Sanctuary (2 page)

That’s what I thought then. Everything’s different now, of course. Still, at the time, all I did was try to put Dr. Thompkins at ease as he stood there in our foyer. Hey, I didn’t know. How could I possibly have known? I may be psychic, but I’m not
that
psychic.

“Hey,
mi casa es su casa
, Dr. Thompkins,” I told him, which is probably about the lamest thing on earth there is to say, but whatever. I wasn’t feeling real creative, thanks to Great-aunt Rose, who is a major brain drain. Also, I am taking French, not Spanish.

Dr. Thompkins smiled, but only just. Then he uttered the words that made it feel like it had started to snow after all. Only all the snow was pouring down the back of my sweater.

“It’s just that I was wondering,” he said, “if you’d seen my son.”

C H A P T E R
2

I
backed up until my calves hit the stairs to the second floor. When they did, I had to sit down on the first landing, which was only about four steps up, because my knees didn’t feel like they would hold me up anymore.

“I don’t—” I said, through lips that seemed to have gone as cold as ice. “I don’t do that anymore. Maybe nobody told you. But I don’t do that anymore.”

Dr. Thompkins looked down at me like I had said a dingo ate my baby, or something. He went, his face all perplexed, “I beg your pardon?”

Fortunately at that moment my dad came out of the dining room, his napkin still tucked into the waistband of his pants. My mom followed him, with Mike—Claire, as usual, attached to his hip—trailing behind her.

“Hey, Jerry,” my dad said, to Dr. Thompkins, holding out his right hand. “How’s it going?”

“Hello, Joe,” Dr. Thompkins said. Then he corrected himself. “I mean, hey.” He took my dad’s hand and shook it. To my mom, he said, “How are you, Toni?”

“Fine, Jerry,” my mom said. “And you?”

“Could be better,” Dr. Thompkins said. “I’m really sorry to interrupt your meal. I was just wondering if any of you had seen my son, Nate. He went out a couple hours ago, saying he was just going to run to the store—Rowena ran out of whipped cream—but we haven’t seen him since. I thought maybe he’d have stopped over here to visit with your boys, or maybe Jessica… .”

Over on the steps where I’d sank, I felt color start to return to my face. Sure, I was relieved—relieved that Dr. Thompkins hadn’t been asking me to find his son… . He’d merely been asking if I’d seen him.

And I was also a little embarrassed. Because I could tell from the glances Dr. Thompkins kept throwing me that he thought I was a freak of the first order for my weird reaction to his simple question about his son. Well, and why not? He hadn’t been around last summer, or even this fall. He didn’t know I was the one the press had dubbed “Lightning Girl.” He didn’t know about my “special” gift.

But you could tell Mike, snickering behind his hand, had figured out what had happened. You know, what I thought Dr. Thompkins had been asking. And he considered the whole thing simply hilarious.

“No, we haven’t seen Nate,” my mom said, looking worried. She looks worried whenever she hears about any kid who has strayed away from the parental tether. That’s because one of her own kids did that once, and when she’d finally found him again, it had been in a hospital emergency room.

“Oh,” Dr. Thompkins said. You could tell he was way disappointed that we hadn’t seen Nate. “Well, I figured it was worth a try. He probably stopped at the video arcade… .”

I didn’t want to be the one to tell Dr. Thompkins that the video arcade was closed. Everything in our town was closed, on account of it being Thanksgiving, with the exception of the Stop and Shop, which never closed, even on Christmas.

But Claire apparently had no problem being the one to deliver the bad news.

“Oh, the arcade is closed, Dr. Thompkins,” she said. “Everything’s closed. Even the bowling alley. Even the movie theaters.”

Dr. Thompkins looked super bummed when Claire said this. My mom even shot her a disapproving look. And in my mom’s eyes, Claire Lippman can do no wrong, on account of, you know, liking my reject brother, even if it is partly because of Claire that Mike is currently attending the local community college instead of Harvard, where he was supposed to be going this year.

“Oh,” Dr. Thompkins said. He managed a brave smile. “Well, I’m sure he’s just run into some friends somewhere.”

This was entirely possible. Nate Thompkins, a sophomore at Ernest Pyle High School, where I am a junior, hadn’t had too much trouble fitting in, in spite of being the new kid—and the only African-American male—on the block. That’s because handsome, athletic Nate had immediately tried out for and gotten onto the Ernie Pyle High football team. Never mind that Coach Albright had been desperate for any players, given that thanks to me, three of his best, including the quarterback, had recently taken up residency in the Indiana state men’s penitentiary. Nate supposedly had real talent, and that had thrust him right into the “In Crowd” …

… unlike his older sister Tasha, a bookish senior, whom I’d spied hovering around the classroom where the yearbook committee meets every day after school. The
yearbook
committee, okay? And the girl was too shy to go in. I’d walked up to her and been like, “Look, I’ll introduce you.” She’d given me a smile like I’d offered to suck snake venom out of a bite on her shin.

I guess Nate’s extrovertedness was not an inherited trait, since Tasha sure didn’t have it.

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon,” Dr. Thompkins said, and, after apologizing again, he left.

“Oh, dear,” my mom said, looking worried, as she closed the door. “I hope—”

But my dad broke in with, “Not now, Toni,” in this warning voice.

“What?” Mike wanted to know.

“Never mind,” my dad said. “Come on. We’ve still got four different kinds of pie to get through.”

“You made
four
pies?” Claire, who, unlike me, was tall and willowy—and who must have had a hollow leg or something, because she ate more than practically any human being I knew—sounded pleased. “What kind?”

“Apple, pumpkin, pecan, and persimmon,” my dad said, sounding equally pleased. Good cooks like people who appreciate their food.

No one, however, that I could tell, appreciated Great-aunt Rose.

“Joseph,” she said, the minute we reappeared in the dining room. “Who was that colored man?”

It is really embarrassing having a relative like Great-aunt Rose. It isn’t even like she is an alcoholic or anything so you can blame her bad behavior on outside forces. She is just plain mean. A couple of times I have considered hauling off and slugging her, but since she is about one hundred years old (okay, seventy-five, big diff) my parents would probably not take too kindly to this. On top of which I have really been trying to curtail my tendency toward violence, thanks to a lawsuit I got slapped with not too long ago for deviating a certain someone’s septum.

Though I still think she deserved it.

“African-American, Rose,” my mom said. “And he is our neighbor, Dr. Thompkins. Can I get anyone some more wine? Skip, more Coke?”

Skip is Ruth’s twin brother. He is supposed to have a crush on me, but he always forgets about it when Claire Lippman is around. That’s because all the boys—including my other brother, Douglas—love Claire. It is like she gives off a pheromone or something that girls like Ruth and I don’t have. It is somewhat upsetting.

Not, of course, that I want Skip to like me. Because I don’t even like Skip. I like someone else.

Someone who was expecting me for Thanksgiving dinner. Only the way things were going—

“What’s wrong with saying colored?” Great-aunt Rose wanted to know. “He
is
colored, isn’t he?”

“Can I get you a little more creamed spinach?” Mr. Abramowitz asked Great-aunt Rose. Being a lawyer, he is used to having to be nice to people he doesn’t like.

“What’d Dr. Thompkins want?” Skip asked.

“Oh, nothing,” my mother said, a little too brightly. “He was just wondering if any of us had seen Nate. Who’d like more mashed potatoes?”

“What’s wrong with saying colored?” Great-aunt Rose was mad because no one was paying any attention to her. Though she probably would have changed her tune if I’d paid the kind of attention to her that I wanted to.

“I heard the only reason Dr. Thompkins took the chief surgeon job over at County Medical was because Nate was getting into trouble at their old school.” Claire looked around the table as she dropped this little bombshell. Being an actress, Claire enjoys seeing what kind of reactions her little performances generate. Also, since she babysits for all the rich doctor types when she is not attending rehearsals, she knows all the gossip in town. “I heard Nate was in a
gang
up in Chicago.”

“A gang!” Mrs. Lippman looked upset. “Oh, no! That nice boy?”

“Many a nice boy’s fallen in with the wrong crowd,” Mr. Abramowitz said mildly.

“But Nate Thompkins.” Mrs. Lippman, who was big-time involved with the PTA, shook her head. “Why, he’s always been so polite when I’ve seen him at the Stop and Shop.”

“Nate may have been involved with some unsavory individuals back in Chicago,” my dad said. “But everybody’s entitled to a fresh new start. That’s one of the ideals this country was founded on, anyway.”

“He’s probably out there right now,” Great-aunt Rose said, with certain relish, “with his little gang friends, getting high on reefer cigarettes.”

Mike, Douglas, and I all exchanged glances. It was always amusing to hear Great-aunt Rose use the word “reefer.”

My mom apparently didn’t find it very amusing, though, since she said, in a stern voice, “Don’t be ridiculous, Rose. There are no drugs here. I mean, not in this town.”

I didn’t think it would be politic to point out to my mom that the weekend before, at the
Hello Dolly
cast party (Claire, of course, had gotten the part of Dolly), two kids (not Claire, obviously—she doesn’t do drugs, as an actress’s body, she informed me, is her temple) had been hauled out by EMTs after imbibing in a little too much Ecstasy. It is better in the long run that my mom be shielded from these things.

“Can I be excused?” I asked, instead. “I have to run over to Joanne’s house and get those trig notes I was telling you about.”

”
May
I be excused,” my mom said. “And no, you may not. It’s Thanksgiving, Jessica. You have three whole days off. You can pick up the notes tomorrow.”

“You know somebody graffitied the overpass last week,” Mrs. Lippman informed everyone. “You can’t even tell what it says. I never thought of it before now, but supposing it’s one of those … what do they call them, again? I saw it on
Sixty Minutes
. Oh, yes. A gang tag. I mean, I’m sure it’s not. But what if it is?”

“I can’t get the notes tomorrow,” I said. “Joanne’s going to her grandma’s tomorrow. Tonight’s the only time I can get them.”

“Hush,” my mom said.

“Reefer today,” Great-aunt Rose said, shaking her head. “Heroin tomorrow.”

“You don’t know anybody named Joanne,” Douglas leaned over to whisper in my ear.

“Mom,” I said, ignoring Douglas. Which was kind of mean, on account of it had taken a lot for him even to come down to dinner at all. Douglas is not what you’d call the most sociable guy. In fact, antisocial is more the word for it, really. But he’s gotten a little better since he started a job at a local comic book store. Well, better for him, anyway.

“Come on, Mom,” I said. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.” This was a total lie, but I was hoping that she’d be so busy with her guests and everything, she wouldn’t even notice I wasn’t home yet.

“Jessica,” my dad said, signaling for me to help him start gathering people’s plates. “You’ll miss pie.”

“Save a piece of each for me,” I said, reaching out to grab the plates nearest me, then following him into the kitchen. “Please?”

My dad, after rolling his eyes at me a little, finally tilted his head toward the driveway. So I knew it was okay.

“Take Ruth with you,” my dad said, as I was pulling my coat down from its hook by the garage door.

“Aw, Dad,” I said.

“You have a learner’s permit,” my dad said. “Not a license. You may not get behind the wheel without a licensed driver in the passenger seat.”

“Dad.” I thought my head was going to explode. “It’s Thanksgiving. There is no one out on the streets. Even the cops are at home.”

“It’s supposed to snow,” he said.

“The forecast said tomorrow, not tonight.” I tried to look my most dependable. “I will call you as soon as I get there, and then again, right before I leave. I swear.”

“Well, Joe.” Mr. Lippman walked into the kitchen. “May I extend my compliments to the chef? That was the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve had in ages.”

My dad looked pleased. “Really, Burt? Well, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Dad,” I said, standing by the heart-shaped key peg by the garage door.

My dad barely looked at me. “Take your mother’s car,” he said to me. Then, to Mr. Lippman, he went, “You didn’t think the mashed potatoes were a little too garlicky?”

Victorious, I snatched my mom’s car keys—on a Girl Scout whistle key chain, in case she got attacked in the parking lot at Wal-Mart; no one had ever gotten attacked there before, but you never knew. Besides, everybody had gotten paranoid since Mastriani’s burnt down, even though they’d caught the perps—and I bolted.

Free at last
, I thought, as I climbed behind the wheel of her Volkswagen Rabbit.
Free at last. Thank God almighty, I am free at last
.

Which is an actual historical quote from a famous person, and probably didn’t really apply to the current situation. But believe me, if you’d been cooped up all evening with Great-aunt Rose, you’d have thought it, too.

About the license thing. Yeah, that was kind of funny, actually. I was virtually the only junior at Ernie Pyle High who didn’t have a driver’s license. It wasn’t because I wasn’t old enough, either. I just couldn’t seem to pass the exam. And not because I can’t drive. It’s just this whole, you know, speed limit thing. Something happens to me when I get behind the wheel of a car. I don’t know what it is. I just need—I mean really
need
—to go fast. It must be like a hormonal thing, like Mike and Claire Lippman, because I fully can’t help it.