Scott and Aubrey caught their breath.
“The hell is that kid doing out?” Aubrey asked.
“It’s a blackout, not a tornado,” Scott said, but his tone was unconvincing, and his voice quavered.
Aubrey pressed the gas, gingerly, in case there were any more ten-year-old lunatics racing home, and continued down the block. The neighborhood was still busy. Most of the cars that had headed out earlier had returned and were now backed into their driveways with trunks and doors open, in various stages of unloading. Whatever could be bought, borrowed, or otherwise rounded up had been crammed into them and was now being lugged into kitchens and basements. Stocking up was instinctive at this point; most people had gotten pretty good at it.
As they drove past Norman Levy’s house, thoughts of the professor flickered through Aubrey’s mind again. “Remind me I need to check on Norman right away if this happens. See if he needs anything.”
Scott grunted. “If this happens, I wouldn’t bet the over on Norman. He’s like a hundred.”
Aubrey turned. Again, the urge to slap him was strong. Instead, she leveled her voice. “That’s a shitty thing to say.”
“My bad.”
“I hate that expression.”
“My bad.”
She looked at him. Was he trying to enrage her?
Scott half smiled. He was. Sometimes the kid could be funny. “I won’t let you forget Norman. But you know he’s got this shit more under control than anybody.”
Scott had once been unabashed in his admiration of Norman. They’d been great together, a grandfather figure and his unlikely protégé. Norman’s place was an intellectual funhouse. There was always something interesting going on there, and for a couple years Scott had been an almost daily presence, coming home with stories of telescopes assembled, radio rigs he’d been allowed to fiddle with for hours, and endless conversations he’d had with the string of smart and entertaining characters Norman kept in his life. But then Scott hit fourteen, his father was thrown out of the house, and the boy clammed up, to everyone.
“Talk to me,” Norman had told him then, “like you used to,” and instead Scott stopped going over to Norman’s house altogether.
“Maybe you should be the one to check on him,” Aubrey suggested.
But Scott was staring past her, his face flushing. “He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Dad. He’s here.”
Aubrey turned and saw the black pickup, parked in their driveway in a proprietary fashion. She took a breath, kept cool, and swung a wide U-turn in front of the house, parking at the foot of the walk as Rusty pushed open the screen door and came outside. Waltzed right out of her house, the one she’d bought him out of, and overpaid dearly for the privilege.
“Left your front door wide open,” Rusty said, in lieu of a greeting. Scott got out, slammed his door, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started up the walk, intending to blow past Rusty in an adolescent stalk, but Aubrey called him back.
“Can you help carry, please?”
Scott and Rusty answered at the same time—“Sure”—and started walking toward her.
“I meant Scott.”
Rusty stopped, rolling his eyes. “Sorry.”
Aubrey opened the trunk and she and Scott started picking up bags stuffed with toilet paper, pasta, cleaning products, canned goods, and the like. Rusty, rebuffed, drifted a few feet closer and looked at the bags, frowning.
“That’s a lotta perishables. Hope you like milk.”
Scott and Aubrey ignored him and kept working. “I can take more,” Scott offered to Aubrey.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, put it under here.” He lifted his elbow, creating a space on his left hip, and she tucked a box of Tide under there. He lifted the other arm, asking for more. She obliged. In Rusty’s presence, they were suddenly working together better than they had in months.
Rusty nodded toward a plastic bag jammed full of frozen items. “That’s all gonna melt.”
Aubrey didn’t respond.
Scott headed inside, studiously avoiding eye contact with his father as he passed.
Rusty stepped down off the curb and came to the trunk, reaching for a bag.
Aubrey waved him off. “I can get it.”
“Oh, come on. You’re worse than him.”
“What do you want, Rusty?”
“What do you think I want? I’m checking on you guys.”
“We’re OK. You should get home and get ready.”