Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

then pinched his thigh until Rusty screamed for mercy and promised never to swear again—swearing had always been a normal part of life in the foster house, always, and nobody got in trouble for it unless they swore at one of the foster parents, and even then…rarely.

Rusty got up and ran to his room once the man sat back in his chair to watch the gang at Central Perk. Door slammed, Rusty flopped onto his face, reeling, knowing he couldn’t handle another outburst, it simply wasn’t worth it. He wouldn’t take it from that nobody ass farmer who could only cover his bills by taking in foster kids and feeding them from the garden while using government supplied grocery money to shore up shortcomings.

Rusty sat up, idea in full bloom. He’d burn the house down just as his father—

“But he didn’t burn down anything,” Rusty whispered, letting the remembered images and thought fade away.

“What?” Christine said.

Rusty simply shook, and not only his head. His whole body, if he kept on going, he might vibrate into oblivion and be all the better off for it.

“You sure you’re okay?” Christine asked.

She’d asked him a dozen questions about his father and a dozen more about how he’d protect himself from Linda. He had no answers for anything.

They rolled the hours back toward Andover in quiet with the stereo just loud enough for them to hear. Even town seemed different when they returned, the luster that hid beneath the grime had disappeared and all that was left was a dried on muck stain. There was nothing for him here, not anymore, but where else? Where could he go and what could he do?

Christine kept the engine running outside the boarding house. “Call me at any time. If you want to skip town, I’ll do it with you. This thing with Linda and Dwayne, it’s not right and the risk…” she said, as if reading his mind, then added, “why won’t you talk to me?”

“See ya later, babe,” he said and pecked her cheek, and even that sent dual shivers: revulsion and comfort. He kicked open the door and climbed out, trying to pretend—on top of all else—that he didn’t see the tear rolling down her cheek. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but shit.

—

Rusty couldn’t sit at home. He headed downtown to the Pink Rose and ate a medium rare steak that bled into a pearly mound of mashed potatoes, with a mostly untouched side of mixed vegetables, and a bottle of Heineken. The maître d’ sat him in a shadowy corner, only a few feet from the kitchen door. The Pink Rose was the kind of place where the local equivalent to high society met, and was not so much a place for old-head high school students who worked part-time for a buck above minimum wage. String music filled the background hum above the occasional clatter of dishware and silverware. A pink rose in a crystal vase centered the table, surrounded by two lit candles. The patrons conversed in whispers. It was easily the fanciest place he’d ever eaten, and it was the first time he’d been inside—a building he’d passed about a million times before.

The food was good. The beer was six bucks a bottle. He left a twenty-dollar tip on a forty-dollar bill. Fun money at the end of days.

He stopped in at home and his landlady headed him off in the doorway. “Detective Hanson was here today. He’s the youngest one. He came asking about Jim McManus! I told him he was here in the middle of the night. He’s dead! Did you know that?”

“Gets us all, eventually,” Rusty said and continued down the stairs.

“I told him you’d call the station just as soon as you got back! Don’t make a liar out of me!”

He did the couple things he had to do and was back up to the main floor landing with his jacket over his arm and a fresh cigarette pack in his pocket. “I’ll give him a ring first thing.”

“Where you going now?”

Rusty turned and smiled. “None of your business, you goddamned busybody.”

She put her hand to her chest. She wore a pink nightgown, had a cigarette between two fingers, and her oxygen mask dangling beneath her chin. “I will not be talked to like that in my own—”

The landlady’s husband shouted from deeper in the home, “Gayle, quit being so nosey!”

Rusty swung open the door with a humorless ha and stepped into the chilled evening air. It was after seven o’ clock when he started through the yards and fields, the moon was above, but cloud cover threatened its shine. He stepped around the Co-Op’s storage lot, and crested the hill that split the future subdivision and the section of industrial properties nestled away from the public eye. He reached the Logic Appliance warehouse with dew-damp shoes and three fewer cigarettes in pocket.

Parked against the warehouse, a black truck and trailer were like voids within the shadows. Multiplying the effect, clouds suddenly played over the moon. Rusty stopped a moment and waited, hoping he’d have a bit of light. The seconds mounted, but the cloud cover remained, so Rusty started off anew. He tripped going up the steps to the man-door. The keys went into the lock. The light switch was flicked on inside by the movement, and he very nearly punched in his own code, but caught himself. He clenched his teeth tight, as if trying to clamp onto the anxiety and fear playing within as he withdrew from his wallet the piece of paper Linda gave him after Jim was no longer available. Though adding a step to the original plan, for everything to work, Craig and Danny would’ve had to set it before they left—which they had.

He punched in the code and the box beeped