The Good House Part 18

Of course Tariq knew. The thing was, he realized, he'd simply gotten used to the smell, after a time. It was hard to explain, but he wasn't bothered nearly as much by the smell as he was by the pain. It was thepain he could no longer tolerate. Brother Paul beckoned him to lower his head closer, and when he did, Tariq noticed that Brother Paul smelled of dried flowers. He wasn't used to standing this close to any man-it made him uncomfortable-but Tariq liked Brother Paul's clean, untainted scent. It was almost a marvel.

Tariq also noticed how nervous Brother Paul was. He saw a tiny, rapid pulsing in his neck.

"Come let me read you," Brother Paul said, close to his ear. "I live down the street, not far. Or, let me bring the cards to you so we can see what they tell us. There's no time to wait. Let's see what we have to do to stop that pain. Let's stop the fire."

Stop the fire. Brother Paul's voice was music, his words a revelation. Tariq had to stop the fire. He had to stop what was inside him, the thing he couldn't see. Tariq opened his mouth to say yes, he would go with him, but he didn't say what he'd planned. "My nephew's meeting me here. Maybe another time."

Brother Paul's face dimmed as he gazed at Tariq. "Are you sure, Brother Hill? It will only get worse, harder to cleanse. Even if you don't see me, see someone else. You can't wait."

Like most people making life-changing decisions, Tariq made his with barely a thought. "Brother Paul," he said, "you need to leave me alone right now."

There were more undiplomatic words churning in his mind, words he had to struggle not to blurt aloud:I'm starting to wonder if you're a little on the sissy side, Brother Paul. I don't like the way you're touching me, putting your f.u.c.king face close to my ear, and if you don't back off, I may take you into the bathroom and find a plunger to give you what you reallywant. I can't promise I'll be gentle, though. Like Tina Turner said in "Proud Mary," I hope you like it rough.

Brother Paul's eyes twinged, but he didn't show real surprise, anger, fear, or anything else Tariq would have expected from someone who could perceive invisible truths so clearly. Brother Paul didn't break his gaze or release Tariq's arm, still holding him gently, like a minister.

"All right, then, Brother Hill. I'm sorry to hear that. I really am sorry," Brother Paul said in that hypnotist's voice again. He couldn't have sounded sorrier if Tariq had just confided to him that his doctor had said he was suffering from an advanced stage of cancer, that he had reached the tail end of the last day of his life.

The man who was unbecoming Tariq Hill got home and found DuShaun with his feet propped up on the coffee table, watching the wide-screen TV in the dark den, Corey's favorite old spot. "What the h.e.l.l happened?" Tariq said, slamming open the refrigerator door. Ordinarily, he would reach for a beer in a bad mood, but there was no beer in the house. Instead, Tariq found a bean burrito left over from Taco Bell, and he popped it into the microwave. "Why'd you leave me there waiting at Marcus? I kept trying your cell phone. Did you forget or what?"

DuShaun, like the muted television set, was silent at first. That wasn't like him.

"Boy, what's the matter with you?" Tariq said.

"I was just sittin' here thinking about what you did, Uncle Tariq," DuShaun said, softly. "That wasn't right."

"WhatI did? You hang me up for more than an hour at the bookstore and then you have the nerve to talk about somebody else's s.h.i.t not being right?" The microwave beeped, telling him the burrito was ready, but Tariq didn't retrieve it.

"I'm talking 'bout last night."

Tariq walked out into the den so he could see DuShaun's face in the glow from the television set. DuShaun was a coal-black Georgia boy, and even the light from a sixty-inch television wasn't enough for Tariq to see a joke in his nephew's face. He was about to ask what the joke was when he saw a woman on the television screen, someone he knew.

What was that girl's name? He liked to keep up with what Angie was doing, and he'd read about this TV movie, how Angie had set this actress up with her new talent agency. The actress was in a pillbox hat, driving a 1960 Buick. This was the movie about Coretta Scott King, he realized, the one that had made her famous. "Naomi Price," Tariq said, answering his own question.

DuShaun's voice cheered some. "Yeah, she's so fine, she makes your eyes hurt."

"Your aunt Angie represents her. I could get a message to her."

DuShaun looked up at him expectantly, and his face reminded Tariq of Corey's.Did you really say what I think you just said? Like when he told Corey he would get him a silver PT Cruiser for his sixteenth birthday, before he remembered he'd have to discuss it with Angie first-andd.a.m.n, he realized, she'd probably have said Corey was too young to get a car. She'd have said he should work for it. And maybe she was right, but he'd said he would buy it, so f.u.c.k it. That was where secrets came in handy. That was when it felt d.a.m.n convenient that Angie lived hundreds of miles away.

DuShaun's face went empty, and he switched the channel with the remote, to the game highlights on ESPN. He switched in time for them to see the DuShaun Hill Special from two camera angles, a perfect pa.s.s to the five-yard line. DuShaun's eyes didn't light up as he watched. "Naw, man, I'm still p.i.s.sed," DuShaun said. "Don't try to change the subject. We got to air this out."

"What the f.u.c.k are you talking about? I know you're not here moaning because I gave that jacka.s.s a shove at the club last night. He'll get over it. Quit being a p.u.s.s.y."

"Why would I care about that drunk fool?" DuShaun said. "I meanafter that."

The anger had receded before, but Tariq hadn't noticed until now, when it reappeared. That was how it went these days, a few unnoticed moments of calm, and then the anger, an irrepressible, rising tide. He reminded himself that DuShaun might be six-foot-four and two-forty, but he was still a boy wrapped up inside that body. Tariq would have to be patient.

"This time, speak concisely and make your point," Tariq said, as if to a child.

"I didn't appreciate you offering me that stuff, Uncle Tariq."

"Now we're getting somewhere. What stuff?"

DuShaun looked up at him, his face grim. "Oh, so it's likethat?"

"Boy, quit f.u.c.king around and say what you've got to say."

"You know I don't use no cocaine," DuShaun said, so angry he spat.

"That p.i.s.sed me off. You know what I've been through trying to stay clear of that, what Coach said. You give me all your speeches about how you got cleaned up, all the pitfalls, and then you're trying to get high with me? You think I don't wanna be out there with the fellas after the games? I'm praying over this every day, living with you instead of getting my own crib, staying in my d.a.m.n hotel room after the road games instead of hitting the clubs or whatever, and thenyou come trying to get me high-"

"I haven't touched c.o.ke in almost three years, DuShaun," Tariq said. "You're mistaken."

At that, DuShaun looked away, but not before Tariq saw his raging eyes. He admired that. The boy kept himself carefully controlled off the field, but Tariq had seen the way he could spark when it mattered, when he needed to drill somebody in the ribs for an extra yard. DuShaun was fluent in rage. "I don't believe this," DuShaun said.

"I said you're mistaken."

"You need help, man," DuShaun said, shaking his head. "You don't evenremember? That's plain sad. You're always preaching like it's behind you, and here you are having blackouts. Let me get Reese on the phone. He saw it all play out. Monday night, me and Reese are walking out of the club, we get to your car..." DuShaun studied Tariq's blank face. "You're trying to tell me you don't remember none of this?"

"Go on and finish." Tariq was no longer angry, he was interested. Fascinated. He sat on the arm of the sofa, waiting. "You walked out of the club, you got to my car. Then what?"

"That little girl's there with you in the back. And that's another thing-that's sick, man. That girl looked young enough to be my baby sister. What was she, like, thirteen? You've got her on her knees in the backseat, she's taking care of you. And you're like, 'Hey, guys, there's room in this little lady for all three of us. Join on in.' Or some s.h.i.t. You know Reese ain't down with that since he got married last year. And we don't do no chicken-shoots, little schoolgirls and all that."

"This is a h.e.l.l of a story, DuShaun," Tariq said. "But it's a lie."

Even in high school, Tariq had never been with a girl that young. He'd played around at U.C.L.A., like everyone, but he'd gotten bored fast with girls who thought a quick roll with a football player would make them matter, would somehow take them the same places they thoughthe was going. He'd met Angie, who had her own dreams in her eyes, her own places to go. Even if he'd gotten high Monday night and didn't remember it-which was impossible-he wouldn't have been in his car with some girl younger than Corey. Anyone would know that.

DuShaun saw his disbelieving face. "I'll call Reese right now, Uncle Tariq. I just got off the phone from talking to him about you. He still can't believe it his own self."

"What happened next?"

"You waved that stuff out the window and tried to give it to me. 'Free of charge for family,' you said. You've got this little Baggie full of c.o.ke, and you're waving it in my face. You're telling me to get lit with Reese and then we'll all do the girl. She's saying she has to go, and you're like 'Not so fast,' holding her head down, telling her she's not done. I was like, 'd.a.m.n, man, you tryin' to get us all thrown in jail?' "

Lies, lies, lies. Why did everyone tell lies about him? After all of Angie's complaints about his lies-and he had to admit he'd told a few so good he'd believed them himself-she had turned into the biggest liar in the end. She had told the police he'd brought a gun into that house, but he hadn't. He'd been questioned like a thug when he was supposed to be worrying about burying his d.a.m.n dead son. The worst time of his life, and Angie had turned on him. f.u.c.king crazy-a.s.s b.i.t.c.h.

He had not brought that gun with him to Sacajawea.

He had not brought that gun.

He had not. He hadn't seen that gun in years. He'd had a choice between popping Angie in the mouth to shut her up or getting rid of the gun. He hadn't sold it like he'd told her, but he'd done the next best thing: He'd given it to Luisa and told her to hold it for him. Luisa's was the only place where he had any peace, and he'd explained how his teammate Vince had given him that gun, and how that gun was all Tariq had left of him after Vince got paralyzed and died a year and a half later. Angie hadn't wanted to hear it, but that was all it had been about. Vince had watched over his a.s.s for two years at U.C.L.A., one of the best tacklers Tariq had ever seen, and they'd been like brothers. Angie saw it another way, but that was all that gun had been-a thing to remember his friend by.

He'd taken that gun he loved to Luisa's and told her to keep an eye on it. And long after he told Luisa they had to cool off because Angie was looking at him funny all the time and he'd decided he couldn't keep running around on her, Luisa still kept the gun. She was a good woman, not the kind to hold a grudge. She'd taken the gun with her when she moved to Chicago; that's what she told him when he talked to her on the phone on July fifth, the day after Corey died. She couldn't find it, but she knew she had it somewhere. She swore that gun couldn't have been near Corey.

But it had been there. The gun in the wine cellar had a filed-off serial number like Vince's, the same tape, everything. That had been the thing that bothered Tariq most, not being able to figure out where the gun had come from. And Angela telling lies about him, saying he'd done something he hadn't. Attacking him at his own boy's funeral like that. Telling everyone he was responsible.

But she was wrong. The house was responsible. Staring at the raw disillusionment in his nephew's face, Tariq finally understood the bare, nasty fact of it: That house in Sacajawea, where his van was parked this very instant, had given Corey the gun. The house had wanted Corey to have it.

"You need help, Uncle Tariq."

"You're not the first to say that today," Tariq said, remembering Brother Paul's whisper in his ear. Brother Paul was a truth-teller, and he'd smelled it in him. Tariq wished now he had gone to see Brother Paul, to find out what his cards would have said. Those cards would have scared them both speechless, but it would have been good to know. "None of what you just said happened, DuShaun. You're mistaken."

He'd said it three times now, and suddenly there was nothing Tariq hated more than having to repeat himself. The anger had vanished for a while, but it was back. He could hurt DuShaun before this kid knew what was coming. He could kick his nuts in and choke his a.s.s out. Next time, DuShaun would think twice before he tried to accuse him of things he hadn't done. Tariq hadn't touched c.o.ke in almost three years. Books were his only addiction now, and he was proud of that.

"Uncle Tariq, you've got me scared. I don't think I can stay here. I'm for real."

"Get out, then," Tariq said. "You've been here too long as it is."

He'd said it as politely as he could, but DuShaun looked up at him like a wounded dog. "Yeah, I think you're right," his nephew said in that same quiet voice he'd started with. "I thought this was working out good, but things are different than I thought."

"Apparently so. You've got your NFL contract, big man. Go get your own d.a.m.n place."

DuShaun brought himself to his feet, and Tariq stood, too. DuShaun was slightly taller than Tariq, wider. All the players were bigger and wider than when he'd played. DuShaun could make the Pro Bowl, if he worked on his arm. This boy could be a double threat, something special.

But Tariq's warm thoughts vanished as his nephew stepped toward him. Instead, Tariq imagined what it would feel like to crush DuShaun's trachea with a quick chop to his throat, to make DuShaun's eyes pop open wide as he fought to breathe.Oops, sorry, you ungrateful sonofab.i.t.c.h. When DuShaun hugged him, Tariq didn't feel anything. He allowed the hug to last a moment, then pushed DuShaun away. "Go on, man. Get off me."

Those hurt brown eyes, again, and this time the eyes did it: Tariq remembered the last time he'd seen DuShaun giving him these sad-sack eyes.

After the Monday night game. At the club.

There had been a lamp glaring behind DuShaun's head, cutting a dark profile. The music was thumping from inside the club's walls like a m.u.f.fled war-drum. He'd seen DuShaun and Reese, both of them standing outside his Land Cruiser's window looking down at him. The girl's mouth was clumsy, and Tariq had caught a handful of her hair to hold her still, to keep her d.a.m.n teeth from nicking him. She had looked up at him, lips shining wet in the lamplight.

He'd rolled the window down and offered DuShaun his palm. "No charge for family," he'd said, showing him the lid of c.o.ke he'd just scored from this little tramp's friend outside the club, where they'd both been standing, too young to get in but looking for some of the magic inside.Are you a football player? the girl had said to him. That was how it had all started. She had started it.

"Why don't ya'll get happy and climb in here with us?" Tariq had called out to DuShaun and Reese through the car window, waving the powder close to DuShaun's face. "She's got room for three. We can stretch her out if we have to." That was what he hadreally said. DuShaun had it all wrong. If DuShaun was going to tell stories, he ought to get the details right.

"I have to go," the girl had said then. She was scared, that was all. First there was one man, and now there were three, and she'd had second thoughts. He could understand that; she was only thirteen. She'd lied and said she was fifteen, but lately Tariq could see straight through lies. The girl had yanked her head against his grip, and that had made Tariq mad. He'd held her more tightly, locking his fingers into her spiked, sticky hair, close to the roots.

And DuShaun had leaned down closer to the window, out of that light's glare. Close enough for Tariq to see his nephew's eyes. Lost, vacuous eyes, trying to accept what they were seeing.

These same eyes.

Something awful happened at the club,Tariq realized, bewildered.But that wasn't me.

The room vanished around him, leaving only that thought to anchor him to himself. His legs lost their feeling as his heart froze, pure ice. He remembered Brother Paul again, the music in his words, and his chest hurt so much he stifled a cry in his throat. It wasn't the same pain that burned his stomach at night, the pain of his long resistance. The pain in his chest was grief, the sheer horror of his loss.

I really did do that, but THAT WAS NOT ME. Jesus Lord help- "Get out, DuShaun. Please stay away from me," he managed to say, his last words.

Tariq held his nephew's eyes longer than he should have been able to, refusing to blink. But he got tired. He'd been tired to start; his soul had been fighting since the party on the Fourth of July, and that was a long time to fight. Longer than a weaker man could have. At last, Tariq blinked hard.

When he opened his eyes, the pain was gone, all of it. The worry, too. No mess, no fuss.

For the first time in two years, Tariq Hill felt just fine. Truth be told, he had never felt finer. Tariq Hill was a brand-new man, and he was riding the best high of his life.

Fifteen.

SACAJAWEA.

TUESDAY NIGHT.

LIZABRUNELLhad banned toxic phrases likeI did the stupidest thing today from her inner monologues a long time ago, but she'd been thinking those words all day. And now that she'd finished chopping apple wood for the backyard smokehouse and helping Glenn with his third-grade science report-(Different Kinds of Leaves!!! screamed the sloppy, leaf-covered mess on the dining-room table)-her mind was free to resume its rant against herself.

She had done the very stupidest d.a.m.ned thing today.

Liza patted Glenn's backside. He was in his typical position, lying flat on the mattress between her and Art, chin resting on his elbows, rump sticking in the air as he watched the television at the foot of the bed. TheAladdin video was over, and so was family time.

"Nine o'clock," she said. "Bedtime."

"I'm not sleepy!"

"We don't care if you're sleepy. This is Mommy and Daddy time."

Glenn pretended to be shocked. "You don'tcare if I'm sleepy?" He looked at her, then at his father. Art was on the other side of the bed, his back against the headboard as he sat up with his face buried in paperwork. He was researching the tax bond to improve Sacajawea County schools, thinking he could push that through like he had the new jail, and he was in over his head. Art wanted to help Sacajawea prosper the way he had, through shrewd decisions and no small amount of luck, but Liza wasn't sure he understood the reality of the times. This was a poor county. People didn't have money, and they didn't want new taxes, even for their kids' sake. Not enough people in the county evenhad kids; there were only twelve students in Glenn's third-grade cla.s.s, and fewer in second grade. At the roots, anyway, she sensed that the area was dying, the schools included. She knew three families who were sending their kids to the private Catholic school in Longview, and the thought had crossed her mind, too. More than once. She had Glenn's future to think about.

"Dad, is that true? Mom said you don'tcare if I'm sleepy or not."

Art didn't look up. "Yep, that about sums it up," he said. "I don't care. You, Liza?"

Liza shrugged. "I'm not giving a big fat darn over here."

"You guys are lame," Glenn said, hopping off the bed. "I don't even get a bedtime story?"

Liza took off her reading gla.s.ses and outstretched her arms for a hug. "Come on, sweetie. All kidding aside, Mom and Dad are bushed tonight. If you want to read yourself a story, keep your light on until nine-thirty. But when I look in your room, I'd better see you reading. No G.I. Joe, no Star Wars, no Gameboy. Just reading, or else you go to sleep. You're stalling."

Glenn frowned and grumbled softly, but otherwise didn't argue. Liza gave him a long, tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. A couple more years, she thought, and she'd have to fight for every hug. It could start anytime. "That's my good boy."

"Come on 'round," Art said to him, beckoning. When Glenn bounded over, Liza heard Art stage-whisper to him, pretending they had a secret life without her: "You and me. Four o'clock tomorrow. Our favorite inlet. Those fish better watch out."

"Yayyyyy!"Glenn shrieked. He ran out of the room, arms extended, veering like an airplane.

"Teeth!" Liza called after him.

"Yep, I've got 'em all, Mom!" Glenn called back.

"Not for long he won't, that little smart-a.s.s," Liza muttered. "He'd better brush. And since when do you have time to take off to go fishing on a weekday? You're spoiling him, Art."

"Who's spoiling who? Tomorrow's light, and I love taking off to fish. It's good for my image. You know-I'm a regular guy, not some bureaucrat behind a desk."

The way Art behaved sometimes, you'd think he'd won a seat to the U.S. Senate, she thought, rolling her eyes. But Liza had a larger concern, one she hadn't been able to forget all day. She curled her knees against Art, her little-girl pose.

"I did the stupidest thing today," she said.

Art could never resist the little-girl pose, even when he was deep in his work. He stroked her hair, his eyegla.s.ses reflecting her face in the light from her nightstand lamp. "Awwww...," he said in his most coddling voice. "Tell Uncle Art all about it." Uncle Art was his recurring fantasy character in their bedroom; a kind father confessor who was often a molesting pervert in disguise. Tonight, however, Uncle Art was prepared to listen.