At sixteen, Noah hadn’t been in the business, but he had been around it for as long as he could remember. He never actually pushed the crap, didn’t distribute it or collect the cash, never did the street work. But he knew the fine points of cooking; he became a full-fledged meth chemist. And he capped up a lot of bulk flashpowder over the years, filled countless little plastic bags with capsules in street units, and topped off a lot of ozer bottles with injectable liquid, earning spending money like other kids might earn it from mowing lawns and raking leaves.
His father had plans for him, intended to groom him to run the shop one day, but not until he was finished with school, because the old man believed in the value of an education. Noah always knew that his dad was a sleazebag, and however you might describe the nature of their relationship, you would never use the word love with a straight face. Obligation, shared history, family duty — and in Noah’s case, fear — bound them together. Yet his dad took genuine pride in Noah’s skill as a cooker and in his willingness to do scut work like bagging and bottling. Funny, but even though you knew that your old man was walking slime, a cancer on humanity, you nonetheless felt a strange satisfaction when he said he was proud of you. After all, whatever else he might be, he was still your dad; the President of the United States was never going to say he was proud of you, and you weren’t likely ever to be taken under the wing of a committed high-school coach or teacher like Denzel Washington might play in the movies, so you took your attaboys where you could get them.
Even as the old man, face-shot, hit the floor in a full-dead flop, and even as Aunt Lilly said, “I’m sorry about this, Nono,” Noah ran for his life. Her first round missed him, the second tore through his shoulder, the third chopped his thigh.
By then, however, he had reached the front door and opened it, shot kicked him outside, onto the front porch, where he dropped and rolled down the steps as though he were a bundled rug on moving day. Lilly didn’t want to come right out on the front lawn and pop him in the head, not in this quiet middle-class community, where teenagers on skateboards and neighborhood moms pushing strollers were likely to have enough civic spirit to testify in court. Instead, she took a chance that Noah would bleed to death before he for the cops, and she went out the back way, as she had come in.
Noah disappointed her, and about ten months into her thirty-year sentence, Lilly found Jesus, maybe for real or maybe just to impress the parole board. Although she’d by now done more than half her time, the board continued to weigh her devotion to her savior against the psychologists’ professional opinion that she was still an evil scheming homicidal bitch.
Each year she sent Noah a Christmas card, sometimes a manger scene, sometimes Santa Claus. She always included a neat handwritten message of remorse — except in year nine of her incarceration, when she’d expressed, in language frowned upon by every known Christian denomination, the wish that she had shot him in the crotch. Although Noah was convinced that all the Freud boys, who insisted on calling themselves scientists, were priests of a religion immeasurably less rational than any established faith in the history of humanity, he passed that card along to the parole board for evaluation.
Aunt Lilly was a mean, brother-killing, nephew-wounding piece of work but she was generally rational, which couldn’t always be said for her husband, Kelvin. Everyone had called him Crankcase or Crank for a variety of reasons. Just two months before Lilly killed the old man regarding a dispute over seven hundred thousand dollars, Kelvin had beaten Noah’s sister, Laura, almost to death. Lilly had acted out of acted out or cold financial self-interest, but Crank went after Laura for reasons that even Crank himself didn’t understand.
For a long time, Uncle Crank had been sampling the family’s product. Even if the family’s product had been apple juice, it would have been a bad idea to partake of the quantities that Uncle Crank consumed when he was in a mood to pop some meth or poke it. If you do enough methamphetamine, byproducts of phenyl-2-propanone, a chemical used in the manufacturing of the drug, begin to accumulate in your brain tissue, and if you’re as dedicated to amped-up recreation as Crank had been, eventually you’ll experience toxic psychosis, which is maybe less fun than being eaten alive by fire ants, though not a whole lot less.
When fuses started to blow out in Uncle Crank’s brain box, he tried to soothe his suddenly anxious soul and to settle his confusion by beating the hell out of someone. That was when twelve-year-old Laura rang the doorbell. Or perhaps she had rung the doorbell five minutes before the fuses blew, and Uncle Crank had invited his niece in for one of his justly famous lemon ice cream sodas, but then he’d succumbed to these maximum-bad whimwhams. Earlier, Lilly had taken the dog for a walk, and she hadn’t returned home until Uncle Crank had been pounding on Laura for a few minutes, first with his fists and then with a carved-mesquite statuette of Lady Luck that he had bought in a Las Vegas gift shop.
Lilly pulled Crank away from the girl and made him sit in an armchair. Perhaps only she could have subdued him so easily, because even during an episode of full-blown toxic psychosis, Uncle Crank was afraid of his wife.
Aunt Lilly’s brother — Noah’s dad — lived only a block away, and three minutes after receiving Lilly’s call, he was on her doorstep. His daughter was horribly beaten, unconscious, and possibly dying, and he wanted to call an ambulance, but he understood, as did Lilly, that they had to deal with Crank first. Uncle Crank was not as much a member of the family as he was a liability by marriage; even clean and sober and in charge of his faculties, if he found himself in a jam, he might sell them out to get a reduction of the charges against him. Now, meth-wrecked, mumbling, paranoid, delusional, alternately expressing anger at his niece’s imagined “snottiness” and weeping with remorse for what he’d done to her, he was likely to ruin all of them in his first five minutes with the police — without even realizing what he was doing.
Fortunately for the family, Uncle Crank committed suicide seven minutes later.
With his patient wife’s firm guidance, he wrote a heartfelt confession. Dear Laura, I am wasted on meth and some stuff. I did not know what I was doing. I am not a bad man. I am just an awful mess. Do not blame your sweet aunt for what I done. She is a good honest woman. I want her to buy you the biggest damn teddy bear of which she can find and give it from me. Love to you, Uncle Crank. In his derangement, he thought the note was going to be given to Laura in a get-well card.
The effort of putting these sentiments into words exhausted him, and by the time he signed his name, he phased from toxic-psychosis frenzy into a state of post-meth fatigue that meth freaks referred to as being “amped out.” In fact he was so thoroughly amped out that he couldn’t negotiate the stairs on his own and had to be supported by Lilly and by his brother-in-law on his way to the master bathroom on the second floor.