Between Lives - 4. Chapter 4

Awareness creeps over Will, stealing his unconscious oblivion. He decides against any energetic movement for the present, he's learned that lesson well enough, but does risk cracking one eye open. The lid peels up reluctantly, and though the world is brighter than he'd like, he sees only one of everything. A definite improvement from the distorted, double vision he remembers from the night before.

His stomach lurches, and he shuts his eye again with a weak groan. All he wants is to go back to sleep until the worst of the hangover is gone. Whiskey always makes him miserable the next day. One of the reasons he chooses it whenever he can, in all likelihood. His subconscious loves to punish him for his sins. To distract himself from the nausea, he concentrates on the bothersome thought swimming through his brain. There's a feeling he's forgetting something that, for once, he wants to remember. He curses the whisky again when the memory dances out of reach. But before he can slide back into the sweat-slicked sleep of a bad hangover, it returns.

He was drinking whisky because that kid, Nate, gave him money. This morning he's supposed to be back there at nine o'clock so they can play at being a family again.

He debates staying in bed anyway, but flashes on Sophie's smiling, hopeful face, and knows his conscience won't let him break his promise. Another pain stabbing through his head has him cursing his sudden moral fiber.

"Daddy's coming, Nate," he grunts as he rolls out of bed, doubling over with something between a cough and a laugh. He knows he's going to lose the battle with his stomach as soon as he stands, but it's an acceptable trade, since according to the clock on the stove he'll actually be somewhere on time for once. He stumbles into the bathroom and begins the painful process of putting himself back together.

***

Strange that finding a smile for some scared, belligerent-looking kid isn't difficult. Will stubs his cigarette out under his shoe and grins when Nate pulls the front door open.

Nate watches dispassionately as Will scrubs at the butt with his toe, then crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe. He doesn't invite Will inside. "Glad you could make it," he says in a cold voice.

Will shrugs. "A deal's a deal. You said nine o'clock." He winks. "Only a couple of minutes late, right?"

"Actually, you're one day and a couple of minutes late." Nate's fingers pinch into the skin of his arms. "Today's Tuesday. You were supposed to be here on Monday."

What does it say about how far he's fallen, that he can't work up a good dose of mortification? Nate surely knows what happened, and even if Will can't remember the details, he has a rough idea himself. Still, he broke a promise, and he suspects Nate isn't going to forgive him very easily, if at all.

Now that's upsetting.

Will pastes on a tight smile and tries to diffuse the tension. "Sorry about that. Time flies when you're having fun, right?"

"I wouldn't know."

Bitter enough to sour sugar cane. Did the kid even know how to smile? "Well, I'm here now. Do you still want to do this?"

Nate works his jaw back and forth, and Will can see how badly he wants to say no. He won't. Will's sure of it, because the entire charade is for Sophie's benefit, and where his sister is concerned, Nate's own wants and needs come second.

He examines Nate while the kid pretends to think about it, takes in the too-thin frame, the pasty complexion, the wary eyes, and suddenly he wants to turn, get back on the bus, go home, and get as drunk as he can. Nate represents everything he wants to forget from his previous life. He's the professional and personal failures both. A living, breathing reminder of what he's lost. His feet actually twitch with the desire to run.

Then Nate shifts and sighs. "Yeah, I guess. If you still want to." He steps aside and makes a choppy motion for Will to enter.

He almost doesn't. The usual parade of excuses, pathetic as they are, rush to his lips, but Sophie's appearance silences them.

"Oh!" she cries, slipping around Nate and throwing herself at Will. "You came! Nate said you weren't going to."

He scoops her up in his arms, but only holds her for a second before setting her down and away. She's determined to get under his skin, but by the look on Nate's face, that particular idea doesn’t sit well with her brother. "I said I'd be here," he tells her. He ruffles her hair. "Sorry I couldn't come yesterday."

Nate makes a disgusted grunt, but Will ignores it. To his amusement, so does Sophie. "It's okay. You're here now. I really want to see my new school."

Will smirks. "You like school that much, do you?"

"Yes!" Sophie bounces on her toes. "I'm going to be the smartest person in the whole country. I'm going to write books and Nate is going to take pictures for them."

"Is he now?" Will's eyes slide to Nate, expecting to find him angry, and is instead amused to see embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

"Stop it, Soph," he mumbles.

"Well, you are." She sticks out her tongue at her brother, and Will smothers a laugh. Fickle little creature.

They wait in the living room while Sophie gets ready. Nate seems agitated, keeps glancing at his watch, and Will stifles yet another smile. "Better get used to it. It's only going to get worse the older she gets."

Nate opens his mouth, closes it, then frowns at his scuffed sneakers some more. Will would bet his last five bucks the kids wants to call him on where he gets his knowledge. The fact that he doesn't is curious. So far, Nate's behavior has been a mix of good manners and somber pugnacity. An interesting combination. Will can't help but wonder what created it.

Sophie bounds into the room, slides to a halt in front of Nate, and spreads her arms for his approval. "Is this shirt okay? It's the nicest of the three, don't you think?" Her smile falters, dipping one corner of her mouth into a frown, and in that moment, Will sees just how much of Sophie's optimism is for her brother's benefit.

Nate pulls her into a hug. "It's perfect."

When her smile returns to its full brilliance, Will stands, embarrassed to be a voyeur to what is obviously an intimate moment between them, even if they don't recognize it as such. "Are you ready? We wouldn't want Sophie to be late on her first day."

Sophie squeals her approval and runs to the door. Will examines her threadbare pink t-shirt as she passes, sober-sharp eyes taking in the hole under the left arm that someone has clumsily sewn up, the tattered hem, and the faded stain across the back. Her jeans are holding together better, though just barely. He's jarred from his inspection when Sophie tugs on his hand. "Come on. Come on!"

The elementary school is four blocks away, an easy walk. Nate's new neighbors make it a point to greet them as they pass, and by the time they've reached the second corner, Will has waved at over a dozen people, exchanged pleasantries with several others, and is holding a bag of molasses cookies and a recipe for tuna casserole (complete with sample, still hot, in a small Tupperware container). Nate cradles a fledgling tomato plant under his arm and has three coupons in his pocket for free ice cream from the local Dairy Queen.

It's a phenomenon of human nature that Will has never fully understood: the less people have, the more they seem inclined to share. He spent the first eighteen years of his life witnessing it first hand, the next twelve forgetting it. These past five years haven't been about what's learned and lost, but rather survival. They've been about lying back on his pillow each night and repeating over and over that he wants to wake up in the morning. How well he convinces himself is usually a measure of how much liquor he has to drown the memories in. Luckily, he's just as much a failure at killing himself as he is at other things. Most days, he's thankful for that.

Sophie's in her element, laughing and performing, endearing herself to her new neighbors. She steals the show – a fortunate thing, since Nate looks at everyone with open suspicion. His manners are impeccable and his thank-you's sincere, but there's very little about him that Will would call friendly.

Clues that they're nearing the school begin to appear: a bike rack, a drug-free school zone sign, and down the street, he can hear the yells and screams of kids at play. All of a sudden, the gravity of what he's about to do hits him, and his steps falter. Nate notices immediately. He stops and takes Sophie's hand. "What's wrong?"

Will looks at Sophie, but she's turned the other way, straining to see down the block and around the corner, following the siren call of other children. "Nothing, it's just—" He swipes at the perspiration on his upper lip. "Nate, are you sure about this?"

Nate's jaw tightens. "Yes, very sure. Sophie needs to go to school."

"But, you're a . . ." Will lowers his voice and leans close. Nate doesn't lean forward. His eyes narrow, and he bites his lip. "You're a runaway, right?" Will asks under his breath. "How do you expect to pull this off?"

"I've got it covered. If you can do your part, I can do mine." Nate swallows hard, his first sign of nervousness. "You can do you part, can't you?"

Now Sophie is looking at him, eyes wide and questioning. Will focuses on Nate and forges ahead. "Listen, kid. Whatever happened . . . is it worth all this? Maybe if you try talking to your mom—"

"Mommy's dead," Sophie supplies in a small voice.

"Oh." Will shuts his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry."

Neither Sophie or Nate reply, and he opens his eyes to find them both staring at him. Sophie's mouth is parted, her chest is rising and falling rapidly. Her knuckles are white from clutching her brother's hand. Nate is everything Will remembers from their first meeting. He's tense and terrified, defiant and intense. His arm is tight around Sophie's shoulders.

"I just . . . your father, then? Is your father alive?"

Still nobody speaks. Eventually, Nate nods.

"Why don't you call him?"

Sophie winces, and he knows he should stop. Just stop talking, walk into the school, tell his lies, and never bring it up again, but he can't. He has to know before he puts himself in potentially serious trouble. "Have you considered calling him? Just to try to work things out. Sometimes, once you have some time to reflect, things aren't as bad as they seem."

The silence continues for several more seconds before it's interrupted by a quiet sob. Will glances down, and the betrayal in Sophie's eyes cuts through him like a knife. Nate's gone from pale to a flushed, angry red. He lifts Sophie into his arms, and she buries her face in his neck. Her sobs, even muffled, increase in volume.

Hesitant, Will reaches to touch her, but Nate backs away. "This was a mistake," he whispers, clutching Sophie close. He plunges a hand into his front pocket and retrieves a small wad of money. "Here," he says, thrusting it at Will, before spinning and walking back the way they came.

Will stares at the money for a second, then growls in frustration. In two long strides, he catches up with Nate and grabs his arm. "Wait! God damn it, Nate. Just wait a minute." Nate stops, but Will can feel his whole frame shaking under his grip. "I had to ask," Will says. It's as good an explanation as any, and has the added benefit of being the truth. "You've got to understand that. I had to ask."

Nate does understand, Will sees. His glare isn't heated so much as resigned, and it matches the sullen tone of his voice. "I know. Thanks anyway."

When he tries to pull away a second time, Will holds fast, marveling as always at the boy's nod to proper etiquette. He now comprehends, at the very least, that running away from home – from their father – wasn't some halfhearted attention-seeking behavior. The details he doesn't know, and God help him, he's not sure he wants to. A fair bit of his defunct career had hinged on his ability to spot lies and half-truths, and he senses none of those here. He'd been good at reading people before, not so much now, but he still trusts his instincts.

He loosens his vise-like grip, but keeps a firm hold on Nate's arm. "Let me help you."

"We don't need him." Nate's voice is harsh, brittle.

"I hear you."

"I don't want to talk about him."

"That's fine. Now what do you say we get your sister to school." He sees how his suggestion puts a ghost of a smile on Sophie's face. "Are you still up for it, young lady?"
Sophie nods, and Will hates the new tentativeness in the gesture, despises the fresh pain in her eyes. "It's going to be fine," he says, voice level and calm. "Just fine." He takes her hand as he speaks, squeezes her tiny fingers in his. He wants to tell her she'll make lots of new friends, that she'll love her teachers, that she will be the smartest person in the country one day. But even if much of that has the potential to come true, he refuses to make a liar of himself in case it doesn't.

Nonplussed, he realizes that earning this child's trust is suddenly more important than when he'll have his next drink. The idea is so disconcerting that he tries to release Sophie's hand, but she clings to him. Will sighs and waits for Nate's reprimand. It never comes. In fact, Nate doesn't even see them holding hands, because his arms are wrapped around his waist in a tight hug, and his head is bowed forward. He inches closer to Will's side, feet scuffling across the pavement, and that's when Will understands – his words of comfort, meant for Sophie, affected her brother just as much.

Prepared for rejection, he takes a deep breath and places a hand on Nate's shoulder. He expects quite a few things, Nate pulling away in disgust tops the list, but again the kid surprises him. He leans into Will's touch for the barest breath of time, then mutters, "Okay."

"Okay," Will repeats, awed. It's as close to a promise that he's able to give.

Nate draws a shuddering breath, then steps away. Will keeps Sophie's hand in his, thumb stroking over her palm, while Nate pulls a tattered stack of papers from his back pocket. He hands it to Will. "Sophie's transcripts," he explains when Will raises an eyebrow.

Will takes it without comment, and, even though Nate hasn't given him permission, unfolds it and examines the top page. Sophia Rhodes is typed across the top and also Official Academic Transcript. Printed on quality stock and stamped by a notary, it looks authentic. Will doubts it'll be questioned – even with nothing typed under the section titled Previous School, Name and Address. "There's not much information here."

"There shouldn't be. She's only done the first grade."

"Are these her real medical records?"

"She's had her vaccinations. All of them."

"Is any of this real?" Will asks.

"The straight A's are real." Nate shoots a proud look at his sister.

An answer that's no answer. Except it is, of course. The "transcript" is as fake as the name Rhodes. The lengths to which Nate has gone to ensure their successful escape grow clearer by the minute. Fascinated, Will pledges to wring the story from him one day.

"You didn't leave in a hurry, did you?" Will refolds the papers and puts them in his own pocket.

"We did leave in a hurry. We just didn't leave unprepared."

Which leads to something else Will's been wondering about. "That explains all that cash you're carrying."

Indignation flashes across Nate's face. Now he does extract Sophie's hand from Will's. He takes it in his own and starts walking toward the school. "It's ours. My mom left it to us. I didn't steal it, if that's what you're implying," he says out the corner of his mouth.

Will matches Nate's stride, keeping Sophie between them. "I wasn't implying anything. Just making an observation."

Nate doesn't reply, and Will lets the subject drop. A half a block further on, the school comes into view. Embracing a child's beautiful ability to live in the moment, Sophie rushes ahead. Nate moves as if to stop her, then pulls back at the last second, though Will can see it's an effort to deny his protective nature.

"She'll be okay," Will says. "We're right here."

"I know."

They stop at the entrance to the schoolyard and watch Sophie join the tide of children rushing around the playground equipment. In less than a minute, she's gained a small, giggling entourage.

Nate snorts. "It's always been so easy for her."

Will can't help but chuckle. "I never really fit in myself. Too interested in detective novels and crime dramas." He pretends not to see how this startles Nate.

"Me either," Nate replies after several moments. "But, I mean, I'm not into detective stories."

"No? What then?"

They watch Sophie take the lead in a game of hide-and-seek. "Photography," Nate says. "It's really the only thing I like. Right now, anyway."

"Single-minded." Will nods. "I've been that way all my life."

"With detective stories?"

"With the law in general."

Will expects his admission to alarm the kid – he's on the run, after all – and he isn't disappointed. Flustered, Nate tries to cover up his sudden anxiety. "Always the law, huh? Not sports or girls?"

Will's laugh carries far enough across the schoolyard to catch Sophie's attention. She turns and waves and they both wave back. "No," Will says, trying to rein in his amusement. "Definitely not girls." He glances sideways at Nate. "Pretty much like you, I'm thinking."

He says it to put Nate at ease, to let him know it's a non-issue, but even before the words have fully left his mouth, he sees the kid tense up. "Hey. It's okay. I only meant—"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nate says in a rush.

Instinct tells him differently, but Will doesn't push. Begrudging Nate his lies and self-delusion, especially about this, would be hypocritical in the extreme.

"My mistake." He straightens with a sigh. "Ready?"

Nate answers by walking past Will into the schoolyard.

***

It's far easier than it should be. A system designed for the protection of children should have a better set of checks and balances, but his anger at the school's administration for their lackadaisical inspection of Sophie's transcripts and perfunctory questions of her previous education doesn't last. He's relieved when it's over and nary a suspicion has been raised.

Sophie hugs them both outside the principal's office and even remembers to call Will "Dad", a detail he knows Nate didn't remind her of. The fact that a six year old should be so finely attuned to deception leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

"Be a good girl," he says. "Have fun." He smoothes the hair on her head, then tickles her chin.

"Will you be here to pick me up?"

Beside him, Nate gives a start. Will's just as surprised, he's simply more accustomed to hiding it. "I can't. I have to work. But Nate will be here right on time, okay?"

"Okay," she says, not fully hiding her pout. "But I really wanted you to come."

Will nods, starts to reassure her, and without warning the memories split open in his head. The smell of fresh paper, the ring of slamming lockers, the way Sophie hangs her head, dejected, even as her foot is tapping excitedly against the scuffed linoleum. Six years fall away. He sees himself kneeling in front of another child, and he wants to know, both then and now, how so many things can stay the same when others change in the span of a heartbeat.

I can't be here. I have to work, but Mommy will pick you up.

Okay. But I really wanted you to come.

Oblivious to Will's sudden distress, Sophie turns and follows the principal down the hall. Her short foray into playground politics that morning earns her cheerful waves from many of her classmates.

Head still pounding, Will turns to Nate, but what he sees makes him beat down his own discomfort and memories. The skin around Nate's mouth has taken on a grayish cast, and even buried in his pockets, his hands have a noticeable shake. Will takes his elbow and steers him out the door. "Don't worry. She's going to be fine. Come on."

Nate nods, but his breathing is erratic, his steps unsteady. Will's platitudes are falling on deaf ears. Time for a change of tactics. He stops on the sidewalk and fishes out a cigarette. For once, his own hands are perfectly steady. "That money you have won't last forever," he says, erasing every bit of friendliness from his tone.

It's cruel, but if forcing Nate to focus on his other worries eases his panic over leaving Sophie, then so be it.

Nate's gaze becomes less vague, and his eyes spark. "I know that. I’m not stupid."

Truer words, to be sure. That the boy has come this far speaks volumes for his intelligence and wherewithal.

"I'm going to get a job," Nate mumbles as they begin walking back toward the house.

No surprise there. Will nods and drags on his cigarette. He keeps his voice gruff. "Is that a fact? And what do you plan to do?" Without a high school diploma, he wants to add, because there's no way the kid's over sixteen.

"None of your business."

Will digests this in silence, and a minute later, Nate amends his answer. "I don't know. Take pictures, maybe? People get paid for that sometimes."

He says it so wistfully that Will's heart, freshly unearthed these past two days, breaks a little. "Sometimes they do," he says, because he can't bear not to.

They turn the corner, and this time it's Nate who slows, then stops. He digs in his pocket for the money that Will shoved back at him earlier and holds it out. "Thanks for your help."

Will lifts the cigarette to his lips. It's down to the butt now, and the smoke swirls around his face, stinging his eyes. One strong drag pulls the flame to the tips of his fingers, and he grimaces at the burn. Concentrates on it. "No, thanks," he says on the exhale. "Keep it."

Tired eyes turn curious, then suspicious. "Why? You earned it." Nate steps forward. His hand holding the money brushes Will's chest. "Take it."

"I said no thanks. Jesus." Will flicks the butt into a storm drain.

For the first time since they've met, Nate falters. "I don't understand."

"No, I don't suppose you would. Listen . . . ." Will starts walking again, jerks his head for Nate to follow. "I don't want your money. But you can do something else for me."

He's a dozen steps further on before he realizes he's alone. Confused, he looks back. "Nate?"

"Something? Like what, exactly?" Nate utters, his lips barely moving.

It takes Will a moment to catch up. He's not as sharp as he used to be. Several more seconds pass before he recovers from the flashes of shock, embarrassment, and anger. "I was going to ask you to buy some new clothes for Sophie," he answers, voice hollow. "Christ, what did you—?"

They stare at each other across a vast canyon of misunderstanding until Nate walks forward, hand still outstretched. "Just take it," he says. The cash flaps in the wind, slapping against his fingers. "Just please take it."

Feeling sick, Will does.

***

He'd always thought it was a myth, how money burned a hole in your pocket, but now he has his proof. The wad of bills Nate gave him makes the skin underneath his jeans itch.

Marty isn't sitting in the plastic shelter when Will steps off the bus. Neither is he standing in line with the rest of the people at the temp agency. Will scowls, disappointed. He has big plans for Nate's cash, and sharing a hot meal with a friend was going to be the first order of business. Plus, if he spends the money now, when his stomach needs it more than his head and heart, it can count among the day's few victories.

But Marty is nowhere in sight, and the idea of eating alone holds no appeal. Instead, still feeling strong and in control, he gets in line outside the agency. There are twenty people ahead of him, each more dejected than the last, but he ignores their beaten-down posture, tucks his shirt into his jeans, and stands straight and tall.

He lasts twenty minutes.

It's a warm day, probably the last they'll see for some time, and soon he's licking his lips over and over, craving something wet. A gentle tap on his shoulder is his undoing.

"William," a voice drawls.

Will doesn't need to turn; he knows who's behind him. He steels himself for the exchange. "Steven."

"The one and only."

"Don't usually see you around on a Tuesday. Slumming?"

Steve laughs, a sound that usually heightens Will's anticipation. It's low, throaty, and goes with his rugged good looks. Why Steve bothers with Will is a mystery; he's open about drunks not being his thing. Except on Friday nights in the back stall of the toilet at Rick's, though he doesn't advertise that part.

"I like slumming."

"No shit."

"I like you."

When it suits him. Which is such a petty, adolescent thought that Will wonders if spending so much time with Nate and his naïve, sentimental ideals is such a good plan. One thing's for sure, he's not up to being used any more today, and that's what's on offer.

Steve moves closer, too close, and Will's eyes dart from side to side, but nobody is paying attention. Steve steps around him and takes a good look at Will's dark blue jeans and red polo – clean and wrinkle-free, for Sophie. He gives a low whistle. "You, my friend, are looking good this morning."

Will clenches his teeth when a finger trails down his back. It's gone before he can jerk away. "Thanks."

"Special occasion?"

"Not really." The line moves. He slides forward two steps and breathes a bit easier.

Steve's mouth is suddenly next to his ear. "Hot date?" he asks, voice low.

Will elbows him away with an ungentle shove. "Back off," he hisses. "We're in the middle of the goddamn street."

"Hey." Steve spreads his hands and tries to look innocent. "Relax." He catches the sleeve of Will's shirt. "Come on. Screw the job hunt for one day. Let's go back to mine. Catch the game?" The tone is so lecherous, Will rolls his eyes.

It's tempting. Christ, it's tempting.

"Not today." Will spins back around to find the line has moved. He shuffles forward three steps. The sun makes the air feel like it's a thousand degrees, and he has to squint to see anything through the glare. The door to the temp agency might as well be a mile away.

"Okay, okay. I can take a hint. Sorry, man. Can't blame a guy for looking for a little comfort."

The man in front of him moves forward and Will takes another step. "Look elsewhere."

"Okay." But Steve doesn't leave. Will feels a stab of apprehension; he knows what's coming next. Dreading it, he steps out of line and starts to walk away, but Steve's voice catches him, holds him frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. "How 'bout a drink then? Come on, Will. I'll get the first round."

His mouth waters. The money is like a living thing in his pocket, clawing its way to freedom.

"Rick's opened a few minutes ago. Dollar buds every Tuesday, right?"

"That's right," Will hears himself say. "Every Tuesday."

Then he's walking, one foot in front of the other, down the street toward Rick's, feeling like a puppet on a string and not caring one fucking bit. Steve falls into step next to him, whistling, and Will doesn't say a word.