nothing but a—”
But before Zack could finish, he rose off his feet, his head smashing against the lowest branch of the oak tree in whose shadow both boys stood. And then he dropped back to the sidewalk, sprawled out flat on his back, his head crashing against the concrete sidewalk.
As Zack moaned and whimpered, cradling his head in his hands, Seth edged around him. “I warned you,” he said quietly. “All you had to do was walk away.”
Chapter 36
YRA SULLIVAN WAS LATE, WHICH SHE KNEW meant that Marty would be angry, which meant he’d be drinking. As she pulled the bag of groceries out of the trunk of the Chevelle she braced herself for the tirade she would almost certainly face the moment she opened the front door. It was her fault, of course — she should have gone to the store earlier, which she would have done if the thunderstorm hadn’t swirled in out of nowhere. In fact, she’d been about to leave the house when the first bolt of lightning lashed out of the sky and a moment later the house shook under the crash of the thunderbolt that came on the heels of the lightning.
And then the skies had opened.
She’d peered out the window for a few minutes, waiting for the rain to let up, but finally took off her coat and went back to unpacking the last of the boxes that were still in the unoccupied bedroom upstairs, while Marty settled in to watch a football game. The lightning was ruining the reception and he could barely see anything on the flickering screen, but instead of shutting off the set and helping her with the boxes, he kept opening more beers and grumbling that she should have had the cable turned on last week. Knowing better than to argue with him, she kept working until the storm finally passed, then went out to get what she needed to feed them that evening.
Apparently, everybody else had the same idea, so it took her twice as long to get out of the store as she’d planned, and now Marty would be angry. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He was her cross to bear, and whatever pain she had to endure in this life would be rewarded in the next.
As she lifted the groceries out of the back of the car and headed for the house, she saw a light glowing in Angel’s window, which was a relief. At least she could stop worrying about where Angel might be.
Preparing for whatever anger Marty might have been nursing while she was gone — and knowing it would be amplified by her lateness — Myra wondered for a brief second what it might be like to have a husband who actually came out to carry the groceries in for her. Banishing the thought almost as quickly as it occurred to her, and offering up a quick prayer for forgiveness to the Holy Mother, she pushed the front door open.
And instantly sensed that something had changed.
Though the TV was still on, Marty wasn’t watching it.
Frowning, she picked up the remote from the arm of his chair and shut off the TV.
The silence that fell over the house did nothing to banish her uneasiness; indeed, the quiet only amplified it. She started toward the kitchen, her strange sense of apprehension growing with every step. And then she saw him.
Her husband was sprawled out on his back, the shards of a shattered beer bottle spread out around him, his eyes closed. “Marty?” she gasped. “Marty, what—” Her eyes still fixed on him, she set the groceries on the counter. “Angel?” she called as she sank to her knees next to her supine husband. Then her voice rose to almost a scream: “Angel!”
A moment later Angel appeared at the top of the stairs. Myra gazed up at her, then turned back to her husband. “Call an ambulance,” she said. “Your father’s—”
She stopped as Marty moaned softly. His right arm moved, and then he opened his eyes. He focused on Angel, who was halfway down the stairs, and sat bolt upright, his eyes widening. “Get away,” he said, his voice little more than a garbled croak. “Get away from me!” Angel froze on the stairs, and Marty, his face pale, clutched at Myra’s arm. “She did it!” he said. “She threw me down the stairs!”
Myra stared at Marty, the shock of finding him unconscious on the floor giving way now to utter confusion. “Threw you?” she echoed. “Marty, what are you—”
“She did!” Marty cried as Angel came down the rest of the stairs. He shrank back from his daughter. “She —”
But Myra had heard enough. Whatever sympathy she’d had for him a moment earlier drained away. “You’re drunk, Marty,” she said, rising to her feet.
“I’m not!” Marty protested. “She—”
“Don’t!” Myra said. “I can see what happened, Marty. You sat here drinking all day, and when you finally tried to go upstairs, you tripped and fell down.” As Marty tried to object, Myra shook her head. “A falling down drunk, that’s what you are. And I won’t have it! To blame your daughter! Shame, Martin! Shame on you!”
“But, Myra—” Marty whined, reaching out as if to grab the hem of his wife’s skirt.
“No!” Myra snapped. “I won’t have it! Now get up and get this mess cleaned up, and then go sleep it off.”
Marty wilted in the face of his wife’s sudden fury. But as he hauled himself to his feet, his anger began to build once again. “I’m tellin’ you, it wasn’t me!” he said. “It was—”
Before he could finish, Myra turned, raised her hand, and slapped him so hard across the face that he reeled away.
Clutching at his stinging cheek, he lurched toward the back door. “The hell with you,” he muttered. “The hell with you both.” Jerking the door open so fast it slammed against the wall, Marty Sullivan stumbled away into the darkness outside.
“Zack should have been home half an hour ago,” Joni Fletcher said, frowning as she glanced at the clock above the kitchen sink. “I told him six o’clock and absolutely no later.”
“Hey, he’s a teenager,” Ed replied. “So he’s a few minutes late — what’s the big deal?”
“The ‘big deal,’ as you call it, is that I’ve got a roast almost ready to serve. And not just any roast — it’s the kind of prime rib that you and your son love the most. It was done exactly fifteen minutes ago, and it can rest for exactly fifteen more minutes before it’s going to start getting less than prime. And in half an hour, it’ll start getting cold, and after that—”
“Okay, okay!” Ed Fletcher held up his hands in exaggerated surrender. “So if he’s late, he’s late. I vote we eat it when it’s perfect, and if he’s not here, that’s more for me.”
“And I vote,” Joni retorted, “that you hop in the car and go see if you can find him. He knew what I was serving, and he swore he wouldn’t be late. He’s probably over at the Jacksons’, so how long can it take?”
Ed rolled his eyes. “Come on, Joni — do you have any idea what it’s like for a sixteen-year-old to have his daddy come looking for him? I remember—” But before he could begin expounding on every dire consequence that could pertain to the humiliation Joni was suggesting, the phone rang.
“Where?” Joni his wife asked after listening briefly, the receiver pressed to her ear. “All right — we’ll be right there… not more than two minutes.” As she hung up, and looked at him, Ed guessed what the call was about.
“Zack?” he asked.
Joni nodded, but was already heading toward the door that led from the kitchen to the garage. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
In less than a minute, Ed was backing down the driveway.
“That was Sheila Jacobson,” his wife explained. “She lives on Court Street? That’s where we’re going. Anyway, she heard something in front of her house a few minutes ago, and when she went to look, she found Zack on the sidewalk. He’s — oh God, Ed, he was almost unconscious, and she’s already called an ambulance, and—” Her voice caught. She struggled against the lump rising in her throat, forced it back under control, then went on. “Just hurry.”
