River Wild Page 6

  I feel a jolt inside my chest and a sudden connection to him that I’ve never felt with anyone before in my life.

  He blinks, and when his eyes reopen, they’re back to hard and closed off. No emotion in them at all.

  It makes me wonder if what I just saw was real. But I know it was. Because I felt it. As I feel my own hurt.

  He’s trying to shut me out. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen him.

  And he’s right. People are selfish C-U-Next-Tuesdays. I married one after all.

  But only some people, not all.

  “You’re right,” I say to him. “Some people are selfish C-U-Next-Tuesdays, but—”

  “C-U-Next-Tuesdays?” He barks out a laugh, cutting me off.

  I roll my eyes again. Twice in the space of ten minutes. If I keep this up, I’m going to end up with a headache. “As I was saying,” I haughtily continue on, “some people are selfish you-know-whats, but not all are. And I’m sure you can figure out what I meant by C-U-Next-Tuesday.”

  “Hate to burst your bubble, Red, but all people are selfish. And I got the weird acronym, all right. I’ve just never met anyone who went so out of their way to avoid saying the word cunt.”

  “I don’t know why anyone would want to use it. It’s a horrible word.”

  “I think it’s one of the best and most versatile words in the English language. Same as fuck is. Funnily enough, fucking cunt is my favorite saying.”

  Ugh. If the jerk could smile, I know he’d be smirking right now.

  “Seriously, do you have to be so crass?”

  “Yes, Red, I do have to be so fucking crass.”

  Do not roll your eyes. Do not roll your eyes.

  “And please stop calling me Red. My name is Carrie, which you know, of course, because I told you it—well, yelled it at you two weeks ago, from my porch, when you blatantly ignored me.”

  River doesn’t say anything to that. Any normal person would at least be embarrassed at being called out, like I just called him out.

  But he’s not normal.

  Of course he’s not.

  All I get from him is a devil-may-care shrug, and then he casually slips his hands into his jeans pockets, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Jerk.

  Deep breaths, Carrie. In and out.

  “Right, well, we’ll be off then,” I state huffily, more than ready to get away from him and into some dry clothes. Then, I need to figure out what I’m going to do with my little buddy here.

  I spin on my heel, ready to walk across his garden and back to mine through the gap in the fence, when his voice stops me.

  “Where are you going?”

  I look over my shoulder at him, giving him a stupid look. “Home. You know, the house next to yours.”

  Look at me, being all sassy. When did this happen?

  I don’t know. But I definitely like it.

  “Funny. What you gonna do, Red? Scale the fence?”

  I ignore the Red comment and say, “No, go through the gap in it.”

  He takes a step forward. “There’s a gap?”

  “Yep.” I let the P pop, like he did before. “That’s how I got in here in the first place.”

  “Fucking great,” he huffs more to himself than me. “I’ll be fixing that the first chance I get.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a side gate there, Red. Use it.”

  It’s my turn to frown at him. I turn slowly. “You know, the neighborly thing to do would be to let me go through your house instead of the side gate.”

  “Do I look neighborly to you?”

  “No. You look like a grumpy asshole.”

  Oh my God! I can’t believe I just said that.

  I have to stop myself from slapping my hand over my mouth. Instead, I press my lips together, holding my breath, bracing myself. My body remembering what would happen if I ever spoke to Neil in this way.

  But Neil’s not here.

  You’re safe.

  This guy might swear like a sailor, but he’s not going to hurt you.

  The dog restlessly shifts its warm little body against my chest. I force myself to relax.

  I honestly don’t know what’s going on with me right now. It’s so not like me to sass back like this.

  “So, she does curse after all.”

  If I didn’t know better, I would think there was a smirk on his lips.

  The knowledge helps me to relax more.

  I lift my chin, forging a strength I don’t really feel. “I never said I didn’t curse.” Liar. “I said I didn’t like the C-word.”

  “You mean cunt.”

  I know he said it to get a rise out of me. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

  It’s not like I never wanted to curse. It’s that I wasn’t allowed to.

  Neil forbade it. And, if I ever made the mistake of cursing, I would pay for it.

  “Sit at my feet, Annie.”

  Body trembling, I lowered myself to my knees in front of my husband and looked up at him, like I knew I was supposed to.

  Emotionless, cold eyes stared down at me. “Women should not curse. Nor should they have opinions. They should be seen. Not heard. Women shouldn’t work. They should stay home and take care of their husbands. And they should do everything their husbands tell them to. If they do not adhere to these rules, then the husbands have every right to punish them as they see fit. Recite the words back to me, Annie. Now.”

  I hold back the shudder my body wants to give at the memory echoing in my mind.

  You’re fine. You’re safe.

  I know all of these things, but I just want to go home now.

  “Well … bye,” I mumble as I walk past River, shaking the past off.

  I’m pretty sure the little dog in my arms has fallen asleep against my shoulder. Bless his heart.

  I get a whiff of what I think is the smell of cigar smoke as I pass by him. It does something funny to my stomach. A swoop and dive feeling. Weird. I hope the baby doesn’t start craving the smell of cigar smoke.

  Not healthy at all, my sweet baby.

  “You should probably take the mutt to the vet.” River’s quiet, almost reluctant words reach me just before I get to the gate.

  I stop and half-turn back to him. “You think so?”

  “He’s a stray who just took a dunk in my pool. So, I’d say, yeah, he needs to see a vet.”

  “Why do you care?” I raise my brow.

  His expression shutters. “I don’t. But I need to know if the mutt is carrying any diseases. It’s been swimming in my pool after all.”

  “He’s not a mutt. And he doesn’t have any diseases.” I hug the dog to me, and he tucks his face into my neck.

  “Yeah, sure, Red. You keep telling yourself that. At the very least, the mutt has fleas, probably ticks.”

  Fleas? Ticks?

  And, now, my skin’s itching.

  I scratch my arm. Then, my head.

  Jesus H. Christ! This is all his fault, putting the fleas idea into my head.

  “Won’t the vet be closed?” I voice while scratching my neck. It must be nearing midnight by now.

  “There’s a twenty-four-hour clinic in town.”

  “Oh. Well, that would be good, but I don’t have a car, and I really don’t want to walk into town in the dark, so I’ll have to take him in the morning.”

  And spend the night with the fleas and ticks. I scratch harder at the thought.

  But I won’t see this poor little dog out on the streets because of a few itchy bugs that he probably doesn’t even have.

  So, why am I even scratching?

  Because of him putting the idea in my head!

  I hear a loud, frustrated sigh come from River and watch as his hand rakes through his thick hair.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he growls. “I’ll take you to the clinic in my truck.”

  Wow.

  The way he’s going, you’d think I just asked him for a ride to the clinic.

/>   It’s on my tongue to tell him where to stick his ride, but I really should get the sweet little dog to the vet sooner rather than later.

  So, I swallow my pride for the sake of my new doggie buddy and say, “That’d be great, thanks. I just need to run home and change into dry clothes. Can I leave the dog with you while I go? I’ll only be a few minutes.” I don’t want to possibly bring fleas into my house before I’ve had a chance to get the dog treated at the vet.

  “Of course. Take your time,” he says sarcastically. “Actually, while you’re at it, why don’t you take a long, hot bath, wash your hair, and then get dressed, and I’ll just stand out here with the flea-ridden mutt, waiting like a cunt?”

  “Oh, that’s so kind of you to offer, River.” I smile wide, walking back to him. “But I don’t want to leave you looking like a C-U-Next-Tuesday, so I’ll just change my clothes and be back in two ticks.” I hold the dog out to him, forcing him to take him from me. “Ticks—ha! Get it?”

  I laugh, to which he growls.

  I back up a few steps, grinning, enjoying the scowl framing his mouth, and then force myself to turn and walk away at a leisurely pace, back to my house to change.

  River

  Twelve Years Old

  Gran has her record player on. Some band called The Flying Pickets. The song currently playing is called “Only You.” Gran really does like some crap music. But, as songs go, this one is okay, I suppose.

  We’re in the workshop. Gran is over at the crucible. She’s been going back and forth from there to the crushed glass she’s using to create a vase she’s been commissioned to make. She doesn’t need me at the moment, so I’m finishing off the piece we made yesterday.

  Using a grinding block, I’m buffing off the sharp edges on the bottom of the glass balloon. Well, it’s a lampshade shaped like a balloon. It’s varying shades of blue, going from light blue to midnight blue. It’s for Mama. Blue is her favorite color. Not that she can have the lampshade in prison. But, when I make stuff for her, I take a photo of it and bring the picture to show her, as I now get to visit her every month after Gran convinced her that I needed to see her.

  Mama likes our visits and the pictures a lot. She tells me that she has all the photos hanging on her wall. She tells me that she’s happy that I’m doing glassblowing with Gran. She says I make her proud.

  I know that’s not true.

  How could she be proud of me?

  She’s in that place because of me.

  But, when she gets out of prison and we’re together again, I’ll make up for what I did.

  Until then, I’ll just keep making things for her and making her happy in the only way I can.

  I glance at the shelf where all the things I’ve made for her are. It’s starting to get quite full.

  Gran starts singing along to the song while she works. She’s a terrible singer.

  I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile on my lips.

  The bell chimes in the workshop, telling us that someone is at the front door. Gran had the doorbell set up to ring in here, so she could hear when someone rang the bell because she’s out in her workshop a lot.

  We both are. I love working in here with her.

  When she first made me start helping her, I thought I would hate it, but I actually really like doing it.

  Because of the extreme heat involved in glassblowing, Gran won’t let me do any work on my own, so my job is to do the blowing while Gran shapes. But the idea for the pieces come from me, and Gran helps me bring those to life. I sketch out what I want to make and show her the picture. I do enjoy the drawing. But creating it is the fun part. Glassblowing requires focus, meaning there’s no time to think about how much I miss Mama or the reason she’s in prison or how much I hate school and my life in general.

  “I’ll get the door,” I tell Gran.

  I carefully set down the glass balloon and grinding block on the workbench. I leave the workshop and head into the house.

  As I move through the living room, I can see who is standing at the front door through the frosted glass window, and my pace falters.

  A police officer.

  My heart starts to race in my chest. Palms going clammy.

  I curl my fingers into my hands and press my nails into my palms. The bite of pain helps a little.

  The bell rings again.

  The officer can see me through the glass, so there’s no hiding.

  I take a deep breath, bracing myself, and open the door.

  “H-hello.” My voice trembles. I hate that.

  I force some spine into my back.

  “River.”

  He knows me. I don’t know him.

  But then everyone knows who I am.

  The child of the cop killer.

  If only they knew the truth.

  I wonder if he worked with my stepfather. If he was a friend of his.

  Everyone was my stepfather’s friend.

  And that’s because they didn’t know the real him.

  The officer’s eyes regard me with distaste.

  Like everyone’s does in this godforsaken town.

  I sometimes wish we could move away. But Gran won’t leave. She’s lived her whole life in this town. She was born in this house. Says she’ll die here.

  And she says we don’t run from our problems. We face them.

  But, if I could run, I would. Far, far away.

  But I can’t. So, here I stand.

  I dig my feet into my sneakers, trying to ground myself. My hand trembles around the door that I’m holding on to.

  “Is your grandmother home?” he asks.

  I nod, pulse hammering in my suddenly dry throat.

  “Well, can you go get her?”

  I nod again. But I can’t seem to move. I can’t get my feet off the floor or my hand away from the door.

  He frowns, lines drawn all over his face, and he steps forward, boots thudding against the wooden porch.

  Boots thudding up the steps. He’s home.

  He leans down into my face. “Fuck is wrong with you, boy? You retarded or somethin’?”

  Boy.

  “You will do as I tell you, boy.”

  “No, he’s not retarded.” The whip-crack sound of my gran’s voice is like a life raft from a nightmare. Her soft but strong hand lands on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and I relax a little. “And you might be the law in these parts, but don’t ever talk to my grandson that way again.”

  The officer stares her down.

  My gran might be small—I’m already taller than she is—but she’s fierce.

  She lifts her chin and stares right back at him.

  “Whatever,” he mutters. “I’m just here to deliver a message.”

  “Which is?” Gran says.

  A smile passes over his face. And it’s not a kind smile. He reaches his hand into his pocket and pulls out an official-looking envelope, but he doesn’t hand it over. Instead, he begins speaking in a cold, calm voice, “Last night, there was a riot at the prison where your daughter was incarcerated. She was stabbed with a shank by another prisoner. She didn’t make it. She’s dead.”

  She’s dead.

  Dead.

  No.

  Gran’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. The only sign that she heard what he just said.

  He holds out the envelope to Gran. She takes it from him.

  “Someone will be in touch about the body.”

  The body.

  Then, he turns and walks away.

  Dead.

  Stabbed.

  Body.

  Mama.

  No.

  I hear someone screaming.

  I don’t realize it’s me until Gran is pulling me into her arms, tightly holding me to her.

  “No. No!” I push away from her, stumbling backward.

  “River—”

  “No! She’s not … she’s not … no!”

  I turn and run through the house.

  She can’t be dead
. She can’t be.

  No.

  I’m back in the workshop.

  The glass balloon is sitting where I left it.

  She won’t ever see it because she’s dead.

  She’s dead because of me. Because of what I did.

  I pick the balloon up and hurl it at the shelf where all the things I made her sit.

  It hits the shelf with a resounding smash, all the other glass items smashing.

  But it’s not enough. The pain is still there in my chest. And it hurts.

  I pick up one of the metal pipes we use for glassblowing, and I start to swing out, hitting anything I can.

  The smashing of glass is all that can be heard. Along with the pounding of my heart.

  And then there’s nothing left to hit. My eyes are blurry, and my breaths are heavy. I drop the metal pipe to the floor with a loud clang in the echoing silence.

  I clench my fists in and out.

  Dead.

  Mama’s dead.

  “River.” Gran’s soft voice comes from the doorway.

  I turn my blurry eyes to her. “S-she’s dead.”

  Her eyes dim. “Yes.”

  “S-she … I-I -k-killed her! I k-killed Mama!”

  “No.” Her voice is firm. She steps forward.

  I back up, bumping into the workbench. “Y-yes! I-I k-killed her! S-she wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t—”

  “Stop!” Her voice comes out like a rumble of thunder.

  I press my trembling lips together, holding all of my pain inside.

  Gran walks over to me and gently wraps her hands around my upper arms. “You did not kill your mother,” she speaks gently, but her voice breaks. She clears her throat. “I will not have you carrying that around with you. You blaming yourself is not what your mama would want. Not one thing that happened all those years ago was your fault. You hear me? You were just a child. You are still only a child.”

  I dip my chin, nodding, giving her the answer she wants.

  But I don’t mean it.

  I know I killed Mama.

  She was in prison because of me. Because of what I had done to him that day.

  It should have been me in jail.

  I should be dead.

  I press my fingers into my palms. They’re slick.

  I look down. They’re bleeding. Cut up from the glass.