did. Bryce Campbell, the adored only child of Lucas’s aunt and uncle, was unendingly cheerful, up for anything and had an intense case of hero worship. He kept a respectful distance from Lucas’s sister, Stephanie, who was six years older and called him only “kid.” But he stuck to Lucas like a tick.
About three times a year, Joe, Didi and Bryce would visit them (they, in return, were never invited to the wealthy suburb to the north of Chicago where Bryce and his family lived). And every time, Bryce would be glued to Lucas’s side, wide-eyed with wonder at anything Lucas had or did—his tiny bedroom on the third floor of the two-family house they lived in, his second-hand bike, the stunts he could do on it. Lucas was a White Sox fan, obviously, being from the South Side; Bryce traded in his Cubs shirt to match Lucas’s, which nearly got him stoned by his peers. Lucas would clear the crowded table after dinner because he was the kind of kid who did chores; Bryce decided that nothing was more fun and exotic than washing dishes by hand. And the thing was, he meant it.
Bryce couldn’t get over the fact that Lucas was not only allowed to have a knife, but was allowed to use it as well, and viewed whittling as damn near miraculous. He peppered Lucas with questions about his late mother, who’d died of ALS when Lucas was six. Did he miss her? What had it been like to have a Puerto Rican mother? Did they ever see her ghost? It never occurred to Bryce that the subject might be a sensitive one.
Lucas liked his cousin. But Bryce could be tiring, like a puppy who just wanted to bring you a stick. At first, it’s really cute. Aw, hey, a stick! Go get it, boy! But by the tenth time, when the puppy’s enthusiasm hasn’t been touched but yours is getting tired, you wish the dog would take a nap. By the twentieth time he brings you the stick, your arm aches. And by the fiftieth, you really wondered what you were thinking when you decided to get a dog.
It was always something of a relief to see Bryce get reluctantly bundled off into the car with his parents. “My God, that woman is evil,” Dad would say of his brother’s wife, tousling Lucas’s hair. Though it was clear Aunt Didi barely tolerated her husband’s family, she never let them visit without her, even if she did brush off a chair before sitting on it. “But your cousin, he’s a pretty great kid, isn’t he?”
And Lucas would agree that yes, Bryce was really nice. Which he was.
Joe Campbell was the brother who’d made good; Dan never made it out of the careworn neighborhood where they’d grown up. Joe got into college, which was near-miraculous from the sound of it, whereas Dan became a mechanic, married the girl next door and moved into an apartment around the corner from where the brothers grew up.
It was clear that Joe viewed their childhood as far more idyllic than Lucas’s dad did. Even when he was little, Lucas understood that, felt his father’s edge when Uncle Joe would wax poetic about riding their bikes in the empty lot or leaving pennies out on the rail for the train to flatten. After all, Joe and his family got to leave at the end of the day.
When Steph was nineteen, she moved in with her boyfriend and had a baby girl. Another thing Bryce couldn’t get over—how cool was it that Lucas was an uncle! How he wished he had a sister, too, so he could be an uncle! “Bryce, angel, a baby’s not always a good thing,” Aunt Didi said.
“This baby is,” Lucas said, giving his aunt a dirty look. Mercedes was cute and smelled nice, most of the time, and Steph was a good mom.
Didi didn’t blink. “Well, we’ll see how things turn out, won’t we?” she murmured. “Not all of us are thrilled that our tax dollars pay for Stephanie’s lifestyle.” And though he wasn’t 100 percent sure what she meant by that, Lucas knew that it was a put-down just the same.
Visits from Joe and Bryce and Didi were rare, he didn’t have to think about it much. Would it be nice to take a vacation in Turks and Caicos, wherever that was? Probably. Would it be fun to have a flat-screen TV in your room? Sure. But Lucas wouldn’t trade places, that was for sure. Home always seemed a little nicer after those visits. Careworn instead of shabby, washed in the light of relief that they had each other, at least.
Until Dad was arrested.
Things Lucas Didn’t Know About His Father:
1 He’d been arrested at age eighteen for grand theft auto (a Camaro left with the keys in it, so really, who could resist? Certainly not an eighteen-year-old American male from the wrong side of the tracks).
2 He’d been arrested at age twenty-one for breaking and entering and vandalism (Mrs. Ortega’s place, where he and his buddy sat in the living room, watched Cinemax, drinking her schnapps).
3 He was $95,700 in debt, thanks to Mom’s medical care during her unsuccessful battle with ALS.
4 He was a drug dealer.
Lucas was fifteen at the time of the bust. The cops showed up, flashed a warrant and searched the house while Lucas made frantic phone calls to the garage. It was too late; the police found several small bags of crystal meth in a shoe box in the back of Dad’s closet.
Seemed like Dad had become a minor dealer in an organization run by one of his old high school friends. It was the only way he’d found to stop the creditors from taking the house after Mom died; he already worked eighty hours a week at the garage. Because of Dan’s “criminal past,” the judge sentenced him to sixteen years.
“I’m sorry, son,” Dan said to Lucas as the bailiff handcuffed him. Lucas hugged his father and tried not to cry. His father, who looked a decade older than he had that morning, didn’t need to see that. Besides, they’d appeal, the public defender said. This wasn’t forever.
Lucas wanted to stay with his sister, but Steph had tearfully turned him down. She and Rich lived in a tiny apartment, and she was pregnant again, this time with twins. Though Lucas swore he’d help, he could sleep on the couch, Mercedes loved him, he could babysit and everything, Steph said he’d be better off with Uncle Joe.
Joe and Bryce showed up as Lucas was packing. “This is so great!” Bryce exclaimed. “You can live with us now! We’ll be like brothers!”
Lucas barely refrained from punching him. It wasn’t great. His father was in jail, and even if he’d be getting out soon—please, God—this was far from great.
Being without a choice in the matter, he went, moving from the South Side, the run-down but tight-knit blue-collar neighborhood he’d lived all his life to a development made up of streets with saccharine names: Shadow Creek Lane, West Wind Way, Shane’s Glen Circle.
Didi showed him his room, the smallest room in the house, jammed full with an unused treadmill (which Didi insisted stay in the room, rather than be moved to the basement), a broken computer from the early nineties and a twin bed under the eaves. Bryce had been hoping they’d bunk in together, but no. There was another unused bedroom, but Didi said it was for company.
It was horribly different.
There was a pool in the back, serviced by Juan the pool boy; he and Lucas would speak in Spanish together, which irritated Didi and filled Bryce with still more admiration. The lawn was mown by a landscaping company. They had a cleaning lady. Didi drove a Mercedes and shopped at high-end retail stores and, according to a receipt Lucas found, spent one hundred and fifty dollars on her hair every five weeks.
Lucas remembered his father asking Joe for money five or six years before. He’d been lingering in the bathroom, needing a break from Bryce’s constant questions, and was washing his hands with much more care than usual.
“I hate to
