But she did want to talk to him. She needed to. Before the detectives. She had to be first.
“I hope you heard about the paint chips.” He sounded like he’d aged twenty years in a few days. “We knew the truth had to come out. That eyewitness was a liar or a fool. Here’s a fella, been arrested twice for Jack Daniel’s while under the influence of driving. Nearly lost his commercial license. Get this—turns out he used to deliver for Gwen Weaver and she fired his sorry ass.”
“Teddy, why did you call me?”
“Katie, we’ve brought Hailey home to us.”
She bowed her head, trying to concentrate, to think it through.
“I see,” she said carefully. “Because she’s all better. Just like that.”
He cleared his throat, a roar in her ear. “Katie, dear, we were hoping you and Eric might come over. That we all might talk.”
“Eric’s not here.”
“I know Hailey has some things she’d like to say.”
“Teddy,” she said, “I don’t want to hear anything she has to say.”
“We’d really like you here,” he said, his tone unreadable. “The silver paint changes everything. I think you’ll both want to hear what we have to say. We’ll be waiting.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Drew, I have to go out for a little while.”
In the den, her son’s body was rooted deep into the springless furrows of the sofa, his pajama-clad arms swathed around a book.
“Okay,” he said. “I wonder who won.”
“Won what?” she said, tying her shoes briskly, thinking.
“The science fair,” Drew said, a clicking from his throat as if it still pained him. “Last night.”
The science fair. She felt a pang in her chest, like pliers squeezing.
“I’m sorry, Drew. It’s rotten being sick, isn’t it?”
“You can throw it all away,” he said. “The shrimp must be all dead. Like I said.”
“Honey,” she said, “we’ll get you back to school in a few days. There’ll be another fair soon, right?”
But he just returned to his book.
She looked at him, his head bent, the rosy crook of his neck, the slightly damp curls pressed there, reminding herself the scarlet fever wasn’t her fault, but it felt like her fault, everything did.
Kneeling down behind the sofa back, her fingers reaching for his shoulder, she leaned over, glanced at the sentence next to his thumb, pink from the pressure, which meant he loved the book: “I’ll tattoo you if it’s the last thing I do! I’ll do it for nothing!”
“Is that the one Mr. Watts gave you?”
“Yeah. The Melted Coins,” he said. “It smells funny, but it’s good. A pirate named Needles Ned tries to tattoo Joe.”
“Drew,” she tried, “I need a favor.”
Turning the page back, he began reading aloud: “‘Then he reached down and ripped open the boy’s shirt. “Give me the needle, Lopez!”’”
Katie heard her phone again. Ringing again.
“‘Joe felt a stab of pain,’” Drew continued, “‘as the tattoo artist crouched over him and the needle pricked the skin on his chest.’”
“Drew—”
“‘“First, I prick the design. Then comes the dye.”’” Drew flipped a page, found another highlight. “‘“The mark will stay with you for life,” cried the pirate.’”
“Drew, honey, listen to me. I’ve got to go see Coach T. for a little while.”
“Mom, the tattoo ruins your life,” he said, looking up. “Once he puts it on you, you have bad luck forever.”
She could ask Mr. Watts to watch him, but she didn’t want to. (What had he meant, anyway? That she’d been standing at the screen door before the accident. That she—)
“You have a tattoo, Mom.”
“I do,” she said. “Not a pretty one.” Fight Like a Grrrl on her left thigh. She’d done it stick-and-poke style, with a sewing needle and an ashes-vodka slurry when she was Devon’s age.
Placing her hand on the top of his head softly, she said, “Pal, you think you’d be okay here for a few minutes by yourself?”
“I saw it when we went swimming that time.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said, “so the curse must be over.” A funny hitch in her voice.
“And a pirate didn’t give it to you.”
“No,” she said. “I gave it to myself.”
Drew’s always-sticky phone in her hand, checking the battery charge, she explained again how to reach her, as if he hadn’t called her hundreds of times.
“It’s only nine blocks,” she said. “And Mr. Watts is next door if you need anything. Or if you just get lonely. But I’ll only be gone a half hour. I’m just at Coach T.’s.”
“Okay,” he said, the book still between his fingers, his other hand scratching his temple, the rash peeling now, like an overripe plum.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said, opening the front door, car keys clutched in her hand. “It’s just nine blocks.”
“I think this is going to be my favorite book,” he said.
“That’s good. It’s nice to have a favorite book.”