He settles onto the couch to read while Dorian clips on the dogs’ leashes to take them for a walk and pick up their takeout. He looks the way he did when Shelby first met him, back when she hated children, or thought she did until she took care of him and Dorian and Jasmine.
After dinner Shelby says, “Let’s go now. Before I change my mind.”
They pile into the car and get onto the West Side Highway headed for the Thruway. Shelby’s heart is pounding. She’s rarely driven since the night of the accident, and now she’s responsible for Maravelle’s sons. Her hands are sweating as she grips the wheel tightly. Dorian’s in the passenger seat, directing her. He seems to think he’s an expert. “Stay in the middle lane, then no one can merge into you.”
Teddy’s sprawled in the backseat, engrossed in Nevermore. In James’s book the Misfit cries ice instead of tears. He can freeze a lawn, a street, an alleyway, a heart. And yet he’s nothing without his brother. Teddy has reached the end of the story. “So there’s the good brother who is a raven who has to pay for the bad brother’s sins. This is one fucked-up story your friend is telling. He’s just ripping off Cain and Abel, you know. It’s nothing new.”
“That’s not what he’s doing.” Shelby glances at Teddy in the rearview mirror. James never got to be sixteen, the age Dorian and Teddy are now. He went from being ten to being a hundred. “He’s writing about guilt and sorrow.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be looking at the road?” Dorian says to her.
“The author’s brother died,” Shelby tells Teddy. “He didn’t have a second chance.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for him because he feels responsible for his brother? Should the bad brother jump off the roof or something? Save the world from his despicable self? And what makes you think this is a second chance for me? Maybe it’s what puts me over the edge into true evil.”
“Give me the book.” Shelby reaches behind her.
“Not while you’re driving,” Dorian tells her.
“I got all the bad genes,” Teddy says. “Everyone knows that.”
“Bullshit,” Dorian says.
Teddy’s referring to their father, a man with a criminal past who spent time at Rikers and hasn’t seen the boys since they were four years old. Occasionally the children’s father will send Maravelle a check, which she tears into tiny, confetti-like pieces. She says if she takes nothing, she owes him nothing.
“You know it’s not true,” Shelby tells Teddy. “Don’t waste your life trying to prove that it is.”
They stop at a service station. The boys pump gas, then head to the store for snacks and drinks. By now, Shelby is drenched in sweat. Driving has taken all her concentration, and her muscles are tense. She wonders if she could go to jail for this escapade.
“Sorry,” Teddy says when the boys get back into the car. Dorian has obviously had a talk with him. “I know you’re helping me.”
“The story is about how much he loves his brother,” Shelby says. “That’s all it is.”
“He gets it,” Dorian says.
It’s pitch-dark when they reach the school. Shelby squints as the headlights pierce through the black night. Dorian directs her to pull over beside a field; he tells her to cut her lights.
They all get out and stand in the drifting darkness. The world beyond the field feels dangerous and broken. There is the scent of the woods nearby, swamp cabbage and loamy earth. The brothers kid around, punching each other and saying good-bye, then embrace in a bear hug. “Wait till I’m out of here,” Teddy says. “We’ll be back like we were.”
When Shelby goes to hug Teddy, he’s so tall she has to stand on tiptoes so she can whisper, “You can do this.”
Teddy grins at her. “I still don’t believe you were ever that bad.”
“I was a monster,” Shelby says.
“No,” Teddy says. “Not you.”
The journey home seems to take forever. Dorian switches on the radio to make sure Shelby stays awake. There’s a Bob Dylan station, and his nasal, heartbreaking voice suits the long, dark drive. When “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” plays, Shelby starts to cry. This is why she never wanted to have a heart. She wishes Teddy could have met James, that he could have seen how good a man a monster can become.
“It’s probably better not to cry and drive,” Dorian says.
“Right.” Shelby blows her nose on her sleeve, and they both laugh. “I did this in fourth grade and was embarrassed for the rest of the year.”
“I can see why.”
They laugh again, but they’re both exhausted. Shelby pulls off the highway in search of a diner. They order French fries and coffee, and then get back on the road again. They have to circle around Manhattan, which looks as if it’s made from silver and gold. On the Throgs Neck Bridge, Shelby should be panicking, but she stays in the middle lane, as Dorian suggested, and she does fine.