Number 8 Read online

  There’s a silence between us, the first one, I realize, that afternoon. I’ve said the wrong thing, but I’m not sure what it was. I want to get back to when we were telling each other things, without thinking.

  “You know, I’ve moved fourteen times in thirteen years. Thirteen is a very bad number, but I guess seventeen is worse. I hope we don’t get to seventeen. You know why?”

  Ez doesn’t say anything, but I think that’s because her mouth is full. “See, the seven in seventeen is a really mean number. It’s thin and sharp but you should see how they draw it in Europe. It looks even more dangerous because there’s a spike like a crossbow through the middle. I know because at my last school I sat next to this Italian boy who kept getting into trouble for drawing his sevens that way.”

  I glance at Ez’s face. She’s looking at the half-devoured mangoes on the lawn.

  “Some people think seven is a really lucky number,” she says. “When my dad went to the casino, that’s what he played at the roulette table. He said it was an amazing place, there were all these men in gold chains and million-dollar suits, ladies in low-cut dresses.” She turns to me, and her face is all eager again, and open. “Tell me about the casino,” she says. “Did you ever go there? Why did your mom leave?”

  Now I get it. Esmerelda wants to hear about the exciting, glittery side of things, like TV. I don’t blame her, what with all this suburban quiet soaking up everything like blotting paper. I decide I won’t say anything about being lonely or Mom’s new job, that’s if she gets it. Right now, Mom is probably wearing that smile and waving her arms around for the boss or whoever’s interviewing her. She’s telling him that sure, she’s had years of experience in waitressing and serving beer, and really, all she’s ever wanted is to work at this gorgeous Homeland pub. She’ll do the dinner shift three nights a week, as advertised, and lunch and Saturday nights as well if they want. She won’t tell him how she’s decided that she’ll give up singing and become a civilian if she gets this job. She won’t tell him, either, how you’ve got to know when to give up on a dream, and get real. (That’s what civilians do, she thinks, they have normal jobs and stop being crazy artists hanging onto crazy dreams.) And she won’t say how it’s about time she made a stable life for her son who thinks numbers have supernatural powers and has a nervous cough. Well, I told her the cough had nothing to do with Trenches Road and its backfiring buses, but she didn’t listen and now she keeps telling me to breathe deep the fresh air. I don’t tell her that the breathless thing is actually worse now, due to the quiet. In this place you can even hear yourself swallow. It’s unnerving. But she’s got enough to worry about.

  “Jackson? How long did your mom work at the Blue Moon?”

  “About a year and a half.”

  “Well, she must have seen a lot of rich people in that time, just like my dad did.” Esmerelda nudges me. “Did she see that millionaire guy, you know the famous one who—”

  “Oh, yes, and she got invited out to dinner by these guys in Ferraris and Jaguars. Once she got to ride in a Lamborghini, you know the car with the doors that open upward like wings.” Actually, Mom only ever saw those cars as she drove out of the parking lot in our 1984 Ford Escort on her way home. But she always described them to me, because I collected model cars for a while.

  “So why did she leave?”

  “Oh, it’s kind of complicated.” I look at Esmerelda. I don’t know whether I should tell the truth about it. I’m sure Mom wouldn’t like it. But then I take a risk. Mom would understand. This is Esmerelda Marx, for goodness sake. She’s waiting to be entertained. And boy, do I have a story for her.

  “Well, see, it was like this. Mom got along really well with the manager—you know, the boss who employed her. Her job was to work at the bar and serve food but this guy, he was always trying to get more spots for her, singing. He said that’s what she was born to do. He was such a fan, he was a real jazz tragic—”

  “A what?”

  “You know, someone who’s crazy about jazz. He could tell you the whole history of jazz if you sat there long enough. He loved the way Mom sang, said she was another Ella Fitzgerald, and no matter what was happening in the casino he’d make sure he came to listen to her. But then he had to quit—his wife got really ill—and the owners took on a new manager. That’s when the trouble started.”

  “Why, wasn’t the new guy a jazz fan?”

  “No. He wasn’t excited about anything except money. He kept stalking around, telling people to do their jobs quicker or they’d be fired. He kept a stopwatch in his pocket. ‘Watch out, things are gonna change round here,’ was his favorite saying. He even told Mom to sing more songs in an hour, so people’d get more value for their money. Can you believe it? He told Mom she didn’t bring in a big enough crowd. Said she was getting old and her breaks were too long between sessions. Well, actually, Mom thinks she only takes about six minutes, just time enough to have a drink and pee. And I can tell you, Mom pees faster than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “So does my little brother. He’s always in such a hurry to get on with his game, sometimes he’s still dribbling as he leaves the bathroom.”

  “Well, Mom wasn’t happy, as you can imagine, but then a really bad thing happened.” I stop here because I feel a cough coming on. I try to swallow it down but this familiar feeling like a door closing over my throat starts and I begin to bark. Honestly, I sound like a dog with emphysema. That’s a terminal disease. I looked it up in the dictionary.

  “Should I get you a glass of water?” Esmerelda’s looking at me like I’m dying.

  I nod, mainly so she won’t hear me so loudly in the kitchen. Water never really fixes the cough, I just have to let it go till it’s finished. It’s exhausting.

  I drink the water, and wipe my eyes.

  “Have you got TB or something? There’s a famous opera where the heroine dies of tuberculosis. La Traviata. Her last song is fantastic. She coughs up blood all over her lover’s handkerchief. I know about tuberculosis because I sang one of the songs from that opera last year for the Christmas play. I had everybody howling.”

  The cough is still there. I take a deep breath, and hold it for four seconds. I count the numbers out in my head, watching them drift together into a set like gentle cows corralled in a field. I put a bracket around them like a friendly arm to stop them from getting out. My heart slows a little as they pair off inside their enclosure, cozy.

  “Have you been to a doctor?”

  I nod. “Yes, a few. I’m okay. They say I do it to relieve stress.”

  “Wow. Why don’t you jog or do yoga instead?”

  I shrug. How can you answer a question like that?

  “So,” begins Esmerelda with a little wriggle of impatience, “what was the really bad thing, or don’t you want to talk about it?” She looks up at me again, wide-eyed, and flicks back her hair.

  “It’s okay,” I say, watching the way her hair settles on her neck. “See, things were getting pretty ugly, especially when Tony—that’s the mean manager—hired a new security guy. He was a brick wall with legs and he followed Tony everywhere, making sure the staff did what the boss said. He was even stupider than Tony, if that’s possible. He’s one of those guys with no neck, and shoulders like a gorilla. He had this habit of humming the theme to Rocky under his breath. Fancied himself as a boxer, I guess. Well, one night, Mom had a really bad argument with Tony and she left in such a hurry, she forgot her handbag. When she got to her car, she realized she didn’t have her keys. She dithered around for a while, because she was still so angry and didn’t want to go back in and have to see Tony.”

  “Wow, your mom tells you everything, doesn’t she?” Esmerelda cuts in.

  “Not everything. I heard all this when Bev dropped round, her friend from the casino. Mom thought I was asleep, but it’s pretty hard to close your eyes when there’s all this loud talking and thumping of tables and swearing going on in the next room. See, Bev hates Tony, she says he’s a W
MD—”

  “A what?”

  “Weapon of mass destruction—he causes devastation in a wide radius wherever he goes. Well, finally, it’s so cold out there in the parking lot and Mom doesn’t have her coat either, so she goes back to the casino. She hurries past the slot machines on the ground floor and takes the elevator down to the basement, to Tony’s office where she left her bag. But at the door she hesitates. There’s a noise inside, a shuffling sound like paper being rustled. And then she hears someone humming the theme from Rocky.”

  “The security guy!”

  “Yeah.” Esmerelda’s eyes are huge. The light through the window is shining right into them and now I can see little flecks of gold in the green. I’m not usually a gabbler—in fact, I’m used to keeping stuff to myself. But there’s something about this girl. Maybe it’s her eyes or maybe it’s the way she’s listening to me like she’s about to hear the winning number to the lotto but I realize she’s not the kind of girl you can disappoint. I have to find the right words.

  I crack my knuckles twice. “So this Rocky guy, he gets really mad when anyone argues with Tony. But what can she do? She has to get her bag. Slowly she opens the door and the first thing she sees is Rocky’s fat shaved head. He has his back to her and she’s so close she can see the rolls of muscle sweating like salami over his collar. She holds her breath, trying not to make any noise. She spots her handbag lying on a chair an arm’s length away. Maybe, she calculates, she could grab it—quick as lightning—and go. She’s looking at the bag, measuring the distance, when suddenly Rocky moves and she sees what’s on the desk. She nearly chokes. There are these piles of small plastic bags filled with white powder, and stacks of one hundred dollar bills.”

  “Drugs!” breathes Esmerelda. Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. They’re shining like twin stars. “My uncle is a policeman. You should hear him go on about drug dealers. Scum of the earth, he calls them.”

  I nod. “And lying smack in the middle of all this is a gun. So Rocky finishes scratching his butt or whatever he was doing, and brings out more money from a metal safe on the desk. Time to go, thinks Mom, bag or no bag, but just as she turns she sees something move on the floor. The Persian rug flips back and a trapdoor opens, right there near the desk. She’s standing, frozen, not believing her eyes when a head looms up out of the hole in the floor. It’s Tony, and he’s staring right at her. She’s trapped!”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Rocky turns to see what Tony is glaring at, and he leaps up, gun in his hand. ‘That won’t be necessary—yet,’ says Tony to Rocky in an icy tone.” Icy is good. I wish I could think of phrases like that in English essays. “Tony climbs up out of the hole in the floor and carefully closes the trapdoor. Then he smoothes the rug down. In one quick step he reaches out and grabs Mom’s arm. His fingers dig deep. On his breath she can smell the cigar he just finished.

  “‘Tell me, Val, what have you seen here tonight?’ Tony asks in this steely voice.

  “‘Um, well, nothing out of the ordinary,’ Mom stammers. ‘Just Rocky counting the night’s earnings. You know my eyes aren’t too good without my glasses.’

  “‘That’s right. And you’ll do well to keep your mouth shut, if you want to stay around to see your grandchildren,’ says Tony.”

  “But she doesn’t have any grandchildren—does she?” says Ez.

  “No.”

  “Oh, I get it,” says Esmerelda, her brow clearing.

  “Anyway, so Tony lets go of her arm and she takes her handbag. ‘Silly me, I forgot it,’ she says.

  “‘Drive safely,’ he whispers, real nasty, and she runs out of the room, out of there.”

  We sit looking at the lawn for a while. In the bright sunshine, sitting on the step and full of cake, it’s hard to believe that night ever happened.

  Esmerelda shivers. “Is that really true?” she says softly.

  “Yeah, I wish it wasn’t. But after that night, Mom never went back.”

  “Who would!” cries Ez with a shiver. “Pity my uncle lives so far away. Did she think of going to the police?”

  “No. She didn’t want to put us in any more danger. Big gangsters like Tony have a whole army of henchmen. The underworld of crime is like a giant octopus—tentacles everywhere. They strike quickly. You have to go into witness protection if the police investigate—it can take years to get evidence and you can never be sure you’ll be covered. That’s what Bev told Mom. She said it was better to move, and move quickly. She found us a cheap hotel and we stayed there until Mom found this place. She likes it because it’s far away, on the other side of the city, plus there’s a job opening at the local pub. And then there was the name of this street, Valerie. It’s destiny, she thinks.” I can’t help rolling my eyes. Mom’s decisions about destiny have had some weird consequences.

  Esmerelda looks at me. Her eyes are fringed with lashes so thick it looks as if they’re outlined in black.

  “Are you on the run then, Jackson?”

  I shift around on the step. Her voice is all husky with awe. In a way I’d like to keep the drama going, so beautiful Esmerelda Marx will keep looking at me with admiration and concern. But then I realize I’d have to keep talking about it all, which means I’d have to think about it, and actually the whole thing still makes me nervous.

  “No,” I say. “Mom and I are small fry. People like Tony don’t bother with us. They know we’d be too scared to do anything.”

  Esmerelda shudders. “I’d be so freaked out if anything like that happened to me. The scariest stuff that goes on in our family is Mom threatening to ban TV if I fail a math test.”

  I don’t tell her that that level of danger sounds like heaven to me. I don’t mind math. “Well, now it’s life in the slow lane, in the suburbs.” I sigh like a Mafia gangster who’s seen it all.

  Esmerelda grins. “Yeah, but I’ve got a feeling you’ll quicken the pace.”

  We talk a lot that afternoon. Esmerelda wants to know more about the casino—the dealers, the pit bosses, the entertainers, what it’s like singing to an audience of gamblers on a losing streak … I don’t know much so I tell her what I do know and then I start to make it up. I tell her about the guy who was banned because he counted the cards. It’s legal, but the casino doesn’t like it. He won forty million dollars in one night. Esmerelda says most people choose certain numbers to play because they’re lucky, like when her Dad played a seven because she’d just had her seventh birthday. I tell her yes, many believe in luck and magic, but it’s a common mistake. The only guys who can actually beat the casino are those who have systems. They count. It’s actually quite interesting, I tell her, and I start to talk about the numbers—how in blackjack the aim of the game is to collect cards with a total count nearer to twenty-one than that of the dealer. Now if there are fifty-two cards, and you play with an eight deck that’s four hundred and sixteen cards. I’m about to go on about how you can’t possibly count all these but there’s a way where you put like-numbers into sets, when she gets up and starts to fiddle with the keyboard again.

  I guess she’s not so interested in numbers. Hardly anybody is.

  She keeps turning the conversation back to Tony and how many thugs do I think there are in the gambling world and is a security guy the same as a bouncer? I wish we could get back to the numbers, or even to discussing more normal things like the kids at school. When I ask her, she tells me a bit about Lilly, one of the girls who I noticed was plastered to her—at lunchtime the girls all seem to walk together in close huddles, as if they’re guarding a secret, or a bomb. They’re impossible to get at like that. She doesn’t seem too keen to talk about Lilly, so she starts on about this kid they call Badman, the tough guy in our grade, but then she says how Badman reminds her of Tony and we’re back onto the life of crime. Now I’m regretting ever having told her. I’m thinking: will I have to be this entertaining and streetwise forever? Will I have to invent bigger and better stories about the seething underbelly of co
rruption just to get her attention? It’s my own fault, but by six o’clock I feel jittery and sort of empty under my skin, as if I’m wearing some kind of Superman outfit and she can only see that.

  We watch the shadow of the mango tree stretching long across the grass. Suddenly she leaps up and says she has to go. I’m almost relieved. I’ve been dying to have another good cough. I walk her to the door. We don’t say anything as we walk. It takes twenty-seven steps to get from the back door to the front. I wish it took twenty-six.

  She stands there at the door.

  “Oh, wait, you forgot your mother’s plate,” I say. I rush back the nineteen steps to the kitchen to get it. If I ever grow up to be an architect, I’m going to build houses using even measurements only.

  When I hand her the plate she says, “Hey, Jackson, how come you’re brainy and good-looking?” and she gives me this slow smile like the sun coming out.

  I stare at her like an idiot. I can feel my cheeks burning. What should I say? No one’s ever said anything like that to me before. What can I say?

  “Well, see ya,” she says, flicking her hair. I watch her run across the road. She doesn’t look right and left. She doesn’t look once. I guess you can do that in the suburbs. Do that on Trenches Road and you’re instant roadkill.

  I walk back down the hall and it seems like I’m floating. I don’t even notice the number of steps. I go to look at my face in the bathroom mirror. It’s still red and shocked looking. Then I go and lie down in my new bedroom. I hope Mom brings french fries back from the pub.

  2. Esmerelda

  “Hi, Ez, how’s it going?”

  “Oh, hi, Lilly.” I weave the telephone cord through my fingers. It bends neatly over each knuckle. I’m not going to say anything about this afternoon. Let her sweat.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry I couldn’t come over. I know we said—”