“HE SOUNDS LIKE a piece of work,” Susannah says.
“It’s like he was God’s first try at a human,” I say, causing Susannah to laugh again. “But he was seriously scary. Frankie said he was straight-up evil.”
Instantly I regret mentioning Frankie. Guilt washes over me like a tide. But Susannah doesn’t say anything at first, just plays with the laces on her Doc Martens.
“I didn’t go see him, either,” she says. “I left and didn’t write him a note or anything for almost two years, just sort of assumed you would go see him. Which wasn’t fair to you.”
I let her words sit for a moment. “So we both suck,” I say.
She shrugs. “He went to prison because of me.”
That brings me up short. I lower my voice. “Frankie went to prison for both of us.”
She considers this, then nods. “So, yeah,” she says. “We both suck.”
We look at each other, mutely acknowledging our collective guilt. Then Curtis the mechanic steps into the lounge. “Mr. Faulkner?” he says. “Figured out the problem. Looks like you got some plastic stuck in your gear selector.”
I close my eyes in disgust, but not before seeing the triumphant smile on my sister’s face.
CHAPTER NINE
I lied to Susannah earlier. It wasn’t Brandon Cargill who showed me who my uncle is, not really. Cargill was the precipitating event, true. But it was Uncle Gavin himself who told me.
After Cargill threatened Frankie and me with a wrench, Ruben drove “me and Frankie” with “us” back to the bar, where I washed dishes and stacked plates and fought hard to stem a rising tide of anger and resentment. Cargill was one eye twitch away from a straitjacket. And I had no doubt my uncle knew it. That was why he’d told Ruben to drive us over. Fat lot of help he’d been, sitting in the car while Cargill terrorized us with a wrench. Who threw a wrench into a windshield? And he’d deliberately thumbed the stack of hundreds at me and Frankie. Why? To get a response? To show off?
That evening, I planned to lay into my uncle, ignoring whatever look he would shoot at me. But it was one of the days we stayed late, where I ate dinner in the kitchen while Uncle Gavin ate in his office. When he finally walked down the stairs, he was on his cell phone and just waved at me to come on. For the entire drive home that evening, he stayed on the phone, so I seethed in silence next to him while he drove and spoke to someone about renovations he wanted to make to the bar. When he pulled up to the curb outside the house, I got out and slammed the door behind me, then stalked up the steps to the porch. Fuck him, I thought. I walked through the front door and marched straight upstairs to my room, where I shut the door behind me and lay down on my bed. I began counting slowly. When I hit fifty-seven, there was a knock, and Fay opened the door. Of course: Uncle Gavin would send Fay rather than knock on his own nephew’s door.
“Hey,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. She was going old-school tonight, wearing black leggings and an off-the-shoulder pink sweat shirt like some Eighties starlet. I could smell her coconut hair from my bed. Concern wreathed her face like a halo. “You okay?” she asked.
“Right as rain,” I said. I swung my feet off the bed and stood up. “Just need to talk to Uncle Gavin.” I made for the door without waiting for her response, and she stepped back to allow me out. Walking through a cloud of her perfume, I nearly buckled at the knees from desire, but I made my way past her and went downstairs.
I found Uncle Gavin on the porch with his evening paper, just as I had expected. The sun didn’t set until almost nine o’clock in June, and there was still enough light for him to read by. I let the screen door spring back behind me so it smacked the frame. Uncle Gavin glanced at me over the top of his newspaper. I locked eyes with him, determined not to let him hide behind the day’s headlines.
“What?” he said after a few taut seconds.
“Brandon Cargill,” I said.
Uncle Gavin grinned. “Did he tell you to call him Brad?”
“It’s not funny.”
“I understand from Ruben he put on a holy show, what with throwin’ a wrench through a car window—”
“It’s not funny!” I shouted, wiping the grin off Uncle Gavin’s face. I didn’t care if Fay heard me, or Susannah, or the whole goddamn block. “I thought he would hit me! Or Frankie! With a goddamn wrench! Who the hell was that guy?”
Uncle Gavin didn’t even blink, just sat in his wicker chair, gazing at me with those black eyes.
“Now I get the death stare?” I said. “Did I offend you by cussing? I’m fucking sorry.” Rage coursed through me, and I began stalking across the porch to the steps and then back to the front door. “Johnny Shaw’s gorilla wore a gun under his jacket. Are you fucking serious with sending me and Frankie to these people? Is this a joke to you? Do you want me to get shot? Have Cargill pull out a, a shotgun or something and stick it under my jaw and blow my head—”
“Enough,” Uncle Gavin said. He didn’t shout it, or even raise his voice much, but there was something dark and angry thrumming through that one word that brought my marching to a halt. He folded
