Peter Leonard - Quiver

Kate could feel a tingling in her jaw, the first indication that the Novocain was wearing off. She’d had a cavity in a back tooth filled, her dentist, Dr. Hanson, giving her two shots of Novocain, saying he had to drill pretty deep and didn’t want to take any chances.

She drove in the garage and noticed the Corvette was gone and couldn’t believe it. Thinking about what she said to Luke and how she said it. “Don’t drive. Don’t even think about it. You’ve got a restricted license. If the police stop you, they’re going to put you in jail. And don’t go anywhere unless you ask me first.” What didn’t he understand about that? She even hid the keys. He said he was going to straighten up and stay out of trouble. He wasn’t going to use Owen’s death as an excuse anymore.

Jack was sitting at the breakfast room table reading the paper, drinking a Coke, when she walked in the kitchen. It bothered her to see him in the house, reminding her of how he used to show up at her apartment in Ann Arbor. She’d come home from class, he’d be watching TV or taking a shower, like he owned the place.

Kate said, “Make yourself at home,” an edge to her voice. “Can I get you anything?”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

“You did,” Kate said. She didn’t need this right now.

There were half-eaten lamb chops on a plate in front of him.

Jack said, “You don’t mind, do you? The door was unlocked.”

Kate said, “Have you seen Luke?”

The message light on the phone was flashing.

“No,” Jack said.

“How long have you been here?”

“Half hour,” Jack said. “You all right?”

She could see he was concerned. She moved to the counter, pressed the message button on the phone and heard Helen Parks’s snippy voice say, “Mrs. McCall, Luke has failed to show up for school again. This is Mrs. Parks, please call as soon as you can.”

Kate picked up the phone, called Luke’s cell, heard his voice say, “This is Luke, leave a message.”

Where was he?

Jack said, “There a problem?”

“I don’t know.”

She checked the den, the billiard room, the family room, walked through the living room to the sun porch, Jack behind her, crowding her. She went upstairs, looked in his bedroom. Leon was on the bed, but Luke wasn’t there or anywhere in the house. Where would he go? All his friends were in school.

“Listen,” Kate said to Jack, “I’ve got to go out for a while.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

She could see Jack in the rearview mirror as she pulled out, Jack walking down the driveway toward the street, wondering, no doubt, what had happened. He’d asked if he could go with her and she said no. There was a Lexus sedan parked in front, Kate assuming the car was Jack’s. It was the only one around. Last time he came over he was driving his sister’s eight-year-old Chevy Cavalier. Where did he get a seventy-thousand-dollar Lexus? Did he buy it or borrow it-or steal it? Her distrust of him creeping back to the surface. She drove to Tower Records at the mall, one of Luke’s favorite stores. She’d start there and then try the arcade.

DeJuan was checking her out-good-looking woman-as she walked through the record store moving fast, glancing around like she was looking for something. He’d followed her from the house. She lived half a mile from Marty, other side of Sixteen Mile Road, also called Big Beaver. He’d like to check her beaver out, imagined it waxed and trimmed, little arrow of fur pointing up at her knocks.

He liked the ’hood called the Village, with its nice wide streets and big houses set back a couple hundred feet from the road-lot of property between the cribs, so nobody snoopin’ on nobody else’s shit.

He was checking out a Mony Karlo CD- For the Luv of Money — DeJuan thinking, did this brother get it done? He most definitely got it done. DeJuan took his eyes off her for a minute and when he glanced back she was walking out the store-moving fast. He caught up to her at the escalator, riding down to the first floor. Waited while she went in an arcade. Came out, went to the parking structure, got in the Land Rover, while he got in his Malibu, tailing her back to her place, trying to stay close as she hit seventy on Sixteen Mile.

He watched her pull in the driveway and parked a couple houses away. Listening to an interview with Barack. Man was smooth as silk. Articulate, black US senator, scaring the shit out of white folks, saying he considering making a run for the presidency. DeJuan thinking, yeah, bring some rhythm and soul to the party.

Land Rover appeared five minutes later, blowing down the driveway. DeJuan firing up the Malibu, slipping it in gear, taking off. Twenty minutes later he passed a sign that said “Clarkston,” traveling north on I-75, doing ninety-five, trying to keep up with her. Wondering where the bitch was headed. Thought it’d be an afternoon of errands and shit. Check out the mall while she shopped. Once she got somewhere, call Teddy; tell him to make his move. But it didn’t happen like that, and thirty minutes later he was driving through Flint-asshole of the Midwest-wondering what the fuck was going on. To make things more interesting, he had just under half a tank of gas and there was no end in sight to this crazy-ass odyssey.

Then it hit him. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror and grinned. Sure, it had to be that. Bitch was going to the discount mall. Could buy ten of anything she wanted, but couldn’t resist the idea of a deal. Like she taking advantage of somebody.

He remembered his moms, aunt and cousins driving from Detroit to someplace called West Branch, DeJuan and four ladies in an old Cadillac Deville, yakking, going on about girl shit, going up north for a day of shopping, listening to the Shirelles singing “Dedicated to the One I Love”-the memory coming back to him as he saw the West Branch sign and passed it.

Forty minutes after that, he was following her through Grayling, running on fumes when she pulled into a gas station. Big place had ten pumps, all of them taken except for the last one, place crowded with SUVs and RVs, big forty-foot-long motherfuckers.

He parked on the other side of the pump from her, filling his Malibu while she filled her Land Rover, catching glimpses of her, finally making eye contact, saying, “Yo, know where Traverse City at?”

“Follow 72,” she said, extending her arm and pointing to the left. She seemed wound up, tense, like something on her mind.

He filled his tank and went inside the mini-mart and paid. Bought two chocolate doughnuts with sprinkles and a large coffee. When he came out, the Land Rover was gone. He scanned the lot-saw it pulling out of the station, going left. He dropped the doughnuts and coffee and ran to his car and got in. He had to wait for an RV to get the fuck out of his way. Floored it, jerked the steering wheel, tires squealing, blew out of the gas station parking lot, took a left, picking up speed, cruising now along the I-75 bypass, fast-food restaurants lining the road on both sides, reminding him how hungry he was. DeJuan picturing a platter of chicken wings smothered in hickory brown-sugar barbecue sauce, wash it all down with a 7 amp;7 or a Cuba libre with a big slice of lime. Hadn’t eaten anything all day, starving now at three thirty in the afternoon.

He thought for sure he’d lost her, thinking what a waste of time his day had been when he saw a silver Land Rover parked in a vacant lot next to a Mickey D’s. He drove in the D’s lot, went around the building, parked with a good angle on her, facing out.

What she doing, sitting there? Then the door opened and the dog jumped out. He watched it sniff around, do its business, while he sat there smelling meat cooking, starving, stomach groaning, making noises.