Page 83 of Beneath the Stain
“Food, clothes, rent,” Trav said. When he’d been a kid, those things were words. When Mackey was a kid, that stuff was not guaranteed. Ever.
“Yeah,” she said, conceding. “But this last year, Cheever’s been in special school, and I visit for dinner and volunteer, and it hits me, how much I’ve missed. How much I wanted to see but couldn’t.” Her voice wobbled a little, broke, but came back swinging. “I should at least be there for this, you think?”
God. These people were going to undo him. “I think Mackey would really like that,” he said. “Do you have an e-mail, ma’am? I can send you—”
“Not really,” she interrupted, and he blinked. “I mean, I didn’t have one before the boys bought the house, and I just didn’t seem to need one now. The phone was enough, you know? But the boys never call anyway.”
Trav glared at Kell, who shrugged uncomfortably and said, “Yeah, I know that look. Kell fucked up again.”
Trav hit Mute. “Damned straight. I’ve got some chores foryouguys in the next few days.” Then he hit it again. “Ms. Sanders, if you can text me your name and birthday and that of your youngest son, I can have two plane tickets waiting for you at the kiosk of Sac Metro. All you’ll have to do is put in your ATM card and the kiosk will walk you through.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding a little overwhelmed. “But you don’t need to get one for Cheever. He’s had me to himself for a year. He can stay at the boarding school over the weekend—I can come down and see my boys.”
Oh Lord. Trav closed his eyes and thought of how desperately these kids had needed parenting over the past year. And how badly he didnotwant to be Mackey Sanders’s daddy. “I think that would be anawesomeidea. Would you like me to send a car?”
“I can drive myself,” she said proudly. “The boys got me a real nice SUV for Christmas. Grant Adams delivered it last year on Christmas day.”
Trav took a deep breath. Of course he had. Jesus, this town sounded like a speck of wormshit on a soiled map, but it sure did seem to be eating upTrav’slife, and he hadn’t even visited. “Well, good, ma’am.” He grimaced. During the conversation, the shrill, staccato “brrring!” of text messages received on his own phone had punctuated his every sentence. “You text me that information and I’ll arrange your travel. Kell’s going to give you my number if you need it, okay?”
“Yes, sir—thank you so much.”
Trav’s voice softened. “Any time, ma’am. You call meanytime. I’m their manager, and my job is to make the things happen in their life that make it easier for them to do their jobs. Making sure you get to visit is part of that.”
“I didn’t know,” she murmured, her voice wobbling.
Trav let a lot of rage out on his next breath. “Neither did they. Your kids had a lot to learn, Ms. Sanders. I think they’re finally getting the hang of things.”
He handed the phone back to Kell and picked up his own. He ignored all of the freaking-out crap Mackey had sent—stuff likeTalk to me, asshole!andRot in hell if you’re not going to text me back!—and punched in his own beef with the world.
You didn’t call your mother for a year?
Silence. Then, when Trav was about to text again:She was always so busy.We never wanted to bother her when shit got real. She knew when I got into fights, but if I could keep a lid on it, she didn’t know about the assholes and the way Kell and Grant stepped in. She didn’t know about Stevie’s dad. We just didn’t tell her shit, so she could keep functioning. Got to be a habit.
Trav groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands.Should I worry about Stevie and Jefferson?he asked.
Mackey’s next text reassured him.Man, you’re asking the junkie fuckup in rehab. Ask them—Jefferson will tell you the truth. Might make you work for it, but he’ll tell you. So what about my mom?
She’s coming on Sunday. She really loves you.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Thanks, Trav. I’m grateful.
That wasn’t good enough. Trav wandered out of the living room and up the stairs, hitting Mackey’s phone number on the way.
“You’re calling again? Really? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the whole texting thing?” The words sounded sharp, but Trav heard Mackey’s voice, choked and full, and he sighed.
“I needed to hear how you sounded.”
“I sound like a big oozy hole. People pour in ‘how you doing’ and I pour out tears and bullshit. Am I putting a cap on the whole rehab experience for you?”
“You know, the worse it hurts, the less likely you are to need to go back.”
“That’s really fucking profound, Trav. Can I quote you when they build me my own goddamned suite?”
