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“Does it have to do with that gash on your face?”
“That’s the tip of the iceberg.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
He made his way into the living room, where he plopped down in the center of the sofa, laid his head back on the cushion, and dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Jesus, what a mess.”
“Henry?” she asked with worry.
“Well, that, yeah. But not in particular tonight.”
She claimed the corner of the sofa and curled her legs up under her hips. “What’s going on?”
He lowered his hands and rolled his head to the side in order to look at her. Time and maturity had changed her features only slightly. She maintained the exotic—some called it bewitching—quality she’d had the first time he’d noticed her.
Fifth grade. Recess. She’d been standing off to one side of the playground, alone. She hadn’t been included in any of the horseplay or games. She hadn’t attempted to join any. She’d spent the entire twenty minutes of freedom looking confined, standing alongside the cyclone fence, shrinking against it any time another kid came near, as though afraid she would be noticed and challenged for taking up space.
Ledge had had his share of experience with that kind of social ostracism. He’d been the only kid in his grade who didn’t have at least one living parent. His uncle was raising him, and his “home” was the ell annex of a bar and pool hall. That had made him different, which meant he might just as well have had leprosy.
However, even at that age, he’d been tough enough, sizable enough, to pose a threat to the elementary school kingpins like Rusty Dyle.
But this girl with skinny legs and breasts just beginning to bud on her narrow chest appeared too timid to defend herself against a butterfly. His feelings of protectiveness began that day, although he hadn’t even known her name yet.
They were in different classrooms, but after that recess, he’d made it his business to find out that her name was Crystal Ivers. He’d kept an eye on her in the cafeteria and on the playground, ready to jump in if anybody bothered her.
No one did. She was ignored. Which in many ways was worse.
Then one windy day after dismissal, he’d spotted her chasing down the contents of her notebook, which she’d dropped on the sidewalk. He’d run to help. Between the two of them, they’d managed to collect all the scattered sheets of paper.
He’d walked over the ones he’d caught and handed them to her. She’d thanked him in a voice he could barely hear as she’d stuffed her schoolwork back into her notebook and, using both thin arms, secured it against her chest. Shyly, she’d met his gaze then given a furtive look around.
To begin a dialogue, he’d said, “You’re in Miss Henderson’s class.” Then he thought that was a dumb thing to say. Like she didn’t know whose class she was in. “My name’s Ledge. Ledge Burnet.”
She’d shot another quick look over her shoulder. “I’m not supposed to talk to boys.”
Then, like a flash, she’d taken off, walking hurriedly down the sidewalk still hugging her notebook. When she reached the corner, the passenger door of a parked maroon pickup swung open, and she’d climbed in.
Ledge hadn’t approached her again, although they were always aware of each other at school, never speaking but making brief eye contact any time their paths crossed.
He hadn’t been a member of the cool crowd commandeered by Rusty, but Henry had seen to it that he participated in sports and other school activities. He cultivated a small but tight circle of friends.
As he got older, he’d been much sought after by girls. His aloofness notwithstanding, and probably because of it, he’d been considered the catch of all catches. He enjoyed an enviable amount of action, but the choice of a partner was always his. No one girl had ever been able to label him “hers.”
By contrast, Crystal was a nonentity. She wasn’t a member of any school group, never attended a ball game, dance, or private party. Ledge never had understood why. Until the day he’d found out why. And on that day, he’d almost killed her stepbrother.
She always had possessed an uncanny ability to read him, and as she scrutinized him now, she said, “You’re strolling down memory lane, aren’t you?”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you’re wearing the same ferocious scowl that you were when you caught me hiding in the culvert.”
By then, they’d been sophomores in high school. During the intervening years, Crystal had turned into a beauty. She had a Native American gene somewhere in her ancestry that was manifested in her slanted hazel eyes and high cheekbones. Her breasts had filled out to a solid C. Her legs were no longer skinny, and she was no longer ignored. She had the attention of the male student population.
Ledge had overheard Rusty Dyle telling his cronies that he’d like to get his hands on the Ivers chick’s ass, which was the best one in school, bar none.
Ledge had wanted to clock him, but instead he had pretended not to have heard the remark. Any reaction from him would have been noticed and acted upon by Rusty, more than likely to Crystal’s detriment.
