Aliens on Aventine Hill

A Good Kid [Part 9]

You didn't have to hit him.

Martin clenched his hands on the steering wheel as Rhea's voice ricocheted between his ears. The rain thundered down on the windshield and turned the road to a river, but for a moment, he closed his eyes and saw her—saw that awful expression of disappointment poison those pretty hazel eyes— "You didn't have to hit him, Martin."

That had been fifteen years ago. Remy had broken a shelf and every dish on it trying to climb up to the cookie jar. Martin had heard the crash and come running and given the boy a mild switching. Relatively mild, Rhea had corrected him, compared to what he had endured growing up. Their boy had snuffled all through dinner, cried himself to sleep, and Rhea had come back downstairs after tucking him in bed with that horrible look on her face and said to him:

You didn't have to hit him.

Martin gritted his teeth against the ache in his chest. He could still see his son standing there, no longer seven but twenty-two, and over and over on the back of his eyelids, he saw the car knock him backwards. That expression of horrified disbelief was stuck in his head.

You didn't have to hurt him.

He'd never meant to. All this had been for Remy's sake, hadn't it? Giving up the drink, coming back to this godawful town, it was all so he could charge back into that horrible, haunted house and save his poor, long-suffering son. He'd made so many grandiose plans to make up for all the missed milestones and deplorable disappointments. If Remy had just given him the chance, he would've fixed it. They could've been a perfect happy family, just the two of them.

And the deal he had made to do it? It had been too good to pass up. God knew he wouldn't have been able to do it on his own, not without their money, not without their intervention. It was a good deal. All they'd asked of him was to convince his son to leave Aventine. Really that was the heart of it. Just get him out of that goddamned house.

Everything about the monster living with him was absolutely secondary. Martin cursed under his breath. It had been a mistake to bring that up. If he'd just kept his mouth shut, then maybe...

Who was he kidding? His son had known him from the moment he'd walked in that door. The distrust and resentment on Remy's face... there was no overcoming something like that. His son had seen right down through all the pleasantries and saccharine smiles to those same crooked bones. No pancake breakfast, no awkward family dinner, no fat check could change those. No, Remy had known him and known him too well to trust his promises.

The Rambler jolted as the tire caught in a pothole and thrust Martin back into the present moment. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he pressed on the gas. This stupid car. It too had been an apology present; it too had failed to make up for his actions both to Rhea and to Remy. And now what was he doing?

If you can't convince him, they'd instructed him, strand him. He'd asked why. Their silence had been answer enough. His stomach twisted, and Martin saw his son's face contort with horror: You're one of them!

His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. It wasn't too late. He could turn the car around and go back, bang down that door and beg Remy to... to... Martin cursed under his breath and ducked his head:

"...the hell am I doing?"

He blinked, and he saw the car hit Remy.

What the hell did I do?

Something flashed in the dark. Martin froze as the headlights of the Rambler caught on the sheen of a sleek, black sedan parked across the road.

His foot slammed down on the brake, but the pavement was slick with rain. The tires slipped, and the Rambler hydroplaned. Panicking, Martin jerked the steering wheel. The rubber found traction, but too late and too fast and the Rambler tumbled into the ditch by the side of the road, suspension shrieking.