Dark thirst, p.11
Dark Thirst, page 11
“Apologize to Mr. Jones!” Sebastian said, turning his head enough for Brandon to watch his lips move clearly. “Then straight upstairs to your room to wait for me while I get out my belt!”
Brandon’s eyes had widened more. Their father seldom threatened to spank them, much less actually saw it through. Whatever Caine had done, whatever he’d said out in the yard, it must have been horrible indeed.
“Why are you taking his side?” Caine had bawled. “He hit me, Father! Brandon fell! I didn’t do anything to him. He’s lying to—”
“I said apologize!” Sebastian snapped, giving Caine another swift shake. Caine started to cry again, and he mumbled something in Jackson’s general direction. His brows were furrowed all the while, his mouth turned in a sullen, disagreeable frown.
What did Caine say? Brandon asked Jackson, as the two had walked together back toward his house. He’d watched as only moments earlier, Jackson had climbed carefully up onto the roof of the back porch to retrieve Treasure Island.
Never you mind, Jackson signed back.
They walked along in silence for a moment, but Brandon’s curiosity remained piqued. I know it was something bad, he signed. Daddy’s going to spank him for it.
I wish he wouldn’t, Jackson replied, looking momentarily unhappy. But that’s his call to make, not mine. You do the crime, you do the time, Brandon.
So what was Caine’s crime? Brandon asked.
Jackson paused. He called me a nigger, he said, finger-spelling the word. Because this meant nothing to Brandon, he added, It’s a very bad word. A hateful word. People use it sometimes about black people like me, and it’s wrong.
What does it mean? Brandon asked.
Jackson squatted, folding his long legs so he could look Brandon in the eye. It means you’re ignorant and afraid, he signed. You don’t understand people who are different than you because their skin is darker than yours, for example, and it’s easier to be frightened of them, hateful to them, than to try and learn to like them.
He stood again, ruffling Brandon’s hair affectionately. Come on, he said. You have a spelling test this morning.
Brandon had groaned silently, trudging along in step with his teacher.
Does your brother pick on you like that often? Jackson signed to him. I saw him push you down.
Brandon didn’t answer at first; he simply shrugged. Jackson had seen him with enough skinned knees, busted lips, bruises, and scrapes to figure out the answer for himself anyway.
That had been the first day that Jackson had showed him aikido, introducing him to the ancient martial art with a few simple moves, some basic stances. It had been something new to fascinate Brandon, and he’d dived into studying and practicing with the same relentless enthusiasm he’d shown Jackson’s other tutelage.
Of course, the lessons had helped because Caine had not stopped picking on Brandon at all. Nor had he bothered to clean up his mouth.
You and your damn dirty nigger boyfriend, Caine had sneered once at Brandon, only months before Jackson had left the farm for good. Brandon had snapped at this; it had been one taunt too many for one morning, and as Caine had reached out to shove Brandon’s shoulder, Brandon had caught his hand and wrenched it in a wrist lock. He craned Caine’s arm behind him, pinning his hand against the small of his back, and then he’d shoved Caine face-first against the nearest wall, holding him here.
If you call him that again, I’ll break your goddamn arm, he’d told Caine in his mind, summoning the pathetic little telepathic ability he called his own to make himself heard. I will rip your fucking shoulder out of the socket and shove your hand up your ass, Caine, I swear to God.
Brandon moved to set Lina’s picture of Jackson back on the entertainment center, but the cardboard arm on the back of the frame buckled. Shit! he thought, snatching at the photo as it tumbled from the shelf, but it fell past his fingers and hit the floor. The frame broke apart, the glass pane popping loose, the cardboard backing falling away. Nothing looked shattered or irreparably broken, and Brandon squatted, collecting the pieces, hoping he could somehow prop it all back up without Lina noticing.
Five years ago, Caine had laughed at Brandon’s threat, but he’d still rubbed his wrist gingerly when Brandon had turned him loose. He also hadn’t summoned the balls to say anything else about Jackson, at least for that day. It had been a fleeting, minor victory, one Brandon still savored.
Brandon blinked in surprise to discover a second picture had been tucked into Lina’s frame; the one of Jackson had been placed atop it, covering it from view. Brandon lifted it, curious, and was surprised anew to see Lina standing with a man in the photo—the young black man they had met on the street the day before outside the Chinese restaurant.
This is a . . . a friend of mine, Jude Hannam, Lina had said.
In the picture, Lina and Jude were obviously more than just friends. Jude stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her as he grinned broadly and nuzzled her neck. Lina’s hands draped against his forearms, and she was laughing.
Brandon had no accounting for the sudden, strange ache the picture caused in his gut, the tight, somewhat suffocating feeling of dismay that seized him. He’s her boyfriend. Or he was, anyway. And not too long ago either. A small date had been digitally imprinted on the bottom corner of the photograph; it had been taken less than a year ago.
He felt disappointed somehow, unhappy, and frowned as he gathered up the broken picture frame. What the hell’s the matter with me? he thought. It’s none of my business. Besides, he was with someone else yesterday, a blond woman.
And, he reminded himself firmly, Lina was a human, and intermingling with humans outside of the Kinsfolk was severely restricted among the Brethren. Only the Elders and more trusted older members of the group, like Brandon’s father, had been allowed to interact with humans beyond the boundaries of the farm, and only then, in extremely limited—and fiercely controlled—capacity.
Humans were considered little more than meat, with their short lives and imperfections, their diseases and infirmities, what Caine or the Grandfather would have called their “wretched and inherent failings.” Sex with a human was never allowed, and was considered an abomination. If Brandon hadn’t thus far earned himself a lifelong banishment to the depths of the Beneath, he would sure as hell do so by acknowledging any tender emotions for a human woman. Not to mention what the Brethren would do to him if he happened to make love to Lina, and it was discovered.
Like she’d let me make love to her anyway, he thought, as he returned the frame ever-so carefully to the shelf, placing Jackson’s picture again atop the one of Lina and Jude. I’m just a stupid damn kid to Lina, one of Jackson’s students. He thought of their basketball match together years earlier, and of how she’d tousled his hair in playful dismissal in the aftermath. I wouldn’t have a hope in hell.
Chapter Nine
Lina burst through the apartment, running late and nearly frantic. She clutched a plastic shopping bag in her hand, and her tumble of freshly rolled curls bounced out from beneath the edges of a triangular silk scarf Keyah had wrapped around her head to protect from the light drizzle that had started falling. She found Brandon sitting on her couch, a book in his hand, one of her police textbooks, some yawnfest about civil law.
That kid would read the back of a cereal box for pleasure if he didn’t have anything else around, Jackson had told her once, fondly.
“I’m really, really late,” she said when he looked up at her. She pointed to the wall clock for emphasis. “I have to be at the church in an hour. Can you get dressed here? Do you mind?”
He shook his head, closing the book between his hands, tucking the edge of the page down in a slight dog ear to mark his place. He studied her as he rose to his feet, his gaze curious, lingering at her hairline, and she remembered the scarf, to her mortification. “It’s . . . it’s raining,” she said, reaching up to pull it off. “I didn’t want my hair to frizz.” She stopped herself; the embarrassment of all of those curls flopping out, unruly and untame, framing her head like Medusa’s snakes, would be worse than simply keeping the slip of fabric in place.
She hated being late almost as much as she hated primping and fussing with her appearance, which is what she had left to do. She’d stopped by the drugstore on her way home from the beauty shop, and picked up some new lipstick, eyeshadow, and liner, all in complementing shades of plum and purple that she hoped would match her bridesmaid’s dress. And not make me look like a hooker, she added mentally. She seldom wore makeup; maybe an occasional dabbing of lip gloss or cover-up, and Melanie had drawn her aside a week or so ago with a pleading expression on her face.
“Please tell me you’ll put some makeup on for the wedding,” she’d said. “And don’t give me that look either. I’m asking you to wear mascara, maybe some eye shadow, not carve out your kidney or anything. It doesn’t have to be a lot. You could bring it with you, and we could all help you with it.”
Melanie and Lina had always made unlikely friends. They were polar opposites; Melanie, with her pale blond hair, blue eyes, and voluptuous build was soft spoken and dainty, the perfect portrait of feminity, while Lina—athletic and long legged, with no bust to speak of and a sharp tongue to match her attitude—had always been a tomboy. Yet friends they had remained for nearly twenty years now, and Lina didn’t have the heart to refuse Melanie on her wedding day.
However, she also didn’t have the heart to sit in an antechamber at the church while her friends fussed and flitted around her, cosmetic brushes and tubes in hand, like she was some kind of life-sized Barbie doll. She knew how to apply makeup. There’s a big damn difference between not knowing how to do something and simply not wanting to do it.
“I’ll be in the bathroom,” she told Brandon, darting down the hallway, eager to escape his attention, as he hadn’t cut his eyes from her once since she’d come through the door.
Twenty minutes later, Lina decided she looked like a hooker. “Goddamn it,” she muttered to her reflection in the mirror. She looked down at the eyeliner pencil in her hand. Dusky amethyst, my ass, she thought, because that was what the label had said. This is Barney-the-Dinosaur purple if I ever saw it.
And it was too late now to just dunk a tissue into some Vaseline and scrub the entire mess from her face. She had forty minutes to finish dressing, grab Brandon, hail a cab and make it to the church. The wedding wasn’t until six o’clock that evening, but there were photographs to be taken in the meantime. As a dutiful bridesmaid, Lina was expected to flutter about Melanie while the photographer took shots of them readying for the ceremony.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered again, wriggling out of her T-shirt, trying to be mindful of her hair. She grabbed a package of pantyhose off the back of the toilet and bit the corner with her teeth to rip them open. She shook them out, a wrinkled and pathetic mess of sheer nylon, and danced clumsily from one foot to the other as she yanked them on. Just as she wriggled the hose up toward her waist, she felt her finger punch through, tearing them. “Goddamn it.”
She pulled the hose up and looked in dismay at the wide runner that had shot from the hole and careened down the outer contour of her thigh. “Goddamn it,” she muttered, reaching for her dress, jerking it off the hanger against the back of the bathroom door. She shrugged her way into it and gritted her teeth as she craned her arm backward, groping for the zipper. The dress had been altered supposedly to Lina’s measurements, but she still thought there was enough free space through the bustline to park a small minivan. She frowned, tugging at her bra straps, hoping vainly to summon some inkling of cleavage to help fill the top of the gown. “Goddamn it.”
She looked in the mirror when she was finished. I look like a hooker, she thought unhappily, surveying the messy splay of her hair, the garish eye makeup and plum-colored lipstick, the glossy purple satin ruffle that seemed to explode off the right shoulder of her dress. Or a drag queen. And not a very good one either way.
She reached for her shoes, a pair of sandals dyed to match the dress, tucked in a box atop the toilet seat. She stepped into them one at a time, and felt herself wobble for uncertain balance. She hated high-heel shoes. Already, she could feel the straps of the sandals digging into the sides of her feet, and she began to take a mental account of all of the spots in which she could expect to find blisters by the time the ceremony was finished.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered, opening the bathroom door and tromping outside.
The Dolce and Gabbana suit was gone from her bed. Brandon had dressed quietly and without her notice. She hoped to God the suit fit him OK, and Jude’s shoes, as well. If they don’t, we’ll both just go barefooted—screw it, she thought, shaking her head as she teetered down the hallway. We’ll make a hell of a couple.
Brandon sat reading again, but looked up when he caught sight of her approach out of the corner of his eye. He rose to his feet, his brows raising, and Lina drew to a sudden halt.
Wow, she thought. Her mother had an old saying she was fond of: “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.” This is definitely one of those moments, Lina thought, immobilized in the doorway.
Had she ever thought Jude had worn that suit well? The lengths of dark wool draped and hugged Brandon’s form as if they had been custom tailored to fit him. He looked immaculate, the white shirt and dove-gray silk tie beneath crisp and striking complements to the black planes of the suit. He’d combed his dark hair back, tucking it behind his ears, leaving wayward strands to droop loose and lay against the high arches of his cheekbones.
My God, he’s a beautiful man, she thought.
She realized she was gawking at him, and to judge by the way he was staring at her, he was aware of it, too. She forced herself to tear her eyes away, to blink across the room toward her television set, the empty fish tank in the corner, anywhere else. “I . . . uh ... it fits,” she said. “The suit, I mean. The shoes, too?”
He blinked, giving his head a slight shake, and at last, cut his eyes away. Yes, he signed, miming a nod with his fist. The shoes were a little big, but I shoved paper towels in the toes. It will work.
He kept stealing curious little glances in her direction, and feeling self-conscious, Lina crossed her arms over her bosom, frowning slightly. “What?”
He shook his head again and motioned toward his face, drawing his fingers in a counterclockwise circle. Beautiful, he said. He gestured again, pointing to her, then turned his palm first outward then in, finally letting his fingers sweep around his face once more. You look beautiful.
She couldn’t remember the last time a man had said that to her, not with the earnest candor she saw frank and apparent in Brandon’s eyes. Lina felt her face flush all the more, and she smiled, caught off guard and utterly charmed. Thank you, Brandon, she signed.
“Where in the world did you find him?” Melanie’s maid of honor, Sonia Woodford, whispered to Lina, poking her head out through the antechamber door and peering into the church vestibule beyond. Brandon sat patiently out there, as few, if any, other guests had yet to arrive. He dropped pleasant nods and polite smiles to family members, bridesmaids, and groomsmen as they filtered past.
Lina bit back the urge to tell Sonia, I found him in my brother’s bathroom, stripped naked and dripping wet, as a matter of fact. “I told you. He’s one of Jackie’s former students. He’s just visiting.”
Each of the bridesmaids had taken turns peeking at Brandon since he’d arrived with Lina. One by one, they had lined up at the door, knocking shoulders and jockeying for position as they looked outside. “Stop already,” Lina said, hooking her hand against Sonia’s arm and pulling her away from the door.
“How’s he going to know?” Sonia asked, flapping her loose. “He can’t hear us. You said he was deaf.”
“And mute, too, right? How sad,” said another bridesmaid, a doughy-faced girl named Dawn, her expression softening as if Lina had just told them Brandon was dying of cancer or something.
“Who wants to carry on a conversation with him anyway?” Sonia asked, laughing. Bottles of champagne had already been uncorked, and several members of the wedding party, including Sonia, were already feeling giggly. “I just want to . . .”
There was more, but Melanie, the bride, caught Lina by the arm and pulled her aside, causing her to miss it. Melanie, too, was slightly into her cups, and she leaned toward Lina, speaking in a forced stage whisper. “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry about the whole Jude thing, Lina.”
Which whole Jude thing? Lina thought of asking, but didn’t. The one where I dated him in the first place or the one where you invited him to your wedding even after he’d dumped me for another woman?
“Look, you know how I feel about him, on account of everything he did,” Melanie said. “I’d like to nominate him for the Asshole of the Year award, but he and Joel are golf buddies, and he really helped Joel out that one time with the civil case after his car got totaled.” She shrugged, looking somewhat sheepish. “It was Joel’s idea to invite him and I didn’t argue about it because I didn’t want to fight about the guest list.”
“It’s alright,” Lina said, even though it really wasn’t, and she was admittedly pissed not only at Joel for inviting Jude, but with Melanie, too, for allowing it to happen. It’s your wedding day, too, Mel, she thought about pointing out but kept mum.
“You probably won’t even see him,” Melanie said, hopefully. “There’s going to be three hundred people here today, and he’ll be lost in the crowd. But if you do, promise me you won’t make a big deal out of it, OK? Just don’t pay any attention to him or what’s-her-name if he brings her along. I want you guys to have fun today—all of us to have fun, OK?”
