Princely Bastard (8 page)

“Because I’m a dummy!” I screamed, with tears forming in my eyes.

“You’re not.”

“I am! And I don’t want to live here anymore!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everybody here is smart but me.”

“You’re as smart as anyone here, including me.”

“I’m not!” I yelled, with tears now streaming down my face.

Without hesitation, my mother took me into her arms, and she kissed me, and she wouldn’t let go no matter how hard I struggled. And finally I told her the truth—the truth I had told no one before. I told her how I couldn’t even read letters right, and how most of the things I learned came from old movies, like
Tom Jones
.

“Whatever your problem is,” she whispered, “we’ll fix it. We’ll fix it together. I promise you.”

She kept her promise. The very next morning she took off from work and took me to a slew of doctors—and they discovered I had dyslexia. Then, she not only arranged for special classes at school but also hired tutors—and, most importantly, she spent hours every night patiently reading with me. Even when she was out-of-town she found the time to read with me over the phone.

We even read
Tom Jones
together.

It was slow going. Real slow. In fact, it took us more than 18 months to get through those 346,747 words, many of which were far from easy. But it was worth every last one. Because while I’ve read hundreds of books since none have been anywhere as good.

Though it wasn’t because of Sophia Western, even if I did like her a lot. It was because of Tom. I fell totally in love with him from pretty much the first page he appeared, and after finishing the book I told myself I was gonna end up with someone just like him—a rogue with a big heart.

“I’LL HELP YOU,” I tell Mark, after again putting my arms around him, “just like I was helped. You’ll see—you’ll read just as good as me. Probably better. I still struggle. I’ll always struggle.”

He nods his head, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me. So, I take the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the basket and show it to him—and I say, “You don’t know how many seconds it took me to read this right. But I did. And so will you.”

“We better get out of here,” he says, clearly trying to change the subject.

“What about the cops?” I ask.

“I don’t see them anymore,” he answers, while glancing outside.

“I just have a couple more things to get,” I insist, before reaching for the toothpaste.

“Is it really necessary?”

“Yes,” I reply, and, after grabbing a pair of toothbrushes, we head off toward the Cosmetics department.

WE SLOWLY APPROACH the registers—and, with Mark pretending to read a magazine a few steps away, I go up to a middle-aged checkout lady with my basket of items.

Suddenly, just as I put the toothpaste on the counter, a police siren rings out in front of the building, causing me to jump a bit.

“They’re everywhere today,” the woman tells me with a smile, as we watch the car continue on toward the mall.

“So I’ve heard,” I say to her.

“They’re looking for that prince guy.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard about him?”

“A little.”

“They say he killed a bunch of people with his bare hands.”

“Really?”

“Really. And I believe it. You should see pictures of him. Wow. To be real honest, I wouldn’t mind getting roughed up a bit by him myself, if you know what I mean.”

I force a smile in reply, and, while the woman rings up my stuff, I wonder if it’s true—I wonder if Mark really is a killer. I also wonder if it would make any difference to me.

“That’ll be $21.67,” the woman utters. So, I take out the money Mark gave me earlier. I further glance at him, with his face partially hidden underneath the magazine. And at once I know nothing would make any difference to me at all.

WE EXIT WALGREENS and see no police anywhere, not even by the mall. I also look down the endless street in both directions and notice lots of stores and strip malls everywhere, along with a motel way off to the right.

Which I point at while giving Mark an inquisitive expression.

“How are we gonna pay for it?” he asks. “That money I gave you—it’s all I have.”

I respond by glancing to my left and spotting a pawn shop not far away—and, while fingering my gold bracelet, I say, “I’m sure I can get something for this.”

“But I’m not gonna let you.”

“I was gonna have to pawn it eventually.”

“No.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I can find a fight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I fight, Aimee. That’s how I make a living.”

“What kind of fights?”

“The unsanctioned bare-knuckled kind.”

I shake my head at this, and murmur, “It doesn’t seem as if you’ve made much of a career at it.”

“I’m actually good at fighting,” he insists. “It’s the gambling I’m bad at.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t do either one.”

“Look, I just need to make a call.”

“How? You no longer have a phone, remember? And neither do I. And, if you hadn’t noticed, there aren’t a lot of pay phones around anymore. Besides, we need to get off the streets. We need to get off them now. And finally, and most importantly, I have to dress your wound.”

MARK ARGUES WITH me the whole way to the pawn shop, but he doesn’t stop me from entering it.

Not that he could have.

Right away, I see a big man behind the counter, who’s looking at me as if he were a bird of prey.

“Can I help you, little lady?” he asks, with a bit of a smile.

“Yeah,” I reluctantly answer, as I step forward and take off the bracelet—which I even more reluctantly hand the man while remembering how happy I was when my mother gave it to me.

Carefully, the man looks it over—almost as carefully as he looks me over, before saying, “I can give you one and a quarter.”

I sigh, knowing it’s worth more than that. A lot more. But I’m in no position to argue, and he knows it.

WITH MARK WAITING outside, I enter the motel office and see a balding and bearded clerk in his thirties, who’s sitting behind the desk and staring blankly into his phone.

Actually, he looks enraptured by it.

As I approach him, I suddenly hear faint voices coming from the device—voices of people having sex.

“I need a room,” I tell him.

He jumps a bit in response, clearly not having heard me enter—and, after awkwardly pressing something on his phone, he looks up at me with his face bright red, and he breathlessly utters, “What?”

“I need a room,” I repeat.

“For how long?”

“One night.”

“$74.29, with tax. In advance.”

Sighing a bit, I take out the hundred-dollar bill the pawnbroker gave me. At the same time, the man puts his phone down next to a small plastic box, from which he grabs a registration card.

“Fill this out,” he says as he hands me the card. “I’m also gonna need to see some ID.”

Calmly, I take Michelle’s driver’s license from my wallet and give it to the man—and he looks at both it and me over and over, before muttering, “Do, do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” I reply, while trying hard to hide my fear. Which increases considerably when I start filling out the card and notice the man’s phone, and the paused video displayed on it.

The picture is dark and grainy, but not nearly dark or grainy enough for me, as I can kind of see the two people on the screen—two people I know well.

Because one of them is me.

chapter eight

Mark

HURRIEDLY, I CHEW and swallow the last of the Double-Double burgers Aimee bought. Then, while sitting on the edge of the bed, I dial a number on the phone—over the sound of a running shower.

On the third ring, a man picks up—and it sounds as if he’s eating, too.

“Shane?” I call out, while rubbing the bandage on my shoulder.

“Yeah,” he answers, just before finishing what’s left in his mouth. “Who’s this?”

“Mark.”

“Prince Mark?”

“Fuck you.”

“Dude, I had no idea.”

“Neither did I. I still don’t.”

“What can I do for you,
Your Royal Highness?”

“Don’t call me that! It’s bullshit!”

“Whatever you say. What’s up?”

“I need some action.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Now? After the beating you took last night? Dude, not even Ali in his most arrogant prime would consider that.”

“Action, Shane. Action.”

“There’s nothing I know about, other than . . .”

“Other than what?”

“San Pedro.”

“Shit.”

“But you’ve got a much bigger problem than finding a fight. Larry Lee’s looking for you.”

“I know.”

“He’s pissed. Man, is he pissed. He’s also got a bunch of big fuckers with him—even bigger than him. They better not find you.”

“Thanks,” I tell Shane, and I hang up, with pain shooting all over my body, especially in my head—pain that just won’t go away. Though I also realize I have to make another call—a call that’s going to be much more difficult.

Hesitantly, I pick up the receiver again and dial a number. Then, I listen to it ring and ring, and more than once I almost hang up.

“Hello?” a hoarse female voice finally speaks—a voice belonging to someone who clearly just woke.

“Mom?” I utter.

“Marky? Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry.”

“Then it’s true?” I gasp, suddenly doubting everything about me.

She doesn’t answer my question. She just cries. She cries and cries.

“Mom?” I once more utter.

“I’m so sorry, Mark,” she wails. “I always wanted to tell you. I swear I did!”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right. It’ll never be all right again.”

“I want to know everything, Mom. Everything. Right now.”

However, she doesn’t say a thing—and cries even harder.

“Please,” I tell her.

“Wendy,” she mumbles.

“Who’s Wendy?”

“My sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“She was so beautiful, Mark. You should’ve seen her. She was so much prettier than me. She was tall, too. And had brains—lots of them. Why, she could speak three or four languages, at least. She could’ve been anything she wanted.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“She left Boston when she was still a teenager—to become a fashion model. She traveled all over—Europe and Asia, and who knows where else. I used to get postcards from all over the world—from places I never even heard of. I had to look them up on a map.”

“Mom—”

“—But I hadn’t seen her in years. Then, one day in the middle of the night the doorbell rings, again and again—for like five minutes straight. It was your Aunt Wendy. Actually, it, it was your mother.”

“My mother?”

“I didn’t even know she was pregnant, and there she was in my front door with you. You must’ve been only a few weeks old.”

“And?”

“And she was talking crazy. I thought she was on drugs or something. You know these models.”

“What did she say?”

“She said dangerous people were after her, and she asked me to take care of you until she got out of the fix she was in. She promised she’d come back for you. But she didn’t. I never heard or saw from her again.”

“And that prince guy really is my dad?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me who the father was. She didn’t even tell me your name. I’m sorry, Marky—I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you the truth so many times.”

“So, so there’s no such person as Donald Stuart?”

“There was, and he really was Billy’s brother. They lived over on Dorchester. I dated Donnie a few times in high school before he joined the Marines—and, after he died, Billy agreed to make believe Don was your dad. It didn’t seem like we was hurting no one. You don’t know, Mark—you don’t know how much I wanted a family. From the time I was a little girl all I wanted to be was a mother. And you were my only chance.”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“You don’t have to call me that anymore.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh, Mark—what are you gonna do? Is it true you killed those people?”

“No, it’s not. Somebody’s trying to get me, because of all this prince crap.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. But I love you.”

“I love you, too.”