Keeper

Chapter 53

There had never been a silence so deadly.

 and he said he wants to see me . . .

 Harry's words repeated in my mind over and over, their tone like the vibration of violin strings—beautiful, but strung with urgent efficiency, and although I couldn't quite see it on his face—I knew he was afraid.

 My voice caught in my throat when I first went to speak.  Silence.  The air around us remained bustling, though, with the sound of birds chirping, the wind humming, and kids laughing and screaming all in the name of fun.  When I finally recollected  my voice, I spoke without worry.  “But he isn’t home yet, right?  You said he wasn’t home yet.”

 The twisted expression on Harry’s face could have passed for a severe case of nausea.  “He said he’ll be home soon, that’s all he said,”  And then he bit his lip and began to chew.  Not on the silver though, no—on the skin.  He was drawing blood.  “That could mean like—seventy-two hours or five minutes with him.  Soon, Harley.  That’s all he said.  Soon.  Like he’s some kind of big-ass production or something.  Like he’s some kind of God damn movie star.”

 Harry began to pace in circles, his jaw clenched so tight I thought the bones themselves may fracture.  I could hear his breathing—loud and gruff—but altogether surprisingly steady.  The fabricated smile he had woven onto his lips was long gone by now, replaced by nothing but complete irritation and hatred.  Oh God, the hatred.  In his green eyes, the yellow specks nearly boiled a flaming orange.  Harry’s nostrils protruded, flared; his fists were in knots of red by his sides.  “The bastard,”  He spit.  “to show his face around here again, it’s . . . It’s disgusting that’s what it is.  Disgusting.  And as for the God damn bastards that let him out, I’ll—”

 “Calm down, Harry,”  I said.  Doing my best, I spoke in monotone.  Though I didn’t dare try to touch him.  Not in this state.  He needed space—and a lot of it.  “Let’s go back to my house,  I’ll call up Sawyer, he’ll—”

 “No, no, I don’t wanna see his God damn face.  Not those God damn eyes.  Not that God damn smile . . .”

 Sawyer resembles their father.  That small tidbit of information does not help their seemingly tense brotherhood in any way.  It sort of makes sense, considering that it seems that Harry can’t stand to look at Sawyer for more than five seconds without spitting out a curse—but hell, when can’t he with anyone?

 “Okay, never mind then.  You can call up Mikey or something.  Maybe . . . you two can work out something?”

 “Work out what?”  He asked.  I could see the strain in his eyes—the whites had gone a streaked, stained pink.

 “You know, somewhere for you to spend the night.  Or the week, or whatever.  After we stop by your house and pick up clothes for you to wear and all that.”  Harry stood staring at me with a blank expression.  All life behind his eyes had seemed to go devoid.  But I knew he was there.  And I knew he was listening.  And all of a sudden it made me nervous.  “I’m just trying to help you, Harry.  I am.  You don’t have to call Mikey, I just thought you two were friends.”

 All of a sudden his lips became pursed, his eyebrows sewn together in what appeared to be none other than annoyance, and it looked as if he were going to chastise me or something.  But instead his voice was soft—weak as the words coasted from his lips.  “Couldn’t I just stay with you?”

 I knew the question was coming.  It had begun to brew in the bitter air around us the very minute I mentioned Mikey’s name.  I knew my father would kill me if he witnessed Harry parking in our driveway, boxes and bags in his hands full of clothing and shampoo bottles and God knows whatever else.  But I still went on and sighed, contemplating the possibility.  “My father would have my head on a stick if he heard you were staying the neck.  But I guess I could call him . . . Give the whole thing a try.”