Chapter 10

© Copyright 2006 by Elizabeth Delayne



Dusty was alone on the back porch when Julie found him an hour later. She placed a hand on his arm to let him know about her presence, then sat on the step beside him.

What’s wrong?

He shrugged and stared down at his hands. They were empty. No action figure, no game, no ball. Just empty hands and silence for his thoughts to fester. She touched his shoulder, brought his attention back.

You miss New York?

He shook his head.

Tell me. I’m Julie. Your friend.

Nicole... she ....

Julie’s stomach rolled. Was there something Dusty knew, that he was afraid to say?

What about Nicole?

For a moment, Dusty stared at his hands–as loss of what to say, or if he should say it. My father hurt Nicole. She used to play. She used to smile. I hug her, I hurt her.

That doesn’t make you like him, Dusty. She hurts when you hug her because she is hurt. And she’s healing.

Is she? She sleeps all the time.

Nicole has to if she’s going to get better, Julie put a hand to his arm when he started to turn away. As relieved as she was that Nicole was still in the clear, didn’t mean he was any less upset. Healing the body takes time. You’re going to have to give the healing, the medicine time. Give Nicole time. Give Jason time. Who knows? You have never had things set up this way. Things could be better then before.

Dusty looked out at the wide open back yard, and she could tell he didn’t see it that way. He missed the city–the noise and the movement. He could get on a bus and see the world; museums, libraries, glitz, glam and poverty.

He wasn’t the only one who missed the city.

This time it was Dusty who drew her attention.

Did they catch him?

Your father?

Dusty nodded, Julie shook her head.

Dusty, you have a big brother in there that’s willing to do what it takes for you. Do you know how many kids don’t even have that?

He doesn’t want me here.

He brought you here. Paid a ticket for the plane for both of us, gave you a big, clean ... nice room.

Because Nicole asked him to.

Maybe, and maybe he did it for himself. Don’t you think if he loves Nicole that much, he has to love you as well? You’re not giving him much of a chance. What are you going to do when I leave?

You could stay. Be my friend here.

His gaze was so earnest, so needy, that Julie froze. Then he threw himself at her and wrapped his arms around her.

She drew in a deep, shaky breath.

She was in too deep. It was time to change things around.

Because suddenly she wanted to stay.

* * *

Jason was back in his study when Julie walked in. His desk was neat, clear of paper work except for a few sheets lying dormant on the ink blotter. His computer screen was on beside him, but he’d been doing little more than reading–playing with the idea of work.

Julie shut the door at her back, her gaze deep and direct.

“Dusty’s getting too attached. You’re going to have to do something.”

“What do you mean by too attached?”

“He’s clinging to me. He’s redirecting what he wants so he can find it.

“I don’t know what to do,” he looked back at the computer, where he had once again pulled up the letter from the school of the deaf. “I don’t know how to give him what he needs.”

“He needs you.”

“He doesn’t want me.”

“He wants somebody and he’s willing to substitute me.”

“I don’t even know how to talk to him.”

“You were a ten year old boy once,” she challenged. “Out of all the people who are living in this house, you are the one who knows best how to communicate with him.”

“How?”

She opened the door behind her. “You got this house and everything in it on your own because you wanted it bad enough. Redirect the energy that made you a success and earned you the people of this town’s respect. Nothing’s going to happen when you’re moping alone in here and he’s moping alone out there. I’m out for a bit.”

And she shut the door behind her.

Left in the silence, Jason turned to the computer screen. He stared at the email.

I don’t know what to do.

But Julie was right. It was time he did something.



A few minutes later he walked out on the porch to find Dusty alone with a pocket game system. He sat down on the porch step and waited.

Dusty kept his eyes focused on the game.

For a moment Jason just sat and watched him. He was a tousled-haired kid with his defenses up–a stranger and yet reminiscent of the things back on the block. He’d been so small as a baby, so ery tiny and vulnerable.

As vulnerable as Jason felt.

Jason hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye when he’d escaped. He’d had to take that step.

Ten years had passed. Jason wondered if there had been birthday parties. How many boys Dusty’s age had been on the block? Most, Jason remembered, were older. Even Nicole had few friends her age in the neighborhood.

What had been his favorite toy? Where had he learned to walk? Had he grown up in the old neighborhood around the same people, walking through the Italian scents and talk and language that spurted down the old apartment steps?

When had he become deaf? Would he have even heard the spurts of Italian rolling around him? Known the brisk and vibrant life that was part of his roots, part of his heritage.

Dusty had Joe Rossi in him. He couldn’t help that. But he also had Amelia ... all the good that humanity could offer ... inside of him.



Jason finally reached out, put a hand to his shoulder. Before he’d come out, he’d practiced the signs.

Dusty looked up–his face a mask of annoyance. It was like looking back into a mirror.

We need to have a talk. Man to man.

When Dusty sighed something quick and foreign, Jason produced the tablet and pencil he’d brought out with him. He handed it to Dusty.

The kid stared at the pencil before reluctantly taking it. He stared at the blank page for a moment before he began to write with his left hand. He struggled with the pencil and paper, proving Nicole right. He was behind in his writing.

You don’t know how to talk to me. You don’t care.

Give me a break. Jason signed, then produced his own tablet. We’re talking now. I’ll make you a deal.

Dusty’s look was doubtful.

You need to be in school.

So? This, Dusty communicated with a shrug of his shoulders–but Jason understood the mood, he understood the fear and desire and ... well, the lack of desire.

Here. I wrote this out in advance. It seemed easier that way. Read it and know it’s your choice.

* * *

“Give me the cheesiest, greasiest, most southern fried thing you’ve got.” Julie slapped her purse on the counter and pushed herself up on a stool.

Trisha gave her a look of sympathy. “Must have been a bad afternoon. In the time you’ve been here the most fried thing you’ve had is the tenderloins on your salad.”

“My friends call it my Southern high. Every once in awhile you just need a little fried chicken done right.”

“Hard time at the Rossi house?”

“As always,” she rubbed her hands over her face. “I think maybe Dusty’s getting a thing for me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. Or in the other direction. He needs to get a thing for his brother.”

“He trusts you.”

“And I’m leaving. Home, to New York. I can’t take him back. I don’t want to take him back to what he has there.” She pictured Dusty’s face. So wide, open and needy. “Trisha–what am I going to do?”

“Give them time. Enjoy your lunch and take a break. Goodness knows, even I have to take a break from Jason. I’ll get Dad to whip you up something superb.”

“And fried?”

“Fried-er the Friday.”

Trisha whipped back in the back, leaving Julie alone with her thoughts.

“Not from around here?”

She turned, looked into the deep blue eyes of the dark haired stranger next to her. He was a home boy, she thought, too comfortable with his surroundings. “I was. A long time ago. Not from here–but the South.”

“Me too–at least, I was from here ... and a little bit there and there, but always the South.” He lifted his glass of coke. “Until college.”

“Seems we have a lot in common.” She held out a hand. “Julie Lee, Trenton, New Jersey.”

“Laeton Lewis, Brighton, Illinois. Right outside Chicago.”

“Well, another transplanted Yankee. Didn’t think I’d find another one of those around here.”

“Oh, they’ve gotten pretty diverse in the last few years. It’s not 1865 anymore.” He nodded toward the window. “Why don’t you join me in a booth and you can tell me the hot spots of New Jersey and New York and I can tell you all about the Windy city. De-southernize a bit.”

Julie grabbed her purse. “Sounds like a deal.”



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