Page 83 of Things I Read About
He carries me out another door through a hall that leads to the back alley. Then, we’re at the car. I guess I closed my eyes to try and stop the tears.
“Sally,” Nate’s voice is strained. “I need you to say something. Are you all right?”
“Y-you brought your gun.”
“Of course, I brought my gun, b—” He stops himself, drawing my attention. “But, I shouldn’t have pulled it on those two morons. Are you okay with me putting you in the car?”
“Yeah.”
He opens the door and sets me in the passenger seat, ever so slowly. He also fastens my seatbelt and reaches into the back producing a bottle of water for me.
“Drink some,” he says. I nod but he stares, waiting. He takes it back, unscrews the lid and then hands it to me again. I drink a few sips. “Good.”
It takes him a few seconds to close the door and walk around, climbing into the driver’s seat. I look over at his massive hands on the wheel. He’s shaking too.
“Nate?”
He looks over, almost terrified. “Yes? What? What is it?”
“You… you’re shaking, too?” I watch as he collects himself.
He grips the wheel, takes a few deep breaths and pushes his shoulders down. Then, he answers me. “Just adrenaline. I’m good.” He starts the car and pulls out but I’m still trembling badly.
And my stomach hasn’t settled.
And the scenery is blurring by so fast.
“Sal?”
“Will you talk to me?” I ask.
He makes some grunt sound.
“Please? Who died? Who was it?” He sighs, and my voice breaks. “Please.”
“All right,” he says softly. “I was a wild kid starting in elementary school. My family tried with me, they did, but my dad had left, and they all worked full time. So, I hung around with other street kids, and when I say street, I don’t mean suburbia.”
He pauses as he changes lanes and checks his mirrors multiple times.
“I was in sixth grade, and trying to buddy up with the big kids, high schoolers. Those kids were in actual gangs. So, I would go around to their hangouts, their usual spots. But”—he stops to swallow. “But I wasn’t alone. My cousin, Zachary, was three years younger. He followed me everywhere. One night I wanted to go to the corner store where the older kids would sit around and smoke, and I told him he couldn’t come with. And that time I really meant it. He told me he was going to play Halo with the neighbor and shrugged like he didn’t care." Nate swallows and checks all the mirrors again. "I even asked my neighbor if he’d really keep an eye on Zachary for me. He swore he would. But they both lied. They showed up together, and I could see Zachary was terrified.
“I should’ve just taken them home, but I was trying to be tough, trying to be cool or whatever stupid crap I thought.” He shakes his head, flexes his hands on the wheel and quickly finishes his story. “There was a drive-by that night. Zachary died.”
I gasp and reach out to touch him, but he straightens, erasing the pain from his expression.
“I went from wild, to out of control. I got in with the rival group, got obsessed with the idea of revenge, beat up anyone and everyone I could. Including the neighbor kid. And when I say beat up, I don’t mean a punch or two. It’s funny, the man who saved me wasactually a preacher from Kansas, I think?—maybe Arkansas—somewhere out here. But he actually kinda looked like your dad. He had a tiny church by my house. He noticed me, tried to get me to go to a service. Which I gave a very hard pass to, but I think he was the one who told the recruiter about me. My grandma begged me to get out of Boston so she wouldn’t lose another grandson. So, I went.”
His tone grows colder and colder as he talks. The adrenaline softened him for a minute, opened him up. Now, it seems like he might be mad at me for even asking.
“I went all in on the marines. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out I couldn’t protect Zachary, so I protected my country. Became the best. Obsessive. Protected assets, moved people, kept the good guys alive. Then, I got out but needed to keep protecting, so here I am.”
“Nate, I—”
“That sob story is to say; I am really, really good at my job. You weren’t out of my sight in that hall, even if Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum thought you were.”Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. John Byrom, 1725 making fun of the quarrel between composers Handel and Bononcini.
“I… I know it doesn’t help to hearI’m sorry, but I am. That is horrific.”
“It was,” he says, back to his flat tone, but he’s still flexing and relaxing his hands.
