“Are you a thief, then?” he asks. “Is this when you reveal your tragic Dickensian back story about how you rose from being an orphan pickpocket to the head of a criminal empire?”
Shaking my head, I try to get a read on whether he’s serious or not, but I honestly can’t tell.
“I’m pretty sure we’re the same age, so I don’t know why you’re making it sound like I grew up in the 1800s. But no, I wasn’t in a pickpocket street gang or anything.”
Fallow raises his eyebrows at me like I’m expected to continue but doesn’t speak.
“What, you wanna hear my sad criminal backstory?” I ask.
He nods but remains silent.
“Do I get to hear yours in exchange? I know there’s more to your whole history with Murph than a typical father-son situation. Are you going to slip me the juicy details?”
A hint of a smile hits him, but he shakes his headno,still silent.
I blow out a noisy breath like I’m working myself up to it, but it’s honestly not an interesting story. I know at least a dozen Banna guys with the same history, and it’s not even hard to talk about anymore. But whatever will keep him distracted.
“I’m sure this will be a blistering shock,” I drawl, my voice heavy with sarcasm, “but I grew up poor.”
“You don’t say.”
“Mm hmm. Shitty family, shitty neighborhood in Oklahoma, shitty education, et cetera, et cetera. My mom and dad were together, which I guess was kind of unusual among my friends,but they were both intravenous drug users, so that gave them something to bond over. We had a home, shitty though it was, but money went to drugs more than food or anything else. They shared needles, of course, because sharing is caring. So, they also shared HIV. And they didn’t exactly get treatment, so they both got real sick real fast.”
I study his face, searching for a hint of something. Disapproval? Pity? I’m not sure what, but he’s just watching me, waiting to hear more.
“My mom got sicker faster than my dad. I think she had a history of hepatitis or something. He was working still, but dealing on the side to raise a little extra money for treatment for her. I used to go with him, because I was young enough that I still looked innocent, and if I was caught holding, I would probably get off without doing real time.”
He’s still silent, and the room has settled into something quiet, and almost peaceful. It’s easy to talk to him when he’s like this. I’ve told this story a bunch of times, but this feels more real right now, for whatever reason.
“Anyway. We got picked up eventually, and I did get out pretty clean, but they got him for everything, including child endangerment. He got a real sentence, real time. I don’t remember how long it was supposed to be. But Mom died pretty quickly after he went in. I went under care of the state and never saw him again. I heard he died in prison like eight years later.”
I pause as a thought hits me.
“So, I guess technically I am an orphan. But I never picked anybody’s pocket. My dad did very low-level street dealing. No one would trust an addict with more than that. But the Banna were who he ultimately worked for, and it was a small town. The guys there kept an eye on me while I was in care. I was a little messed up, so I kept ending up in group homes for behavioral kids instead of someplace nice. I was eager to get out, and wasalready well and truly working for the Banna by the time I turned eighteen. I met Sav back when we were teenagers and he was trying to prove himself as the son of one of the higher ups. We were pretty tight, or as much as you can be in that situation. It just seemed natural that this was where I would end up. I never really thought about doing anything else.”
Fallow doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching me closely, making me feel open and exposed all over again.
“And you? Did you always expect a glamorous life of crime?”
“We weren’t talking about me, remember. This isn’t aquid pro quo.”
He smiles a little as he says it, though, and I feel like the space between us is porous and soft, just waiting for me to move closer.
“Come on,” I beg. “Give me something.”
Fallow huffs a little, but I can tell he’s going to bend. I pick up my supplies and move over to sit on a chair in front of him while he perches on the bed, and get it all spread out beside him. It’s a brief silence, but I’m waiting for him to fill it.
“My story’s not that different, I suppose,” he says at last. “I was born here, actually. Well nothere, but America. Also shitty parents, but in a different way. Lost them. Ended up with the Banna at first and they took me to Ireland. I was still young, so it feels like home, now. As much as anywhere does.”
“And?” I ask, gloved up and ready to go, but waiting for the rest of my answer.
“And what?”
“And did you give up some childhood dream to do this? Like were you going to be an astronaut or something?”
The smile he gives me this time can only be described as indulgent, and it makes me smile back at him, a little bigger than I should. He drops the ice pack away from his face.
“No,” he says, his voice whisper soft. “I always felt like I was born to violence. It fit me in a way nothing else did.”
