Chapter Four
Four
For seventeen-year-old Kyle the high point of his week during the summer was Friday at about 6:30 P.M. He got off work at Abbott’s Auto Shop by six, then he’d head out to Ricky’s Kegs and Cases to buy beer. Ricky’s was a few miles out of town but the cheapest around, and they never hassled him there, despite the very fake ID he’d bought off some dude in Ogdensburg who sold them out of his garage. The staff at Ricky’s didn’t ask to see the ID anymore, and they gave him a discount every time. No doubt it was on account of the season he had that year: twenty goals and seventeen assists in center—which helped the Potsdam Sandstoners take second in their division and earned Kyle team captain as a junior. Potsdam was a winter town, and it loved its hockey.
With three cases of Genny Cream safely tucked under a tarp in the back of his Jeep, Kyle’s next stop would be home, where he’d scrounge up something to eat and shower away the grime of the garage. Around seven he’d get a call from one of his teammates telling him where to show up. Since Kyle took care of the beer, it was someone else’s job to find a location. During the summer it was typically a bonfire somewhere along the river; everyone wanted to be outside as much as possible during the short warm months. They changed up the location to avoid nosy parents, annoying underclassmen, and the kids from SUNY or Clarkson who’d stayed in town for the summer and were searching for their own place to party.
Most of the team would be there, and a lot of girls. Including Lauren Evans, who couldn’t have made herself clearer when she stopped by the garage that afternoon. I was sorry to hear about you and Megan, Kyle , she’d said without looking the least bit sorry. But maybe we could hang out tonight. It was nice to know she’d be there if he was so inclined, but, frankly, the excitement over such offers was dimming. It had been going on for a couple of years, girls throwing subtle—or not-so-subtle—hints at him. He’d gone out with some of those girls for a little while, and he probably would again. But he’d made an excuse when Lauren asked him to pick her up. He didn’t want to give her the wrong idea, or get stuck waiting around for her when he was ready to go home.
Maybe this was why, more and more, the high point of the night for Kyle was before the party started, the anticipation. For a little while now the rest of the night—sitting around getting buzzed, rehashing their games, fooling around with a girl in a random room or his Jeep—ended up being a little disappointing.
When he pulled up to the house, he was surprised to see his dad’s truck in the driveway. He was on shift at the firehouse this weekend, which usually meant he was gone by the time Kyle got home Friday evening. Before going inside he took a cursory look to make sure the beer was covered up, though Dad probably wouldn’t say much if he saw it, just shake his head and keep walking. He didn’t approve of most things Kyle did, and he didn’t really see the point of hockey, since there was no future in it—Kyle might be a big fish in this small pond, but he was nowhere near being able to play in any sort of professional capacity. But he didn’t play for the future, he played for how alive it made him feel in the moment. He’d tried explaining that to his father once or twice, but it didn’t really line up with his no-nonsense approach to life.
Dad was waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, thick arms folded across his broad chest. Kyle was almost as tall as his father, but lean. Even at the firehouse, his dad was the biggest guy in the room. The small duffel he packed for nights at the station was sitting on the table.
“Hey,” Kyle said, after closing the door and removing his hat, since his dad gave a shit about that, taking hats off indoors. “What’re you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” He looked down at his watch. “Thought you finished work at six.”
“I had some stuff to take care of on the way home.”
“I’m sure you did.” Big roll of the eyes. “Listen, I know you won’t be happy about this, but Diane Higgins needs someone to hang out with Wyatt for a while tonight.”
Kyle wasn’t following. Mrs. Higgins lived right across the road with her son and daughter. She was a widow, and sometimes Kyle and his dad gave her a hand, like shoveling snow after bad storms and getting wood in for winter. But, hanging out with Wyatt? “I’m not a babysitter, Dad.”
“That’s fine. Wyatt’s not a baby. He’s ten years old.”
Kyle felt his Friday night slipping away. “Then why does she need someone to watch him?”
“For Christ’s sake, Kyle. You know why.” His dad’s voice was a low growl, and that familiar look had slid into his eyes. The irritated-confused look, like Danny McCray couldn’t decide if his son was deliberately being obtuse, or if he was just stupid. “Wyatt needs help sometimes because of the wheelchair. Diane’s not sure how long she’ll be, and Casey’s out for the night.” He pushed off the counter, grabbed his bag, and threw it over a shoulder. “Now I know you have important plans with your hockey buddies, like getting drunk, hooking up with some quality girls, maybe getting another tattoo…” His eyes flicked down to Kyle’s left bicep, to the recent addition: his jersey number— #22 —tattooed in thick black ink. “But maybe you could sacrifice just a few hours for a woman who has always been good to you.”
“All right, all right.” Kyle held up a hand. “Yeah, of course. Do I have time to take a shower?”
“Well, you can’t go looking like that.” He nodded toward Kyle’s filthy T-shirt, the layers of dirt covering his arms and caked into his fingernails. “Head over after you clean up.” He started for the door. “You know how to reach me if you need anything.”
After a quick internal debate, Kyle spoke up. “Oh, hey,” he said. “It’s not a big deal or anything, but Mr. Abbott said today he’d like me to keep working during the school year as much as I can. And he offered to take me on as a mechanic apprentice next summer after graduation. He says I’m a fast learner, and he thinks I could be really good at it.” Kyle shrugged a shoulder. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he’d been surprised by how much he enjoyed working at the garage, taking apart broken things and putting them back together whole. It made him feel useful, needed, like he was helping people.
Dad offered a small smile. “That’s good, Kyle. I’m glad Mr. Abbott appreciates you.” But then he sighed. He’d always said the structure and discipline of the military would be good for Kyle. “See you Sunday,” he said, before turning to leave the house.
“See you.”
Yeah, Mr. Abbott and the guys at the shop appreciated Kyle, his coach and teammates appreciated him. So did those “quality girls” his dad had mentioned. Which was a good thing, because no matter what Kyle did, his dad certainly didn’t appreciate him. He hadn’t in a long time.
After calling a teammate and telling him to stop by and pick up the beer, Kyle showered as quickly as he could, though it took a good few minutes to scrub off the dirt and grease. Then he threw on jeans and a clean T-shirt, ran his hands through his hair, which had lightened toward dark blond due to the summer sun. It now reached the bottom of his neck when it was wet, and he made a mental note to get it trimmed soon. His dad used to cut his hair but stopped four years ago when Kyle refused to keep going with high and tight. He liked his hair long enough to flop over his forehead and curl up around the edge of the baseball cap he usually wore. Hippie shaggy , Dad called it.
He headed over to the Higginses’, hoping there’d be some food waiting for him there. He knew from personal experience that Mrs. H was a great cook. She brought food over sometimes—pot roasts, stews, lasagnas. Home cooking was a rare treat in the McCray household. Kyle and his dad had mostly lived on Hamburger Helper, canned soup, and the Pork Chop and Potato Special at the Dam Diner in town since his mom left six years ago.
That’s about the time Dad and Diane Higgins became friends, or maybe teammates was more fitting. Within a year they both unexpectedly found themselves single parents. Kyle didn’t know if they talked about it, or it just became an unspoken agreement that they would help each other out, but that’s what happened. When he was younger and his dad had to work nights, Mrs. H had him to dinner, called to confirm he was up for the bus in the morning. She made sure his father filled out necessary school paperwork and hockey forms, and she was a nurse, so the first person Dad called to diagnose an injury or illness. In return, when she needed help with maintenance on her house or old ’84 Bronco, Dad took care of it. And Kyle had tagged along to assist when his dad built the wide sturdy ramp at the back of the Higginses’ house to accommodate Wyatt’s wheelchair years ago.
As Kyle walked up the path to their porch he remembered wishing his dad and Mrs. H would fall for each other. He used to wonder what it would be like to live in their house, which was smaller than the McCray house, but the atmosphere was a whole lot warmer. And Kyle thought it might have been nice to have a stepmother and stepsiblings around, even if Wyatt was seven years younger, and Casey was two years younger and a brainiac. But deep down he knew his father would never remarry. It was hard for someone to think about a new relationship when they were still so bitter about the last one.
He climbed the steps to the front door and knocked.
“Come on in, Kyle,” Mrs. H called from inside.
He opened the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. To his right was the small living room, to his left was the door to Wyatt’s bedroom. That room had originally been a dining area, but Mrs. H had it closed in so Wyatt could have a room on the first floor.
She appeared at the other end of the hall. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Kyle,” she said, resting her hands on her narrow hips. Mrs. H verged on too thin, which made sense, since she never seemed to stop moving, but she was also stronger than she looked. Kyle had watched her split wood, and she could swing the axe like a pro.
“That’s okay,” he said, making his way into the kitchen.
She shook her head at him. “I know it’s been a while, but have you grown more?”
He shrugged, figuring it was possible. Other than waving from their cars when they passed each other on the road, he hadn’t seen her in a long time. She was dressed in nurse’s scrubs and sneakers, wore no makeup, and her long brown hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a thick braid. She had always struck Kyle as a cheerful but practical woman who liked to keep things simple. Which was probably the best way to be after a terrible car wreck killed her husband and left her five-year-old son a paraplegic. She did wear one piece of jewelry: her plain gold wedding band. That’s the other reason Kyle believed Mrs. H and Dad never stood a chance. She was still in love with a dead guy.
“I really am sorry to ask you to do this, Kyle, especially on a Friday night.” She bustled around the kitchen, pulling a pan out of the oven and setting it on the table. “The hospital asked me to come in for a few hours, they’re short-staffed this evening. I reheated that food for you, Wyatt already ate. He’s in his room.” She grabbed a plate and glass from a cabinet, dug in a drawer for silverware. “Normally Casey would be home, but Brad Rentzler invited her to a little get-together at his house.”
That surprised Kyle. Brad Rentzler was a senior on the lacrosse team and very popular. He was wealthy by Potsdam standards, since his dad owned a car dealership, and he was smooth, had that whole charming “aw shucks” thing down. In Kyle’s opinion the guy was a user, especially with girls. He was known to ask them out with one goal in mind, and he was forever bragging about how much he scored. But Rentzler had a type, and Casey wasn’t it. She was only going to be a sophomore, and she was known for studying, not partying. She was probably just tagging along to Rentzler’s with friends.
Mrs. H paused long enough to turn to him and hold up splayed hands. “You should have seen her, Kyle. She was so excited. You probably know this, but Casey doesn’t get invited out a lot.” She picked up her purse, started rooting through it for something. “And she works so hard at everything…” She held up her keys. “Found them. Okay, don’t feel like you need to entertain Wyatt. You know how he is, he keeps himself busy. Eat that dinner and help yourself to ice cream in the freezer. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“No problem.”
She tilted her head. “You’re a good guy, Kyle McCray.” And then she was out the door.
The first thing he did was sit at the table and scarf down the entire contents of the casserole dish, a heavenly mix of mashed potatoes layered over roasted beef and vegetables. Afterward he washed his dishes, then took a few minutes to explore the large, wooden built-in hutch that separated the kitchen from the living room. It had several shelves and glass doors, and it was crammed with family photos and mementos—pictures of Casey and Wyatt at various ages, scrapbooks, little arts and crafts things they’d made.
Front and center was a picture of Mr. H, which, Kyle thought, did a good job of conveying his general person. He looked dressed for his job as a physical science teacher over at the community college in Saranac Lake: clipped dark hair, short-sleeve button-down and tie. He stood with casual hands on his hips, looking into the camera with a full smile. Kyle remembered Jim Higgins as smart, mild-mannered, and quick with the corny dad jokes. He and Wyatt had been on their way home from a hockey game in Syracuse on Wyatt’s fifth birthday when their car spun out on black ice and hit the center median at high speed. Kyle remembered most of Potsdam turning out for his funeral.
He headed to Wyatt’s room and knocked on the door. When there was no response he knocked again.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Wyatt. It’s Kyle McCray.”
Nothing.
“From across the road?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Can I come in?”
“I guess.”
Kyle opened the door to see Wyatt’s wheelchair pulled up to a desk attached to the opposite wall. It was more like a workbench, with open space underneath, and it ran corner to corner, providing lots of surface area. It was a safe bet Dad had put it in at some point.
Wyatt didn’t turn or even look over a shoulder. His hands and eyes were focused on whatever was in front of him.
“What’s up?” Kyle asked.
When Wyatt didn’t answer, he moved closer to get a look. Wyatt was working on a model of some kind. There were at least a hundred small wooden pieces of various shapes laid out before him, along with scissors, a penknife and ruler, tweezers of different sizes. It all looked far too complicated for a ten-year-old. “What are you making?” he asked.
“A model of our house. I really don’t have time to talk, Kyle. I’m trying to get this done for my mom’s birthday next month, and I don’t get many chances to work on it when she’s not around.”
So Kyle shut up and observed. Wyatt had grown since Kyle last saw him, maybe even filled out a little. For someone so young his arms already had definition. Probably from working the wheelchair and hauling himself in and out of it every day.
Wyatt finally looked up at him. His straight brown hair swept across his forehead but was shorter on the sides. “I told my mom I didn’t need a freakin’ babysitter.”
“I don’t mind.”
“And I told Casey she shouldn’t go to Brad Rentzler’s. I think he’s a tool.”
Kyle smiled. “I think he’s a tool too.”
“Well, maybe she’ll listen to you. She certainly wouldn’t listen to me.”
When Wyatt rolled his eyes and went back to work, Kyle wandered around the room. All the furniture was pushed against the walls to leave open space in the middle, easier for Wyatt to navigate. A Jurassic Park poster hung above his twin bed. On the opposite side of the room, under the window, there were long shelves that displayed all sorts of models—a decked-out B-25 bomber, a replica of the solar system, a 3D wooden monster truck.
“You built all these?” Kyle asked, crouching down for a better look.
“Yeah.”
“They’re really good.”
“I know.”
Kyle checked to see if Wyatt was joking, but he was still bent over the desk. “They look expensive,” he said. “Where do you get them?”
“Casey buys most of them for me. I tell her she doesn’t have to, but she does anyway.”
Last Kyle heard Casey worked weekends as a cashier at the drugstore in town. A lot of her wages had to be going to these models. And Dad often talked about how much time she spent with Wyatt. Not a lot of girls he knew would do that. “That’s nice of her,” Kyle said.
“Yeah. If you have to have a big sister, I guess you could do worse than Spacey Casey.”
“‘Spacey Casey’? I thought she was super smart.”
“She is super smart, but she loses her crap all the time. Keys, pens, her wallet…”
Kyle stood and moved near the desk. “You want some help?”
Wyatt gave him a skeptical look. “From you?”
“Yeah.” He held up his hands. “I’m pretty good with these.”
“Okay. But you get the grunt work.”
“Deal.” Kyle pulled out a stool from under the desk and had a seat, turning his ball cap backward so it didn’t block the light.
Wyatt put him to work sanding and setting dowel rods that were so small they were tough to keep hold of, and he was a stickler— Go easy, Kyle. If you ruin any of these pieces you’re replacing them. But Kyle liked the work, which wasn’t all that different from what he did at the garage. It was a puzzle of sorts. He also enjoyed the intermittent conversation with Wyatt, who had an opinion on everything from music— Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” is the best song to come along in my lifetime —to football— I’m a Steelers fan like my dad was. I bet they go to the Super Bowl next year. Before Kyle knew it, two hours had flown by and it was after nine thirty. The only reason he checked his watch was because he heard the back door open.
“Crap,” Wyatt said, rushing to gather his tools. “Go keep my mom busy for a few minutes so she doesn’t come in here.”
Kyle headed out to the hallway, planning to distract Mrs. H by asking about her work that night. But he stopped short when he got to the end of the hall. It wasn’t Mrs. H standing at the counter in the kitchen with her back to him. It was Casey. She was wearing a tank top and a short, striped skirt, chestnut hair pulled up in a high ponytail. Her face was in her hands, so she didn’t notice him.
Several realizations hit him at once. One, she was crying. Two, Rentzler probably had something to do with it. And three, he couldn’t remember the last time he was around someone in tears. There’d never been much crying in the McCray house, even when his mother left. Instead Kyle had followed his father’s example, gone to his own corner and suffered in silence and solitude. He generally avoided drama with girls, and he and Casey rarely spoke; they didn’t exactly run in the same circles. But she looked upset enough that he began to worry. That’s what prompted him to speak up.
“Hey, Casey.”
She gasped and spun around, giving him an unobstructed glimpse of her tear-streaked face before she turned away, swiping fingers across her cheeks. “Kyle? What are you doing here?”
“Your mom had to go to work. She asked me to stay with Wyatt.”
“Sorry, I would have come home if I’d known.” Her voice had the nasal quality that accompanied tears.
“That’s okay. How was Rentzler’s thing?”
He caught some kind of pain in her expression before she turned to the sink to pour herself a glass of water. “It was okay, but I had Angie drive me home early.” When she lifted the glass to take a sip he noticed her hands, pale, with slender fingers. They looked delicate. “You know, that’s not really my crowd,” she said. He was fairly sure she was trying for casual with the shrug she offered, but she just looked embarrassed, and hurt.
“Me neither,” Kyle said, trying to discreetly check her over for any sign of harm. He really didn’t think Rentzler would force himself on anyone. He’d never struck Kyle as pushy or angry, just slick. He’d probably made a move with Casey, then given her a hard brush-off when she turned him down. He was known for that. “Everything all right?” he asked.
Her eyes met his and skittered away. “Yeah, I just realized on the way home I left my favorite sweatshirt at his house,” she said, speaking to the floor. “How’d it go with Wyatt?”
“Good. We had fun. He showed me his models, even let me help him with one.”
She picked her head up. “He did? He doesn’t usually do that.”
“Well, he’s really good at it.”
“Right? I think so too.” The corner of her mouth tugged up. Almost a smile, but not quite.
“Don’t tell your mom, but he started talking about wanting one of these.” Kyle lifted his sleeve and pointed to the tattoo on his left shoulder: a miner dressed in orange and blue, carrying a pickaxe, wearing a helmet and a wicked grin. It was Sandstoner Steve, their school mascot. “I think I talked him out of it though, told him it was really painful.”
“That’s good. I don’t think Mom would go for that.” And there it was, a genuine smile.
He smiled in return, wondering just when he’d last seen Casey. She looked older than he remembered. Her legs were longer under that skirt, she was filling out the tank top pretty well, and she’d grown into those intense eyes that had seemed too big for her face when she was younger. No wonder Rentzler had given it a shot. But she was only fifteen.
“Well,” she said, putting her glass down on the counter and crossing her arms, “it’s Friday night, so I’m sure you have a hockey party to go to.” There was a hint of disapproval in her voice, like she’d assigned him to the same category as Rentzler: asshole jock. “Thank you for hanging with Wyatt.”
“Sure.” Since he couldn’t come up with a reason to stay longer, he headed for the door, put his hand on the knob, but at the last moment he turned to her. “Casey, are you okay?”
She didn’t respond at first, but her breathing picked up, and he thought she might talk to him. In the end she flashed him a superficial smile and said, “I’m okay, just tired. Good night, Kyle.”
That was a pretty firm dismissal, so he said good night and left. But once he was outside in the dark he peered through the window to check on her. She was slumped against the counter, head hung low.
He watched for a minute, his heart going out to her, and he fleetingly thought about going back inside. But she’d obviously wanted him to leave. Besides, he didn’t know how to make her feel better, had no magic words to offer. Figuring the least he could do was give her some privacy, he headed home, offering a wave to the Foleys, who were rocking in their porch chairs next door. Mrs. Foley called hello and waved back, but Mr. Foley just nodded. He was a man of few words, and even on a warm summer night he wore a flannel under overalls. He was a utility worker with the power company, Mrs. Foley stayed home, and they’d never had kids. That’s really all Kyle knew about them. They generally stuck to themselves.
When he reached his house he wasn’t even tempted to hop in the Jeep and head to the bonfire. He knew he wasn’t missing anything there. In fact, he’d enjoyed this Friday evening more than any other in a while. Working with Wyatt, just being in the Higgins house, where there was such a strong feeling of family. They’d suffered a tragedy, losing Mr. H the way they did. But it was like they lifted each other up and carried that loss together. Unlike the McCray house, where his mom had left by choice and a cold black cloud had hung over them ever since.
Before he went inside Kyle took one last look across the road, at the yellow house with black shutters, wishing he could have made Casey feel better. But there was one thing he could do for her, and he already knew he was going to do it. Tomorrow after work he would track down Brad Rentzler, and they would be having a little chat.