Well, he thought. Well.
He smelled fresh-baked pie. From a back room-Stevie's room-came the throb of music. He started down the hall and stopped. He still didn't know what the hell he might say to his son.
Joan stepped over and said, "You don't look well. Your face, you've been fighting. Are you all right?"
"Yeah."
"Do you need something?"
"I don't know."
"Why are you here?"
He never expected her to ask why. All this time, he'd figured she'd just take him back, feed him meals, swab his wounds, talk his ear off until he hated her. She said, "Crease? Talk to me. What's happened? What's wrong?" She noticed the pants, where his blood had darkened them. "What's all over you?"
He stared into her eyes and he didn't hate her at all. It was a revelation of sorts.
"Who was that?" he asked.
"A friend."
"A friend," he repeated. "Your friend?"
"His name is Ken. He's very nice. He's a guidance counselor at Stevie's school."
So that's where she'd been until midnight after the parent-teacher meeting. And Crease had been telling Reb he was certain that Joan didn't have another man. Out of everything, why had he been so confident about that?
"Crease, why are you walking like that? Are you drunk? Are you sick? Did you throw up on yourself? Tell me what you want me to do."
"Nothing," he said.
"Then why are you here?"
"I want to see Stevie."
Her face hardened. She checked down the hall to see if their son's door was still closed. "I don't think that would be such a good idea."
Crease couldn't believe what he'd heard. "What?"
"Ken says that Stevie has a great deal of repressed rage towards you."
"It's not so repressed."
"All the more reason why, if you're serious about dealing with some issues, we should be in counseling."
He almost agreed. "Joan, I just want to see him for a minute, all right? Then I'll go."
"What do you want to say to him?"
"I won't know until I say it."
The roar of an engine broke the night, swarming the house until the windows rattled. The mad screech of tires tore up the street. Crease parted the blinds. Jesus Christ, it was the Bentley. Sure, if the tech kids could find him in Hangtree, they could find him here.
He had choices to make, and the sense that time was running out filled him with a flood of anxiety. Odd, when you thought about it, since Tucco was now dead. One war was over. Maybe it had been the easiest one to fight. This other one with himself just kept on going and going and would never come to an end.
"Who are those people outside?" Joan asked.
Crease turned and went for Stevie's room, but the door was open. His beautiful boy was standing there staring at him, saying nothing.
He walked to his son. Stevie was afraid and backed up, step by step until he was almost in the kitchen, scowling with his face turning red.
"Stevie?" Crease said. "I just want to talk to you for a minute, okay?"
The boy shook his head, not in response to his father's plea but as if he was trying to deaden noises in his skull. Crease had done it to the kid, passed over his problems. As far as he'd tried to keep away from him, he'd always been close enough to do the wrong thing. The expression on his face was something Crease couldn't put a name to. He knew of no word to cover it. He'd never seen it before, not on anyone. His heart beat savagely in his chest at the thought of what the boy must be going through. He took a step forward and the kid retreated. He took another step and Stevie continued to back away.
"When you were born," he said, "I thought I'd made good in the world. I'm sorry. I expected you to save me somehow. It was wrong of me to put that burden on you."
"Crease!" Joan called. "There are people running up the walk. Who are they? What trouble did you bring to my house?"
The question was, what trouble could he take away? He kept approaching his son and Stevie backed up into the kitchen.
The pie had needed to cool before Joan sliced it, but she must've thought of cutting up a piece for her new boyfriend. Crease could see the guy saying, No no, don't go to any trouble, as she scurried around the kitchen doing what she loved to do best. Treating other people kindly. Being a mother.
The knife was there on the counter and as Crease walked in Stevie went for it.
Knives, always with the knives.
Most people think of an eight-year-old as a baby. Little. Weak. But Stevie had some weight and real muscle to him already, and he was full of intent. He had a lot of rage built up inside him all right, his own fever burning. The kid was sweating. Crease tried to find something to say but everything that ran through his head sounded even more foolish than all the things he'd already said to his son.
Last time he'd tucked Stevie into bed the kid had a teddy bear propped in his arms. Teddy would lean over and look at the pictures with him. Crease would kiss Stevie goodnight and kiss Teddy goodnight too. The boy would giggle and tell him to kiss Teddy again, and Crease would.
Now, Teddy wanted blood, the kid had his vengeance to visit upon his father. The hardshell hadn't taken long to grow on him. How hard was it to read fairy tales to your baby boy? It ought to be natural. If you can blunder that you can blunder anything.
His thoughts were scattershot, winging all over. He thought of how much he had loved his own old man before the downfall. It should be worth something but it wasn't, not a thing. He had a lot to say to Stevie. Warnings, prophecies, suggestions. Guidance. Counsel, cautions, instructions.
He moved in and Stevie lashed out with the knife. The kid was fast. Crease barely got out of the way in time.
He tried again and Stevie tagged him good. The knife ripped through Morena's scarf and stuck into the same place where Tucco had shanked him.
The pain blew out the top of Crease's head.
He couldn't even scream, just let out a deep, choked up yelp. It was the kind of noise you made when your kid pretends to shoot you on the front lawn and you play dead for him.
His father had gutted him when he was a kid, and now his son had done the same thing. There was a nice balance to that, despite the agony. He couldn't help but feel like he deserved it, that the universe just wanted it this way.
Stevie thought he'd done all the damage himself and started to shriek as his father's blood poured onto the kitchen floor. Crease went down, first to one knee, then both. Then he flopped over onto his back.
He looked up at the ceiling and saw that it was stuccoed. He'd lived in the house for almost five years and never realized that.
He'd been wounded in the line of duty two, three times early in his career. It was one of the ways to advance, to collect the medals. He could take some heat, but Stevie had really put the bite on him. Blood and bile pulsed between his fingers as he tightened his hands over the wound.
He realized, with sudden, overdue clarity, that when Morena mentioned being pregnant he should've gone and just busted Tucco and returned home to Joan and Stevie. If for no other reason than to ask their forgiveness, to explain himself as best he could. He should've held his son and fought past the fever, reached the boy with quiet, honest words. Going back to Hangtree, it got him nothing, meant nothing in the end. Funny how you only recognize diversions for what they are when they're over, when you finally see how you've wasted your time.
Joan stepped into the kitchen and started screaming too. Behind her came Morena and Cruez. Joan turned and looked at them and started shouting. It was kind of funny, really, the two worlds colliding. Joan didn't think to call 911. She loved him but she loved being incapable and sorta ditsy even more. She ran in and started hugging Stevie, trying to put her hand over his eyes, the two of them howling. Maybe it should have made Crease feel cherished, but he just wanted them to shut the hell up. She dragged their son to the far side of the kitchen, as far away from Cruez as she could get, cringing from the man-monolith.