Swimming to Chicago Read online

As if everything he knew and loved depended on that moment.

  Right before they kissed, Martha spoke. “Just like we are.”

  Martha

  Martha kept looking for any form of kindness she could find in Alex, any sign he was allowing her into his life. There was none. The seventeen-year-old was relentless, stubborn, and his behavior toward her bordered on cruel.

  He sat in the backseat of the car, arms folded, eyes turned defiantly out the window, headphones locked into his ears to avoid any form of communication.

  Robby sat next to her in the passenger seat. He fidgeted and was anxious. “Are we almost there, Mom?”

  “I took a wrong turn but I think we’re headed in the right direction now,” she explained. “I’ve never been to Locust Grove before.”

  Robby sighed, shifted in his seat. She couldn’t see his face, but she was almost certain he rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you just don’t get a GPS.”

  She took a breath and fought to regain her composure. This shopping trip was turning out to be much worse than she could have imagined. Ever since Alex had entered their lives, Robby was no longer her best friend, her confidant, her source of eternal positive reinforcement. She used to shine in his eyes. Just a month ago, he acted as if she could do no wrong. Now she was the last person in the world he wanted to spend time with. Every second of Robby’s life now revolved around Alex.

  “Like Harley would ever let me do that,” she said. “You know how old-fashioned he is. He probably doesn’t even know what a GPS is.”

  Robby rested the side of his face against the window. “You’re the one who married him.”

  Martha braked at a red light and the car jerked a little. “Can you give me a break here, Robby?”

  He turned to her and she caught a flash of anger in his brown eyes. “God, Mom. What’s your deal?”

  “My deal?” she repeated. “I don’t have a deal. I’m trying to be nice. I’m trying to do the right thing. But neither one of you will let me.”

  Robby folded his arms across his chest and balled his fists. His body—the insolent pose and pouty rebellion—mirrored Alex’s in the backseat to a T.

  “Do you know how fucking embarrassing it is to have your mother take you shopping for school?” Robby shot at her. “This was your dumb idea.”

  “Oh…my…God.” She was unable to hide her shock or her rapidly approaching breaking point. “Did you just say fuck?”

  “So what if I did?” he challenged her.

  She wanted to slap him. She wanted to pull over into a gas station, drag his ass into a restroom, and shove the first bar of soap she could find into his filthy mouth. Instead, she reached for the air-conditioning control knob and cranked it up. She struggled not to yell. “I’m trying to make this work.”

  Robby’s mood and tone softened. Maybe he was scared of her. “What are you talking about?”

  She moved her hand in a circular motion, including the three of them in her midair whirlwind of a gesture. “This. You. Alex. I’m trying to understand it.”

  He pulled away from her then, withdrew as far as physically possible. He looked like he wanted to melt right through the door and land on the hot asphalt of the road. She heard the hurt in his voice, heavy and thick. “What’s there to understand?”

  She shook her head, hoping the tears she felt rising would go away. The last thing she wanted was for Alex to see her cry. He’d think of her as weak. Maybe he’d even use it against her. Convince his father she was an emotional basket case. That she was bad news.

  “Maybe that was the wrong word,” she said, the calmness in her voice restored.

  “Then what are you saying?” he asked.

  She breathed deep before she answered. “The whole situation is complicated.”

  His body tensed and the coldness crept back into his words. “Only because you and Alex’s dad made it that way.”

  Martha turned onto a road leading them to an overcrowded outlet center, lined with an endless selection of stores. She squeezed the car into an empty parking spot. She killed the engine and looked at her son. “What exactly are you implying, Robby?”

  He gave her a smirk, an arrogant little shrug of his thin shoulders. “I’m not implying anything,” he said. “We all know what you’re doing with him.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, her face reddening. “Who knows?”

  Alex suddenly leaned forward from the backseat. It was then Martha realized the music he’d been listening to was muted. She had no idea for how long. His words crept into her ear like a vicious tickle, whispered with more hidden meanings than she could count.

  “Everybody knows,” Alex said.

  *

  Martha couldn’t take her eyes off the boys. Not because she didn’t trust them or she was worried they might behave inappropriately in the clothing store; it was because watching Alex and Robby interact gave Martha the rare opportunity to witness love—real love—firsthand.

  It wasn’t just evident in the way they communicated silently with their eyes, or in the hidden meanings of their inside jokes causing them to dissolve into rings of eye-tearing laughter. She saw it when they looked at each other, as if they needed one other just to breathe. She heard it in the delicate way Alex said Robby’s name. “Robby…come here. I like this shirt. What do you think?” Robby only beamed and nodded in happy agreement.

  Martha hung back and gave them space, trying her best not to have a breakdown in the middle of the store. While she was glad Robby had found someone to love in Alex, she was distraught over the fact her son and his gay lover weren’t only suspicious of her affair with John, they were adamant she was having one.

  This is a small town, Martha. Don’t screw this up. What in the hell are you thinking? His wife just died. People will talk.

  And what about Harley?

  *

  Martha had just taken an aspirin with a gulp of water from a drinking fountain when Alex emerged from the men’s dressing room. He was wearing a white tuxedo shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, and a pair of black slacks. His feet were bare and his wild black hair was unusually messy.

  She offered him a smile. “You look nice—”

  He stopped her by raising his hand. He held it up like a crossing guard holding back traffic. “Jillian will be here soon,” he said. “She just texted me.”

  Martha tucked her purse under her arm and squeezed it hard against her body. “Oh?” she said.

  The hallway outside of the dressing room was unusually quiet and deserted. Just the drinking fountain and a gift-wrapping counter closed until the day after Thanksgiving, according to a handwritten sign taped to the wall. There was a vending machine at the end of the hall, but not another soul in sight. The silence made Martha uncomfortable, nervous.

  “Yes,” Alex continued in the same authoritative tone. “She has a car. She’ll take us home. You can go now.”

  Martha shook her head and locked her knees. She was determined to stand her ground.

  “I don’t understand,” she explained. “We came here together. So you could buy some new clothes for school.”

  “No,” he replied. “We came here because you want me to like you so you’ll feel less guilty about what you’re doing with my father.”

  “Alex,” she said. “That isn’t fair. I haven’t done anything wrong to you.”

  His hand went up again. “You’re free to leave, Mrs. LaMont. We’ll bring Robby home later. He’ll be safe with me.”

  This little prick has bossed me around for the last time.

  Wait. No. Remember, Martha. He’s angry. His mother just died. He’s still a child. “But…your clothes…how will you…”

  “Pay for them?” he completed. She nodded, still fighting for control in the conversation. As usual, he was winning the war. Damn.

  He unbuttoned the rest of the tuxedo shirt he wore. He glanced at the price tag. “I wasn’t expecting you to buy my clothes for me, Mrs. LaMont. I brought m
y own money. In fact, I gave some to Robby so he could go to the snack bar. Didn’t you know he was hungry?”

  “He should have told me,” she said. “I’m his mother.”

  “Then you must have seen the bruises. The scars.”

  Martha felt her face pale. “What are you talking about?”

  Alex maintained his matter-of-fact tone. “From all the times he got beaten up.”

  “What?” she said. “Nobody hit my son. I don’t know what he told you—”

  Alex’s expression shifted. He looked at her with pity. “You really had no idea…did you, Mrs. LaMont?”

  She struggled with the impulse to reach out to him, to take him into her arms, hold him and let him know everything was okay. Either that or slip her hands around his long neck and squeeze the hate right out of him. “My son had some…problems…at his school in Pittsburgh,” she explained, then added, “Alex, I’d really like it if you called me Martha.”

  He stepped toward her. She backed up and was surprised when her body met the wall. His black eyes narrowed and his bottom lip trembled. She glanced around, eyeing an emergency exit door a few feet away. “Why?” he asked. “Because you’re sleeping with my dad?”

  She stared Alex directly in the eyes. Martha didn’t flinch. “No,” she said firmly, refusing to appear intimidated, “because it’s my name.”

  His eyes washed over her, taking inventory of her from head to toe. He looked disgusted by what he saw. And it reminded her of Harley’s expression at the dinner table. Like the sight of her made him sick. “What kind of a person does that?” he demanded. His voice had climbed in volume and bounced off of the wall behind her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re married. You live across the street from us. My mom just died. How can you do it?”

  Martha felt dizzy and for a second she feared she might faint. Darkness was trying to creep in from all angles and directions. She felt sweat roll down the center of her back, seep into the waistband of her shorts. “I don’t think…you should talk to me that way.”

  Alex took a step back. He gave her a second going-over. He grinned, finding her ridiculous. “Why?” he said, trying not to laugh at her. “Because you’re an adult? I thought grown-ups were supposed to set a good example for us. You’ve done a real shitty job of that one, Martha.”

  “You don’t know anything about me, Alex. You think I’m trying to take your mother’s place.”

  He exploded and his voice ricocheted in the hallway like a round of bullets. “Don’t ever talk about my mother!” He slammed his fist into the wall beside her head. Martha lifted her hands, covering her face. Immediately, she started to sob.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him through her heavy tears. She could barely get the words out. It felt like she was choking on them. “I know it’s wrong.”

  Alex took a huge breath and when he exhaled, his rage seemed to fade away in an instant. “Then why are you doing it?” he asked, as if he were her therapist. He sounded twice his age, wise and concerned. “Why can’t you just leave my family alone?”

  He turned away from her and started to walk away, back into the dressing room. His hand was on the wooden round handle of the accordion door.

  Martha wiped her eyes and swallowed her emotions. She stopped him with her words. “Alex,” she stated. She decided to play the only card she had left. “If I walk away now…Robby goes with me.”

  He grinned, shook his head, laughed a little. “You’re out of your mind,” he said. “Robby isn’t going anywhere.”

  Alex slid the door closed, ending their conversation.

  *

  The two women collided outside of the clothing store. Martha was leaving and Jillian was about to make her entrance. Immediately, Martha noticed the teenaged girl was refusing to make eye contact with her. It only took a few moments for Martha to realize why.

  “Hello…Mrs. LaMont,” the young blonde offered. She was a striking girl. Tall with thin, narrow features. She could have been a ballerina. Or maybe even a runway model. Yet her tough no-nonsense attitude destroyed the beauty in her vulnerability. She was too raw, too crude. Too uncomfortable and angry in her own skin. Maybe she hated the world.

  “The boys are inside,” Martha explained, “shopping.”

  They stepped away from the entrance to allow other people to enter. “Yeah,” Jillian said. “Alex texted me a while ago.”

  Martha could see Jillian was nervous. She toyed with the ends of her ponytail, pinching the ends of her hair as if they were shouting out her deepest, darkest secrets and she wanted to silence them.

  “Are you his rescue party?” Martha asked.

  Jillian gave her a strange look and shifted her weight from one foot to the other in her pink and white sandals. “I don’t…understand what you mean,” she said.

  Martha sighed. “Jillian, your best friend hates me. You know it. I know it. We both know it.”

  “I don’t think he…hates you. Maybe he just doesn’t know you. I mean, none of us really do since you’re new in Harmonville and stuff.”

  Martha forced Jillian to meet her stare. “But he’s in love with my son.”

  Jillian nodded, and for a second a glimmer of innocence floated in her eyes, and it moved Martha. “I know,” she said. “He’s hardly said a word to me in weeks…since you guys moved here.”

  She’s lonely, Martha thought. She’s young and pretty and lonely. And Harley already knows this. He spotted her, approached her—had a conversation with the poor thing at the church bazaar two weeks ago.

  “Tell me,” Martha said, with caution, “do you like your classes this year?”

  Jillian’s eyes widened a little and her breath quickened. “Yes.”

  It’s too late. He’s already made a move on her. She’ll be the next one.

  “Any particular favorites?” she asked.

  “No. They’re all the same,” Jillian answered with a nervous laugh. Martha raised an eyebrow—an expression of disbelief. It seemed like Jillian needed to clarify her answer. “Except English. It’s pretty cool. Harley…I mean…Mr. LaMont…he’s a good teacher.”

  Martha wondered what Jillian’s home life was like. She was probably the daughter of a single mother. No father around. Long days and lonely nights spent alone. And now her best friend was neglecting her because he was in love.

  My God, I bet she has nobody.

  Martha knew she had to say something. She had to warn her. Even though the girl was practically a stranger, Martha felt she owed it to her. “Just be careful, Jillian,” she offered.

  Jillian appeared frozen with fear, or deep concern. Only her mouth moved when she spoke. “About what?”

  Martha looked deep into the girl’s beautiful, inquisitive eyes. “Everything you learn.”

  Jillian fumbled a little when reaching into her purse for a tube of lip gloss. She uncapped it and Martha watched as the young girl rolled the shine across her lips. She rubbed them together and grinned as the flavor pleased her. Like it was new to her.

  Like tasting the thrill of danger for the very first time.

  October/Hoktember

  Alex and Robby

  “Do you realize your mother is sleeping with my father?” There was amusement in Alex’s voice. He peered through the screened wall of the enclosed back porch and up to the sky, blackening as an autumn storm inched closer. He ran a hand, nervous and quick, through his dark hair, his index finger sticking for a second on a knotted curl.

  Robby was nearby, swaying in the back porch swing, his face damp from the humidity. The rope chain of the swing made a high-pitched creak each time Robby moved. The soles of his bare feet were brushing lightly against the cracked wood of the verandah. His arms were folded across his chest and he appeared to be staring out at the woods, behind the house.

  “I figured as much,” Robby replied, still rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. “I knew my mother would have an affair. My stepdad ignores her all the time. And when he doesn�
��t, he’s kinda mean to her.”

  The porch light burned and hissed, bathing them in a pale yellow light. Alex continued staring through the dusty screen, standing a few feet in front of Robby and the swing.

  Robby spoke again. “I’m sure it won’t be long.”

  Alex felt a knot of nervous anticipation, tickling his lower back. “For what?”

  “For my stepdad to find out.”

  Alex turned and looked at Robby. As usual, he found himself catching his breath. He felt invigorated by their love. He’d felt invincible since he first met Robby. The intensity between them was like a vibrant electric spark, an illumination crawling and slithering its way around, up through the wooden planks of the porch until it touched their feet, their ankles, their legs. It was a feeling of being consumed, eaten alive, and Alex both loathed and loved it. “Wouldn’t divorce be easier?”

  Robby’s mouth lifted into a soft smile and Alex exhaled, feeling his cheeks burn. Robby pushed away strands of brown hair from brown eyes that seemed to hold captive a permanent sense of sorrow. “Nothing is simple for my parents. They like the excitement of it all. They thrive on it. He likes to say horrible things to her. She likes to forgive him. They’ve been this way since I can remember.”

  “Well,” Alex responded quickly, “at least we’re not like that.”

  The porch swing suddenly came to a halt. “Me and you?” There was a hint of urgency in Robby’s voice, as if the anticipation was choking him, too. He coughed a little and his eyes watered. “What do you mean, Alex?”

  Alex turned away, back to the woods and the looming black clouds. He shuddered as thunder cracked above him like a broken limb. “If our parents are in love, what does that make us? Your mother is married. My mother killed herself. You and I are—” Alex heard the metal links of the rope chain squeak as Robby stood up. The porch swing banged against the house and more thunder rolled like flung dice over the sky. Robby moved slowly, across the porch, until he stood only inches behind Alex.