When Jeff Comes Home (16 page)

Pretend you're human. Go.

"Come on," I said roughly, then cleared my throat. Vin turned back, raising his eyebrows. "We better follow them."

"Yeah." Vin looked relieved. We walked together through the parking lot. Grateful for his silence, I noticed I was matching him stride for stride, keeping up much more easily than I had the day we'd played basketball together almost three weeks ago. I was safe and I was home and I was getting stronger. So why did I still feel mired in shit?

I wasn't much more successful at basketball than I had been at driving. One bump from Dad was enough; I didn't want to play anymore. I stood back, hovering around the edges of the court, pacing, waving off Vin's and Brian's attempts to throw me the ball. Finally, I took myself out of the game, and Dad didn't question me. I sat back against the redwood and hurricane fence that surrounded the court, knees up, head down. Vin came over and sat next to me after a while, watching Brian and Dad as they played game after game of Horse and Poison. I ignored him, simmering, wanting to be left alone but furious that Dad wasn't pushing to see what was wrong with me.

You know what's wrong with you. So does he. The only way to get through it is to pretend that nothing ever happened. But it did. It did
.

Dad finally called it a day, heaving with sweat, avoiding my eyes as he declared game, set, match to Brian. Delighted with the extra attention, Brian scampered off after Dad, chattering to him about their games.

I trudged along, Vin keeping pace with me. He still hadn't said anything and I realized how much I appreciated his silent companionship.

"Listen, this day ..." I looked at him finally, grimacing as we climbed the endless stairs that led to the upper parking lot. "I'm sorry we dragged you along. I mean ..." I gestured my disgust at myself, at Dad, at everything.

Vin shook his head. "Hey. You should see me when I'm fighting with my mom. It's okay." He stopped on the second-level landing, leaning back against the guard-rail, stretching his arms out. "Let's rest for a minute." Suspicious he had only stopped on my behalf, I was grateful anyway, my lungs aching from the unaccustomed climbing.

"I'm not
fighting
with him," I said, then stopped myself. What was I doing then, if I was not fighting with Dad? Vin was watching me, so I shrugged. "I don't know. It's just a shitty day, I guess." He nodded, and I started climbing again. Vin followed a little reluctantly, and I figured he had more he wanted to say. But what could he say that would mean anything to me?

Dad was standing by the Jeep talking into his cell phone when we made it to the third-level landing. The sight caused me to stop walking, and Vin stumbled into me.

"Sorry," I mumbled, stepping aside fast. Dad caught sight of us and waved urgently, flipping his phone shut. I walked toward him slowly, knowing something bad must have happened, knowing it must involve me, powerless to do anything about it.

"That was Connie. We have to get back," Dad said as we reached the Jeep.

Dread gnawed at my stomach. "Why? What's going on?"

"I'll take you home first, Vin," Dad said, ignoring me.

"Um ..." Vin hesitated. "My truck—it's parked at your house."

"That's right," Dad said. "Damn it. Well, that can't be helped."

The cell phone rang again as we began the trip back to Wayne. Dad didn't answer it.

The phone rang several more times until Dad finally told Brian to turn off the ringer. Then, a few minutes later, as we were entering the town of Wayne, the car phone rang. Dad sighed, reaching for it.

"Yeah? Yeah, I know. Thanks." He listened, growing more agitated. "Okay. All right. Talk to you later, then." Dad set the phone back with exaggerated care.

Brian broke the silence. "Dad," he said timidly. "Who was on the phone? Was it Mom again?"

Dad waited so long I didn't think he was going to answer. "That was Dave," he said finally. "He's coming up tomorrow to talk to Jeff."

Vin turned to me, mouthing, "Dave?" I ignored him, suddenly cold. Wrapping my arms around my body, I turned away, staring out the window.

"The reporters are back," Dad said flatly. He said it in front of Vin. I hoped I only imagined the disgust I heard in his voice.

The next morning, Dad and I spent a silent breakfast together. For some incomprehensible reason he had prepared an elaborate meal: scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes and rolls. I picked at it only enough to avoid comment, then settled in the living room to wait for Stephens. I wanted to go up to my room but I didn't want to give Dad the chance to attack me again for "escaping."

I had recognized several of the reporters from before,- only this time they had harder looks, more of a pushing frenzy when we all emerged from the Jeep. Two of the TV crews had blocked our driveway and Dad had been forced to park on the street.

Silent this time, he had taken my elbow and steered me through the crowd. Cringing without knowing why, I had looked at Dad in mute apology as the reporters called my name, and his. His face wooden, Dad had merely propelled me the rest of the way to the door, looking back only once to bark, "Brian!" Brian had scrambled up the stairs after us, but not before one man's voice stood out of the crowd.

"Jeff, is it true Ray Slaight took nude photos of you?"

Unable to stop myself, I turned around to face my inquisitor as Dad fumbled with the door. As I had thought, it was the pudgy young man who had questioned me before. Standing ahead of the crowd and somehow apart from them, the reporter looked up at me, earnest and relentless.

"Is it true?" he prompted. "Did Slaight take pictures of you?"

Detached as the shock hit me, I shook my head. "No. It's not true."

Dad got the door open and tugged on the back of my jersey, murmuring my name. I sleepwalked the few steps back, Brian pushing past me. As the door shut on the mob, I had caught a glimpse of Vin at its edges, his gaze on me, sharp and speculative.

* * *

Ray and I stood in his front room, kissing. He held me close, moving his hands slowly over my body. Pleasure and shame washed over me in almost equal amounts.

Someone was outside, walking toward the house. Unless Ray hurried, he would not finish before the stranger arrived. But I could not rush him and I could not pull away from him. All I could do was live in Ray's time and move to his rhythm.

* * *

"Jeff!" Dad shouted, shaking my shoulder. My eyes flew open before I was truly awake. I stared at him, not sure where I was for a moment.

"You were having a nightmare," he said, pushing his hair back. "You must have fallen asleep on the couch."

I sat up, breathing hard, wondering what he had seen.

"Are you all right?" Dad asked roughly. I nodded. "Must have been a bad one. You were . . . you almost fell off the couch, you were moving around so much."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"No, no," Dad said, waving a hand in my direction. He hesitated, looking away. "Listen, Dave is here."

"What?" I said, as my stomach clenched in on itself. "Here? Where?"

"He just pulled up outside," Dad modified. "So . . . get yourself together. You're going to talk to him now."

I didn't like the implied threat in his voice. "I have nothing to say to Stephens."

Or you.

"You are going to talk to him," Dad said. "But . . . go on and pull yourself together."

It was the second time he had said something like that, and I wondered how long he had watched me in my dream that was too close to the reality I had known. Then I realized I was drenched in sweat, far out of proportion to the temperature in the room.

"I'm going upstairs to take a shower," I said, testing him.

Dad nodded without looking at me. "That's fine, Jeff. Go ahead."

As the hot water pounded me, I ran my hands over the ridges in my back, letting myself really feel them for the first time. They felt huge, rough, corded, stretching as far up my spine as I could reach. I grabbed a washcloth off the towel rack, wrapped it around a bar of soap, and scoured my back, rubbing deep and hard.

I stood outside the living room for a moment, leaning my head against the wall, eyes closed. Dad and Stephens spoke so quietly I could not make out what they were saying. But then, afraid I might hear something I could not bear, I stepped into the archway where they could see me.

They stopped talking abruptly. "Come in," Dad said, nodding to me.

Stephens stood next to the picture window, more rumpled than ever. But his eyes were alert, intent on mine.

"Sit down," he said. "We have some things we need to talk about."

When I didn't move, Dad nodded me toward a chair. I hesitated, then sat. Dad and Stephens settled opposite each other on the flanking couches, and I was surrounded.

"What? What is the big dramatic news?" I said too loudly.

"Two days ago we found Slaight's car in San Francisco. The Lexus you described. It was towed out of a private driveway six blocks from your dad's office the same day you saw Slaight. It's been in impound all this time."

I nodded impatiently. "Yeah? You found his car, and . . . ?"

"The officers who searched the car found some photos of you taped under the front seat. Nude photos."

I stared at Stephens, playing his words back in my head. Then, as their impact hit me, I closed my eyes, finally, crushingly, humiliated.

Oh God, Ray, we were driving for hours and you were telling me you loved me and shit and we were sitting
—
sitting—on those goddamn pictures. You must have been laughing the whole time
.

Stephens was calling my name.

"What?" I whispered, my eyes fixed now on the coffee table where Roysten had dumped out my clothes.

"Tell me about the pictures."

I shook my head, clasping my hands tightly together. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dad shift position.

“He’s
talking, kid." Stephens's voice was gentle. "Did you know that? He's got a whole story about those pictures and how they came to be."

I sank back into the chair, as weakened as if Ray were in the room with us. Why was I kidding myself, he
was
here, reaching out to touch me again.

"You confronted Slaight about the photos?" Dad spoke suddenly, fiercely.

"Yes. He . . . confessed, you could say."

"Confessed?" Dad repeated, glancing at me.

Stephens sighed. "He 'confessed' to having a sexual relationship with Jeff. Period. No force. No kidnapping."

I would have given anything not to laugh then, but I did, a short, sharp bark that sounded more like a cough.

Stephens ignored me. "Slaight says Jeff was hitchhiking when he picked him up. He says the kid asked to stay with him, and anything that happened after that was mutual."

"That's ... ridiculous," Dad sputtered after another long silence. "He can't expect anyone to believe him."

"He does," Stephens said. "That's his case."

"But..." Dad looked to me for help. I said nothing.

"It's past time for Jeff to give his side," Stephens said, "and give it strong."

" 'His side?'" Dad's voice was hushed." 'His
side?
’"

"Sorry," Stephens said briskly. "Bad choice of words. But true all the same."

The three of us sat in tense silence until Dad reached over and gently clasped the back of my neck. All I could feel was Ray's hand doing the same thing.

"Don't touch me," I said, shaking him off, goose-flesh covering my arms.

"Sorry," Dad said quickly. I sat on the edge of the chair, wringing my hands together, one leg vibrating from nervousness.

"I can't do this," I said, hearing the echo of all the other times I had retreated from the truth.

"Slaight is talking about you," Stephens said deliberately. "The one thing he won't say is where he kept you. He says you were on the road mostly. Driving. Camping. For two and a half years? Hard to believe."

I did not respond.

"What is he trying to hide, Jeff? What are you?" I looked up at him quickly. Stephens's eyes narrowed. "What are you afraid we're going to find there? More pictures? Videotapes?"

Pain spiked through my stomach and I gasped. He nodded to himself, as if he already knew. "You know that anything like that—anything linking Slaight with you—is just more evidence against him."

"You're wrong," I said fiercely, the pain strengthening my voice. "You're making stuff up . . . throwing it out. . . trying to catch me."

"We need your help," Stephens said. "You need to help yourself."

I squirmed, wanting to be gone. "He kidnapped me. I told you about that. I'll say it in court."

"It's not enough. What are you going to do when Slaight's lawyer asks you about the sex?"

Dad held up one hand. "Wait. Just wait. He isn't going to ask Jeff about that."

"Ken ..." Stephens shook his head. "You don't understand. That's part of their strategy. Slaight and his lawyer know Jeff isn't talking, they know he's scared—"