Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel (13 page)

And then a car flew past, blaring its horn, and another, and I proceeded on my way, the very model of a cautious driver.

SIX DOLLARS IN QUARTERS WAS THE BEST MONEY
I ever spent.

After leaving Lower Wacker and reemerging into sunlight, I showered at a self-serve car wash on Kimball Avenue—first the battered Lincoln and then de-puke-ifying myself. I changed into extra clothes stored in the trunk, fashioned a headband to cover the bloody pinholes at my temple, pulled my hair back, and glanced in the rearview mirror, surprised that showing more of my face looked, well . . . good. And then I paused, staring at my reflection but not recognizing myself.

I’d purposely, physically killed another human being.

It wasn’t nearly the same thing as tricking the other creature into driving off the bridge. There had been a chance, however slight, that I could’ve escaped Lower Wacker Drive without committing murder. Instead, I’d succumbed to the desire for revenge and left a dead body behind. That truth was lodged in my gut, and I knew I’d have to carry it with me. I owned it now.

By the time I arrived at the bakery, I’d mentally removed myself from what had happened—what I’d done—only an hour earlier. I was growing used to burying my sense of self in order to do what the moment demanded. When I pulled to the curb, Uncle Jack and Annabelle were waiting at the front door. I was struck again how similar his appearance was to Grandpa Enzo, but on our second meeting I saw differences too. Uncle Jack was thicker where my grandpa had been wiry. There was also the California tan and graceful way of moving that must’ve been the result of decades in show business. He kissed my hand while Annabelle went full Italian, pecking, pinching, and patting each of my cheeks. I let them inside and showed them the pantry and how things worked in the kitchen, careful not to dwell on the Vulcan. Annabelle gestured while Uncle Jack concentrated on her hands. “The molasses cookies you asked her to bake,” he said. “They’ll be ready when you need them.”

“Thank you,” I said to Annabelle, smiling through the sense of dread at my impending sit-down with Lucky.

She winked and began bustling around the kitchen. When I turned to Uncle Jack, he was staring into empty corners. “This old place whispers to me,” he said. “The voices of family and friends, all gone. Besides Enzo, their names are lost. I see faces but then they fade away, like ghosts in my mind. I remember what it felt like to be around them. Sometimes it was wonderful, warm.” He paused, his smile draining away. “Other times it was very cold.” His eyes looked inward rather than out. My heart ached for him, the old man terribly lost and losing his way more each day. I was learning, however, to smother my emotions, and I cleared my throat while unfolding the copied pages of
“Volta.”

“Remember my school project? Translating it to English from Buondiovolese?”

He accepted the sheets, gazing at them and then at me. “It looks like my handwriting.” I didn’t reply, just allowed him to drift, until he said, “Of course, that’s impossible. It’s a story, you said. Fiction?”

“Completely made up,” I replied, seeing blank indifference in his eyes.

“It must be this place,” he said, “but I have a memory of writing something . . . for my father. His name was . . . what was it? It was . . .”

“Nunzio.”

He squinted, focusing all of his strength on the murky past, and began to speak as if I weren’t there. “My father’s eyes. So blue, and as he grew old, so weak, like electric bulbs on a Christmas tree that burn out. Was he . . . going blind?” he asked. I was unsure, but it made sense since the handwriting changed toward the end of Nunzio’s time as the keeper of the notebook; obviously, he’d used his young son as a transcriber. “My father spoke and I wrote . . . letters, I suppose,” Uncle Jack continued. He kneaded his forehead as if trying to loosen up memories, and said, “I think . . . I think my father told me Enzo was too busy, so I would have to do it . . . but that writing was
all
I was allowed to do. His voice was very slow and calm, and I put the words to paper,” he said, confirming my guess. He stared into the pages and murmured, “Perhaps I wrote this.”

“No. It’s fiction, remember?” I said carefully. “None of it is real.”

He nodded slowly and then his face lit up. “I wrote something. Of that, I’m completely certain! A screenplay,” he announced in the confident tone he’d used when recalling his show-business career. “I very badly wanted to make the transition from TV to film, so I wrote it for myself! I tried to sell it but alas, no studio would take a chance on a B-list boob-tube actor. It, too, was fiction, just made-up criminal nonsense. Remind me, my dear, and I’ll show it to you.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “But in the meantime, will you try to translate those pages for me? If you’re able to recall Buondiavolese, that is?”

Uncle Jack’s gaze was as warm as a little campfire when he said, “For family, anything.” After he released me from a hug, I left the bakery and leaned against the front door, pleading silently that he’d succeed—and that Annabelle wouldn’t torch the place. When I looked up, Heather was on the sidewalk staring at me.

“Looks like a hangover,” she said, lifting her sunglasses to inspect my face.

“What? No, I was just . . . thinking.”

“Me too, about killing my mom,” she said, lifting a cup filled with icy brown liquid. “Nowadays, whenever I find myself, to quote Rancho Salud, in an ‘emotional tornado,’ I have to get one of these, stat.” She took a sip, staring at me. “I lied to you.”

“About what?”

“You know what they say about the earth being, like, seventy percent water? That’s about how much of an addict is caffeine. I told you smoking was my last bad habit, but uh-uh . . . without coffee, I’d be screwed. Although a smoke would help.”

“Go ahead. I don’t mind.”

“Here?” she said, glancing through the door and shaking her silken head. “My mom gave me,” she paused, furiously signing words with her hands, “
massive
shit for smoking in the alley with you the other day . . . actually for smoking at all, anywhere. I swear to God, her ears jump at the strike of a match or flick of a lighter.”

I thought about it then, the times when I was at the bakery and wanted to get away from everyone and be alone. Moving toward the alley, I said, “Follow me.”

“I told you, she has the hearing of a bat.”

“Just wait,” I said, leading her around the corner to a narrow metal ladder attached to the wall. The bakery was four stories high, but Heather followed me up without question, deftly balancing the dripping coffee. We reached the pebbly surface and I led her to the skylight where Annabelle was visible in the kitchen, making cookies, while Uncle Jack sat staring at the pages and slowly scratching his head.

“Can’t they hear us? Our footsteps?”

“Nope. Trust me, this old bakery is pure cement and brick, built like a fortress.” Heather grinned, produced a cigarette, and lit up. I watched smoke snake into the air and turn invisible. “So . . . why do you want to kill your mom?”

“Because I’m going to Fep Prep after all,” she said grimly. “It’s not the
going
part. I have to graduate somehow, right? It’s the not being asked part . . . just being
told.
” She bit her lip, ashing the cigarette. “I know I haven’t exactly been responsible, but having something foisted on you by your parents—sorry,
parent
—sucks. You know?”

Yeah, I knew. There wasn’t anything cheery about my existence, and my mom and dad were responsible. I bumped through periods of resentment, always putting it aside, but the feeling ran deep. I said, “It’s really . . . annoying.”

“Annoying?” She snorted. “That’s a nice way of saying it.” She flicked away the cigarette and smiled. “I’m celebrating today . . . a month sober. Squee.”

“That’s great,” I said, trying to mean it despite a thorn of anger at my parents.

“It’s mostly due to an amazing counselor I had at Rancho Salud. Hey, are you into martial arts at all?”

“Yeah . . . I mean, I box.”

“There’s this Brazilian thing called capoeira, a very badass mixture of fighting and dancing that . . . well, anyway, my instructor at Rancho Salud was also my therapist, which is
very
L.A. The whole point was that achieving wellness has to be a mind-body experience.” She sipped the coffee, set it aside, and faced me. “I want to feel good about my sobriety. I want to be clear of all negative feelings toward my mom. All it takes is some mind-body,” she said, extending her hands. “You can help me, SJ.”

“I . . . can?” I said, unsure what caught me off guard more—her reaching out to me, or the “SJ,” which sounded like something a friend would say. I took her hands tentatively and said, “Um, how?”

“I used to do this thing at Rancho Salud called the ‘Trust Test.’ You’re my mom, and I say everything I feel, and you answer as if you’re her. It really flushes out the rage. It’s important that we’re connected,” she said, giving me a light squeeze, “so don’t look away, okay?” Before I could respond, she took a breath, closed and opened her eyes, and said, “Why didn’t you include me in this school decision, Mother?”

“I . . . I didn’t think you . . . would make the right choice?”

“How would you know if you didn’t ask?”

“It’s just . . . the things you’ve done in the past . . .”

“But isn’t my past partly your fault? Didn’t
you
step aside and let Dad use me as his little tween-queen avatar without preparing me for the consequences?
You
never taught me how to make decisions on my own,” she said, chewing the words. “Why? Didn’t you think I was smart?”

“No, no . . . I know you’re smart,” I muttered, thinking of how my dad used to tell me I was the smartest girl he knew, yet he didn’t prepare me for the consequences of our secret life. A line of sweat crept down my back as I said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should have told you.”

“Damn right you should’ve told me!” she hissed. “Having no choice about my own life? It’s not
annoying
! It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“
Bullshit!
A complete bullshit betrayal!” I screamed as the cold blue flame leaped in my gut and a crackle of electricity danced over my shoulders. I threw Heather’s hands aside and looked quickly away, panting, knees weak, feeling the fury subside, and then feeling her arms close around me in a hug.

“That was awesome!” she said over my shoulder. “Letting me express myself, seeing my point. Thank you so much, SJ.” She stood back then, pointing at me, and said, “Also? Remind me never to piss you off. You are one intense chick.” I couldn’t help it, I started laughing because I was empty, all of my anger was gone too, at least for the moment, and then Heather was giggling, and we sat slowly on the roof. “I know you don’t smoke,” she said, taking out a pack, “but you’ve earned one.”

“Why not?” I shrugged. “First time, and probably last, for everything.”

She lit both. I gagged like a beached trout and she exhaled like a sultry dragon, saying, “Here’s a weird thing about growing up on TV,” she said. “It took TV itself to make me realize how effed up my home life was. There was one commercial in particular that I starred in. I’ve never forgotten it. Still can’t get it out of my head.” She smiled shyly, inspecting a cuticle. “It was for this chain of amusement parks. Family Fun Town.”

“I think I remember those,” I said, vaguely recalling a mom, dad, and smiling little blond girl. “You were the daughter?”

She nodded, cigarette between her lips. “Before the shoot, the director told us to act like a normal family, where the kid is the center of attention, the complete object of affection, and the parents are taking her to this amusement park just to make her happy! I was like, whoa . . .
that’s
normal?”

“There was a jingle . . .”

Heather straightened, eyes bright, and sang, “Break away to where the sun shines all day! At Family Fun Town, we wanna be your host! Have fun, fun, fun . . .”

“With the people who love you most!” I joined in, blushing at my croaky voice.

“And then the daughter smiles into the camera while mommy kisses one cheek and daddy kisses the other.” She sighed. “So damn cheesy, I know, but when my dad was being his usual dick self or he and my mom were fighting, I used to repeat it like a mantra. I would be, like, I want to live and die in Family Fun Town!”

“Did you ever go?”

“No,” she said, stubbing out the smoke, “but that’s the commercial that got me
Two Cool for School.
Speaking of, I’m registering tomorrow . . . tomorrow’s Monday, right? . . . so yeah maybe we can go together on Tuesday. You can show me around.” Her grin, tone of voice, and the fact that she seemed to shimmer made me think she was going to say “you can show me off.” Before I could answer, she smiled and said, “You’re so pretty, SJ. You know that?”

“I am?” I said, blushing again.

“Are you dating anyone? You have to be. Name, please?”

Somehow through my third blush I told her about Max. It was such a nice but odd sensation to talk about him with someone who really seemed to care. I thought of what she said when we were holding hands—
we’re connected
—and it was beginning to feel like we were. I took a breath and asked her the same question.

“Me, dating? Oh, hell no,” she said quickly and firmly. “At present, there are few things I trust less, and am less emotionally equipped to handle, than someone telling me he likes or even—ugh—loves me. I’m not kidding, it’s something I was working on in therapy. When I was Heather Richards as Becky, I was an attention junkie, couldn’t get enough. But as myself, attention feels fake and temporary, and it makes me so nervous I become this sort of mumbling, wisecracking deer in the headlights,” she said. “So look, if that happens, you have to tell me that I’m acting like an asshole, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Seriously, after a lifetime filled with what you said . . . bullshit? What I need more than anything else is the truth, even if it hurts. You promise? Always?”

“I promise.”

Heather’s mouth curled at the edges like a show cat. “Anyway, if I have to go to school, I’m glad it’s with you. It’s cool to have a cousin who’s smart
and
good looking.”

“Let’s don’t get into the smart thing again. I can’t take it,” I said, absently touching my face. “Good looking is another matter. My nose is a real problem.”