Part 26 (1/2)
It was time to talk to Kit.
Bracing myself for the conversation, I went to the guest room door and knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked harder.
”Kit?”
”Yo.”
”It's after one. I'd like to talk to you.”
”Mmmm.”
”Are you up?”
”Uhm. Hum.”
”Don't go back to sleep.”
”Give me five.”
”Breakfast or lunch?”
”Yeah.”
Taking that as an affirmative for the latter, which was my preference, I made ham and cheese sandwiches and added deli dills. As I was consolidating Kate's material to make s.p.a.ce at the table, I heard the bedroom door open, then activity in the bathroom.
When my nephew appeared I almost lost my resolve. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face the color of cooked oatmeal. His hair was doing Jim Carrey.
”Mornin', Aunt T.”
When he raised both hands and rubbed them up and down over his face, the border of a tattoo peeked from the hem of his T-s.h.i.+rt sleeve.
”It's afternoon.”
”Sorry. I got in kind of late.”
”Yes. Ham sandwich?”
”Sure. Got any c.o.ke?” he asked in a thick voice.
”Diet.”
”That's cool.”
I got two sodas and joined him at the table. He was regarding the sandwich as one might a squashed c.o.c.kroach.
”You'll feel better if you eat,” I encouraged.
”I just need to wake up a little. I'm fine.”
He looked as fine as a smallpox victim. Up close I could see tiny veins threading through the whites of his eyes, and smell the smoke that clung to his hair.
”This is me, Kit. I've been there.”
I had, and I knew what he was going through. I could remember the feel of residual booze slugging through my bloodstream, churning my stomach and pounding the dilated vessels in my brain. The dry mouth. The shaky hands. The sense that someone had poured lead shot in the s.p.a.ce below my sternum.
Kit rubbed his eyes, then reached over and stroked Bird's head. I knew he was wis.h.i.+ng he were someplace else.
”Food will help.”
”I'm fine.”
”Try the sandwich.”
He raised his eyes to me and smiled. But as soon as he relaxed the corners of his mouth hooked downward, unable to sustain the effort without conscious direction. He took a bite the size of a dime.
”Umm.” He popped open the Diet c.o.ke, tipped back his head, and gulped.
It was obvious that he didn't want to travel in the direction I was headed. Well, neither did I. Perhaps there was no issue. He was nineteen. He'd had a big night. He was hungover. We'd all been there.
Then I remembered the phone message. And the new tattoo.
There were issues, and we needed to discuss them.
I knew what I said would make little difference. Probably none. He was young. Invulnerable. And ”born to boogie,” according to Harry. But I owed it to him to try.
”Who's the Preacher?” I asked.
He looked at me as he rotated his Diet c.o.ke can on the table.
”Just a guy I met.”
”Met where?”
”At the Harley shop. When I went with Lyle.”
”What kind of guy?”
He shrugged the question off.
”No one special. Just a guy.”
”He left you a message.”
”Oh?”
”You listen. I can't translate it.”