Free Sliver of Truth by Lisa Unger Page A

way sometimes, like he was trying to be invisible. Not that I blamed him; it was like living in the valley between two active volcanoes. You never knew which one of them was gonna blow.”
    “Lana was abusive to Max as well?”
    “Oh, yeah,” he said. “She got her licks in.”
    Max had always spoken of his mother as if she were the Madonna and Mother Teresa wrapped into one. I’d heard him talk only of her beauty, of her kindness, of her strength.
    “You look a lot like her. Did you know that?” Nicholas said to me.
    “No,” I said. “I didn’t.” I hadn’t wanted that information, didn’t even know what to do with it. Suddenly I regretted coming.
    He shrugged. “Compared to Race, she wasn’t so bad. But that kid never knew where it was coming from. Never knew if he was going to get stroked or slapped.”
    I didn’t know what to say, thinking about this abused little boy who was not my uncle but my father. I waited for emotion to bloom in my chest, but instead it felt as if it was filled with lead, heavy and numb. I looked into my teacup and saw that the milk had curdled slightly.
    “Max and I got walkie-talkies that year. But in my parents’ rush to get out of there, we’d left mine under the tree by mistake. I wanted it, couldn’t think or talk about anything else, drove my parents crazy. Tomorrow, they promised. But to a kid tomorrow seems like forever. I waited for them to go to bed, then I pulled on my coat and boots and snuck out of the house.”
    I could picture it. The block dark, but illuminated by Christmas lights on the houses and from the trees glimmering inside, snow on the ground. I could see him trundling up the street in his coat and pajamas. I could smell the cold winter air, hear the cars on the busy road that ran perpendicular to their block.
    “If Max was sixteen that year, I was fourteen. But Max was huge for his age. Not quite as big as Uncle Race but getting there. I figured Race wouldn’t be pushing Max around much longer. Still I looked for Race’s car in the driveway. He been home, I’d have gone right back to my house.”
    I could tell he was back there on that night; his eyes had taken on a kind of shine and he looked right through me. I kept quiet.
    “I remember that the air seemed different, like the night already knew something bad had happened. I didn’t go to the door. I went to Max’s bedroom window, but he wasn’t in there. I could hear the television up loud, so I went around to the living-room window.”
    He stopped and released a sigh, as if the memory still frightened him all these years later. He put his head in his hands, then lifted it again. “That’s where I saw Aunt Lana,” he said. “I only recognized her by the outfit she’d had on at dinner. Her face was a pulp; her clothes were soaked with blood.”
    “But Race wasn’t there?” I asked.
    He looked up at me. “I told you, his car wasn’t in the drive.”
    “He could have come home, killed her, and left again,” I said. “He could have been parked on the street.”
    “No,” he answered.
    “How can you be sure?”
    He looked at me with something like pity in his eyes. I guess I sounded as desperate as I was feeling at that moment.
    “I saw him standing over her. There was blood on his fists, on his shirt, and on his face. His eyes were glazed over and he was smiling, breathing hard like a prizefighter.”
    “Who?” I asked him, horrified.
    He shook his head at me and tears fell down his cheeks and into his beard. He shook his head again and opened his mouth but no words came out.
    “Who?” I asked again, leaning forward in my chair.
    “Max,” he whispered.
    I couldn’t have been more shocked or devastated if he’d hit me in the head with a crowbar. I wished he had; I wished I could just pass out and get amnesia, forget I ever heard anything he’d told me. I hated myself for being so stubborn and curious and for being there at all. I was having trouble getting a full breath of