Prologue: Craig was turned away from him, and Joey knew something was wrong. When he turned toward him there were tears glistening in his eyes, and a cut under his left eye.
"What happened?" Joey said, the concern sharp in his voice and in his eyes.
"I got in a fight," Craig said, his voice breaking on the words.
"With who?" Joey said, peering at him. He didn't get in fights.
"My dad," It was more than he'd admitted since that night in the cemetery. And then he told him he wanted to go to Children's Aid the next day and ensure that he would never have to see his father again.
The next day Craig flinched away from him when he tried to see how his eye was, and it was turning black and blue around the cut. In the offices of Children's Aid the social worker barely blinked an eye at the two of them standing there.
"See this?" Craig said, pointing to the eye, "my dad did it. He beats me and I don't want to see him again,"
The social worker nodded, and Joey noted the jeans and casual dress shirt, noted the dust on the manila file with Craig's name at the top. It would take a while but it would all be worked out. Craig would come to live with him permanently.
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Band practice went well. Still rough around the edges, Jimmy and Marco could practice a little more, but Spinner's drumming was tight and his vocals were getting better.
Joey made a quick spaghetti sauce and Craig had two helpings while Angie picked at it, complaining that she didn't like so many vegetables in the sauce.
"Just eat it," Joey said, rolling his eyes.
While Craig was rinsing his plate the phone rang.
"Craig, get it!" Joey called from upstairs.
"Hello?" he said, cradling the phone between his neck and shoulder, rinsing off Joey and Angie's dishes.
"Hello, Craig?" It was his father. He felt this coldness in the pit of his stomach at his voice.
"Dad," he said.
"Uh, how are you?" his dad said, and Craig closed his eyes, remembering the last time he'd heard his voice. He could hear him, are you talking to me or are you talking to Joey?
"Good," Eyes still closed, and he could feel the way his father used to grab his arms, pull him roughly forward. You always screw up!
"It's been awhile," his father said, and Craig took a shuddery breath. He could see the leather belt arcing in the air, heard the whistling sound it made, felt it crack down on his back. I don't beat you.
"Yeah," he said, glancing around at the toys in the living room, at the dishes piled in the sink. The controlled chaos. At his father's house everything was in its place.
"I just wanted to call and see how you were,"
Silence. Craig didn't know what to say. He remembered being in the cellar in his darkroom, everything destroyed, the canisters of photo developing solutions running down the shelves, torn pictures on the floor. His mouth open in surprise. The footsteps on the stairs, his father's voice suddenly filling his ears, looking for something?
"Uh, um, I'm good," Craig stammered, watching Joey walk into the kitchen and look at him questioningly. Joey was kinda psychic. He probably knew it was his father on the phone.
"Okay. Well. It was good talking to you," Albert said, and Craig closed his eyes again. Yeah. He remembered waking up in his bed at home, feeling the aches of the previous night's beating. He remembered looking in his mirror in the morning, the sunlight coming full blast into the bedroom, staring at the fading yellowish bruises and the fresh black and blue bruises, feeling the cracks in his ribs, the pull in his side. He remembered walking on eggshells, waiting for his father's temper to explode.
"Yeah, uh, it was good t-talking to you, too," Craig said, and realized as he tripped and stuttered over his words that he hadn't stuttered like that since last year, since he'd last seen his dad.