Chapter Fourteen

Dwight McNeil poked his pinky finger in his chasm of a belly button and dug around. He pulled out something Vent couldn’t see and flicked it off his fingernail at Mick. “You morons mind telling me why you’re armed? If you’re expecting trouble, move that shit right on someplace else.” He kicked a trio of empty beer cans out of the trailer.

Mick looked like he was about to spit nails. “Is Mom inside?”

Dwight drew in a great breath and spread his arms wide to fill the doorframe in a none-shall-pass gesture. “She’s sleeping, so keep your voices down.”

“Where have you been all this time?” Mick asked, not backing down. Vent noticed that Mick’s finger was tapping against the trigger of his gun, though the gun was pointed at the ground.

“If it was your business, you’d know.”

“You left me with no money. I could have starved to death.”

Dwight looked him up and down. “You don’t look like you’re in any danger of that. And I’m sure you found a way to get your hands on as much of that cheap skunk weed as you could suck up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Come again?”

Chuck reached for Mick’s arm. “Come on, let’s just go.”

Mick didn’t break his hateful gaze at Dwight. “I said, fuck you. I’m going inside to see my mother.” He tried to slip past Dwight’s side. The bigger man shifted his body, bumping his chest against Mick’s head and nearly knocking him down the step. Mick wiped his face with the back of his hand, visibly disgusted that he’d come into contact with his filthy body. Vent could smell the man’s odor of onions and cigarette smoke from seven feet away.

“I told you to keep it down,” Dwight said almost jokingly. Vent knew from experience the man could go from a smile to nuclear in a flash. “You better not wake your mom up.”

Mick looked coiled to make another go, but instead he spun on his heel and stormed along the side of the trailer. He banged on the metal with his fist. “Mom! Wake up, Mom!”

Dwight’s eyebrows shot up high and fast. Vent thought they would fly off the top of his head. He leapt out of the doorway and ran for Mick, cursing a blue streak. Mick flicked a glance at his approach but kept punching the trailer and calling for his mother. Dwight got hold of his shoulders, spun him around and tossed him away from the trailer.

“You little shit,” he snarled.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Mick shot back.

Dwight made a fist, his lip curling.

“You wanna hit me in front of my friends? Go ahead. I dare you. You get one shot, and that’ll be your last.” He looked to Vent and Chuck. Vent knew he wanted them to say something to back him up. Things had gone south so fast, Vent didn’t know what to say or do. Chuck could easily pull Dwight away and pin him to the ground if needed. And Vent did have the rifle. But could he even point it at another person? The way his arms felt like lead, the answer was an emphatic no. He felt like a world-class chicken and a failure.

“You think those candy-asses are going to help you?” Dwight said, both fists up, arms in a fighter’s stance, circling Mick. “You should have made friends with the jocks. Everyone knows stoners are just a bunch of peace-loving pussies.”

Mick lunged at Dwight. His stepfather jerked to his left, leaving Mick’s roundhouse punching air. Dwight jabbed Mick right between his shoulder blades and stepped back, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Nice try,” he huffed.

“Everyone, just stop,” Chuck said.

“You keep out of it, Baby Huey,” Dwight said. “This has nothing to do with you.” He didn’t even bother looking at Vent, as if he knew that even with a gun, he wasn’t the slightest threat. Over the years, Vent had witnessed Dwight browbeating Mick every chance he got, sometimes swatting him with a backhand. He knew so much more happened when he wasn’t around. He’d seen the bruises, had had late- night conversations over a joint or two about Dwight’s aggressions. For all Mick had been through, he managed to retain an air of defiance, at least for a little while.

This was different. Dwight looked like he was happy to beat the living daylights out of Mick. And Mick looked ready to kill Dwight.

Mick roared and charged Dwight again. Instead of swinging, he wrapped his arms around his stepfather’s waist and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Dwight staggered, spun, but kept to his feet, delivering a series of savage rabbit punches to Mick’s kidneys. When the air was fully knocked out of Mick, Dwight wrapped his fists in the collar of Mick’s shirt and slammed his back into the Airstream. Mick let out a pained groan as the back of his head bounced off the trailer with a metallic thwack.

“You have anything smart to say now?” Dwight’s spittle sprayed all over Mick’s face. He ground his body against Mick’s, pinning him to the trailer like a butterfly to a board. “I didn’t think so. Where are your friends now?” His head swiveled to face Vent and Chuck. “Standing there like old ladies clutching their purses.”

Vent could hear Chuck’s labored breathing and knew he was itching to jump in. It had been drilled into them since they were little kids to respect their elders. What did you do when an elder showed such blatant disrespect for you? Or when he was hurting your friend?

Dwight gave an ugly chuckle and started thrusting his hips into Mick, his face so close, when he spoke, Mick’s hair fluttered from his fetid breath. “You like that, don’t you, you little pussy.”

“Get off me,” Mick mumbled. His head lolled from side to side, his eyes barely open.

“Take it like the girl you are.”

Vent watched in horror. Something snapped. What Dwight was doing was so awfully wrong. Especially in light of—

The rifle suddenly felt lighter than air. He pointed it at Dwight’s writhing body. “Let him go!”

Dwight’s grimy gaze slid to Vent and he sneered. “You want to shoot me? You sure you won’t hit your girlfriend?”

“I said let him go.” Vent’s voice sounded more confident than he felt.

“Go ahead, pull the trigger.”

Dwight didn’t notice that Mick had regained some of his strength. The rifle shook in Vent’s grip but he didn’t lower it. He had to keep Dwight’s attention.

Mick’s limp, open hands curled.

He was about to bring them up to Dwight’s chin when a woman’s shrill voice screamed, “What the hell is going on here? Dwight, what are you doing? Anthony Ventarola, put that gun down right now! Have you all lost your minds?”

Dwight gave Mick a last shove and backed away with his hands up. “Whatever you say, baby. We were just messing around. Old Vent there doesn’t understand our family dynamic.”

Mick’s mother looked like she’d aged ten years since the last time Vent saw her. Her hair had gone salt and pepper and was in desperate need of a wash and a good brushing. There were deep creases in the corners of her eyes, and she’d put on a few pounds. Her face was puffy and the T-shirt she wore was pulled tight over a considerable potbelly. Glowering at Dwight, she barely noticed her son. It took Mick saying her name for her to face him.

“You look like hell, Mark,” she said. Not, hello. Not, I missed you. Not, I’m sorry for leaving you. No, you look like hell, Mark. And he looked like hell because of the beating he’d been given by her waste of a husband. She was the only one who ever called Mick by his first name. It sounded strange to Vent’s ears.

“Nice to see you, too, Mom,” Mick said. He spit on the leaves and walked between Vent and Chuck, heading for Chuck’s car. “Get me the fuck outta here.”

* * *

Heidi sat in the emergency room waiting area reading a People magazine from a year ago. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house. A TV sitting atop a table on the other side of the room was playing a talk show. Sally Jesse Raphael interviewed a teen runaway and her parents. The parents were in tears. The girl, a snotty-looking bottle blonde, laughed at them every time they said they loved her.

The drive to Yale-New Haven Hospital had been long and silent. Marnie wanted to keep the radio off. She spent most of the time with her head leaning on the window, eyes closed but awake, occasionally opening them and asking Heidi if they were close. Heidi had found an old blanket in the attic and put it on Marnie’s seat in case the bleeding started again. She’d forgotten all about the Melon Heads, at least for the morning. Her overriding concern about her best friend’s health occupied every thought.

They’d taken Marnie in about three hours ago. Heidi was asked some questions, a few she could answer, others she thought best for Marnie to answer.

The waiting was making her crazy. Her right leg bounced a steady rhythm on her left, the magazine resting on her crossed legs. It made it hard to read the brief articles with all the words jumping about. No matter, she knew how these stories ended and didn’t care.

Shifting in the uncomfortable plastic chair, Heidi looked at the clock above the reception desk for the thousandth time. She wished she’d insisted she go with Marnie when they’d called her name. A fat man wearing dirty overalls coughed into his hand on one side of her. A middle-aged woman in what had to have been a waitress outfit cradled a hand wrapped in about a hundred yards of gauze. She kept popping outside for a smoke, asking Heidi to save her seat. The coughing man watched TV, his germs spreading far and wide each time his lungs went into a spasm.

Heidi had thought it would be empty on a Sunday afternoon. She’d been dead wrong. It seemed like everybody in Connecticut was either sick or hurt.

She hoped, even prayed, that Marnie was going to be all right. Her skin had gone from pale to gray by the time they walked in the door. Marnie could barely talk through the pain. She could be in surgery right now for all Heidi knew.

Jesus, she had to get up and burn off some of this nervous energy. Heidi tossed the magazine on the uneven pile in front of her and left the waiting room. The double glass doors opened automatically. Fresh, cool air never smelled so good. She hated that weird chemical stench you only found in hospitals. She went for a quick walk, not venturing too far because she didn’t want to miss the doctor when he came back.

The emergency room may have been a hive of activity, but the hospital grounds were relatively quiet. She passed by a planter bursting with wildflowers. Pretty soon they’d be dead, the fall chill crisping the leaves and sending the flowers into hibernation. Heidi looked around, made sure no one was looking, and picked a few to give to Marnie. Afraid she’d already been gone too long, she hustled back to the ER. A voice was calling over the intercom, followed by a series of chimes. The incessant chatter had been driving her crazy all day.

She looked across the room and saw that her seat was gone.

Guess the smoking waitress doesn’t believe in returning the favor. Jerk.

Heidi settled for sitting on the floor, the flowers in her hand, elbows on her knees. Legs clad in different colored scrubs whizzed past her in every direction.

“Marnie Wilson?”

Heidi popped up at the sound of her friend’s name. A slight Indian doctor looked around the waiting room. Heidi practically ran up to him.

“Is she all right?”

“Are you a relative?” he asked. She looked at his expression for any sign of the news to come. He had the poker face of an experienced doctor.

“I brought her in,” she replied.

“Yes, but are you related?”

“I’m her sister,” she said. She hoped he didn’t take note that they didn’t look the least bit like they swam in the same gene pool. “Now please tell me, is she okay?”

The doctor clasped his hands down by his waist. “I’m Dr. Patel. Your sister has a very serious infection. We’re running a battery of tests. She’s also experienced a great deal of internal trauma. I assume you know something about this?”

Heidi didn’t know how much she should say. If she told him Marnie was raped, the police would be called. She wished she knew what Marnie had said. Although, from the way she’d been, Heidi was sure she’d told him very little. Her heart fluttered in that moment of silent panic.

He leaned across the small divide between them and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know this is very sensitive. Look, we took a series of X-rays and we’re going to do an MRI tomorrow to get a better sense of the extent of her injuries. She’s lost a lot of blood. I’m afraid there may be some lasting issues stemming from….” He was too polite to finish. “We’ll find out more tomorrow.”

“You mean she can’t come home?”

He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not. If she had come to us sooner, it might be different. As difficult as it may be, you’re going to need to call your parents. I’m sure they’d want to be here for your sister.”

Heidi fought back tears. “Yes, you’re right. Can I see her?”

“She’s sedated now. We’re waiting for a room to become available. Once we get her settled in, I’ll have a nurse come get you. But it’s important you let her rest. Her body is working very hard to heal itself. We need to give it some help.” Dr. Patel was called to radiology over the loudspeaker. “I have to go. Your sister will be fine. She’s in very good hands. I assure you.”

He smiled and left Heidi standing in the packed waiting room, unsure of what to do next.

The doctor’s words, I’m afraid there may be some lasting issues, played over and over in her head. Whatever the Melon Heads had done to Harold Dunwoody out in those woods, as far as Heidi was concerned, hadn’t been nearly enough.