Read Online Carousel Court by Joe McGinniss - Free Book Online Page A

a living room window unlocked and secures it; one of the ten motion-sensor bulbs is out, so he climbs a ladder two stories and changes it. He scales the fence separating their property from the young neighbor, whose backyard smolders from a recent fire he set: computer monitors, athletic equipment, garbage, end tables. All the lights are on and music plays from inside the house. It will be like this well into the night, and Metzger will call the police, but they won’t come or will arrive hours too late. Metzger cursed them out once: “This isn’t goddamn Compton! Taxpayers live here.” Nick has an eye on the neighbor and Metzger, too, like everything else. He misses nothing.

8
    D id you feed him?” Nick asks Phoebe. There’s no response. “Did he eat?” She’s facedown on the sectional, passed out again. The house is quiet and cool. She’s bathed in seven-thirty twilight that floods the living room on a hot Thursday in August. Nothing’s changed since June: a ten-hour day for Phoebe spent in the car means a Klonopin blackout at night.
    Summer is almost over, but it’s now clear the heat is here to stay. It’s the seventh consecutive day over ninety-five degrees. The forecasts warn of no break from the dry, hot pattern. Wildfire and high-wind warnings every day. Nick’s been working since nine this morning on a house in North Hollywood after two consecutive night shifts. She can’t hear him, and he knows it but asks again: “Did he eat?” He being Jackson, who is slouched against Phoebe’s ass, his pacifier dangling from dry lips, his diaper bulging, heavy with urine. “Did he eat?”
    The television is on, the sound muted. The loop of On Demand coming attractions is the sign that they were watching Jackson’s shows. Nick could figure out whether or not his son had dinner with a simple check of the kitchen sink for the plastic cow dishes, empty jars of little meats, pasta twists. But that’s not the point. Nick shouldn’thave to play detective. He drops to his knees, inches from her face. “Did he eat?”
    Nothing. Maybe she’s trying to sleep through it all—the night, the summer, this season of their lives together. It’s no accident that she’s up before the sun, gone before Nick is home or awake, and more often than not, passed out before sundown.
    He could scoop her up, carry her to the Subaru, strap her in the passenger seat, and drive her up the coast to Monterey Bay. A bed-and-breakfast. He’d check her in. She’d wake up and ask first about Jackson—where is he, is he okay?—and Nick would tell her he’s fine, he’s with the Vietnamese supernanny, eating sticky rice and broccoli. Then she’d look around and see the huge trees and gray skies and swatches of blue where they were thinning and ask where they were.
    But Phoebe is not Nick’s immediate concern. She’s passed out, high on Klonopin and Effexor, Ativan and whatever else. She should be someone’s priority, just not Nick’s, not now. Jackson is the one who needs to be put to bed the same way, at the same time, every night.
    â€œIt’s not even eight,” Nick is saying to himself. “This is why he’s always tired. His whole rhythm’s messed up.” He picks up his soggy son, turns off the television. “Routine. Every night. It’s not fair to him, Phoebe.” These conversations are so much easier when she’s passed out. He actually prefers talking to her when she’s blacked out. He can tell the truth. Nick wonders what isn’t easier when she’s passed out. It’s a win-win. Except for Jackson. When he’s changed, cleaned up, a fresh dry diaper and pacifier dipped in apple juice slipped in and the night-light and Mozart turned on softly, Nick returns to Phoebe’s side and asks again, “Did he eat?” until she jolts awake, confused, sitting up