'Aaron really shouldn't miss any — '
Tom slammed an open hand on the table. 'Did I ask for your opinion? I don't think I did.'
Ashley's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she remained composed for her son's sake.
An angry scream rose in Aaron's throat, but he fought it down. He'd been on the receiving end of Tom's abuse plenty of times, but to hear it directed at his mother was too much.
He gripped the tablecloth, trying not to tremble, and spoke forcibly. 'Don't talk to my mother like that,' he said, bracing himself.
Tom looked at him like gum on his shoe. 'What?' he said.
Aaron hesitated. 'I said — '
'Shut up,' Tom said, cutting him off with a pointed finger. 'I'll deal with you later.'
He turned back to Ashley.
Aaron stood up from the table and looked squarely at him. 'I wish my father was alive and you were dead!' Then, with a quick glance at his mother he headed for the front door.
Ashley stood and threw her napkin at Tom, then ran after her son, making a solemn promise that before the night was through, Tom would be out of their lives forever.
She ran to the sidewalk and checked the street, but Aaron was gone.
Chapter 5
Tears washed over Aaron's face as he pedaled his bike south through the downtown neighborhoods. He rode hard, flying on and off sidewalks, jumping railroad tracks, potholes, and puddles, gulping the crisp night air, his heart in his throat, feeling as if he could explode with tension. He rode to lose himself in the anonymity of the city, to shake off the weight bearing down on him, to mute the angry voices shouting at him from within his aching head.
He passed endless rows of apartment buildings, some with lighted windows behind which he pictured families having dinner or watching TV by the fire. He wondered how many of the families were happy and how many were as messed up as his, and he seriously considered stopping and knocking on a few doors to see if any of the households were functioning smoothly enough to take in a feral teenager.
At last he arrived at his destination: the city's waterfront, the dominion of the criminally inclined and the criminally insane. He skidded to a stop under a mercury-vapor streetlamp that cast a tawny light upon a vast cliff of rusting corrugated-steel siding the length of a city block, The Alton Brothers Fish Cannery — aka the hideout. Rebuilt in 1907 following the 1905 fire, the cannery had been in operation for more than a hundred years before it was condemned in the mid 1990s.
Aaron took a couple of slow, deep breaths. His head still hurt, but the pain in his stomach was easing a bit. He took out his cell phone and fired off a text message.
– Willy was working on his second cheeseburger when his phone beeped. It was a text from Aaron:
I'm at the cannery. Can you come down?
Willy rubbed his nose and read the message again — neither one of them had been down to the hideout in months, and he had assumed that Aaron had gone home mad. He glanced at the clock on the restaurant wall and entered his reply:
It's past your bedtime you big baby.
