It’s almost six, and it’s starting to get dark. Overhead, I can’t even glimpse the stars through the heavy cloud cover. The day has been gray, so the night probably will be as well. I rub my hands together while I consider my next move. I don’t have Cavendish’s room number, but it seems like I read a book where the room number is the last three digits of the phone number. I check that, and there is a 243 upstairs. I’ll risk it.
I lock my bike to the pole supporting the seedy MOTOR LODGE sign, then I head up the external stairs. My knees feel like jelly, but I push on. I tell myself it’s because I’m not used to riding so far, not because I’m nervous about confronting Shane’s dad. I don’t care if this seems like too much to other people; I’ll do anything to help Shane, anything at all.
Steeling myself, I bang on the door. At first I think he’s gone out because there’s no response, then I hear movement, shuffling toward me. He’s a tall, gaunt man with thinning gray hair and glasses, and he looks nothing like the handsome, hopeful young man in the picture with Jude. I’m not sure what I expected, but he doesn’t look like a degenerate asshole. Mostly he looks tired, squinting at me in the twilight. Behind him, there’s a TV playing, the sound muted, and the pictures cast flickering shadows in the dark room.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I have to be sure, before I go into this. “Are you Henry Cavendish?”
His expression becomes wary. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Sage Czinski. I go to school with your son.”
He actually takes a step back, like he’s about to slam the door in my face, and the old rage ignites. I stick my foot over the jamb, keeping him from a full retreat. “You’ve done enough running for one lifetime. He already told me what a worthless asshole you were, but I’m hoping he was wrong. See, Shane’s in trouble, and he needs your help.”
“Shane prefers that I don’t interfere—”
“Bullshit. He ended up in Ingram, defending me. And he needs you to be there for him for once in his life. He’ll have a court date and he needs an attorney. How long do you plan to pretend he’s not your responsibility? He’s your son.”
“You’ve said enough. You need to go.”
“So you’re going to act like this isn’t happening? Let him rot.” I shake my head, so disgusted that I don’t even have the words.
I want to scream; I want to punch him. I’d love to kick him as hard as I can, right in the nuts, and it’s a hot, glorious feeling. I haven’t let myself get angry in so long because I was afraid of what would happen, what I might do. But I’m standing here, furious as hell, and if rage was deadly, Cavendish would be dying at my feet. But it’s not; it’s just an emotion like any other, and I can be mad when the situation calls for it. I can feel this and not lose my shit; I’m damaged but not a monster. I didn’t murder my mother; I was just a terrified kid.
To prove it, I take a step back. “You really are worthless.”
Then I wheel and run down the steps. After dark, this place is spooky as hell, so I hurry through the gravel parking lot to the crappy restaurant that’s attached to the motel. I have enough money for a side salad and some fries, so I eat those while inwardly bolstering myself for the long ride back. I feel like such an idiot. Deep down, I hoped my begging for Shane would mean something, but his dad really has cut him loose.
Thanks for taking care of your mother, son. Good luck with life.
The waitress has been watching me for five minutes, looking like she might call somebody, so I pull it together and head into the bathroom to wash my face. I slip out the back when she’s not looking and get my bike. At least it’s still where I left it. No surprise, it’s not worth much to anyone but me.