Roger Smith - Mixed Blood

But he knew now that Susan was getting ready to turn herself in. She was afraid she’d be separated from her son and was taking what time she could to be with him. Burn couldn’t stand watching them any longer, in the knowledge that in a couple of days they would be out of his life.

Probably forever.

He found himself on the deck in the dark, staring out over the lights of the city below. He felt a moment of vertigo as if everything was sliding away from him. He sat down on a wooden chair and deliberately slowed his breathing. Forced himself to calm down. Forced himself to remember who he was.

He had always been a fighter. As a kid, he’d protected his older brother from bullies. He’d worn the bruises and the broken teeth, but he’d never backed down. Ever. There were still men in his hometown who would prop up the bar and talk about the night he won them the high school state championship with his arm broken. His throwing arm. He’d landed his passes on a dime and scored the winning touchdown.

In the marines, no matter what brand of shit hit the fan, he had found a quiet place, some stillness within, that allowed him the time to act.

The night the men had come in off the deck, he had known he was going to take them down. It wasn’t a thought; it was a reflex. He was a fighter.

Now he was losing his family, and he wasn’t doing a fucking thing. He was letting Susan slip farther and farther away.

He stood and paced the deck, asking himself the tough questions: Did he want her to go? Did he want to be alone, with nothing to lose? Did he want to get rid of everything that made him vulnerable, go deep into a cold place within himself and live out the rest of his days a refugee from both the law and any of the emotions that made him human?

No. He did not.

Burn went inside. Matt was still hypnotized by the TV. Susan was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.

Burn leaned on the counter and watched her chop. She had beautiful hands, long delicate fingers. She’d been a sculptor when he had first met her. She’d lost interest in sculpting in the last few years, her passion to be an artist diluted by the duties of a wife and mother. It was a pity. She was talented.

Susan ignored him. She scraped the vegetables into a wok and walked it across to the stove.

Burn didn’t take his eyes off her. “Ernie Simpkins.”

She looked up at him, brushing hair from her face. “What?”

“The dead cop’s name was Ernie Simpkins.” She shrugged, stirred the wok with a wooden spoon. “I wish to hell I could change what happened, Susan, but I can’t. I don’t want to lose you. Or Matt. Or the baby.”

“It’s too late, Jack. You already have.”

“I screwed up, big time. I admit that.”

She looked up from the wok. “No, Jack, forgetting an anniversary is screwing up. Murdering a cop is in an altogether different category. And let’s not even talk about what you did the other night.”

Burn watched her as she cooked, determined not to let her anger scare him and drive him into silence. “Baby, do you really want to split up our family? If you do that, you know that we’ll never be able to see each other again. The kids will grow up not knowing who their father is.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“That isn’t you talking, Susan.”

“It is, Jack. Get used to it. I’m not your cute little trophy wife anymore.”

“You were never that.” He came up behind her, tried to hold her, but she spun away from him and crossed to the fridge for soy sauce.

He pressed on. “Let’s go to New Zealand.”

She laughed in disbelief. “New Zealand?”

He nodded. He had to sell this. He had one chance. “I made a mistake bringing us here. This place is like, hell, I dunno, a candy castle built on a septic tank. New Zealand is beautiful, wild, just about zero crime.”

“Now there’s an irony. You looking for a place that’s crime free.” She added soy to the vegetables, stirring rapidly.

“Susan, look at me.” Reluctantly, she looked up. “I want another chance. Jesus, I deserve a chance to make things right. For all of us. Stop shutting me out. Because I made some bad choices doesn’t mean you have to.”

She was looking at him, at least. Holding his gaze. “So, you’re saying we go to New Zealand? With me like this?” She pointed at her belly.

“After you have the baby, yes. I’ll get us an apartment here until then. In a security block. Tomorrow. We’ll pack up and get the hell out of this house. And we’ll leave as soon as it’s safe for you to fly.” He saw that he was reaching her, sensed an opening in her armor. “Susan, I love you. And Matt. I want a chance to make it right.”

She shook her head, turned away from him, fighting tears.

He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She tried to free herself, but he held her tight and at last he felt her begin to relax and give in.

Susan almost surrendered, almost let his words convince her. Then she saw him with the knife, crouched over the skinny man, and she broke his hold on her and stepped away from him.

She saw his face, the desperation in his eyes. “Leave me alone, Jack.”

“Susan…” He was reaching for her again.

“Just leave me the fuck alone!” She shouted before she could stop herself. Burn nodded and walked back out onto the deck. She held on to the kitchen counter, battling to calm herself.

She looked up to see Matt staring at her from the sofa. He was crying.

She composed herself and went across to him, sat down beside him, and put her arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay, Matty.”

She knew she’d pushed her son away, and she’d been trying, since she got back from the clinic, to reconnect with him. To love him again. But every time she looked at him she saw his father.

The child sobbed as she held him and stroked his hair and whispered reassuring words. She felt his pain and confusion. And she felt her own guilt. God, how could she have done that? To her baby boy?

Matt was calming down; the sobs were not as desperate. Susan blew his nose on a tissue. She pointed to something on the screen, the antics of a cartoon character, and Matt smiled. Then he laughed. Susan sat next to him, held him, until she saw that he was caught up in the swirl of color on the screen. Then she went out on the deck, where her husband stood with his back to her, staring out at the night.

He didn’t see her, and she watched him for a few moments. He had always been her rock, the one thing in her life she could trust completely. Not anymore.

“Jack.” He turned to her, his face catching the light from the house. The beaten look on his face aged him.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay what?”

“Let’s do it. Let’s go to New Zealand. Or wherever.”

He was staring at her. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. But I’m doing it for Matt and for her.” She put a hand to her belly.

He came toward Susan and took her in his arms, her belly pressing up against him. She stared over his shoulder, out at the swollen yellow moon hanging like a bruised fruit over the ocean.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I’m going to make it right. I promise.”

More than anything, she wanted to believe him.

Why hadn’t he smacked the brown bitch in her filthy mouth?

As Rudi Barnard left the Flats behind, drove the Toyota across the railway bridge to Goodwood, he puzzled over that half-breed slut, Carmen, and why he hadn’t he hit her. Normally he didn’t think twice about something like that. Disrespect or cross him, and you paid the price. He was confused by this aberration in his behavior.

Did he really want to fuck her? No, he decided. It wasn’t that. He realized, relieved, that she was someone who would be of use to him sometime. And his intuition was that she had been beaten senseless so often by so many men that it meant nothing to her. In fact, he reckoned he would have more power over her if he didn’t hit her.