Mad River Road Read online

  “What do you think?” a male voice asked from somewhere beside her.

  Jamie looked up as the balding young man from the reception desk helped himself to a cup of coffee, then sat down at the next table, stretching his long legs out in front of him and taking a long drag of an unlit cigarette. A sign on the wall next to the television announced that smoking was prohibited. “What do I think about what?” Jamie asked. The ban on smoking? Gun control? Switchblades?

  “The coffee,” he answered. “We’re trying a new brand.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  Jamie took another sip. “Just okay.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” the young man agreed, scratching the side of his short, pug nose and lowering his Styrofoam cup to the small, round table before taking another drag of his unlit cigarette. “Nothing special. Name’s Dusty, by the way.”

  “Jamie,” Jamie told him. “Danish is really good though.” She took a bite, as if to emphasize her point.

  “Yeah? I like the cinnamon rolls best. They got lots of raisins.”

  “I didn’t see any of those.”

  “Nah, you wouldn’t at this hour. They’re always the first to go.”

  Jamie took another bite of her danish, another sip of her coffee. Dusty took another hit off his unlit cigarette. The man in the cowboy hat on TV was explaining that guns didn’t kill people. People killed people, he was saying. Would Brad really have slit that boy’s throat? she wondered.

  “So, where you headed?” Dusty asked.

  “Ohio.”

  “You from there?”

  “No. I’ve never been there before.”

  “Me neither. Never been out of Georgia.” Dusty’s small brown eyes narrowed, as if he wasn’t quite sure why that was. “So what’s in Ohio?”

  “My boyfriend’s son,” Jamie said, loving the feel of the word boyfriend on her tongue, the sound of it in her ear. No way he would have used that knife.

  Dusty tapped his fingers on the table. Charlton Heston had replaced the man in the cowboy hat. He was speaking at some sort of rally. “From my cold, dead hands,” he was shouting to thunderous applause.

  What does that mean? Jamie wondered. “What happened to your finger?” she asked.

  Dusty held up his right hand, examining his index finger as if he couldn’t quite remember. “Accident with a lawn mower,” he said after a lengthy pause.

  Jamie flinched. “Yikes.”

  Dusty laughed. “Yikes?”

  “Must have hurt like hell.”

  “Nah, not so much. At least not till later. I didn’t even realize what had happened until I looked down and saw all the blood.” He shook his head. “There sure was a lot of blood.”

  “They couldn’t reattach it?” Jamie asked.

  “Couldn’t find it. Damn thing just took off.”

  Jamie pictured Dusty’s fingertip flying through the air in the same arc as Curtis’s severed ponytail. She heard the sound of laughter, realized with horror it was her own. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was pretty funny.” Dusty laughed with her.

  “You never found it?”

  “Not till the next day. By then it was too late. I still have it though.”

  “You have it?”

  “Not with me.”

  “Thank God,” Jamie said.

  “Yikes,” Dusty said, and they laughed again.

  A shadow fell across the TV screen. Jamie looked over, saw Brad leaning against the far wall. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his eyes darting between the two.

  Jamie was instantly on her feet. “Long story,” she said, still chuckling.

  “We’ve got lots of time,” Brad said. “Seems the mechanic can’t work on the car till this afternoon.”

  “You can probably keep your room till around four,” Dusty offered. “That’s when we start to get busy.”

  “Appreciate it,” Brad said as Dusty returned to his desk.

  “Well, we can just relax then,” Jamie began. “Maybe go for a walk. There are those churches—”

  “You really think it’s a good idea to get so familiar with these people?” Brad interrupted. “Didn’t last night teach you anything?”

  It took Jamie several seconds to understand what Brad was talking about. “You mean Dusty?” She laughed. “Trust me. He’s harmless.”

  “Trust me. There is no such thing.”

  Jamie inched forward until she was standing directly in front of Brad. She stood on her tiptoes, her lips touching briefly on his. It was sweet of him to be so protective, so concerned for her welfare. “I do trust you.”

  He smiled, produced a white plastic bag from behind his back. “Bought you something.”

  “You did? What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  Jamie took the bag from Brad’s hands and reached inside it, extricating the box and bursting into tears at the sight of the platinum-haired doll with the impossible figure and red plastic, high-heeled shoes. “I don’t believe it. You bought me a Barbie!”

  “Thought you might want to start a new collection.”

  Jamie threw herself into Brad’s arms. “I can’t believe you,” she said, delighted.

  Brad squeezed Jamie tightly to his chest as the sound of televised gunfire ricocheted throughout the room. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take Barbie to church.”

  TWELVE

  “All right, Dylan. Time’s up,” Emma called from outside the locked bathroom door. It was almost six-thirty. Lily would be bringing Michael over any minute.

  “Go away,” a small voice responded.

  “What are you doing in there, sweetie? Is your tummy okay?”

  No response.

  “Dylan, you know Mommy doesn’t like it when you lock the door.”

  “Go away,” Dylan said again.

  Emma took a deep breath and made herself smile. She remembered reading that if you forced yourself to smile, regardless of how you were actually feeling, it would make you feel better. Act positive and you’ll feel positive. Some such rot. “Sweetheart, your friend Michael will be here any second.”

  “He’s not my friend,” came the immediate retort.

  “He’s in your class. I thought you liked him.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  Emma smiled harder. “Well, he likes you. And he’s been looking forward to this sleepover all day.”

  “He can’t sleep in my bed.”

  “I already told you, you’ll be sleeping in my bed. Both of you.”

  “I don’t want to sleep in your bed.”

  “Okay. We’ll work something out later. In the meantime—”

  “He can’t play with my toys.”

  “Then you’d better get out here so that you can keep an eye on him, because he’ll be here any second.”

  “No. Tell him to go home.”

  “I can’t do that. I promised his mother—” She stopped. What am I doing arguing with a five-year-old? she wondered. “Dylan, get out of there this minute or you’ll be very sorry.” I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow down your door! “Dylan, do you hear me?”

  Silence. Followed by the reluctant sound of a lock turning, the slow creak of the bathroom door as it fell open. Dylan stood glaring at his mother from the middle of the tiny room, his lower lip trembling.

  “Good. That’s enough silliness for one day. Now come downstairs. I’m making macaroni and cheese for dinner.”

  “I hate macaroni and cheese,” Dylan said, refusing to budge.

  “What are you talking about? You love macaroni and cheese.”

  “No, I don’t. I hate it.”

  “Come downstairs.” Emma reached for her son’s hand, then stopped abruptly, recoiling in dismay as her eyes absorbed the wet tile in front of the toilet. “What happened in here?”

  “It was an accident.” Dylan looked away, his cheeks blush
ing bright pink.

  Emma glanced from the floor to the toilet seat to the wall behind the toilet. A decorative splash of urine, like spray-painted graffiti, covered the various surfaces. “This was no accident, young man. You did this on purpose.”

  “No,” Dylan insisted. “I just missed.”

  “Well, then, you just better clean it up.” Emma soaked a washcloth, then forced it into her son’s hand. “Right now.”

  “No.”

  “Dylan, I’ve had just about enough nonsense out of you for one day.”

  In response, the fingers of Dylan’s hand opened, and the washcloth slid to the floor.

  “Okay, mister, pick it up.”

  “No.”

  “You want a spanking? Is that what you want? Because I’d be more than happy to give you one.”

  “You’re mean,” Dylan shouted suddenly, pushing past Emma and running from the room. “You’re a mean mommy.”

  “And you’re a little stinker,” Emma countered, catching up with her son at the top of the stairs. Frustration had already wiped the smile from her face, and now tears were obliterating whatever shadow of it remained. She grabbed Dylan’s arm and spun him around, slapping him repeatedly on his backside as he screamed his indignation.

  The doorbell rang.

  Emma’s hand froze in midair. What am I doing? she wondered. Didn’t I promise myself that no matter how bad things got, I’d never take it out on my son? She took several deep breaths, followed immediately by several more, trying to calm herself down. “Okay, now, we are going downstairs,” she began, speaking very softly and deliberately, “and you are going to say hello to Michael, and then you’re going to go into the kitchen and eat every bit of the macaroni and cheese I put on your plate, and what’s more, you’re going to like it. And then you’re going to say thank you, Mommy, thank you for making me that delicious macaroni and cheese. And you’re going to take Michael up to your room and you’re going to let him play with whatever toys he wants, or tomorrow morning when you wake up, there won’t be any toys left to play with. And that includes Spider-man. Is that clear? Dylan, is that very clear?”

  “I hate you,” came Dylan’s response.

  “Fine. But I’m all you’ve got.”

  “I want my daddy,” Dylan shouted in her ear, freeing himself from her grasp and running back into the bathroom, slamming the door.

  “Dylan!”

  The sound of the lock snapping into place.

  “Dylan, don’t do this. Please.”

  “I want my daddy!”

  The doorbell rang again.

  Emma stood in the middle of the hallway, fighting back tears and trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. What the hell had just happened? What had she done? “Dylan, I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean—”

  “Go away.”

  Emma shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks with both hands as the doorbell rang a third time. “Just a second,” she called out, her feet following her voice down the stairs. What was the matter with her that she had so little self-control these days? Yes, Dylan had awakened in the middle of the night again with his usual quotient of bad dreams. As a result, he’d been tired and cranky all day, and yes, she was equally exhausted. It wasn’t easy being a single parent, but that was precisely the point: she was the parent and he was the child. She was the grown-up in this equation, and she couldn’t go flying off the handle every time Dylan misbehaved. After all it had been her decision, and not his, to invite Michael to spend the night. She hadn’t consulted Dylan, hadn’t taken his wishes into account, even though she’d known, deep down, that her son would be resistant to the idea. Just as she knew she was the one who’d made him that way, that she was responsible for Dylan’s wariness, his lack of friends. How could she have expected him to react any other way to the news that, on a whim, a sudden, ill-advised impulse, she’d invited a relative stranger into their midst? And it didn’t matter that it was a harmless five-year-old boy, or that they were in the same class in school, or that he lived just down the street. He was other, and therefore, he was someone to be feared, and ultimately rejected.

  Like one of Lily’s stories, Emma thought as she pulled open the front door, seeing Lily and her son smiling on her doorstep. Lily was wearing navy sweats and no makeup, and her hair was pulled into a careless ponytail, stray blond hairs sticking out from everywhere. Still, she had a glow of anticipation on her round face that almost took your breath away. Emma felt a stab of jealousy and thought how nice it would be to be in Lily’s shoes, if only for one night. To be actually looking forward to something—how long had it been since she’d looked forward to anything?—to have dinner with a man who’d look at her with longing, and not loathing. If only it were my husband who’d died in a motorcycle accident, Emma was thinking as she ushered Lily and her son inside. “Hi, guys. Come on in.”

  “Sorry about the buzzer,” Lily apologized. “I thought maybe you didn’t hear me. And then I thought maybe the buzzer wasn’t working, so of course, I kept pressing. Makes a lot of sense.”

  “I was in the bathroom.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “No, don’t be silly.” Emma glanced at the little boy standing just behind his mother, tightly clutching his overnight bag in one hand and Kermit the Frog in the other. She fought the urge to bend down and take a large, suction kiss out of his round, apple-red cheeks. Were all five-year-old boys so magnificent? What the hell happens to them when they grow up? “This must be Michael.”

  “This is Michael,” Lily agreed, her voice filled with motherly pride.

  “This is Kermit.” Michael pushed the large green doll toward Emma.

  “Well, I’m delighted to meet you, Michael. And Kermit.” Emma looked toward the stairs. “Dylan, Michael’s here!”

  No response.

  “He’ll be down in a minute. Are you hungry?” Emma asked Michael.

  Michael nodded, lowering his small overnight bag to the floor.

  Emma wondered if he was as angelic as he looked. Perversely, she hoped not. “I hope you like macaroni and cheese.”

  “His favorite,” Lily said.

  “Mine too,” Emma agreed.

  “Mine too,” Dylan said, appearing at the top of the stairs.

  Emma felt her heart grow large in her chest, as if it were about to burst with love and gratitude. “Dylan, sweetie, look who’s here.”

  Dylan clumped gracelessly down the stairs, his fingers leaving a sticky trail on the side of the wall. “Hi,” he said.

  “And this is Michael’s mother, Mrs. Rogers.”

  “You can call me Lily.”

  “Is that okay, Mommy?” Dylan asked.

  Emma felt a surge of love so great, she had to grip the floor tightly with her toes to keep from falling over. Her son was the best thing that had ever happened to her. How could she have been so careless with him, so mean, as he had rightfully accused? He was just a little boy, for heaven’s sake, and she expected way too much from him. I’m so sorry, baby, she told him silently. Forgive me. I promise I’ll never raise a hand to you again. “Of course it’s okay, sweetheart.”

  “I’m hungry,” Dylan announced, taking Michael by the hand and leading him toward the kitchen, the women following after them. “My mom makes the best macaroni and cheese,” he was saying. “Don’t you, Mommy?”

  “Old family recipe.” Emma smiled at Lily. “The Kraft family, but still …”

  Lily laughed as Emma spooned heaping portions of Kraft dinner onto the boys’ plates.

  “You have time for a drink?” Emma asked, lifting the glass of white wine she’d been nursing all afternoon from the counter where she’d left it earlier. When had she started drinking in the afternoons? she wondered suddenly, feeling the cheap wine warm in her throat.

  “No. I wish I did, but I really should get going,” Lily demurred.

  “My mom has a date,” Michael informed Dylan.

  “What’s a date?” Dylan asked.

  Mic
hael leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Dates are when you eat in a restaurant.”

  Dylan’s eyes grew wide. “Can we go on a date too, Mommy?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Emma said, taking another sip of her wine.

  Lily gave her son a good-bye hug. “Okay, so have a good time, do what Mrs. Frost tells you …”

  “Emma,” Emma corrected quickly, although, truthfully, she would have preferred Mrs. Frost. Her mother had always drummed into her the importance of addressing one’s elders with the proper respect.

  “… and I’ll see you in the morning.” Lily kissed her son on the cheek as he continued spooning the Kraft dinner into his mouth. “Here’s my cell phone number, if you need to reach me.” She handed Emma a piece of paper with her number carefully printed across it. “If you decide, for any reason, that you want me to pick up Michael on my way home, don’t hesitate.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  They stopped at the front door.

  “You really think I should be doing this?” Lily asked, large brown eyes pleading for reassurance.

  “Stop worrying. Michael will be fine.”

  “I don’t mean Michael. I mean Jeff Dawson.”

  “You’ll do great.” Emma reached out to pat her new friend’s arm.

  “I don’t know. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I was on an actual date with anyone?”

  “I think I might.”

  “I won’t know how to act. I won’t know what to say.”

  “So you’ll listen. What is it they used to tell us in health class? Get him talking, find out what his interests are, laugh at his jokes.”

  “What if he doesn’t tell any?”

  “Then you tell one.”