Thieves Get Rich, Saints Get Shot Part 20

"Are you kidding me?" he said. "That boy adores you."

Those words almost p.r.i.c.kled on my skin, like an unexpected caress. "I love you, Uncle Porter," I said, standing up, "and I don't think he'll need it, but I'll look out for CJ."

The afternoon wore on; Moira and I went to the hotel down the street where the rest of the family was staying and found they had no more rooms left, but Moira told me I could stay in her room, which had two beds. I left my overnight bag in the room, and we went out looking for food. When we returned to the hospital with containers of Chinese takeout, Constantine told us that CJ had called.

"He was in Haiti," he said. "Now he's in Atlanta, but there's severe thunderstorms in the area and they've grounded the planes. He's trying to get onto a standby list for the first flight out here, because of the family emergency. But you know how that goes. Cletus didn't say as much, but half the people in that airport are probably claiming that Western civilization will fall if they don't get to their destination on time."

"He'll get through," I said. It wouldn't be because of his semifamous name, either. It would be partly because of the medical emergency in the family and partly because CJ would use his good Southern manners and give the ticketing agent the look that made women from all walks of life lose their train of thought, and somehow he'd get on that plane ahead of all the bl.u.s.tering petty tyrants who had crucial business waiting.

"Well, he sounded bent out of shape about being stuck there," Constantine said. He took off his ball cap and ran a hand through his hair.

"Bent out of shape" probably didn't do justice to how CJ felt right now, I knew. The Mooneys were a close-knit clan. But I didn't worry about it. I had always said that CJ had a blessed life. The universe seemed to repay his essential decency with favors large and small, and I felt certain that a hole would open in the storm system and CJ would get here well before Porter's scheduled nine A.M. surgery.

Except that around ten-thirty that evening, maybe two hours after CJ texted us to say he was in Denver trying to get a connecting flight, some kind of alarm went off on Porter's monitoring equipment. The doctor on call came into the room, and then Porter's doctor was paged to come in from home. She came out and said something about a clot shifting, being dangerously unstable, and by half past eleven Porter was in surgery.

f.u.c.k, I thought, and took Virgil's hand.

"Hailey. Hey, Hailey."

I woke with the hard plastic of waiting-room chairs pressing into my flesh. For a minute, I was disoriented, thinking of Serena saying, They're still getting the baby out, and that Nidia Hernandez was dead.

No, that wasn't right. I realized it was Virgil sitting on his heels in front of me. He was smiling.

"What's going on?" I said.

"Dad's out of surgery. He's fine," Virgil said. "He's in recovery."

"Oh, that's wonderful," I said.

"Mom went to the hotel to get a couple hours of sleep before he comes around," Virgil said. "But us kids are having a kind of family reunion up on the roof. You're invited, of course."

"The roof?" I said.

"We stole a couple blankets to spread out. And it's really warm out. Nearly a full moon, too. Oh, and there's a bottle."

"You're too young to drink, you delinquent," I said.

"There's no such thing."

I knew I should leave. The sooner I went back to L.A., the less likelihood that Magnus Ford would even know I was gone. Besides, when CJ got in, he probably wouldn't care about seeing me. He'd want to see his dad; that was the important thing.

Then I said, "Okay, let me just wash my face and brush my teeth, and I'll be right up."

I did those things, then climbed the stairwell to the roof access, as Virgil had directed.

He'd been right. It was a beautiful night out, the American flag snapping in the warm wind, the lights of central Reno in the distance. My cousins were sitting in a rough circle on two blankets that eased the bite of the pebbly rooftop.

Then I realized that we were not a reunion of four. We were five.

As if it were a formal event, like a treaty signing, CJ got to his feet while his siblings remained seated, and he crossed the rooftop alone to meet me. I stayed where I was, near the door. When he reached me, we did not touch. He was wearing a white dress shirt, dark trousers, good shoes; obviously he'd dressed for the possibility that the only open seating on flights west would be in first cla.s.s.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey."

"I'm glad your father's all right."

"Me, too."

There was a moment's silence. Then he said, "On the phone I didn't ask if you'd come up to the hospital. On the plane I kept wishing I had asked. I kept thinking that if something went wrong in surgery and Dad didn't make it out, above all people I would want you with me."

To take care of him. Like Porter had said.

I wanted to say, You know I'll always be there, but it wasn't a promise I could keep. Instead I raised myself on my toes and put my arms around him.

"I'm here."

"I missed you," he said.

"I did, too," I said. "I'm sorry."

He lowered his face into my hair, and I sighed. But then, by some unspoken agreement, we both stood back, both feeling the eyes on us and our display of affection.

"Come on," CJ said, and led me to the rest of our family.

"... so okay, it's Christmas morning, and suddenly Mom's got this idea to hunt up the home video of their first Christmas with Constantine," CJ was saying. "So Dad goes to the closet where they keep all that stuff, and before he can find that tape, there's a video just labeled 'Ball Game.' Nothing else. Dad perks up, pulls it out, and says, 'Hey, want to watch the ball game?' No idea what ball game or anything. So that's what we do. Watch the Braves play the Giants in a regular-season game from 1996. On Christmas Day 2001."

"That's so Dad," Moira said.

They were telling stories about their father. It was like a wake. Better, though: one with no bereavement, and a very fine scotch whisky.

"Where did you get this?" Virgil demanded, holding the bottle of Laphroaig.

"Duty-free shop in Atlanta," CJ said.

"How could you buy something in a duty-free shop? You were taking a domestic flight." That was Constantine.

"I was extremely nice to the clerk."

General laughter. Virgil said, "How nice, exactly? Did you have to get your hand wet? Did she-"

"Virgil!" Moira said. "That's enough."

Unperturbed, CJ said, "How do you know the clerk was a she?"

The laughter that followed was both scandalized and delighted. We were all pretty well lit up. CJ was stretched out, resting his head in my lap in the casually ent.i.tled way I remembered. He didn't have a s.e.xist bone in his body, but he'd grown up being loved on by a mother and an older sister, and as a result he was like a Labrador who feels it's always a good time for you to scratch his ears. For my part, I was resisting the urge to stroke his hair.

"Well," Moira said with one of those sighs that's half a farewell, "it's getting late."

"Getting early," CJ corrected. It had to be nearly four in the morning.

"I'm glad none of us has to drive. Particularly this kid." Constantine rubbed Virgil's head with his knuckles. "Virg, you hold your liquor worse than any Mooney I know. Hailey here could drink you under the table, and she's two-thirds your weight and not even a Mooney."

"Yes she is," CJ corrected.

"By DNA. You know what I mean."

They began getting up, stretching, Constantine picking up the empty bottle of Laphroaig. Only CJ stayed where he was.

"Hey," I said. "Are you getting up?"

"No."

"I can't leave without my lap," I pointed out.

"I don't think it's a good idea for me to try those stairs in my condition."

Constantine gave him a surprised look. "You kidding? I've seen you drink twice that amount and not be impaired."

CJ sighed irritably. "I just want to stay out here a minute and sober up and enjoy the night. Is that a problem?"

But Virgil said, "He wants to be alone with Haaaai-leeeeeey," drawing my name out in a schoolyard tease. "Aren't you guys getting old for the kissing-cousins act?"

"Virgil, you're drunk." That was Moira again. "Leave your brother alone. We're going."

Chastised, Virgil said, "I didn't mean anything by it." He looked at the two of us, hangdog.

"S'okay," CJ said.

"Is it, Hailey?" Virgil pursued, like a child.

"Yes," I said, "we're good. We'll see you tomorrow."

But as they disappeared through the stairwell door, I wondered if I would stay that long, or when I'd see my cousins again. Ford had flickered on the edge of my consciousness like heat lightning all night.

"That feels good," CJ said, his eyes closed.

I realized I was stroking his hair, like I'd been wanting to, grooming it gently. That hadn't taken long. His siblings had been gone all of a minute.

I said, "You're not really drunk, are you?"

"Not so's you'd notice," CJ said.

Virgil had been right: CJ had stayed because he wanted us to be alone. We hadn't been able to talk, not really, in front of his siblings. Except now we were alone, and I couldn't think of a start. Maybe nothing needed saying. Maybe "I missed you" and "I'm sorry" had covered it.

CJ said, "This last week I was in Haiti, visiting a friend of mine who went down there to volunteer."

"Yeah?"

"We were hanging out with some international aid workers in the country. They listened to BBC Radio on the shortwave, and that was about it. Not a lot of American news. So I didn't know anything about you getting accused of murder," he said. "The first I heard about it was today, trying to get home. At Hartsfield I was in the Delta lounge, watching their TV. The news was replaying the aerial footage of you running that woman to the ground, and I watched it and thought, 'When did I stop knowing what Hailey's life was about? Or did I just never know?' "

"You know me better than anyone," I rea.s.sured him. "You know the real me. That person on TV, she's just some crazy chick who grew up from the wreckage when I got kicked out of West Point."

"That was really hard on you, getting sent home."

"Sure."

"I never really got that, I guess," he said. "You came back and said you were okay. You moved out of my place after just a couple of weeks and found your own apartment. You acted like West Point was behind you. I should have known better."

"It's okay."

"There were some heavy things that happened last year, weren't there, though?" he persisted. "You've never really talked about what happened down in Mexico."

It didn't sound like a question, but it was. I was silent a moment. I'd tried so hard to keep my messy life from spilling over onto CJ's clean, golden one, but maybe I'd been trying too hard. Maybe I didn't need to see myself as having a double life, but rather one big, expansive one, with CJ part of it.

"Listen," I said. "Whatever you want to know about my life, just ask me, but do it tomorrow. Tonight you're tired."

"I'm okay."

"No you're not. Come on. The hotel's right across the-" I stopped.

"Street?" CJ supplied. "I know."

"It's not that," I said. "I just remembered that they're booked up. Never mind. I'm sleeping in Moira's room. You can probably crash with one of your brothers. Unless they're sharing a room already. That might be a little too crowded."

"Doesn't matter," CJ said. "I'll get a cab into town. There are other hotels. With Dad out of the woods, it's not like I need to be right across the way."

"Okay."

"Come with me?"

"What?"

"You walk in on Moira now, you'll wake her up. Come with me. You can sleep in my room."

"CJ, I think-"

"We've done it before. Nothing ever happens." Then, "I don't want to sleep alone."

"Are you still worried about your dad? I thought the doctors said he was going to be fine."

"I know. That's not what I meant. I just don't like sleeping alone. It's lonely."

"You mean you don't do it very often." I hated the jealousy that immediately rose up inside me.

CJ sat up and faced me, sensing the new seriousness in the conversation. "I do it a lot more than I'd like." He looked down at our interlaced fingers. "You?"

"Almost all the time."