Dead Ends (29 page)

“About what?”

“Your anger.” She rushed on. “Molly has a list of names—doctors—just people you could talk to—”

“No,” I interrupted Mom's nervous ramble. But then I looked down at my hands, the ones I so often balled into fists. “Maybe. If you think it would keep me from … I mean, I don't want to turn out like—”

“You won't.” Mom closed her hand over one of mine. “You would never do what he did. You'd never hurt someone like Billy D.”

“Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don't say ‘someone like Billy D.,' like he's not like you and me.”

“Dane. He's
not
like you and me.”

I pulled my hand out from under hers and leaned away.

“It's not a bad thing,” Mom said. “Recognizing that difference and still accepting Billy just the way he is—
that
is what separates you from his dad.”

“What do you know about him?” I asked.

“Billy's dad? I know he's a cruciverbalist. I think that's what it's called.”

“What's that?”

“It's like a puzzle maker. He designs brainteasers for books and sometimes makes the crossword puzzles for big newspapers.”

I flashed on Billy's atlas. “That makes sense.”

“Molly says he's an extremely intelligent man, but when Billy was a baby, his dad was in denial about his condition. He went into debt taking Billy to specialists and trying to find a way to … to … I don't know, really. Cure him, maybe? Or at least help him advance?”

“That's good, right?”

Mom rubbed her forehead. “It's good that Billy got the best care and the best education at an early stage, but … there's only so far he
could
advance. And Molly says when Billy hit that point, his dad just couldn't accept it. He kept trying to push Billy past his limits, and when Billy couldn't keep up, his dad would become violent.”

“He hit him.”

“Yes, he hit him. Molly said it got to a point where Paul became obsessed with creating riddles for Billy to solve. He thought if Billy could understand riddles and puzzles, he could understand anything. But the more Billy struggled, the more violent his dad became. She thinks he even created some puzzles with no answers on purpose—whether for an excuse to hit Billy or because he'd just lost it, she doesn't know.”

Images from the atlas papered my brain—a town penciled in on one page, a clue lurking at the bottom of another. It was
always just one big test to torture Billy. And the letter in the back held nothing more than meaningless answers to meaningless questions.

What's black and white and read all over? Who gives a shit.

What seems cool and fun but is really evil all over? Billy's dad.

I wondered if that guy knew he'd created the greatest riddle of all: How does a kid still love his dad, even when he turns out to be such a bastard? That one sure had me stumped.

“So she ran for it?” I asked. “She just packed up Billy D. and took off?”

“And they've been running for a while,” Mom said. “Molly worked odd jobs where she could, but Billy needs stability—needs to stay in one school. So she brought him here, where she knows people. A friend offered to set her up in a house—got her a job off the books.”

Off the books.
So that explained why she was so secretive about it.

“What does she do?”

“She's a janitor.” Mom's eyes caught mine, and she continued in a sharp voice before I could reply. “And there's no shame in that.”

“I know, I didn't—”

“There's no shame in anything a mother does to take care of her son.”

“I know.” I said it more firmly this time, and I held her gaze. “I know it better than anyone.”

Mom's eyes softened just a little bit, then she stood up and did something so bizarre, I nearly took her temperature to
make sure she wasn't crazy with a fever. She marched over to the wall of lottery tickets and pulled down the largest frame. I sat frozen as she pried the clasps off the back and pulled the golden ticket from its trophy case. She scanned the back and muttered to herself. “Still time.”

I swallowed hard. “Mom?”

She waved the five-thousand-dollar winner between her fingers and looked at me. “It's enough for a computer—a nice laptop, maybe.”

“Mom?”

“And a college fund—a start, at least. We'll need to add to it, obviously, but we've got a couple of years. I think maybe you ought to think about getting a job this summer. I know you've been wanting to—”

But she couldn't finish, because my hug choked off her last words. I held her tight around the neck and shoulders. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you.”

Mom let me hug her for a few seconds longer. Then she used her strong, lean arms to push me back into my chair. I would have thought she was angry if it wasn't for the tear I saw her wipe away.

I pointed to the empty frame on the counter. “I thought you said you were ‘saving up your luck.'”

Mom took my hand and smiled. “I cashed in on the luck the day you came home safe.”

“If I get a job, and I promise to put most of the money in a college fund, could I—could we maybe—save up just a little for a car?”

I held my breath until Mom finally winked. “We'll talk.”

I went to bed in such a good mood, even the sight of that yearbook waiting for me in my room couldn't wipe the smile off my face.

I went to swipe it off the bedspread and onto the floor, but something stopped me. Little bits of pink paper peeped over the top of the yearbook. Billy had gone crazy with the sticky notes again. It was a good bet he'd marked every page with anyone who looked even remotely like me. I had to smile. Maybe it was better Billy was spending time looking for
anybody
but his own dad.

Instead of tossing the book to the floor, I cracked it open and flopped down on my bed. I turned the pages slowly, studying every face. I wondered how many of them grew up to be dads—how many of them maybe hit their kids—how many of them walked
away
from their kids. But I couldn't see answers in any of their faces. They just looked like confused, screwed-up teenagers. In that way, they
all
looked like me.

I borrowed the car to run some errands for Mom the next day, which included dropping off my enrollment forms at the alternative high. There were only a few students in the halls, but I saw enough to know there were a lot of itchy palms walking those hallways and that being in class there was going to look a lot like being in detention at Twain.

So my mood was already foul when I turned up the street toward home and saw it. Another damn moving van, its back doors open. Just what we needed—more strangers on our street—probably some low-rent family with a thousand noisy kids and …

I blinked. The van was parked exactly where I'd seen it the last time—tight against the curb in front of Billy's house—and Mrs. Drum was pushing a huge box into the back.

I stopped Mom's car right in the middle of the street and got out with the engine still running.

“What is this?”

Mrs. Drum turned at my voice and brushed the dust off her hands. When she finally met my eyes, they looked at me with more kindness than they ever had. “Dane, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what? What's going—”

“Dane!” Billy flew down the front steps, tossing a box of toys aside onto the lawn as he ran.

Mrs. Drum scooped up the toys and disappeared into the house.

“We're moving,” Billy said, breathless.

“What? Why?”

Billy stared at his toes.

“Billy D., what's going on?”

The front door opened again, and Mrs. Drum appeared with an armload of smaller boxes. “Billy, I told you to take the sheets off your bed. And none of your books are packed.”

“I'm talking to Da—”

“Now.”

Billy obeyed, stomping up the front stoop without even a backward wave.

“Mrs. D., what the hell—uh, what the heck is going—” I started, but she cut me off again.

“Dane, I'm sorry, but your mom can fill you in. We're in a hurry.” She dropped the pile of boxes on the sidewalk and started back up toward the house.

“No way! What's happening? Where are you going?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. And she looked it. Her hair was wild, and she was moving at a frantic pace, but just for a second I saw that “I'm sorry” echoed in her eyes. I started to follow her right up to the front door, but two small hands caught my arms from behind. I spun on instinct, my fist raised.

“Whoa.” The hands let go in an instant, and I saw Seely's eyes opened wide—her forehead wrinkled all the way up into her spiky white hair.

“Sorry,” I said. I dropped my fist and used the hand to grab her around the waist instead. She hugged me back.

“Did you know about this?” I asked, my face in her hair.

“I just got here.” She pulled out of my arms. “I was looking for you. My dad didn't need me at the shop after school, so I came by and—” She swung her arm to indicate the truck and the house where Billy and his mom were now shut up inside. “I have no idea what's going on.”

“I do,” a voice said beside us.

Mom was standing on the curb, her arms crossed and her lips set in a thin line. “Come inside.”

I would have rather gone inside Billy's house and demanded answers there, but Seely took my hand and pulled me up the steps after Mom.

Mom motioned for us to join her at the kitchen table and got right to the point.

“Billy called his dad.”

“What?” Seely and I said in unison.

Mom combed her fingers through her hair. “He got the number from an old family friend—someone named June Bug or something ridiculous like that.”

I set my jaw, trying to keep my face as still as possible, but inside, my heart was beating a racket against my rib cage.

“Apparently, she talked to someone who had seen Paul recently—”

“Seen him?” I repeated, a chill crawling up my spine. Had Billy's dad been in Missouri looking for him after all?

Mom nodded. “That's what she said. So this woman got a contact for Paul and called Billy up and gave it to him without talking to Molly.”

“I'm—uh—I'm sure she meant well.” Seely's voice cracked. I gripped her hand under the table to keep her from saying anything more.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Billy's dad?” Mom blew out a long breath. “By now, he could be anywhere. But I think Molly said he told Billy he was in Detroit.”

A little piece of me—the tiny chunk that understood why Billy would still want to know the camping, monkey-watching, ice-cream-sharing dad—died. I felt it go black and shrivel up inside me. Of course he wasn't in Monkey's Eyebrow. I'd always known he wasn't.
Hadn't I?

“Anyway,” Mom said. “Billy, of course, told his dad where he was.”

“Oh my God,” Seely breathed.

“When?” I asked.

“Just this morning. Molly overheard him, but she was careful not to say anything until he hung up. She thinks if Paul doesn't know
she
knows, he might not show up right away.”

“Do we really think he'll show up
at all
?” I asked. Couldn't
we get a little perspective here? The guy had moved to Detroit, of all places. Maybe he just came home for a visit. Maybe he knew he was messed up and wasn't even looking for Billy.

I said all this, in so many words, but Mom and Seely didn't look convinced. Seely pointed out that it was suspicious he hadn't called the police after Mrs. Drum ran away with Billy—almost like a man wanting to do his own detective work. Mom added that Mrs. Drum knew him best, and if she was scared, she probably had good reason.

I wasn't buying any of it. Or maybe I was just in denial, but running sounded like the worst possible option to me. I knew the further Billy's mom pulled him from his dad, the more desperate Billy would be to find him. And it wasn't like they were in witness protection. They'd be leaving a trail all over the country, and sooner or later Billy's dad would find them. Right here in Columbia, he'd find Billy's name on record at the school, at the police station—
the police station!

“Mom!” I said. “Billy can't leave! We're supposed to go to court. Aren't you, like, automatically guilty if you don't show up or something?”

It felt like grasping at straws, and I expected Mom to come back with an easy answer, but she surprised me by pressing a hand to her forehead and leaning back in the chair, deflated.

“I'm worried about that, too,” she said.

“I didn't even think of that,” Seely whispered.

“I'll try to persuade Molly to at least contact the detective and explain the situation—try to work something out—but honestly, I'm just not sure she cares about that right now. She's on one
track, like this runaway train.” Mom shot her arm out, pantomiming that imaginary train going off the rails. “I do think she knows that she's going to eventually have to deal with all this through the proper channels—divorce, custody, all of that. But she wants to get Billy to a safe place first. Then maybe she'll get her ducks in a row and go back to Oregon to sort it out.”

“But we'll never know, will we?” I asked.

I imagined Billy's mom wiping my number from his phone the way she'd wiped out his dad's.

Mom shook her head. “I don't know, Dane.”

The defeat in her voice made us all fall quiet, and in the silence we could hear the occasional muted thud of another box being loaded onto the moving truck across the street.

Mom said Billy and Mrs. Drum were leaving first thing in the morning, so we got up at the crack of dawn to meet them outside and say our good-byes. Seely had stopped over the night before on her way home. I wondered what they had said to each other—what
I
was going to say.