34
Patterns Begin
PATTERNS.
Patterns had set the tone of Mouse’s day since early in his life.
Poughkeepsie’s Jo-Ann Fabrics store was one of his most vivid memories of childhood. He could picture his grandmother picking her way through the towers of fabric. Mouse had loved to reach up and touch the ones with the patterns. The happy ones with colorful animals were always rough on his fingers. The white borders on the ends had been perplexing. Why did the fun have to end?
Inevitably, his grandmother would catch his small hands roving over some cloth. When she smiled her eyes would crinkle, and she’d quickly cover her teeth, which were far from perfect, with one hand as emotion filled her face.
“You want the puppies, Jimmy? I make you a great shirt with the puppies.” His grandmother could carry the bolts effortlessly.
He loved when the women would smooth fabric over the impossibly wide table and decide just how much they needed to cover Jimmy now. He knew he was small for his age, but they always made a fuss over how big he was getting.
Mouse would stare at the silver ruler embedded in the white laminate as the correct amount of fabric was cordoned off and cut. His grandmother would then head for the yarn. The yarn aisle was Mouse’s favorite. Each bundle seemed like a puzzle waiting to be solved.
“Meemaw, this green is really great, don’t you think?” Mouse grabbed it by the white paper that kept the yarn from spilling out.
“It’s perfect, Jimmy. Just like you.” She put it in the cart on top of the puppy fabric.
Meemaw plucked vibrant colors from the wall of choices like ripe apples from a tree. Her grand total was always a little more than she expected, and she usually said exactly that with a chuckle as she dug for her wallet.
Then Jimmy and Meemaw would walk home, dragging her metal basket behind them. They didn’t have a car, but Meemaw swore she didn’t need one. She could walk everywhere she needed to go. When they got home, Meemaw always immediately organized her sewing pile and sorted her new yarn into her current collection.
“Too much yarn, Jimmy. Why you never stop me?”
Mouse knew this was a rhetorical question. He would never stop her from doing anything. Mouse loved his grandmother with all his heart. She was the only family he’d ever known. They had each other in this special little world they’d created, and that was fine by him. But Meemaw often brought his mother into the conversation. Her picture could be found in little frames all over the house.
“Your mother loves you very much,” Meemaw would remind him. “She wishes she was here.” She spoke with conviction, but her eyes were always sad.
Mouse knew his mother was in prison, and he eventually figured out it was for drug possession. She’d burned through her three state-mandated chances to be his mom before he was even old enough to remember her. She didn’t have a possibility of parole until Mouse would be thirty-two years old.
“That last charge was a doozy, Jimmy. Your mother tried so hard, but the call of that stuff—it never stopped for her.” Meemaw always called drugs “that stuff,” but she was honest about everything else.
Letters from Mouse’s mother were filled with talk of finding Jesus and the love of the Holy Ghost. For a while, Mouse thought jail was a big game of hide and seek where the winner got a bag of treats, like at Halloween. But eventually he figured that out too. His mother said Jesus was in her heart, and Jimmy figured they had to let you take your heart to jail, so Jesus could keep her company until he was thirty-two—unless the stuff called to her even then. Either way, Meemaw was his.
Patterns.
Meemaw loved patterns as much as Mouse. She liked to do her grocery shopping with coupons on Monday, her laundry on Tuesday, housecleaning on Wednesday, and shop at Jo-Ann Fabrics on Thursday.
Full-grown Mouse stood in the yarn aisle of the very same store, although today was Saturday. He picked a few colors out of the wall. He grabbed the green from his memories and decided to make a scarf. The store had been remodeled since his days with Meemaw, but he still saw her here, out of the corner of his eye. She was average in every way—her body soft and smooshable for hugs. Mouse missed her terribly. Some days the pain wound around his neck like a snake.
Meemaw and Mouse had had a quiet relationship. She’d look up from her knitting on a nice day and ask in a playful voice, “Jimmy, you want to go to swings? Yes?” Her thick Polish accent made her sound angry when she was far from it.
At the playground, Mouse sometimes wished one of the stylish moms with the big sunglasses would claim him as her own. But Meemaw sat in the shade, knitting away, always waiting. She’d call him over for a sip of water every once in a while, commenting on how hard he was playing. Mouse would unscrew the top and take a drink from the jam jar Meemaw saved for just this purpose.
Eventually, he dreaded the park. Once the other kids picked up on his high, squeaky voice that refused to sound any different no matter how hard he prayed to his mother’s Jesus, nothing was fun anymore.
On the way back from the park, if it happened to be a Friday, Meemaw would take Mouse into the accountant’s office to discuss her finances. Friday was for accounting. She insisted he be included in the decisions. “Is his money too. We do everything together.”
So he watched and learned how his grandmother turned her measly Social Security check into enough money for a woman and child to live on.
The most soothing thing Mouse learned from Meemaw was knitting. She was a miracle-worker with yarn and needles. Colors that would never imagine being neighbors in the store found harmonious comfort together in Meemaw’s knitted blankets. No ruffle was too complicated for her. Mouse had watched Meemaw slyly examine a pattern on someone else’s hat in the grocery store, and the next day create it from scratch.
“Meemaw, can you teach me to knit?” The question that bubbled out of Mouse one rainy, drippy Thursday lifted his grandmother’s eyebrows and made her blue eyes sparkle.
“Yes? Very well, Jimmy. Sit next to me.” Meemaw patted the worn couch cushion.
That day Mouse learned the magic handshake of the creative. The slipknot and the gentle ladder of lovely that built on his grandmother’s needle instantly made sense.
“You’re a natural, Jimmy.” She sounded prouder than a bird watching its fledgling take flight.
They formed the defining bond of their relationship that day. After that Meemaw would bring his current creations to Jo-Ann Fabrics and brag to all the employees. Mouse stood looking at the floor, blushing at their compliments and encouragement.
Patterns.
Meemaw was as reliable as clockwork. She dressed him each day in dime-store clothes, which they’d carefully counted out the money to buy. She walked Mouse to school every morning, and gave him a sack lunch, which was equally predictable. The sandwich was always some horribly smelly meat that his classmates complained about, like tuna or liverwurst, wrapped in wax paper. And the glass jar had followed him from the playground to the lunch table. His special treat was juice instead of water.
All the things that reminded Mouse of Meemaw made him different. And he learned that different wasn’t good as quickly as he’d picked up knitting. Meemaw made it to every event at school, even ones that no other parent showed up for, but her metal basket filled with knitting squeaked into the school lobby like a loud, dying cat. Mouse hated not being proud of her.
Patterns.
Mouse soon learned the patterns of the bullies at his school. When the meaner children figured out that taunting him about his grandmother got a response, they grabbed onto his self-worth with their jaws and never let go. His teachers stepped in if they could, but they weren’t always around.
When Billy made fun of his grandmother’s teeth and her squeaky basket in the cafeteria, Mouse felt something snap.
He jumped up. “Meemaw is a wonderful person! She’s all I have!”
Billy’s immediate and perfect mimic of Mouse’s outburst brought a roar of laughter from the lunch crowd. Mouse sat and hid behind his lunch bag, filled with shame. He couldn’t eat a thing. When he brought home his uneaten meal—he wouldn’t dare throw it out and waste it—his grandmother questioned him.
Mouse gave in to her concerned eyes and told her the whole story. Meemaw’s eyebrows rose higher and higher as he spoke, and when he’d finished she released a torrent of angry Polish. She called the teacher, principal, and the custodian that evening.
“My grandson was tormented today! If happens again I will handle that psia krew myself.” She was so angry she had to sit down. Mouse brought her water. She looked so pale and worn. He was worried.
“Jimmy, you are small now. I know that. But your heart, so big. Don’t let them hurt your heart. You are big to me.”
Mouse patted her back until she looked better. He never told her about the bullies again. Perhaps her calls put the adults at school on higher alert, but Billy and his crew were skilled at finding their moments. The worst, by far, was lunch. The cafeteria monitor had a habit of sneaking outside to have a smoke, and Billy had an incredible talent: he knew exactly how long it took to smoke a cigarette. He would devise tortures that lasted precisely that amount of time.
Most of the time Mouse said nothing as Billy spat in his milk or threw his sandwich in the garbage. Because when he did get a reaction, Billy got more creative. Then one day when Mouse spoke up, his life changed.
Billy stood in front of him as soon as the lunch monitor clicked the exit door guiltily behind her.
“Hey, squeaky ass, what stinky lunch do you have today?” Billy tore into Mouse’s bag. Mouse felt revulsion crawling up his spine when he saw a thick slice of cake in Billy’s grubby hand.
He hated his voice, but used it. “Put it down, Billy. That’s not cool, man.”
The cake was from Meemaw’s birthday celebration the night before. Mouse had knitted her a shawl using her favorite colors and made the dessert.
Billy imitated him, his go-to tease.
Mouse made a fist, then unclenched it. Finally he smacked Billy in the chest.
“You smacking me? You smacking me?” Billy asked, incredulous. “That’s it. Get him, guys. He’s asking for it now.” Billy’s friends grabbed Mouse’s arms, which were thin and lacking anything resembling muscle.
“Let’s make him moon the cafeteria!” Billy smiled as Mouse made a grab for his pants.
Together, like a pack of dogs, they brought him down. All the hands began working at once. Mouse felt tears of shame roll down his cheeks.
“NO! NO!”
Billy laughed harder at his screams.
When the air hit his rump, Mouse’s inside hurt so much. Everyone in the cafeteria would see him like this. The bullies stood up, mission accomplished, and pointed. Mouse yanked on his dime-store pants, but the buckle that hadn’t helped to keep his pants on during the attack now sprang into action to prevent him from covering himself.
Mouse heard Billy’s voice again as he worked at his belt. “Get back to your seats,” Billy shouted. “The monitor should be back by now.”
Mouse heard footsteps and squeezed his eyes shut, fearing another assault. When he felt a cover over his exposed rear, the sense of relief was so amazing, he opened his eyes. It was a denim jacket. With this cover in place, Mouse hastily got his pants back in order. Instead of a teacher, as he’d expected, the new kid, Beckett Taylor, had bestowed dignity upon him. Mouse had heard Beckett was bad news, but he’d never been so grateful to anyone in his life.
“Dude, what’s your name?” Beckett held out a hand so Mouse could stand up.
“Jimmy.”
“I was in the can or I would have stopped this crazy shit sooner. Which fool started it?” Beckett followed Mouse’s pointing finger.
Beckett walked up behind Billy just as the cafeteria monitor snuck back into the room.
Billy gave Beckett a smug smile over his shoulder. “You better sit down, new kid. You’ll get in trouble for standing up during lunch.”
Beckett smiled back. “Hey, fucker, some trouble’s worth it.”
Mouse’s mouth dropped open. Never in his eleven years on this planet had he heard a kid use that word.
Beckett grabbed Billy by the jaw. “If you ever touch Jimmy again, I’ll kill you. It’s that simple.”
Billy tried to pull away from Beckett.
The lunch monitor shouted “Hey, hey!” in the loudest voice anyone had ever heard her use.
Beckett began punching Billy in the face. The violence was quick and decisive. Billy couldn’t get up from his chair, and blood spurted from his nose, but that didn’t stop Beckett.
When Billy’s head slipped backward, Beckett changed his grip, grabbing a fistful of Billy’s hair, and continued on. Flecks of Billy’s blood splattered all over Beckett’s face. The cafeteria monitor called for assistance on her walkie-talkie and grabbed Beckett’s arm to stop the pummeling. Beckett let himself be pulled from the now-unconscious bully.
He smiled at Billy’s friends. “I got more where that came from. Never do that shit again.” He found Mouse’s eyes. “Jimmy, you hold your head high.”
That moment changed Mouse.
Beckett never came back to school, and Mouse wondered if his mother’s Jesus had sent him like a guardian angel. By listening to the hushed conversation of teachers, Mouse learned that Beckett had gone to juvie, but Billy and his cronies gave Mouse a wide berth for years afterward. Their memories were better than an elephant’s when it came to that pain, and Beckett’s protection covered Mouse long after he wasn’t physically present to provide it.
Once he made it to high school, Mouse’s tall genes kicked in, and he grew to look down on most kids his age. Even though his voice kept its squeakiness, he never forgot to hold his head high. Beckett had paid dearly to defend him, so he made it count.
He occasionally heard Beckett’s name tossed around, and he knew his savior’s reputation hadn’t changed a whit. Stories of his drug running and vicious ways became legend in the school hallways.
When he was seventeen, Mouse’s sweet Meemaw succumbed to congestive heart failure. For weeks after her passing, he sat in her house, drenched in heartbreak. He’d known she was old, but she seemed timeless. Soon creditors called looking for money. Mouse grabbed his grandmother’s knitting bag and slung it over his shoulder. He walked the streets and asked about Beckett. Every person he passed got grilled. His persistence paid off and Mouse was finally pointed in the direction of a convenience store.
Beckett held court in a booth at the back, and his disciples were decidedly shady characters. His loud voice and filthy mouth echoed off the walls, but Mouse smiled when he saw his defender all grown up. He looked just the same, except bigger and full of muscles.
Mouse held his head high and cleared his throat. “Sir, I would like to work for you.”
One of the dirt bags laughed and mimicked Mouse’s high voice. “Beckett, you’re stupider than I thought if you hire this bastard.”
Mouse backhanded the dirt bag in a move eerily reminiscent of the one that had freed him from his shame so many years ago. He grabbed the asshole by the throat. “Don’t make that mistake again, fuckbag.”
Beckett lifted an eyebrow at the man in Mouse’s grasp. “Last time you’ll make fun of his voice, huh?”
Mouse shook his head and locked eyes with Beckett. “He can make fun of my voice all he wants, but if he ever calls you stupid again, I’ll eat his brains for breakfast.”
Beckett nodded. Mouse nodded back. The moment held a pact only those two men would recognize. Without a word, Mouse became Beckett’s bodyguard.
Mouse got his high school diploma and began helping Beckett with his finances. He tried not to think about his Grandma’s opinion of whores and drugs. He could only believe in the pattern he’d learned from Beckett—a pattern of respect and kindness.
Mouse learned quickly about the three brothers, and he remembered clearly the state his boss had been in when they buried the body of his last foster father. Mouse would be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped Beckett would consider him a brother too. So many times he’d looked on as Beckett wrapped his wrist around Cole’s or Blake’s arm and wished he had a tattoo as well. But he resigned himself to being a help to Beckett, keeping him alive and out of jail.
To celebrate five years of protecting his defender, Mouse had made a discreet visit to Chaos. As he laid his head on the dirty bunk in Chaos’s shed, he’d made a silent wish that someday he could show Beckett his tattoo.
An employee disrupted Mouse’s reverie. “Can I help you?”
Jo-Ann Fabrics appeared again around him.
“Thanks, no. I’m all good.” Mouse slung his grandmother’s treasured knitting sack over his shoulder.
The vibrating phone alerted him to a text from the boss.
Merkin’s a traitor, kidnapped Cole. Find Blake, keep him safe.
Trust no 1. ~Eve
Mouse dropped his merchandise and swiftly left the store. He hopped in his new hearse and had his laptop open before he’d closed the driver’s door. He pulled up the GPS tracker he and Merkin had installed on everyone’s phones.
Eve—or at least her phone—was off-grid. Merkin was speeding along Route 9, and Beckett was headed south on Franklin Road. He raged at Merkin’s deception. Mouse had never been totally thrilled about Merkin. There was something off, something about his demeanor that reminded Mouse of Billy from the good ol’ days of getting the crap tortured out of him every day. Merkin would die a painful death if Mouse got to him first.