Titans (4 page)

Two days later, Magnolia is elbow-deep in a hair accessory project she won’t leave alone. She begs me to come over and sit on her bed to watch her “genius in progress.” I’ve been vegging out in front of the television for six hours, and need to take a break before my eyeballs roll out of my head. I tell her I’ll be over after lunch, and decide to go for a walk around our neighborhood.

Where we live is nothing to get excited about—one-story houses with old siding and trash cans stinking by the curb. The homes are missing shutters, and their screen doors are torn. Mr. Reynolds has had a yellow couch on his front porch for as long as I can remember, and two houses down from there is a car parked in the grass.

Of course, most people’s lawns are 100% all-natural weeds anyway. Don’t want to wake to the sound of a lawn mower at 7:00 a.m.? Then we’ve got a place for you!

I smile thinking about my mother and these so-called lawns. Nothing in this entire world makes Mom more upset than people who don’t maintain their garden beds. If they knew what she did to their properties as they chased sleep, they’d probably torch our house.

Or give her an award.

I walk five or six blocks before my footsteps falter. There’s a man standing in his open garage wearing a welding mask, a machine between his hands. He’s sliding something under the machine slowly but steadily, rotating the piece every few seconds. Orange sparks fly in all directions, and a high-pitched whirring reaches my ears.

The man straightens and places a hand on his lower back, stretching. Then he flips the hood up on his mask and curses loud enough for me to hear him from across the street. I can see his face clearly now, but I knew who it was all along. Both hands find his hips as he turns and looks in my direction.

“Nice vest,” I yell.

He turns the machine off and squints. “You that girl from the track?”

“The one and only.” I make my way across the street, drawn by the way he stands just like my grandpa, leaning too far back, shoulders raised toward his ears. I’m not sure how I missed the fact that he lived so close to Magnolia and me until now.

“What’re you doing?” he says with obvious irritation.

“Preparing to catch you when you fall. It’s hotter today than it was on Monday.” I gaze at the material he has beneath his oversized power tool. It’s a sheet of steel, which I’ve seen before, but the shade is darker. There’s a subtle ripple effect that only the sun catches, and a sparkling sheen that lies beneath the surface. These things tell me everything I need to know. “Where’d you get that?”

“Get what?” The old man turns off the machine, and wipes his hands on a rag that could use a spin cycle or two.

“That’s Titan steel.”

He catches my gaze and studies me closely. “It’s no such thing.”

“Is too. It’s got that ripple and sparkle and—”

“Kid, if you knew what you were talking about, you’d know this is much too dark to be Titan steel. Why don’t you skip on back across the street and keep going wherever it is you were going.”

He lowers his mask and stares at me like a serial killer.

I inspect the steel again, and my enthusiasm wanes. He’s right. It’s too dark.

Studying his cut lines, it’s obvious he’s off by three full degrees. Even if he does get the octagonal shape he’s going for, it’ll have unequal sides. I raise my chin. “I used to know someone like you, old man. Beneath all his grunting and frowning was a nice guy.”

When the man raises a hand and flicks it toward me, basically telling me to
shoo
, my face reddens.

“You’re off by three degrees.” I point to the steel. “Maybe more.”

Then I turn to go.

“You think because you do well in high school math, you know about building things that run?”

“I know a bad line when I see one,” I retort over my shoulder.

The man doesn’t say anything else. I turn back once when I’m a safe distance away and see him holding the steel up to the daylight, inspecting his cuts. I smile to myself, imagining I’m right.

If I kept a diary like my idiotic older sister, I’d probably leave today’s entry out. It starts on Sunday morning, at St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church. Arvin Gambini has made an appearance, and it has the entire congregation humming with equal parts excitement and disgust. The priest must have been given advance warning of our visitor, because he preaches with incredible zeal, waving his fists and thumping his Bible for emphasis.

Zara sits between Dani and me, and my dad sits to my left. Mom has squeezed herself in next to Dani, and I wonder if it’s to ensure her oldest daughter doesn’t flee halfway through the service. I don’t listen to most of the sermon. Instead, I concentrate on my father’s arm pressing against mine. It’s warm, dressed in a white shirt my mother ironed hours earlier. I stare at him from the corner of my eye, breathing in the scent of his Old Spice aftershave. He’s running his tongue over his teeth, displeased by whatever our overweight, sweating priest is trying to drive home.

I glance around the room at the other dads. Most that are sitting next to their kids have their arms extended across the back of the pew. A church hug, if you will. Not my dad, though. His hands are clenched between his knees.

I wish he’d give me and Zara the church hug. He’s got enough arm length to stretch behind the two of us. Biting my lip, I nudge closer to my dad. His eyes dart in my direction before moving his torso in the opposite direction a half inch. He probably thinks I want more room, but that half inch feels like a knife to the heart.

To shake things up, I turn my attention to the priest and actually listen to what he’s saying. Suddenly, I understand my dad’s tenseness. Father Tim is laying it on thick, talking about reaping the benefits of hard work. About how God loathes laziness, and awards those who toil for their Lord and family.

“Proverbs 13:4 says, ‘The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied.’ ” Father Tim shows us his trusty Bible. “I say to you now, if you put your hands to work, be proud, for this pleases the Lord. But if you do not, I ask whether it is because work is truly unavailable, or because you are not willing to pick up a hoe and tend the fields.” The priest holds up his index finger. “No work is beneath us, for the Lord does not discriminate between the field owner and the laborer. All are loved equally.”

Dani, Zara, and I all turn slowly toward my father. His head looks like it’s about to split open. He’s actually quaking with anger. The priest couldn’t be clearer in his message.

If you’re out of work, it’s because you don’t
want
work
.

After the congregation sings a half-hearted hymn, we file out. My dad glares at Arvin from across the room, cringing when the priest shakes Arvin’s hand and thanks him for coming. With Arvin is another man dressed in a gray tailored suit. He’s tall and dark-skinned with a smooth head. There’s a cloth square, red as sin, peeking from his pocket. Arvin introduces the guy to the priest, and they shake hands too. Arvin’s older brother, Theo, is nowhere in sight.

“That’s who Dad interviewed with on Monday,” Dani whispers to me.

My head snaps in her direction, unbelieving. “But Daddy hates the races.”

“He hates them the same way he does brandy, with one hand on the bottle.” She shrugs. “But he needs a job.”

“It didn’t go well?” I ask, afraid of her answer.

“Do Dad’s interviews ever go well?” she responds, too loudly. “That man couldn’t get a job if it hit him square between the eyes.”

Zara nudges me and cocks her head toward Dad, who is glaring at Dani. When Dani sees him too, her eyes bug out from her head.

“Dad, I didn’t mean—”

But he only brushes past her and storms toward the car, back muscles tight with anger.

I cast one last look at the younger Gambini brother before we head after Dad. Arvin is short and thick with too much hair on his head, as if he’s mocking men who are balding. He smiles easily, but the gesture never reaches his too-small eyes. His ruddy cheeks remind me of Christmas and beautiful Michigan winters, but he’s missing the authenticity to drive the resemblance home. The tall man by his side motions toward the exit, and Arvin wastes no time excusing the two of them.

This makes me smile, seeing Arvin jump when someone else instructs him to.

No one speaks on the way home, which only makes things worse. When our family argues, it’s almost a relief. We’re communicating. We’re
trying
. But when everyone shuts down like this, it rattles me.

Discomfort crawls over my skin as my dad pulls our snot-green ’02 Buick into the driveway and kills the engine. I’m afraid to breathe until Dani gets out of the car and slams the door. My mom goes after her, and then my dad charges after my mom. Only Zara and I remain. She’s sucking on a peppermint she got from church and asking what Dani said that made Dad so mad. But I can’t answer her, because my eyes have snagged on something that causes my heart to race.

Tucked into a small slot next to the Buick’s steering wheel is an orange envelope.

I watch the house for any sign of my dad, and then I reach into the front seat and grab it.

“Was that the thing in Dad’s pocket last night?” Zara asks in a whisper, though there’s no one to hear us.

I turn away from Zara in case it’s really bad, and open the flap. Out slides a thin piece of paper. I don’t read much of it. I don’t need to. The red, stamped words are the only thing I need to know.

EVICTION NOTICE

I crumple the paper in my hand and my breathing comes faster. Zara calls my name and tries to pry the paper from my fingers, but I’ve shut down. My body tightens and my eyes cinch shut and sweat pricks the back of my neck. It’s happening again. My biggest fear will be actualized.

When I finally open my eyes, I find my dad standing outside the car. He sees the envelope in my hand and tears the door open. “This isn’t yours,” he snaps. Unlike Zara, he’s able to rip both envelope and paper from my hand with ease.

I don’t know where the anger comes from, but it slams into me like a hurricane. Great, heaping piles of anger so rich my mouth waters. “It’s kind of mine, isn’t it? And Mom’s? And Dani’s? And even Zara’s? It’s for all of us!”

My voice rises, and I know it won’t be long before neighbors peek through their blinds for free early-morning entertainment.

“This is for me to figure out, Astrid. Go inside. Your mom needs help with lunch.”

I shove him. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish, but the mountain of a man hardly budges. “We’re going to be on the streets, and you weren’t even going to tell us. How much time do we have?”

My dad shakes his head like I’m overreacting. “I’m doing everything I can here.”

“No, you’re not,” I shout. “You’re looking for work, but what about us? We can help too. Mom could work. So could Dani and I.”

“No,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “I can take care of my family.”

I drop my head to one side, the fight leaving my body in a rush. “But you’re not, are you, Dad? If you were, you’d know we need
you
more than we need money. I forgive you for going to those races last summer. I just wish you could forgive
me
.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

I start to answer, but now Zara is getting out of the car and Dad is yelling at her to stay put. I turn my back to him and march toward Candlewick Park, tears streaking down my face. I don’t want him to see me cry. But then again, I do.

I want him to chase after me and hug me to his chest and say that everything will be all right. That even if we lose our home, we won’t lose each other. Not this time.

But we’re already losing each other. We hardly speak anymore, and when we do, it’s with biting words and venom boiling in our blood.

Our home is the only thing keeping us from shattering into five separate pieces.

And it’s about to be gone.

I have my head in my hands, feeling nice and sorry for myself, when a voice interrupts my thoughts.

“You following me, kid?”

Glancing up from my picnic table, I see it’s Old Man. “Go away.”

I put my head back down.

The table rocks and I know he’s sat down. “Maybe you need some water. Dehydration is dangerous.”

He’s teasing me, but it’s the last thing I need. Realizing I’m not playing along, the man sighs. “Look, I’m not good at this kind of thing. So, can you help me out?”

I peek at him, thinking he must be joking. “What exactly do you need help with?”

“I’m trying to make you feel better. You’re over here sulking, taking up my usual spot. Everyone knows that’s my spot.”

“So you want me to help you help
me
feel better?”

He grins ever so slightly. With the way his mouth turns down, even a smile looks more like he’s indifferent. “When you put it like that …”

I stare down at my hands, my father’s secret burning in my mind. How long has he known we were facing foreclosure? Did the letter come yesterday? A week ago?

“You know what I’ve found?” the man says.

“No.”

“I’ve found you should say the thing that’s bothering you outright.” He holds up a fist and shakes it like he’s strangling a large bird. “Takes away its power.”

“My family is being kicked out of our house.” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because it doesn’t matter what this guy thinks. Or maybe I just want to sucker punch him for being nosy.

“Is that it?” He leans back. “Hell, I’ve been evicted a half dozen times if I’ve been evicted once.”

“My family will fall apart if we lose our home. They won’t make it.”

“Yeah, they will. Now stop all this crying, kid. It shows weakness. You’re not weak, are you?”

His words strike daggers through me. I’ve prided myself on having a stiff upper lip ever since we moved to Detroit, and this guy’s calling me a child. Well, he doesn’t know what I’ve been through. If he did, he’d feel bad about what he said. And perhaps that’s why I open my mouth and spit out, “My grandpa died the last time we got evicted.”

Old Man couldn’t look less impressed with my horror story. “Yeah, well, that’s what grandpas do. They die.”

I wince. “You know, you’re a real piece of work.” I start to stand up, but the man’s face softens and he holds up a hand to stop me.

“All I mean is, your grandpa isn’t here anymore. So that has nothing to do with what your family is facing now.”

My head lowers, and though it angers me so bad I could spit, my bottom lip trembles.

“Oh, man.” The old guy runs a hand through his wild, white hair. “You’re one of those, huh? Got it in your head that you somehow killed the man, don’t you? I heard kids do that. Find a way to take ownership of tragedy.”

“If I’d been there, he’d still be alive,” I say in a whisper. It’s the last thing I can say about it. No matter what he comes back with, no matter how upset he makes me. Not one more word about me and Grandpa and
that day
.

The man stands up, and gazes toward the sun, then back at me. “You can call me Rags, I s’pose.”

I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. “Wh-what?”

The old man scrunches his face like he’s trying to figure me out. “You were right about those cuts. I was a few degrees off.” He points at me, and his tone hardens. “But it wasn’t no three degrees. It was two. Maybe less.”

“It wasn’t less than two,” I respond.

He shoves his hands into jeans that sit too high on his waist. “No. No, I guess it wasn’t.” When I don’t respond, he stands up. “You gonna keep crying after I leave?”

“I’ll cry if you don’t leave.”

That does it. The man—Rags—laughs. It’s more a bark than anything else, but it makes me smile. He squints in my direction. “You really that good with math and all that?”

I square my shoulders. “I am.”

“Well, come on, then.” He turns on his heel and walks away.

“Am I supposed to follow you?” I yell.

“Can if you want,” he responds without looking back. “No one’s making you.”

I glance in the direction of my house and wonder if I should go back home. Zara must be confused as to what’s going on, and I hate to think of her worrying. But Rags’s orange vest is like a beacon of hope against my future, and I find myself trudging after him.

Magnolia would flip out if she caught me following this dude through the woods. But we aren’t in the woods long, thank goodness. Rags leads me on the same route I walked a few days ago, and soon we’re stopped in front of his house. He fidgets, and I realize he’s nervous. This makes
me
nervous. What the heck was I thinking? The first thing my mother ever taught me was a lesson about strangers and not going with them.

“I’m thinking I might show you something in my work shed,” he says.

“Welllll,” I drawl. “If that’s not the creepiest thing anyone has ever said …”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Can you keep a secret, kid?”

“My name is Astrid, and I’m really thinking this is the part where I run home and call the cops.”

He ignores my commentary and instead stomps between his house and the neighbor’s house, muttering the entire way. I stay rooted in place, watching him go. Craning my neck, I make out a shed in his backyard, cream colored with blue trim. It’s the size of a one-car garage, with a tired roof. He pulls a key ring from his pocket and unlocks the door. Only when he’s taken a couple of steps inside does he holler, “You coming?”

“Nuh-uh,” I reply.

Rags glances around to check if anyone’s listening and then says, “Astrid, I’m never going to make this offer again. Not to you. Maybe not to anyone. So you can come and have a look, or you can go home. It’s no sweat off my back.”

Dead bodies. There has to be dead bodies in there. Or maybe a lifetime supply of orange vests, lightly splattered with inconspicuous blood for good measure. I’m not sure what’s in his work shed, but I do know fifteen minutes ago I felt like the world was ending. And now my lungs are pumping and my blood is warming and I’m walking toward the thing he’s motioning to.

He steps all the way inside, and I follow him in. After he flips the light switch, I make out a lumpy figure on the dirt floor, covered by a burlap blanket.

Yep, dead body.

“Can I trust you?” he asks.

“Can you trust me?” I repeat. “I’m standing in your Creep Dungeon staring at what looks like neatly arranged corpses. I think the question is whether I can trust
you
.”

He shakes his head. “I’m an idiot for doing this, but I’m getting too old to stand still.”

He bends down, knees creaking, and pulls back the blanket.

I gasp when I see what he’s revealed. A Titan like I’ve never seen before, with smooth black steel and silver hooves dirtied by years of neglect. The animal’s legs bend at awkward angles, and its head is thrown back as if in pain. Though its eyes are closed, soft faux lashes encircle the sockets, giving the horse a kind appearance despite its intimidating black coat.

I circle the creature, and my eyes land on the control panel at the base of its neck. The dials are different from today’s Titans, but I could figure them out.

I could figure them out
.

That’s how quickly I go from studying this broken-down Titan to thinking about the one rider who will be allowed to enter the circuit this year, free of charge.

I could figure them out.

I could race in the Titan Derby.

I could win and save my family’s home.

I can hardly keep my legs beneath me when I look at Rags and utter, “Are you going to race this thing this year?”

“Me?” He shakes his head like that’s preposterous. “No way. I’m an architect, not a jockey.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, and ask the question I’m terrified to ask. “Can
I
race it?”

He hesitates. “I’m not even sure this model would qualify.”

“Course it would,” I argue. “It’s clearly a Titan.”

The old man teeters on the edge of indecision. Though why bring me here if not for a reason? So I give him a nudge.

“I could win,” I whisper. “No one would want it more than I would.”

Rags scratches his chin. Looks at me. Looks at the Titan. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“That’s what I said.”

I slap my hands together and jump a foot off the ground. “No way! This is not happening. I mean, it is. But what are the chances?” I run a hand through my hair, struggle to pull in a deep breath. “How do you even have this machine? Don’t they cost like a quarter of a million bucks?”

“Do you really care where I got it?”

Nope. Not really. My mind is racing so fast that I don’t care enough to concentrate on anything except the Titan. I mean, if he stole it, I should probably know so I can fully appreciate what I’m getting myself into. But it doesn’t look like he wants to share this information, so instead, I say, “So, what first?”

“First? First you get out of here and let me think on the poor choices I’m making and how much bail money I’ll need.”

I try to contest his backtracking, but Rags won’t hear it. He all but strong-arms me out of the work shed and into the street. But that’s okay, because he says I can return in two days. I can’t feel the asphalt beneath my feet on the return trek to my house. I can’t remember the tears I cried earlier today when I learned my family was losing their home. Because now there’s a chance I can do something to help. Something big.

Dad may believe this problem is his to handle. But I’ve learned a lot from watching my silent, brooding father over the years.

Don’t let others do for you what you can do for yourself
.

I head straight home from Rags’s house and locate Zara.

I tell her everything will be okay.

I’ll make sure of it.