okay."
"Kevin works Thursdays," Walt said, testing.
"He just got back from Cristina's. I swear we've been in there maybe ten minutes."
Walt knew it was more like thirty. Kids. "We?"
The boy hesitated.
"I can check all this out," Walt said. He looked the boy over, con sidered asking him to turn his pockets out. But he was afraid of what he might find. "Who was the other boy?" he asked instead, already knowing damn well. "And before you answer, remember that lying to a sheriff is a bad idea."
Eric lowered his eyes. "Crab," he said after a moment.
"Taylor Crabtree?" Walt paused. "Eric, the best advice I can give you is to not go places you know you shouldn't go. You're a good kid. You hang around a boy like Taylor Crabtree and it's guaranteed that you'll be seeing more of me."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, go on."
Eric took a step or two, then broke into a run.
A minute later, Kevin greeted his uncle from the far side of the screen door on the back porch. "Hey, Uncle Walt." His lanky frame looked all the thinner with his shirt off. His pants hung below the elastic of his underwear—a fashion statement for some, but not for Kevin. No one in the family had fully processed the loss, nearly a year earlier, of Walt's brother, Bobby. Least of all Kevin. Walt had tried to fill the void; had neglected his own family in the process; and had now paid for it with his own divorce. Walt had never been real good at getting close; perhaps Kevin read that awkwardness as something else. He'd never been receptive to Walt's advances. The one thing that connected them was now dead, and they both reminded the other of him so much that it hurt.
"Hey, yourself," Walt said. "Eric and Taylor Crabtree sure took off in a hurry. What was that about?"
He shrugged. "Dunno."
"Maybe the cop car and the uniform didn't help?"
"Maybe."
"Taylor Crabtree is bad news."
Kevin took a moment to study the places where paint had chipped from the doorjamb. "So you've said. Are you going to tell Mom?"
"You kidding me? You think I want to be on the receiving end of that windstorm?" He won a faint smile. "I'm going to tell her we had a talk about the keggers and that you promised me you wouldn't drink and drive, and that you wouldn't get high. Can you keep that promise?"
"Absolutely."
"You know it's my job to bust those parties, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you're the last person on earth I'd ever want to arrest."
"I got it."
"How's the job at Cristina's going?"
"Good, I guess."
"It's shit work."
"Yeah," Kevin said, cracking another slight smile, "it sucks."
"But if you hang in there, she'll move you into the kitchen or out as a waiter. Both of those are better money, and they're better work."
Kevin's face revealed his internal disconnect. Walt had seen that face before—the "oh, shit, here it comes again" look that any teenager learns to command. Walt wanted to take the kid and hug him, to hold him. He knew Myra; he didn't imagine anyone had done that since the funeral. But something stopped him.
"Grandpa called."
"You understand what I'm saying about Crabtree?" Walt owed it to the boy to get his point across.
"Said he was here for the long weekend, that maybe we'd have dinner or something. You, him, me, and Mom."
"You've got to distance yourself from him, Kev."
"Grandpa?" Kevin asked.
"Don't twist things around on me. Tell me Crabtree being here had nothing to do with drugs."
"Jesus, you're not my father." Kevin paused. "I suppose you want to come in and look around." He swung open the screen door and held it.
"I'm not coming in. Shut the door."
"What about it? Seeing Grandpa?"
"Your grandpa and I are having dinner later at the Pio. Why don't you and your mom come up around eight for dessert?"
"Seriously?"
"I won't be wearing
"Kevin works Thursdays," Walt said, testing.
"He just got back from Cristina's. I swear we've been in there maybe ten minutes."
Walt knew it was more like thirty. Kids. "We?"
The boy hesitated.
"I can check all this out," Walt said. He looked the boy over, con sidered asking him to turn his pockets out. But he was afraid of what he might find. "Who was the other boy?" he asked instead, already knowing damn well. "And before you answer, remember that lying to a sheriff is a bad idea."
Eric lowered his eyes. "Crab," he said after a moment.
"Taylor Crabtree?" Walt paused. "Eric, the best advice I can give you is to not go places you know you shouldn't go. You're a good kid. You hang around a boy like Taylor Crabtree and it's guaranteed that you'll be seeing more of me."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, go on."
Eric took a step or two, then broke into a run.
A minute later, Kevin greeted his uncle from the far side of the screen door on the back porch. "Hey, Uncle Walt." His lanky frame looked all the thinner with his shirt off. His pants hung below the elastic of his underwear—a fashion statement for some, but not for Kevin. No one in the family had fully processed the loss, nearly a year earlier, of Walt's brother, Bobby. Least of all Kevin. Walt had tried to fill the void; had neglected his own family in the process; and had now paid for it with his own divorce. Walt had never been real good at getting close; perhaps Kevin read that awkwardness as something else. He'd never been receptive to Walt's advances. The one thing that connected them was now dead, and they both reminded the other of him so much that it hurt.
"Hey, yourself," Walt said. "Eric and Taylor Crabtree sure took off in a hurry. What was that about?"
He shrugged. "Dunno."
"Maybe the cop car and the uniform didn't help?"
"Maybe."
"Taylor Crabtree is bad news."
Kevin took a moment to study the places where paint had chipped from the doorjamb. "So you've said. Are you going to tell Mom?"
"You kidding me? You think I want to be on the receiving end of that windstorm?" He won a faint smile. "I'm going to tell her we had a talk about the keggers and that you promised me you wouldn't drink and drive, and that you wouldn't get high. Can you keep that promise?"
"Absolutely."
"You know it's my job to bust those parties, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you're the last person on earth I'd ever want to arrest."
"I got it."
"How's the job at Cristina's going?"
"Good, I guess."
"It's shit work."
"Yeah," Kevin said, cracking another slight smile, "it sucks."
"But if you hang in there, she'll move you into the kitchen or out as a waiter. Both of those are better money, and they're better work."
Kevin's face revealed his internal disconnect. Walt had seen that face before—the "oh, shit, here it comes again" look that any teenager learns to command. Walt wanted to take the kid and hug him, to hold him. He knew Myra; he didn't imagine anyone had done that since the funeral. But something stopped him.
"Grandpa called."
"You understand what I'm saying about Crabtree?" Walt owed it to the boy to get his point across.
"Said he was here for the long weekend, that maybe we'd have dinner or something. You, him, me, and Mom."
"You've got to distance yourself from him, Kev."
"Grandpa?" Kevin asked.
"Don't twist things around on me. Tell me Crabtree being here had nothing to do with drugs."
"Jesus, you're not my father." Kevin paused. "I suppose you want to come in and look around." He swung open the screen door and held it.
"I'm not coming in. Shut the door."
"What about it? Seeing Grandpa?"
"Your grandpa and I are having dinner later at the Pio. Why don't you and your mom come up around eight for dessert?"
"Seriously?"
"I won't be wearing
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