She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,100

someone would come along to replenish their stash and collect the proceeds. Somehow, they recognized me as some kind of threat. More than one pulled back a shirt or a coat to show me the butt of a gun or a knife. I found myself smiling at these guys, hoping they would pull their little weapon, hoping they would take a shot, wondering if it would even kill me if they did.

The sun was long gone by the time I found myself back on Brownsville Road. I didn’t go home, though, not right away. Instead, I pushed through the doors of Mike’s Package Liquor and Beer and bought a bottle of something called Jameson. Being underage, the clerk wouldn’t sell it to me at retail, but I quickly learned $100 in cash would buy just about any bottle in that particular store.

Back in my apartment, I didn’t turn on the lights, I didn’t take off my shoes. I dropped down into Auntie Jo’s favorite chair, twisted open the bottle, and drank. I kept drinking until I could no longer see the outline of Gerdy’s discarded dress lying on the floor, just outside my bedroom door.

I didn’t like the taste of Jameson at first, but it grows on you. It settles in like a warm blanket on the coldest winter night.

Representatives of Brentwood High School called a lot that week, but I didn’t answer. When they couldn’t reach anyone at my apartment, they tried Ms. Leech across the hall. She told them I left for school, she said she packed me a lunch—ham and cheese on whole wheat. She told them I was probably there somewhere and some teacher fumbled the attendance, bunch of idiots in that building. They called Dewitt Matteo next, and he told them I wouldn’t be returning for the final weeks of my junior year, but I would be back in the fall. He told them I would make up any necessary work at that time. The phone calls stopped after that.

Some time in July, there was a knock at my door.

It was Dunk.

I didn’t answer.

Matteo told me he hadn’t been charged, not with anything. Not a damn thing. Dunk had traded his hospital bed for a wheelchair, with hopes of trading the chair for crutches. He didn’t move back into his apartment, he didn’t go back to Brentwood High School, either. I’m not sure where he went, and I didn’t care.

The next knock at my door wouldn’t come until two months later, July 29. I probably shouldn’t have answered that one either.

Log 07/29/1993—

Subject “D” within expected parameters.

Audio/video recording.

“Why is the phone in there?”

Warren glanced up from his clipboard and shrugged. “Somebody must have figured it was easier to leave it in the room. He can’t dial from in there. The line is dead, unless we activate it.”

“Did they put him on a call today?”

“Two, just this morning.”

“Are there more scheduled?” Carl asked.

“Dunno. Probably.”

“He’s got a newspaper in there, too.”

“He’s been asking for newspapers a lot lately. I guess the doc caved. He’s read every book under the sun, doesn’t get to watch television, I don’t see any harm in him reading the paper,” Warren said.

“And the doc gave it to him?”

“Yeah, the doc.”

“Not you?”

“I wouldn’t go in there. That would be crazy.”

—Charter Observation Team – 309

9

I was in bed, when the incessant pounding at the door began.

At first, just a light tap.

Polite.

Noninvasive.

I imagine the knocking started well before the sound worked through my alcohol-fueled slumber and the pillow over my head. By the time I heard the racket, the knocker had established a rhythm they felt comfortable continuing for a while.

About three weeks prior, I took a cue from Elfrieda Leech and taped aluminum foil over my bedroom windows, yet somehow the sunlight still managed to find a way around the edges with enough ferocity to cut at my eyes. I managed a squint before closing my eyes again.

“Open the door, Jack!”

The added dynamic of words containing my name brought my needle closer to awake than asleep, and I tried to place the voice.

Male. Familiar, yet not.

Eyes still shut, I crawled off the bed, planted my feet on the floor, and sat there a moment, my hands rubbing my face. I had a steady knock happening in my skull, too.

I stood and started across the room, nearly tumbling as I tangled in the bedspread on the floor. I must have kicked the down comforter off the bed last night or the night before or the night