Lisa Unger - Fragile

Jones saw the other man begin to cry and cast his eyes away. He didn’t want to see Travis break down. His hand was itching to reach for the gun in its holster. It’s too late for all of this, Travis , he wanted to say. We’re too far gone. All our mistakes, everything we’ve done wrong. It is just part of who we are now. There’s no such thing as redemption. Two people are dead because of all the things we did and didn’t do. Your tears mean nothing . But he was pretty sure that was not what Travis needed to hear. He wished Maggie were here; she’d know what to say to him. She always had the answers.

“I know I can’t undo the things I’ve done. I can’t go back and be a better father. But I can protect my son right now. I can do that.”

When Jones looked back at Travis, the other man had a gun in his hand, a.38-caliber Smith & Wesson, his old service revolver.

“What are you doing, Travis?”

“What I have to do.”

“What’s he done, man? We can work it out.”

Jones thought about Maggie and the things she’d said, how angry she’d been at him tonight, the accusations she’d leveled against him. And he saw now that she was right about everything. And Travis was right, too, about them all being ghosts in their lives-not living right, not at rest or at peace, just howling at the fringes.

“Hiding the truth isn’t the same as protecting someone.” Even as he said it, he knew what a sad hypocrite he was. “What good did it do any of us?”

But Jones could see the blank determination in the other man’s eyes. He knew instinctively that he wouldn’t have time to draw his weapon now. He’d waited too long.

He lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender; when he saw Travis relax, Jones rushed him, hoping that Travis’s reaction time was slow because he was drunk. But before he could reach Travis, the explosion of the firing gun opened up the night.

He was a coward. Charlene was right about him. He was a mama’s boy, because that’s where he wanted to be, at home with his mom. Instead he was driving around The Hollows, flirting with the entrance to the interstate that would take him into the city. But he couldn’t quite get himself to drive up the on-ramp. He’d passed it three times already. He could drive to New York, and then what? Go to a club, hope to bump into her? He didn’t know where anybody lived. Would he wander the streets, looking at every girl who passed?

He ran one hand through his hair. It felt as hard and spiky as Astro-Turf from all the gel he used to create that carefully messed-up look. The action caused his arm to ache. He wasn’t sure a tattoo was supposed to hurt this much; the skin beneath the ink looked red and raw. He’d dabbed away a little pus. That was all he needed, for the stupid thing to get infected. That would really send his parents off the deep end.

She uses people. She used you . Earlier he’d been so sure that something had happened to Charlene. But now he wasn’t sure of anything. Whose car had she gotten into? Where had she gone? Why did his father believe he’d done something to hurt her? Or that he was lying? On the seat beside him, his phone started ringing again. Mom calling, the screen blinked anxiously. He didn’t answer. As much as he wanted to pick up and talk to her, he didn’t.

He was tired, pulled into a deserted gym parking lot. He’d already been through the drive-through at Taco Bell, had an Enchirito and nachos while he drove. Then he went through Starbucks and got a venti Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce. So, for a while, he was wired, his mind buzzing with one grand plan after another. Now, crashing hard, Rick just wanted to go home. But he couldn’t stand the thought of them-his father’s accusations, his mother’s worried frown. If he went home, they wouldn’t just leave him be; they’d be up all night fighting. He wondered what it was like to live in a family where people didn’t feel compelled to talk all the goddamn time about every little thing. Not that this was a little thing. It was a big thing, the biggest thing. The girl he loved was missing. His father thought he had something to do with it.

He brought the car to a stop and killed the engine, sat in the deserted parking lot. It was after midnight, and he hadn’t seen another car in an hour. He rested his head against the window, started to doze, and immediately began to dream. He dreamed that he was swinging a bat, and as it connected with a ball pitched to him by his father, it made a sharp crack, the bat splitting in two. The sound startled him awake. Then he heard it again.

Carried on the night air, it sounded like the firing of a gun. His dad had taught him the difference between gunfire and the backfiring of an engine. The sound of gunfire had a crack to it, a report, whereas the sound of a car backfiring was more explosive. He listened for it again, but he only heard the wind through the leaves. He rolled down the window and caught the scent of cut grass and something else, the faintest odor of skunk. He kept listening for a while, hoping to hear it again, but there was nothing. Then his phone started ringing again.

Sitting there listening to it, wondering if he should finally answer, Rick felt his fatigue and sadness become unbearable. He couldn’t sit alone in the dark anymore. He turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. He knew where to go, someplace where he could rest and be left alone.

He drove back through town and made a right, followed the road past Hollows High, and turned onto Blacksmith Bluff, his grandmother’s street. He pulled into her driveway, putting the car in neutral and drifting in the last fifty yards, like he did at home not to wake his dad. But as he stepped out of the car, he noticed that the light in his grandmother’s bedroom was on.

He used the key he had on his ring and pushed the front door open, stepping into the foyer. He flipped on the light and moved inside.

“Grandma?”

He saw a light shining down the stairs from the hallway on the second floor. He didn’t want to give her a heart attack. He didn’t want to wake her if she was sleeping, either. But when he heard a low and distant moaning, he broke into a run up the steps. Elizabeth was on the floor beneath the attic access, her cane toppled beside her.

“Grandma,” he said, kneeling beside her.

“Ricky,” she said. “You need to tell them.”

She looked pale and withered lying there, so helpless. Beneath his hand, her shoulder felt tiny and frail. It scared him. She was a powerhouse, as strong and permanent as the old oak tree out in the backyard.

“Grandma, it’s okay.” He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911, though his first instinct was to call his mother. He knew enough not to try to move his grandmother, though he could easily have scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

“You have to tell them, Ricky.” She clutched his wrist, her grip urgent.

“I need an ambulance at 173 Blacksmith Bluff,” he said to the dispatcher. “My grandma fell. She’s hurt.”

“Ricky,” Elizabeth said. “She was already dead when he found her.”

Rick didn’t know what she was talking about, tried to focus on the dispatcher’s voice while giving his grandmother a comforting rub on the arm.

“She’s disoriented,” Rick said, holding her gaze. “Can you contact my father, Jones Cooper? He’s the head detective at the Hollows Police Department.”

The dispatcher told him to stay on the line until the ambulance arrived. Rick tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Grandma.” He heard the dispatcher requesting the ambulance. Arrival in four minutes. Hang in there .