Rules for Life (12 page)

I waited.

Rafe kept his eyes on the road. “I thought you weren't going to do this anymore,” he said finally.

“What do you mean? Do what?”

“Cover for Jason.”

“I'm not covering for Jason,” I said.

Rafe didn't say anything.

“I'm not,” I insisted, twisting in my seat so I could see more of his face. “This is different. How could I tell Dad? It was when Anne … I went over to Jason's apartment and he was drunk. Dirty, gross, drunk. And then when I got to the hospital …” I laced my fingers tightly together “ … Dad told me … about the baby.”

I looked out the window. We were at a red light. “What was I supposed to do, Rafe?” I whispered. “Say, ‘Hey, Dad. Jason's drunk'? How could I do that?” I pressed my laced fingers against my mouth and took a couple of shaky breaths.

I knew by how stiff Rafe was that he was pissed at me. “So why didn't you tell me?” he said.

The light changed.

I opened my mouth, but at first nothing came out. “I couldn't ask you to lie for Jason,” I said finally. “I'm sorry. I was just trying to do the right thing for everyone. Now it's worse.”

We drove a block in silence. Then Rafe laid his right hand, palm up, on the seat between us. I put my hand on top of his and he folded his fingers around mine.

We parked in front of Jason's building. The truck wasn't on the street. I jabbed the doorbell with my thumb as we passed it.

Upstairs I pounded on Jason's door, the same way I had the morning I'd found him drunk. Nothing. Rafe reached over my shoulder and beat on the door with his flat hand. But there was no sound from inside.

Slowly, silently, I counted to twenty. In my head I saw Jason, stoned, sitting on the kitchen counter, talking so fast the words didn't make sense. I saw him sprawled on the bathroom floor, head against the upturned toilet seat, flecks of puke on his T-shirt. I saw him straddling the top crossbar of the swing set in the same park my mom had taken us to when we were little, swinging his legs as he sang “I'm a Little Teapot”.

I tried the doorknob. It turned. I pushed, and the door swung open a couple of inches.

Rafe's arm snaked around my shoulders. “I'll see if he's in there,” he said.

I shook my head, reached up and clutched the hand on my shoulder. Then I nudged the door open the rest of the way with my foot.

We both gagged at the smell, a mix of BO and garbage that hadn't been taken out for days. I felt along the wall for the light switch.

“Holy shit,” Rafe said when the light came on.

The only piece of furniture was a peeling brown vinyl recliner in the middle of the living room. A grubby blue blanket was wadded up on the seat. There were five beer bottles standing on the floor next to the chair and a bigger bottle of something else—vodka, maybe—lying empty on its side.

The sofa was gone, and the big wooden cupboard Dad had built that Jason used for his TV and stereo. Where was his sound system, his keyboard, the answering machine? My mother's rocking chair. Where was Mom's rocking chair?

I stood there cold and numb while Rafe scouted around. “Jason's not here,” he said, reaching for my hand. “And this is it for the furniture. C'mon. Let's go.” I let him lead me back down the stairs.

Outside I looked up and down the street again; still no sign of the truck. “Can we just go down the alley and see if the truck's maybe in the back somewhere?” I asked.

Rafe shrugged. “Sure.”

“Be there. Be there. Be there. Be there,” I repeated under my breath.

Jason had knocked over two garbage cans when he parked, but the truck was there, next to the building's fire escape. My knees went wobbly with relief. Rafe slowly circled the truck, looking for damage.

“It looks okay as far as I can tell,” he said. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to beat on my dumb-ass brother with something really hard,” I said. “Maybe one of those big hammers that construction workers use to tear down walls.” I folded my arms across my chest and tucked my icy fingers into my armpits for warmth. “I hate him, Rafe,” I said. “He uses everyone. He uses me like I'm some kind of cash machine. He doesn't care about me. The only person he cares about is himself. And I should just—” I stopped, swallowed hard as tears filled my eyes.

I looked past Rafe, out toward the street, half expecting Jason to come swaggering up the alley. “I know it doesn't make sense. Why do I care about what's happened to him? He wouldn't if it were me. It's just … I can't stop thinking, what if he's had an accident? What if he passed out somewhere and choked on his own barf? I can't … I have to do something.”

I was shaking. Rafe pulled me into a hug. “The truck's here, so we know he's not driving,” he said. He paused. “I'd like to pound his head on the back bumper about ten times.” He made a growling noise in the back of his throat. “Your brother's an asshole, Iz. You gotta go home and tell your dad what's going on.”

“I know,” I whispered. And I would have done anything to get out of it.

29

I stood in the driveway, thinking I might heave my toast and peanut butter under the Chinese gooseberry. I'd convinced Rafe to go drive around downtown and look for Jason while I talked to Dad. I guess I was holding out hope that somehow this would be a mistake instead of another one of Jason's screwups.

“Just tell him,” Rafe had said. “Do it fast, like pulling off a bandage.”

Why did people always say that? As if doing something quicker was easier, as if it didn't still hurt.

I went in, peeling off my gloves and hat. Dad was in the living room with the phone stuck to his ear. I stood in the doorway, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. My feet wouldn't go any farther. Dad pushed the disconnect button. “Where in hell are you?” he muttered, dropping the handset on the table. He turned and caught sight of me. “Hi, what did you forget?”

For a second I wasn't sure the words would come out. But they did. “I think Jason's in trouble,” I said, almost choking on his name.

“You got that right,” Dad said, doing the hand-hair thing again.

“No, Dad. I mean … Jason's … drinking.”

He froze for a moment. His hand slid over the back of his head in slow motion and hung on his neck for a moment. “What do you mean, Jason's drinking?”

“When Anne … the baby … he was, he was drunk when I went over there in the morning.” I couldn't seem to stop rubbing my hands on my pants. I jammed them in my pockets.

“And you're just telling me about this now?” He was across the room, in front of me, in a flash. “He's an addict. For God's sake, Izzy, use your brain. Jason could be out there right now, driving around drunk. He could kill someone. He could kill himself.” With each word he got louder.

“No, no he's not. The truck's behind his apartment and, and it's okay, I swear.”

“How do you—” He stopped. A tiny muscle twitched at the corner of his left eye. “Is that where you were?”

“Yes.” Something sour and acidic burned at the back of my throat.

“Is Jason there?”

I shook my head.

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“I am. The apartment was empty.”

“You've been lying for weeks, but now you've decided to tell the truth.”

“I wasn't lying.” My own voice was getting louder. “I didn't tell you Jason was drinking. That's not the same as lying.”

“Oh, c'mon. He's a drug addict and now it turns out he's a drunk, too. And you just keep covering for him.” Dad was right in my face now.

I took a couple of steps backward.

“Don't walk away from me,” he warned, his voice hoarse with anger. “What's the matter with you? Don't you remember what it was like at the hospital the last time with Jason? Tubes jammed up his nose and down his throat and in his arms. He looked like the bones would rip through his skin, he was so thin. You want to put us through that again?” He grabbed both my arms and I didn't know if he was going to shake me or drag me into the living room.

“Marc, stop.”

We both turned. Anne was on the second step from the bottom of the staircase. I hadn't heard her come down.

Dad loosened his grip on me. I yanked away from him and took another step back.

“Jason's drinking,” Dad said. His voice was cold.

Anne nodded. “I know. I heard.” She looked tired. There were puffy pouches under both her eyes.

“And Izzy's been covering for him.”

My own anger finally spilled over. “What should I have done, Dad?” I shouted. “Come back to the hospital and say, ‘Jason's drunk and he smells like a sewer'? Yeah, I remember what it was like with Jason at the hospital the last time. Don't you remember what it was like for all of us at the hospital
this
time?”

He looked away from me.

“I thought you had enough hurt to carry around. And I figured when things got better I'd tell you.” I looked up at the ceiling for a moment and swallowed a couple of times so I wouldn't start crying. “But they didn't.”

The silence hung like a haze in the room.

“I'm all through,” Dad said at last, still not looking at me. “I don't care what Jason does. I don't care what he drinks, what he takes, what he shoves up his nose or in his arm. I'm done.”

“No! We have to find him. Dad. All of his stuff—it's gone. The CD player, his keyboard—the furniture.”

Anne shook her head. “Don't do this, Marc,” she said.

“I. Don't. Care.” He said each word slowly, carefully, as though he was speaking a different language. Finally he looked at me. There was nothing in his face. No anger. No hurt. No sadness.

I turned away, pulling on my hat.

“Where are you going?” Dad asked.

This time I didn't look at him. “To find Jason,” I said.

His hand snapped out like a snake striking. He grabbed my right arm just below the shoulder. “No, you're not.”

I tried to pull back and twist out of his grip, but he held on tightly. “Let go!” I shouted.

“No!” He gave me a little shake. His face had gone white with fury except for two red blotches, one on each cheek.

“I have to find Jason,” I shouted. I was half crying and trying to catch my breath. “He's in trouble. Let me go!”

Anne stepped between us then. She put her hands on Dad's chest. “Let go of her, Marc,” she said. “Now.” Her voice grew more insistent. “Let go.” She kept her face in front of his so he had to look at her, and in a moment he dropped his hand. I could still feel his fingers on my arm.

“Jesus, Anne,” he said, almost whispering the words. “What am I supposed to do? Jason's a freaking screwup. How many times am I supposed to bail him out? How many chances is he supposed to get?”

“I don't know,” Anne said, her hands sliding off his chest.

I pulled on my gloves and moved toward the door. “I'm going,” I said.

Anne studied Dad's face. Then she let out a breath and turned to me. “Isabelle. Wait.” She took three steps past me and grabbed her big duffle coat from a hanger in the closet.

Dad swung back around to face us. “Anne, what the hell are you doing?”

She buttoned the jacket and checked both pockets before she looked at him. “Look what losing our baby has done to us, Marc,” she said. “What will losing Jason do?”

“Rescuing Jason won't make up for losing … for what happened.”

She pressed her lips together and I knew she was trying not to cry. “Maybe. But I don't want to bury another child.” She turned to me and straightened her shoulders. Her eyes were very bright. “Let's go,” she said.

I opened the door and stepped outside, keeping my eyes on Anne and not once looking back.

30

I shivered. It seemed a lot colder than it had been earlier.

Rafe was parked across the street. He got out of the car and crossed to us.

“Did you find him?” I asked, even though I knew the answer was no. If Rafe had found Jason, Jason would've been here, even if Rafe had to throw Jason in the back and tie him down with the seat belt.

Rafe shook his head. “You talk to your dad?” he asked, his eyes flicking over to Anne for a second.

All I could do was nod.

“So now what?”

“We need to find Jason,” Anne said, pulling a hat and gloves out of her coat pocket.

Rafe turned to face her. “He's not in front of the liquor store and no one there's seen him today. I checked the alley and even the dumpsters. I went back to the apartment and checked all around there, too.”

“Isabelle, is there anywhere Jason might go?” Anne asked.

I had to think for a minute, hunched up against the cold with my fingers pulled into my sleeves for warmth. “The diner maybe,” I said finally. “He used to spend a lot of time in the music room at the library. And there was this club—I can't remember the name, but it's at the bottom of Alexander Street—he plays there sometimes. At least I think he still does.” It struck me that I knew very little about Jason's life anymore. That I hadn't wanted to.

“Let's start at the library,” Anne said. “It's the closest.”

“I can drive,” Rafe said.

“Thanks.” Anne gave him what passed for a smile.

Rafe put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him as we headed for the car. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket. “You gonna tell me what's going on?” he asked in a low voice.

“Later,” I said. “What if we can't find Jason?” I asked Anne.

“We haven't even looked yet.”

“What if he's … ?” I couldn't finish the sentence.

Anne touched my arm and it seemed as though I could feel the warmth of her hand through my coat and her glove. “Let's just look, okay?” she said.