In Autumn's Wake Page 11

  “Okay, then.” She curls her feet around mine, lowers her hand from my chest, and closes her eyes.

  I think I have permission to kiss her. “Okay?” I ask.

  In a hushed voice, she answers, “Yes.”

  Our lips graze from side to side, a light touch before I tilt my head and nip her bottom lip. I hold her chin while she rewards me with little nips back. The anticipation was eating me alive, but this first swirl of our tongues was well worth the wait. Pressing into her, I surrender to my growing affection, ignoring reality, and troubling memories. Her kisses are vanilla-flavored, tranquil and hypnotic. I grip her hip and draw her body into mine, only to have her push me back seconds later.

  “Shame on me. I broke my own rule,” she says, laying it on thick by fanning her face.

  “Yeah, you sound soooo disappointed.” I laugh.

  “Five minutes left.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, ask me something else.”

  “I can’t even think of my name, let alone a question. We just, we can’t, let’s go back to kissing. I want more of you.”

  She hushes me with a finger over my lips. “I want to remember it just like that. It was perfect. Now, ask another question.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose then cover my face with my forearm, the light hurting my aching head, the kiss spinning my vision.

  “Dylan, please don’t hide. I love your sexy gray eyes and black hair.”

  I lower my hand and look at her. “Why do you always say please?”

  “Because of my dad. Please and thank you have been expected of me since I can remember.” She sits up and rests her head on her elbow, gliding a fingertip down my side. “I rarely talk to him anymore.” I can tell by the movement of her eyes that she’s checking out my room: my high school jersey my parents framed as a gift, Jake’s hockey stick leaning against the wall, his skates beside it, my laptop and random mementos atop my desk. “Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes I still talk that way when I’m nervous. Please. Please. Pleeease.” She looks at me and traces the scar over my eyebrow. “What happened here? A football injury, or was it from playing hockey?”

  “Neither, it’s from a fight a long time ago.”

  “Hmm. Too bad we only have a minute left. I’d love to hear more about it.”

  My thumb swipes one of the nipple pasties, hoping it drops off.

  “Bad boy.” She slaps my hand away, scolding me further with a wag of her finger. “You have time for one last question.”

  “I have a million more.”

  “Ask one.”

  “Stay another ten minutes.”

  “Ask.”

  “All right. How’d you get involved in this? Does Rick have something on you? Or is it just about money?”

  “I said one question. How about I end by saying it’s mostly because of my dad.”

  “Who’s that?”

  She shifts away from me. “Farren Black.”

  I sit up. “Farren Black?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, shit.” I hop out of bed. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”

  “That’s the reaction I usually get.”

  “The police commissioner?” I freak.

  “Yes.”

  “The police commissioner of Northland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, shit!” I cross the room in long strides, from bed to desk, desk to door, door to bed, gripping my hair. “No, no, no. You’re Farren Black’s daughter? You can’t be.”

  “I am, and you’re going to meet him.”

  “What?” I stop dead in my tracks. “No.”

  “Yes. Next Friday night.”

  “Meet him? Sean was right.” I open my door. “Sean!” I shout. “We’re being set up!”

  She gets out of bed and dresses in a flash.

  “Wait, hold on. Next Friday? Where?” I ask.

  “At the mayor’s mansion. It’s the yearly Post-Valentine’s Day Affair. There’ll be lots of drunken women dancing to nineties music, and cruddy older men trying to get me into bed. I hate going to these events alone, so you’re coming with me.”

  “But—”

  “You need me to come up?” Sean hollers.

  “No!” Autumn and I say as one.

  She steps closer and whispers, “Just so you know, my dad would be humiliated if anyone found out we’re no longer close. And because of that, I need to make an appearance and pretend we’re still a happy family.”

  “Meaning what? Why aren’t you close to your dad?”

  “And then there’s the mayor. He expects me to show, so I have to go.”

  “The mayor?” I pace again, faster. “God, this is bad. I should’ve slept with you, but instead I chose to be a decent guy. No more. Nope. Never again.”

  “Having sex wouldn’t have changed a thing.” She throws her head forward and back to make her hair poofy. “You’d still be my date this Friday.” She grips my chin for a parting kiss. “Love is in the air, Dylan. Dress nice. Dress better than nice. A proper jacket and tie with matching pants will do. Dab on some of that delightful cologne that you wear.”

  “Wait, where are you going?” I follow her to the top of the stairs.

  “I have to meet Rick about being at that house party. He’s fuming that I was spotted helping another district.” Her hair sways as she walks down the stairs.

  “Why did you help us?” Sean asks from the bottom step.

  “Because I wanted to.” She slips on her coat and boots while looking up at me. “I’ll be here at six Friday night. I want to get laid before nine. We can do it again in the morning when we wake up in one another’s arms.”

  Sean and Riley burst into sharp laughter, and Sean raises his beer at me.

  “Don’t touch yourself until that night,” Autumn adds. “It’ll be better when we do it.” She walks out the door, and I’m left standing at the top of the stairs with my jaw on the floor and an erection the size of Manhattan. I stomp back to my room and put on my fleece pants, trying to hide my wood.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Sean calls up. “Did she leave you high and dry?”

  “She’s the police commissioner’s daughter, Sean. The police commissioner’s daughter!”

  I slam my door and collapse onto the bed, sitting right back up when Jake’s hockey stick slides down the wall and hits the floor. I rub my cheeks, desperate to wipe the night away.

  Jake’s stick fell because I slammed the door, I know that, but I can’t help but think he did it, that he’s not entirely gone, that he walks with me each day.

  “Did you do that?” I whisper, my eyes glued to his stick. “You here?”

  “Dylan, you all right in there?” Sean knocks.

  “Go away. I’m in a pissy mood.”

  “When aren’t you?” He sends a fist into the door and heads back downstairs.

  Holding a breath, I stare at Jake’s stick, the last object he touched before falling through the ice. My dreams died with him that night; my life now spent in torment without any purpose.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” I’ve repeated the same words to him for a year. “Please, forgive me.”

  Or maybe I’ve been repeating those words to myself.

  I fall back on the bed with my arms outstretched, drawing in another long breath. I’ll spend the rest of the night tossing in bed, wide-awake from the scent of Autumn on my pillow, and wondering if Jake’s here and if he can see or hear me. No amount of beer or coke will ever be enough to escape. And even if a girl like Autumn can stitch my heart back together, the past will resurface to pull it back apart.

  13

  Black is the absence of color. But black is considered a color when specifying physical objects. White and black. Black and white. Autumn Black.

  My rearview mirror reflects a white guy driving a black Silverado with a black guy in the passenger seat, both of us dressed in black. Fresh snow on the hood o
f my truck dusts the windshield as I drive. We pass cars that are white, their colors hidden under snow. The blurry houses out my window are white with black shutters, their black roofs covered with snow. Thick smoke, the darkest of gray, billows out from chimneys, and city trees sway, the branches as dark and winding as Medusa’s black hair.

  A white cig clamped between my lips spawns gray smoke. My gray eyes are dry, my black hair wet from showering after working out at the gym. A guy jacks up a white car, a black tire at his side while dark-eyed juncos perched on the snowy branches of the tree-lined streets search for seed in black feeders.

  I live in a world of black and white, with spatters of red from the blood of men, and the sight of a burgundy coat on a seductive woman. Black and white, a dot of color, shades of red, love and death. Color is life in this old, broken-down city, and the color of Autumn subdues my darkest of days.

  “Dylan, you’re never this quiet,” Sean says. “What’s up? You still alive in there?”

  I pull into my parents’ driveway, parking behind my dad’s black Cadillac, the white carnations I bought my mom at my side. White house, black shutters, gray clouds overhead.

  “I’m alive,” I reply. “Barely.”

  Gray snow mounds line the front sidewalk. A red Buffalo Bills sign on the front door is their only touch of color. Up year-round, it’s a giant pimple on the nose of their house, an eyesore waiting to be popped.

  “Can I give your mom half of these?” Sean picks up the bundle of carnations.

  “Yeah. Take them out of the cellophane so she doesn’t see the clearance sticker. And only take six this time, not eight. You’ll make me look bad if you give her more than me.” I flick my smoke out the window and kill the engine. “They cost five bucks.”

  “You’re a frugal bastard sometimes.”

  “I’m not ashamed of that.”

  “Then why hide the price from her?”

  “Because she’ll say I spent too much.”

  He cracks out a laugh, dropping half the carnations in my lap. “I left you the ones with the brown tips since I didn’t get any beer from you the other night.”

  “Sean, you get free beer every night.”

  I snatch the flowers and step out of the truck. A blustery wind pricks my nose hairs. I breathe into my hoodie sleeve to keep my face warm, and slide my feet on the icy walk toward the door. My mom waves from the front window for us to hurry inside, the same spot she used to watch Jake and me ride our Big Wheels in the driveway, the spot where she’d knock on the glass and raise a finger, warning us when we got too close to the street.

  The storm door swings open. “Don’t let the heat out. Get inside, quick.” She tugs us through the door, her wavy dark hair the longest I’ve seen it, halfway down her back. Dressed in a predictable oversized sweater, skinny jeans, and fuzzy slippers, she claps her hands like an excited child that we’re here. “I’m so happy!” She smothers us in her arms, smelling of hard liquor. “You hungry? How about a drink? Is wine okay? I can open the box Sean gave me.” Her tall frame feels bonier each week, her face thinner, looking skeletal and pale. “I have ginger ale, too, the expensive kind. It was on sale, two for three dollars. Aw, look at the flowers!” She takes the two bundles, counting the number of heads in each one. “One dozen. How sweet. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It’s a late Valentine’s gift for dropping off the heart cookies,” Sean says.

  “Thanks, guys. I have an extra Mason jar I can use as a vase.” She plants her nose in the bouquets on her way to the kitchen. “Don’t get the carpet wet. Peter, the boys are here!” she calls to my dad.

  We slip off our boots, making sure to place them on the plastic doormat.

  “Pete! Did you hear me?” she asks.

  Once we soak up the snow clumps on the carpet with our socks, we toss our coats over the back of a chair and follow her into the kitchen.

  “I think your dad’s on the phone with Ed,” she says. “Have you seen him lately? He’s grown quite a bit, hasn’t he? I told him he couldn’t have any more of my cookies until he loses some weight. Aren’t the police supposed to stay in shape? I think they are. Anyway, how are you?” She pinches my cheek and gives the two of us another hug. It’s my mom’s nature to talk until she runs out of breath. Only now, the drugs she’s on for depression have intensified the blabber. “I get so worried about you, Dylan. Come to the table, both of you, sit and talk to me. The food’s just about done. Do you want a cold drink or some wine? Oh, make sure you buy ginger ale this week. It’s on sale.” She gleams, clapping her hands.

  The drugs turn her into a ditz. She laughs at everything, even when talking about Jake. It’s not easy to watch. I’ve told my dad she needs to cut back, but he says she’s all right, that it’s no different from how I drink every night to deal with the loss. I disagree. It’s different because she’s my mom and she deserves better. Like to be free of heartache, or to have a better son who doesn’t snort coke and kill people.

  “Ginger ale,” Sean says. He elbows me and takes a seat at the kitchen table.

  “Yeah, ginger ale is fine.” I sit across from him.

  Framed photographs of Jake hang on the wall next to us, the peeling wallpaper around them showing the home’s age. Popcorn ceilings, dented white appliances, chipped laminate countertops, and dingy gray carpeting throughout every room. Small changes would bring me around more, something new, something different.

  My mom pours the ginger ale into plastic Batman cups and sets them in front of us. “Sean, how’s Riley? Do you still see her?”

  I place the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, pulling the strings tight until my eyes are covered, tuning out Sean and my mom.

  The room is dismal. I used to eat across from Jake at this table. In the mornings, he’d have his nose stuck in a book, scrambling to finish his homework before the bus arrived. From this seat, there’s a view through the sliding glass doors of the tree fort we built together, and his bike is leaning against the shed, buried in snow. We’d play baseball and football out there after school, and talk about girls on the back steps.

  I tug the strings tighter, feeling suffocated whenever I’m here. Like now, I have a sudden pressure in my chest. I swear, I swear I’m having a heart attack.

  “I’m a pitiful mess,” I whisper.

  Sean uncovers my eyes, slaps my cheek. “Kathy, we’ll have a beer with the ginger ale,” he says to my mom, then turns to me. “I’ll drive home. Go ’head and get drunk.”

  “Peter!” my mom shouts, ignoring Sean’s request for beer. “Dylan, go get your dad. He’s downstairs in his man cave.”

  I throw off my hood. “Dad!”

  “Don’t shout, silly. Go down in the basement and get him.”

  The scent of cabbage rolls follows me into the basement. I feel like a stranger in this house, no longer comfortable, the warmth stolen by death. I stand on the bottom step and whistle for my dad to come up. He raises a finger that he’ll be a minute.

  “Ed, I’ll have it for you on Tuesday. Stop by the bar.” My dad snaps his fingers and points at the fridge for me to bring him a beer.

  “The fridge is like, five feet away from your lazy-ass,” I complain, dragging my feet across the room.

  I hand him a beer and flop in one of the four leather recliners in front of the flat-screen, next to a bookcase crammed with items from Jake’s high school memorial. The week he died, students left letters, and teddy bears, and mounds of flowers outside his locker. I read about it in the paper and was a total wreck when my mom sent me to pick it all up. I kept it together inside the school but lost it after I got the stuff inside my truck—completely lost it. I cried for hours in the parking lot. The memorial was proof of how many friends he had, how much he was loved and would be missed, and what a terrible mistake I’d made.

  “Tell me sooner next time,” he says to Ed. “No, I don’t blame him. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

  Jake was po
pular and charismatic. When he was a freshman in high school, he hung out with the seniors, my group—the in-crowd. By the time he was a junior, he was hanging with me on campus and at college parties. His high school friends thought he was a god, always a step ahead of them, a born leader.

  We’ve never read any of the letters, still folded and sealed, stacked in the bookcase. They’re for Jake, not us.

  “Dad, dinner’s ready. Can you hurry it up?” I rock my legs back and forth.

  I miss this home when I could call it home. A time when my mom read me to sleep, and my dad paid attention. Now we all have coping mechanisms, from drinking and living at the bar, to popping pills and baking sweets, to hiding out in this room, eyes glazed over from the TV.

  “Dad, let’s eat.”

  “Tell your mom to bring the food down here.”

  “Mom!”

  “Don’t shout, Dylan. Go upstairs and get her.”

  I sigh. “I just did the same for her.”

  “Ed, I appreciate it.” He drops a scolding look in my direction. “Thanks for being there. I’ll talk to him about it, catch you on Tuesday.”

  “What?” I shrug after he hangs up.

  “Go upstairs and get the food. I need a second to cool off and figure out how I’m gonna ground my twenty-two-year-old son.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know.” He finger-combs his old-school Caesar haircut, wearing a tight black tee that shows off his muscular arms. He’s in remarkable shape for a middle-aged man who drinks like a fish and eats truckloads of my mom’s sweets. Although, the dark circles under his eyes and stubble on his face are telltale that he’s had a rough weekend, like me. “Get the food.”

  “Ease up, Dad. I’m going.”

  I pass Jake’s sneakers on the stairs, left out like the items at Heather’s parents’ house. Jake’s stick and skates in my bedroom were a significant part of his life. He lived for hockey, but this other stuff? There has to be a point when it’s okay to donate or pack away a pair of sneakers.

  “Dylan?” My mom sees me staring into space at the top of the stairs.

  “Dad wants to eat in the basement,” I mumble. “The hockey game is on.”