What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (best books for 7th graders TXT) 📕

“Says the woman who built a jazz club from scratch while raising a child all by herself…”

“Who has such a complete hold on McKenzie’s heart,” Nina said.

“I don’t love McKenzie. I mean I do, but not like that. And he doesn’t love me like that.”

“I know. I know, I know, I know, but I didn’t know, not for the longest time. I thought he was with me because he couldn’t be with you; that he proposed to me—three times he proposed to me—because he couldn’t marry you. It took me years to figure out that a man could love a woman as much as he loves you and still just be her friend.”

“Just be her friend—you say that like it’s an insignificant thing. Real friendship like the kind McKenzie and I have, and Bobby, too, is momentous.”

“I’m starting to catch on.”

“The friendship you and I have…”

“Shel—”

“Tell me—if you thought McKenzie was in love with me all these years, why did you stay with him?”

“Because he’s the least pretentious man I’ve ever known and he makes me laugh and he makes me feel safe even though he seems to get beat up every other week. Because I’ve loved him almost from the moment we met and because in my arrogance I was convinced I could win him away from you even though I didn’t need to. What an idiot.”

Shelby took Nina’s arm, pulled it around her shoulder, and nestled against her.

“For the record,” she said, “Vic and Katie are jealous of each other and they fight all the time, but if you mess with one, the other will rip your heart out.”

“Sisters.”

“Now and forever.”

That’s when Shelby’s cell phone rang.

The young woman gave Nina a bag containing all of my belongings, including my bloodstained clothes, yet only after she proved that she was indeed my wife. Apparently, the young woman had a hard time wrapping her head around the idea that a husband and wife could have different last names, even in this day and age, or that a wife would refer to her husband by his last name. Nina signed yet another document without reading it first, took the bag, and handed it to Bobby. Bobby said he would bring the bag to the FSU.

“What’s that?” the young woman asked.

Everyone listened intently.

What that was was Louis Armstrong’s unaccompanied opening credenza to the song “West End Blues,” which helped define early jazz. It was also the ringtone of my cell phone. Bobby opened the bag and Nina dug through its contents until she found the cell. Nina swiped right.

“Hello?” she said.

The caller hesitated before saying “I might have the wrong number. I’m looking for McKenzie.”

“This is Nina Truhler.”

“Oh, hey, Nina. Hi. This is Dave Deese. We met a while ago…”

“I remember.”

“I’m sorry to call so late, sorry to disturb you, it’s just that I heard—I just heard that McKenzie was shot. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is, but he’s going to be fine.”

“Is he? Oh, okay. Great. God. I’m just … wow. That’s a relief. You say he’s going to be okay?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Dave, but I have to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry to disturb you like I said. It’s just—it’s just that I’m feeling really guilty about all of this.”

“Guilty? Why?”

Deese answered with a question.

“McKenzie was doing me a favor and I’m afraid—is it possible that he might have been shot because of it?”

“Hang on.”

Nina held the phone for Bobby to take.

“It’s for you,” she said.

Barbara Deese was wearing fluffy pink slippers, red pajamas, and a long, thick black robe that she wrapped tight around herself. Bobby said she reminded him of a woolly bear caterpillar. She was sitting on the sofa next to Deese. Deese kept dropping hints—it was late and she had to get up early in the morning; it was going to be a long, boring conversation and he wouldn’t blame her if she just went to bed. Only Barbara wasn’t going anywhere. How often did a commander of police drop everything to interview her husband? In their home? In the middle of the night?

Bobby was sitting in a wingback chair facing the sofa.

“Tell me about this, DD,” he said.

Deese had played hockey with Bobby and me for more than a dozen years and poker nearly once a month for the past five and like old friends we rarely used each other’s first names. It was usually last names or nicknames, the nicknames often derogatory in nature because that’s the way we rolled.

“The more I think of it, the more I’m convinced that this has nothing to do with me, McKenzie getting shot,” Deese said. “I mean it’s not like I asked him to steal the plans for the Death Star or anything. He’s going to be all right, though?”

“That’s what the doctor says,” Bobby said.

“Is there any permanent damage? I mean, can he still play hockey?”

“I don’t know. C’mon, man.”

“I asked McKenzie to do me a favor.”

“What favor?” Barbara asked.

“That’s what I was going to tell—are you sure you don’t want to go to bed? It’s awfully late.”

“Dave…”

“Yeah, Dave,” Bobby said. “What favor?”

“It’s—it’s embarrassing.”

“How embarrassing?” Barbara asked.

Deese was staring at his wife when he answered. “I asked him to find out who my father was.”

“Your father?”

“Didn’t your dad die last year sometime?” Bobby asked.

“Fifteen months ago. He died almost a year to the day after Mom died. He just didn’t seem to care about anything after she passed. I appreciate it that you and McKenzie came to the funeral; I don’t know if I told you at the time.”

“I don’t understand,” Barbara said.

“Neither do I,” Bobby said.

“You know my sister T,” Deese said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Teeeeeeee,” Barbara said, drawing the name out. “Never Theresa. Never Terese. Never Terry or Resa like my friend from college. Always Teeeeeeee.”

“C’mon,” Deese said.

“She is the loudest, most inappropriate person I know.”

“I thought you liked her.”

Barbara held her thumb and index finger about an inch part.

“Your sister is terrific in very small doses,” Barbara said. “Just ask her ex-husbands.”

Deese shook