The Night Always Comes

  Dedication

  FOR THE PORTLAND THAT LET A HARD-LIVING HOUSEPAINTER BUY HIS OWN HOUSE

  Epigraph

  The point is you can’t be too greedy.

  —The 45th President of the United States of America

  Gold is a very devilish sort of thing, believe me, boys. In the first place, it changes your character entirely. When you have it your soul is no longer the same as it was before. . . . You cease to distinguish between right and wrong. You can no longer see clearly what is good and what is bad.

  —B. Traven, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Willy Vlautin

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Kenny had his hands around her ankle and began pulling her from the bed. A small lamp on the dresser was the only light in the room and he stood over her in his Superman T-shirt and pajama bottoms. It was winter and a portable radiant heater in the middle of the room gave off little warmth, and his breath came out in small disappearing clouds.

  Lynette woke suddenly and looked at the clock on the nightstand: three a.m. “I get to sleep for fifteen more minutes. So please don’t touch me or say anything until then.” She was thirty years old and got out of bed in ten-year-old sweats and wool socks, shut off the light on the dresser, and got back under the covers.

  In the darkness his breathing grew louder.

  “Go back upstairs,” she cried.

  He began to whimper.

  “Please,” she begged, but he didn’t stop. It only became worse, so she turned on the bedside lamp next to the alarm clock and looked at him. “Jesus, don’t start crying. It’s too early and I’m exhausted and you know I’m mean when I’m exhausted. But even so you come down here every morning when you know you’re not supposed to. Every morning it’s the same thing.”

  His face was red and tears ran from his eyes.

  “Come on, stop it. I’m too tired for you to cry. You have to let me sleep.” She pulled the sheet, the two blankets, and comforter over her head. From underneath she said, “You know the rules. You have to wait until the alarm goes off. That’s the rule. When the alarm goes off, you can come down. Not before. I’ve told you a million times. Just wait at the top of the stairs. Wait until you hear the alarm. We’ve talked about this over and over. Don’t you remember?”

  Her brother shook his head.

  “You remember, I can tell just by your breathing.”

  Kenny shook his head but began to smile. He grabbed at her leg through the bedding.

  She pulled the covers back. “Jesus, alright, okay, you win. But I’ll only get up if you brush your teeth.”

  He shook his head.

  “Your breath could kill somebody. Even in the cold I can smell it. Put on the clean sweats I set out, brush your teeth, and let me get ready for work. Okay?”

  He shook his head.

  “In five seconds I’m gonna get mad again.” She pointed to the stairs and finally her brother headed for them. She stayed in bed and watched as he walked away. He was thirty-two years old and gaining more weight each year. His body had become a pear. He was five feet ten inches tall and waddled when he walked. He had thinning brown hair and a growing bald spot on the crown of his head. He had monthly seizures and couldn’t talk but for the sounds that came out almost like words. The doctors said that he had the mind of a three-year-old. Sometimes that seemed too low and other times too high.

  He lumbered up the stairs and she got out of bed.

  The foundation of the house was poured in 1922 using faulty concrete. During the winter rains, it leaked in a half-dozen places. Over the years small sections of the concrete wall had grown soft, the cement beginning to crumble. Their first landlord hired a company to patch the foundation, but he had died, and his son, who lived on the coast near Astoria, inherited the house. He hadn’t raised the rent in eleven years with the understanding that they wouldn’t call him for repairs. So they didn’t, and the basement was left to leak.

  Across the room from Lynette’s bed was a working washer and dryer, a 1960s oil furnace, a concrete utility sink, and shelves filled with boxes. In high school she had painted her section of the floor dark blue and the walls light blue. She had hung posters. The room now had the same colored floor, but the posters were gone and the walls were white and bare. She had her mother’s two-decades-old full-sized bed, a dresser that had come with the house, two of its legs now bricks, and a six-foot-long wooden pole that was nailed to the ceiling where she hung her clothes.

  She put on her work pants and a navy blue T-shirt that read 9TH STREET BAKERY in yellow-colored ink. In a backpack she put a change of clothes and her class work and went upstairs to find her mother in the living room asleep on the couch, the TV still on. Lynette shut it off and went to the bathroom. The toilet hadn’t been flushed and used toilet paper was on the floor. She picked it up and flushed it. She cleaned the seat, used it herself, then washed her face and brushed her teeth and hair.

  Her brother sat on his bed dressed in matching red Portland Trail Blazers sweatpants and hoodie. His walls were covered in twenty-year-old Portland Trail Blazers, Winterhawks, and Beavers posters. He slept on a twin bed in the corner of the room, a black, red, and white Trail Blazers comforter covering it. A Superman lamp sat on a dresser. Two Superman night-lights were plugged into the wall sockets.

  “Shoes,” Lynette said.

  Kenny smiled but shook his head.

  “Don’t play around. We’re gonna be late if you do.” She picked two pairs of sweats up off the floor, smelled them, and then folded them and set them on top of his dresser. She found his red-and-black Blazers knit cap and put it on his head. “Don’t take it off. That’s an order. We can’t keep losing hats.”

  She looked on the floor for socks, found two, smelled them, and put them on his feet. “Tomorrow we cut your nails.”

  He shook his head.

  “They’re getting gross. Let me see what you put in your backpack?”

  He wrapped his arms around it.

  “Come on, Kenny.”

  He shook his head.

  “Alright, then, suit yourself. Let’s just get our shoes and go.”

  She grabbed his hand and they walked out to the main room to see the TV on again.

  “Can’t sleep?” asked Lynette.

  Their mother looked at them from the couch. She was covered in a leopard-print electric blanket. “I always forget how early you get up.” She reached to the coffee table, found her cigarettes and a lighter, and lit one as she lay on her back. “What time are you bringing him home?”

  “I get out of class at two. I’ll be here by two fifteen and then I have my shift at three thirty. I called Sally, but she can’t watch him. I figure I’ll lock him in his room with a movie. He’ll be alone for just over two hours if you come home right after you get off.”

  Their mother coughed. “I might not go to work today.”

  “You sick?” />
  She nodded and a trail of smoke left her mouth.

  “Then you keep him.”

  Their mother slowly shook her head. “Nah. . . . I’m just wishing. I have to go in.” She put the cigarette in an ashtray, sat up, and said, “Come here, Superman.” She patted the couch and Kenny went to her. “Be a good boy today. Do what your sister says.” She kissed him on the forehead and then lay back down.

  Lynette locked the front door and, on the porch, zipped up her and Kenny’s coats. The old house behind them was shingled with gray asbestos siding and the single-paned windows were original and painted white. It was a thousand square feet and across the road was a concrete wall blocking the sight and some of the traffic noise from Interstate 5.

  It was January and raining and forty-one degrees when Lynette and her brother walked across the lawn to her red 1992 Nissan Sentra. She opened the passenger-side door and Kenny got in. She put on his seat belt and walked around to the driver’s side. The car started on the second try. The heater hadn’t worked in a year and their breath fogged the windows inside the car. She drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a rag she used to wipe the condensation and steam from the windshield.

  “There’s a red car passing us,” Lynette said half-heartedly to her brother. “Do you see it?”

  Kenny smiled and pointed at it.

  She put her hand on his arm and squeezed. “Maybe seeing your favorite colored car so early means we’ll have a lucky day.”

  They crossed the Fremont Bridge in the still black of night and the radio played and the rain fell. Kenny looked out the window at the blurred lights of Portland and Lynette leaned into the driver’s-side door and sighed.

  2

  The 9th Street Bakery had sold its employee parking lot two years earlier. In its place was a half-built ten-story condominium building. Lynette was now forced to park on the street. It was free until eight a.m. and then she paid by the hour until she left at noon. That morning she found a spot directly across from the bakery. She and Kenny got out of the car and she held his hand and carried his backpack as they walked across the pavement. The bakery was closed, but a side door was left open and they went through a storage area to the break room, where she sat her brother at a table with her phone, a sheet of butcher paper, and a box of crayons.

  “Don’t leave this room unless you have to use the bathroom,” she said, “but find me first. And don’t wait too long like you did yesterday because I forgot to bring you a change of clothes. So hold it and then find me, okay? Hold it and then find me. You know where I’ll be. I won’t be mad. I really won’t. I’ll be happy if you let me know. Understand?”

  He nodded and she started the movie Toy Story on her phone and left. She clocked in at four a.m. and began her shift as the pastry lead, taking trays of croissants and danishes from the proofer and putting them in the oven. Every hour she would go into the break room and check on her brother. She would walk him to the bathroom and try to get him to use it or start another movie on her phone. At seven she took her first real break and sat with him.

  Kenny pointed to the window outside.

  “I don’t have time today, but I’ll let you walk around the block. If I do, though, I have to keep the phone.”

  Kenny shook his head.

  “You can’t have both, you know that. Choose one.”

  Kenny handed her the phone.

  “Don’t stop unless you see Karen waiting outside Fuller’s, okay? If you see her and she invites you in, then you can go. But if she’s not there, don’t let any bums talk to you, especially if they’re young. And if they have dogs, well, then, just turn around and come back here. Those kinds of dogs don’t want to be petted. Remember what happened last time? That bite really hurt and you were really scared. So no petting dogs. Especially a bum’s dog.” She put his coat and hat on and kissed him. She unlocked the side door and watched him head down the sidewalk. She got a cup of coffee, sat at the break table, and called Fuller’s Coffee Shop.

  “It’s Lynette. Kenny’s coming. Can you can give him just one pancake and two scrambled eggs? The scrambled eggs have to be sitting on top of the pancake or he won’t eat the eggs. And like always will you just pour the syrup? He’ll use the whole thing if you let him. If he gets upset, just tell him I can see if he uses too much. That I see from where I am . . . I know, same old story . . . And don’t leave the syrup anywhere near him. I’ve seen him drink a whole bottle. . . . I know, it’s disgusting. . . . Thanks again. I’ll bring you over some treats when I get off. And I’ll pay you for this week, too. . . . Text me when he’s leaving, okay?”

  She hung up, took a sip of coffee, and set her head on the table and closed her eyes. Her break ended and she went back to work. More employees came, including the owner, and the bakery opened. She worked for forty-five minutes more, then received a text and went outside and met her brother on the street.

  “You ready for your nap?”

  Kenny nodded.

  They came to her car, she opened the passenger-side door, and Kenny got in. From the back seat she took a sleeping bag and covered him with it. “The owner’s here now, so you can’t come in. Just sleep, okay? I’ll check on you my last break and we’ll go to Fuller’s and use their toilet. We only have four more hours now. We’re almost there. I’ll come check on you every chance I can. If it’s an emergency and you have to go to the bathroom, just get out of the car and come find me. That’s only for an emergency though. And remember not to open the door for anyone. Not anyone, alright? Not even if they look friendly or if they’re wearing hard hats. Not even if they look like policemen and knock on the door and smile. Okay? And I saw a red car when I was walking toward Fuller’s. So that’s two. Pretty exciting. Let me know if you see any more.” He put his arms out and hugged her and wouldn’t let her go. “Come on, quit playing. I gotta work.” He let go of her and she said, “Okay, Superman, it’s time to sleep. That’s an order.” She kissed him and locked the car door.

  Three more times she checked on him and always he was asleep. She clocked out at noon, changed her clothes in the women’s bathroom, and left with two ham-and-cheese sandwiches, a coffee, an orange soda, and two pains aux raisins.

  The day was dark and the rain continued and she drove through the Pearl District toward the freeway. Twenty years ago the area was mostly deserted warehouses; now high-end lofts and stores, restaurants, and condominiums stood in their place. With her right hand she wiped the rag across the inside of the windshield and they crossed the Broadway Bridge to the east side and headed north on Williams. There were more new apartment buildings and restaurants and bars. She couldn’t even remember what had been on Williams or Mississippi Avenue five years before. Twenty years ago her mother would have never set foot on Mississippi and now they walked the street on the weekends. They looked in shops at clothes and shoes they could never afford and at menus in restaurants they would never go in. Their family place, a Greek diner on North Skidmore named The Overlook, had just closed. They had eaten there twice a month for twenty-five years. The owners were offered more and more money for the land and eventually it was enough that they sold. The restaurant was torn down and construction on an apartment building had begun.

  At Portland Community College, Lynette parked and they got out. She ate her sandwich while they walked through campus. In a lecture room inside Cascade Hall, they sat in the back at the end of a long table. She unwrapped Kenny’s sandwich and opened his soda while seventy-five students arrived to Intro to Accounting.

  She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Remember we have to be quiet, okay? That means not a peep. No farting either.” But twenty minutes into the lecture Kenny started farting. Nearby students gave them looks and Kenny pulled on Lynette’s shirt.

  “Is it an emergency or can you wait?” she asked.

  Kenny looked worried. He tugged at her again, so she walked him out of the lecture hall to the men’s bathroom. She led him into a stall and then leaned agai
nst a sink outside it and waited. “Remember to pull down your pants and underwear. Remember to sit before you go. Pants, underwear, sit, and go.”

  A student came in and used the urinal and left. Five minutes passed.

  “Come on, I have to hear at least some of the lecture. Are you almost done?” She opened the stall door to see him smiling and still sitting.

  “Come on, don’t play. Go and wipe.” She closed the stall door, waited two minutes more, and opened it again. “You done?”

  Kenny shook his head and again smiled.

  “Alright, wipe one more time for me.”

  Kenny took a handful of toilet paper from the roll and wiped himself.

  “Alright, underwear and then your pants.”

  Kenny pulled up his underwear, then the sweats, and walked out of the stall. She checked the toilet, flushed it, and helped him wash his hands, then they went back to class.

  The teacher, a middle-aged man from India, had a strong accent and a weak voice that wasn’t quite loud enough to hear from where she sat, and the room was warm and she grew tired. Her brother played with her phone and she began to fall asleep and the class ended. A teaching assistant stood near the exit handing back the first exam of the term. She had passed but with a 73 percent. For a week straight she had studied and yet only managed a 73.

  They walked back through campus to her car. The windows fogged as they sat in the parking lot and tears welled in Lynette’s eyes and she slumped back in her seat. Kenny pulled on her coat. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m just tired. Hold my hand for a little.” She put her hand on his hand. “I always wished I was smart, but I guess I have to face the fact I’m just not. I only need a minute, okay? Just give me a minute.” She closed her eyes. A song played on the radio and she gave herself until it was over and then opened her eyes and tried to smile. “Alright,” she said. “I’m all better now. Let’s get you home.”

  3

  In the carport to the right of the house was a car she had never seen, a white Toyota Avalon Limited. It had no license plate, only a placard that said TOYOTA OF PORTLAND, and taped to the rear windshield was a white trip permit. Lynette parked on the street, got out, opened the passenger-side door for Kenny, and helped him from the car. They walked across the front lawn and she stopped and looked inside the Toyota. The seats were black leather and a clear plastic liner covered the carpeted floor. It was brand new.