The Kindness of Strangers (6 page)

“So.” Mom brightened her tone. “How was it to be back at school? Tell me about it.”

She always did that—tell me about school, tell me about the dance with Mackenzie, tell me about practice. Why did
he
have to do all the work? It was like saying to someone, “You give a speech now, and I’ll sit back and listen.”

“I went to class. The bell rang. I went to another class. That’s pretty much it.”

She shot him a look but then laughed and said, “You did this seven times, right? You promise?”

He snorted again, happy she took it as a joke.

Before he could think of anything else to say, though, Mom said, “I mean, where would a kid even
get
drugs like that?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” Nate looked out the window, wondering if there were freak moms in all the houses they passed.

They pulled into the driveway, and Nate escaped into the house. He was starving, and now he was glad Mom made a dinner after all. Without taking off his coat, he went straight to the fridge and started to eat some of the quiche she’d made, but Mom followed him and cornered him again, that there’s-something-we-need-to-talk-about cloud hanging over her.
Shit, what now?

She almost whispered, “Nate, do you know anything about a
Hustler
magazine I found downstairs by the rabbit hutch?”

Nate choked, sputtering piecrust crumbs. He thought all that crap was over and done with. When she went on and on about how natural it was to be curious but could he please show a little more responsibility about where he left his reading material, his face burned guilty-as-hell hot. He couldn’t control it, but goddamn it, it wasn’t his.

The
Playboy
she found two months ago was the one Tony stuck in Nate’s folder right before he went up to give his speech in English class; it wasn’t like Nate went out and bought it himself. And the condoms she’d freaked over, he’d picked up after a demonstration in health class just because everyone else was taking them, too. He tried to tell Mom that. He even told her to call the school, but she just pursed her mouth in that “yeah, right” expression.

He’d wanted to ask her, “Look, you think if I was really going to use them, I’d let them go in the washing machine? Don’t you think I’d hide them better than that?” but he didn’t want her getting any ideas and making a habit of searching his room. She might find the box of condoms he actually
had
bought and hidden under his bed, in the plastic crate with his swim trunks and beach towel, a place he knew she wouldn’t be nosing into when she did laundry. The box was open, instructions read, but he’d never convince her he hadn’t used them yet. Well . . . not with Mackenzie anyway. He’d opened one and tried it out, here at home, alone, just to make sure he wouldn’t fumble around like some loser when the time came. But try telling that to his mom; she never believed a damn word he said.

He ate another piece of quiche and watched Mom’s mouth move, talking on and on. He wondered if his dad had ever looked at dirty magazines. He couldn’t picture that, even though he’d once found a book of really dirty stories up in their room. What would it be like to be married to his mom? She was okay. Not a knockout or anything, but what did G.G.—his Grandma Glass—say about Nate’s homecoming picture of Mackenzie? “A quiet beauty.”

Dad always said he fell in love with Mom’s hair. He would come up behind her and hug her and nuzzle her hair with his face while she was trying to cook. She’d pretend to be annoyed, but Nate knew she loved it.

“Nathaniel Laden! Are you even listening to me?” Mom asked.

“It’s not mine. Talk to Danny.” Her face darkened. Danny never did anything wrong. Danny’s the sweet one, he’d heard her tell people.

Nate expected her to yell at him, but she lifted her hands and then left the kitchen. Somehow that stung even worse.

He pitched the last bite of piecrust into the sink. Shit. He couldn’t do anything right; why did he bother? He walked down the basement steps and reached for the chain that pulled on the bare lightbulb.

“Hey, Klezmer.” Klezmer, their black-and-white Dutch rabbit, blinked and sniffed at him from the hutch next to the utility sink. Nate convinced Mom to let him bring Danny’s pet in from the backyard for the winter. Danny’s pet. What a laugh. Danny had begged for a rabbit when Billy Porter got one for Easter last year. Nate had wanted to give Danny a rabbit for his tenth birthday, and he’d promised Mom he’d take care of the rabbit if Danny didn’t—and Nate had been taking care of the rabbit pretty much since a week after Danny’s birthday. Nate dumped his skates at the bottom of the steps and went to the hutch. “C’mere, dude.” He lifted the lid. The rabbit stood on its back legs, reaching up for him. Nate scooped him up and carried him back to the steps, where he sat and let Klezmer hop into his lap.

He thought Mom really let him get the rabbit because they all missed having a pet. They used to have this great dog named Potter. She was black and white, a mix between a boxer and a ridgeback, and she had this white zigzag on her neck like a lightning bolt. That’s why Dad named her Potter—since she was a girl, they couldn’t call her Harry. Dad loved Harry Potter. It cracked Nate up. When the first book came out, Dad bought it for Nate but then kept taking it to read himself. They were always fighting over it and accusing each other of losing the other’s bookmark. Dad took it to work once and left it at the hospital. Nate tried to hide it from him after that. Mom bought two copies of the second one—one for Nate and Danny and one for Dad, as a joke.

Dad loved that dog. They all did, but she was really Dad’s. Dad used to sing to her, and he was a really bad singer. They’d beg him to stop, but he’d say he was singing for Potter and she liked it, didn’t she? And she’d look up at him and wag her tail. She loved him. Every time Dad came in the house, he’d pick her up—and she was a big dog—and say, “Oh, I missed you so much!” Even if he’d only been gone for ten minutes. And she was always overjoyed to see him.

Shit. Sometimes when Dad came home after working almost forty-eight hours and called, “Hey guys, I’m home,” Nate wouldn’t even go downstairs. Nate hated that. Nate hadn’t been mad or anything, just . . . busy. He’d be on the phone or doing something else. He remembered that, and it actually hurt him, like a bruised bone somewhere.

Potter died about two months after Dad did. They had no idea why. Mom said Potter’s heart was broken. That hurt, too. Didn’t that mean they
all
should have died? Did none of the rest of them love Dad enough?

Anyway, that’s why Mom let him get the rabbit, Nate thought. It would’ve felt wrong to get another dog. And since Danny asked for a rabbit like Billy’s, it just seemed like the perfect excuse. And Klezmer was cool, actually. Nate hadn’t known anything about rabbits when he got him. He hadn’t known the rabbit would have a personality. Klezmer flopped over onto his back in Nate’s lap and closed his eyes when Nate rubbed his nose.

The door at the top of the steps rattled. That meant someone had come in the back door. And Nate knew who it was, which made goose bumps race up his spine.

But then he heard Mrs. Ripley call, “Sarah? It’s me.” Oh. He thought it might be Mrs. Kendrick. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed that it wasn’t.

Just old Mrs. Ripley. Their neighbor was as nosy and weird as they got. She kept this concrete rabbit on her porch and dressed him up in all these different outfits she made herself. Like today, the rabbit—whose name was Sir Nottagoose—had been wearing a big pink bow and holding a giant Easter basket filled with eggs. She dressed him in a Cincinnati Reds uniform for opening day, a leprechaun suit for St. Patrick’s, and a turkey costume for Thanksgiving. Sir Nottagoose had about ten different Halloween costumes. It was hysterical, the time and effort she put into these outfits. Mrs. Ripley needed a life. They used to call her the Widow Ripley—but nobody made that joke anymore. Ever since Dad died, Mom had become friends with Mrs. Ripley. Mom wasn’t just being nice; she honestly seemed to
like
the old lady. Nate didn’t get it.

Nate sat really still when he heard his mom say, “Hey, Lila. Want some coffee?” He didn’t want Mom forcing him to make conversation like she sometimes did. Mrs. Ripley acted like Nate was a serial killer or something ever since he got brought home in that police car. That . . . and she knew that Nate was behind Sir Nottagoose’s “kidnapping” last fall. She came out one morning and the concrete rabbit was missing from her porch. There was a ransom note where it usually sat. The statue was tied to a telephone pole down the street and gagged with duct tape. It was hysterical—and it wasn’t broken or “harmed” or anything; it was concrete, for Christ’s sake—but the old lady had no sense of humor about it. She’d freaked, and now Nate couldn’t even walk past her house without getting a nasty look.

Nate listened to Mom and Mrs. Ripley’s voices above him until he lost them when they moved into the living room.

He kept rubbing Klezmer’s nose. Klezmer wrapped his front paws around Nate’s arm and acted like he was going to kick Nate with his back feet, but he didn’t really. Klezmer never scratched Nate. If Nate put a sock on his hand or pulled his sleeve down, then Klezmer would really kick. The rabbit knew the difference.

Danny wanted to name Klezmer some boring name like Peter or Cottontail, but Nate managed to convince him to go with the name Nate wanted. Nate chose the name because of the cool music his Grandpa Laden had turned him on to. Not that cheesy wedding–and–bar mitzvah crap. Nate liked the old, clarinet-howling, fiddles-wailing music. His friends made fun of him for it, but he didn’t care.

Klezmer stopped kicking Nate and rolled over so he could sit upright. “Wanna play ball?” Nate asked him. Nate stretched out his legs, making a bridge for the rabbit to the concrete floor. Klezmer walked down them and tiptoed around the washer and dryer, checking out the piles of laundry on the floor. Nate found the toy ball and rolled it toward him.

He heard footsteps over his head. And his mom’s voice saying, “I can’t even imagine what was going through his mind.”

Damn, were they talking about him again? Mom probably told Mrs. Ripley about the magazine, so now the old lady would have another reason to hate Nate. He didn’t know why Mom always told her everything, like Mrs. Ripley was her shrink or something. Mom
had
a shrink. She used to make Nate and Danny go to one, too, after Dad died.

Mrs. Ripley said something Nate didn’t catch, and then his mom said, “I’m still trying to . . . process it, I guess. It was so upsetting. I’ll never forget it, and there’s no one else I can share it with.”

Klezmer pushed the ball to Nate with his nose. What the hell were they talking about? He rolled the ball back to Klezmer.

Mom ran some water in the kitchen, so he missed part of what they said next, but when the water stopped, Mrs. Ripley said, “Still, it can’t be easy to discover your son might be a heroin addict.”

For Christ’s sake, Mom thought he was a
heroin
addict? What was the deal? Klezmer pushed the ball back to Nate’s feet. He would play this game for hours.

Mom made a moaning noise, and said, “I don’t know what to do, if I should call again—”

“Leave her be.”

“But maybe she doesn’t
want
to be left alone. She didn’t leave me alone, thank God, when Roy died. She saved me. She saved this family.”

When Roy died.
It still made him get cold to hear those words out loud. And now he was clueless. Mom must be talking about Mrs. Kendrick. The goose bumps prickled all over him again. But, what did
she
have to do with this?

“Maybe I should just go back to the hospital,” Mom said. “I could sit with her, bring her something to eat or changes of clothes. Whatever. As long as Jordan is there.”

Jordan Kendrick? Danny’s friend? He was in the hospital?

Nate kept rolling the ball back and forth with Klezmer.

“Just wait,” Mrs. Ripley said. “If they don’t call today, try again tomorrow. But don’t pester them.”

Ha. Mrs. Ripley giving advice on not pestering people.

“Sarah, they might be upset that you know, maybe embarrassed, but for heaven’s sake you saved the boy’s life. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”

Wait a minute. Were they talking about
Jordan
being a heroin addict? The ball stopped at Nate’s feet.

“Thanks for letting me unload,” Mom said. “That helped.”

“Of course, doll.” The back door opened. Nate pictured Mrs. Ripley patting Mom’s arm, like she always did. “It won’t leave this kitchen.”

When the door clunked shut, Nate sat there a minute, trying to figure out what he’d just heard. Klezmer got impatient with Nate’s distraction and was now playing by himself, pushing the ball with his nose, catching up to it, pushing it again, around and around the laundry piles. That spooky little kid was a junkie? How’d they find that out? And how had Mom saved his life? Damn. Jordan was only in Danny’s grade, this wispy ghost of a kid who played on Danny’s soccer team. Nate kind of admired the way the kid played as if his life depended on it; he never just went through the motions, like some kids. Yeah, he liked Jordan well enough. Never thought he was as bad as the other kids made out.