[Darkthorn 01.0] Pond Scum

by Michael Lilly

Odin watches as I extract my SIM card from my soggy phone. Upon initial inspection, it appears dry, but there’s only one way to assess whether it’s in actual functioning condition. I insert it into the gleaming new phone with a neat click and hold the power button. A fancy logo animation plays, followed by a generic background image (in this case, Japanese cherry blossoms afloat on a stream). I swell with relief as my new phone appears to establish a signal, displaying the mobile and data icons.

  It takes a few minutes to import all of my contacts, at which point I send a text to Beth and Todd: “SIM card works! I’m ready to rejoin the modern technological movement.”

  Todd replies: “Awesome! Glad to hear it!”

  Beth replies: “Nerd.”

  In the shower, I’m finally able to harness the elusive ether that is my unhindered thinking process, like a horse discovering new levels of nimble agility without the burdensome weight of saddles and bags.

  I quickly wash my hair and body, so as to allow myself more mindless time to think, with the hot water pounding on my head, neck, shoulders, and back. It stings against my skin, its hot embrace familiar, comforting, isolating. My thoughts occur like fireworks, big explosions bursting off into several smaller, rapid explosions, then shimmering into nothing before the next round is launched.

  Among these explosions are Beth, Todd, Keroth, May, Mrs. Brotcher, Jordan. A web of anxious determination spins itself in my psyche, round after round of cause and effect, action and consequence.

  Before long, it’s time to get out and get ready for the funeral. Most of my clothing that’s even remotely nice is always neatly hung up in my closet … gathering dust. I’d prefer to rock jeans and a tee shirt, but I suppose I have to pretend to care for just a bit longer. So with that endeavor in mind, I don a sleek, black button-up, slacks, shiny dress shoes, and green tie. It’s the only tie I own, and the only time it’s been worn before now was when I interviewed for my current job.

  Without checking myself in the mirror, I set off. There’s a bite to the air, but the sun pierces it and brings life to the streets. My steps are even, steady, and don’t demand counting. In the emotional void in which I usually spend my time, in the absence of Beth and Todd, I feel myself slipping back into my old calculating self, which relieves me.

  I don’t see how news of the funeral would have spread, but even so, I duck eye contact, trying to stay out of sight, made more difficult by my more dressy attire. The funeral home is just a few blocks south of the station, across the bridge.

  Though I hold confidence in my returned stoicism, every step closer seems to set something off inside me, inflating under my ribcage as though my lungs and heart forgot their proper sizes. The sky is open today, and the weather mild, and the air around me seems to adopt a hush, like if I listen hard enough, it will reveal to me the great secrets of the universe. Maybe the forces of the universe are conspiring to instill more doubt and fear in me yet.

  I’m able to shake it off by touching something cold or smelling the decaying scents of late fall, but only for seconds at a time. Perhaps this is a condition that will accompany me throughout the process. The thought unsettles me, but I hold to the thought that being visibly uncomfortable can only be good for the façade.

  What do normal people feel at funerals? Longing, certainly. Depending on the nature of the death, a degree of anger perhaps? I’m trained to pick out lack of remorse when a suspect is questioned about a victim, but we don’t attend the funerals. And because my parents kept us so tightly removed from any of our extended family, I haven’t been to the funerals of any of my older relatives. Hell, I’m not even sure whether or not any of them have kicked the bucket; there may be an entire Thorn tree, thriving with the exception of the plague that took hold of one branch when my parents reproduced.

  I often wonder whether I would be an emotionally normal, stable person had I not had the childhood that I did. I visit those what-ifs frequently, wondering whether I might be an accountant or an electrician. I wonder what might have become of my sister, provided a loving, welcoming home was part of the deal. And inside and out of this hypothetical scenario, I wonder about my mother. I genuinely hope that she’s doing well, wherever she is. At times, when I’ve been to big cities, I’ve seen women who look like I’d imagine she does, and every time, my heart skips a beat.

  I want to not care, but I do. Maybe that’s enough to qualify as normal, in some elaborate flow chart.

  And in the times that I hate to admit occur, the neurological equivalent of dollar night at a sleazy strip club, I wonder whether having a normal childhood would have produced a supremely underwhelming, nameless participant in society. I like who I am now, but could I be half the person I am were it not for the intensely traumatic things I witnessed and endured as a child?

  The unknowability of these questions irks me straight to my soul.

  A small breeze picks up as another painful thought bursts through the membrane of my mind: this thing with Todd ... is it a complex result of the abuses I took? Or would I have been wired that way regardless? Nature versus nurture, I suppose. Hardware versus software. I think I accidentally installed a firmware update.

  Gathering resolve, I straighten my posture and walk into the chilly wind. Whether or not my past has had direct or indirect ties to the person I am now is irrelevant, I decide. I was dealt my hand and I played the hell out of it, and for all intents and purposes, I came out on top. And not just because my dad is about to be dropped six feet into the earth. Not because I’m the one responsible. Simply because I’ve retained the will to fight and effect positive change in the world.

  I mean, sure, my specific idea of ‘positive change’ may differ drastically from a normal person’s, but a normal person hasn’t had to claw his way out of the hellish depths of evil that I have.

  “Mr. Thorn?”

  The funeral home is gaudily warm, as though with enough flowers and warm lighting they can bring to life the pieces of people’s hearts that have died with the corpses that come through here. A nice sentiment, sure, but I don’t buy into it, nor would I if it were indeed someone I cared about.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Right this way.”

  The older, balding gentleman with a small gut on his otherwise skinny frame leads me down a hallway to the left of the reception area and opens a door at the end. There are a couple of rows of chairs in a semicircle, bisected by a wide aisle down the middle. The casket that someone chose for my father is tasteful but simple; just what I’d expect, honestly.

  “Take all the time you need to say goodbye,” says Mr. Beerbelly. A glinting nametag on his chest reads Charles Flynn.

  “Thanks, Chuck,” I say.

  He leaves through the door we entered, leaving me alone with my father’s corpse. This is the first time I’ve seen it since the day following his unfortunate, tragic dispatch. Though the door to the room is closed, it has a small window and, just in case I’m being watched, I approach the casket.

  He looks different from any time I’ve ever seen him. His features, normally taut with rage and/or bloated with alcohol, are instead relaxed. Serene, even. His hands lay clasped over his midsection, and his now bony, gnarled knuckles stack oddly against each other, like a heap of discarded, mismatched furniture legs.

  “You fucking prick,” I hear myself say rather loudly. Before I know it, my iron grip on my emotions disintegrates. Never before have I gone from ‘I don’t give a damn’ to ‘LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE’ in under a second, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

  My face crumples and my eyes well up. Breathing turns into heaving turns into sobbing. The emotions come in such a rush that it’s difficult to identify their source. Hell, I don’t know whether they even have a source. It may just be an accumulation of the emotion that I should have felt over the years. With interest, apparently.

  Soon I’m on my hands and knees, all but wailing. I hear the door open and close behind me, and stand up to meet Charles Flynn
, but instead, I’m seized in the full embrace of Todd’s good arm. I almost speak, but instead I bury my face in his chest. Within the minute, the tears have stopped and my breathing has returned to a manageable level.

  “This is an intense day for you,” he says. The gentle steadiness in his voice grounds me further. “I’m sure there’s a lot that you wish you could say to him. Let’s get through this, okay?”

  Bless his soul, Todd takes it upon himself to inform the staff that I’m in no fit state to say anything about my father. Being adjacent to the cemetery makes the procession a short one, and the burial itself is satisfyingly unceremonious. Thanks to my meltdown in the viewing area, I retain puffy eyes and a runny nose throughout the remainder of the service, which I think is quite enough to serve as a charade of mourning.

  Todd and I are the only people present, and I’m glad; no additional acting necessary, and more importantly, I don’t have to become acquainted with anyone who knew my genitor. He can die quietly, invisibly, really only being missed by the beneficiaries and fellow drunkards of the bar he frequented. Sure, the story of the murder has circulated, but the shock factor of that story lies in the concept of murder itself, and not so much the victim. When the startling, disturbing element dissipates, his name will be forgotten and, with any luck, his legacy along with it.

  I sink into the sort of self-indulgent numbness that I associate with my hot baths, impressed with myself for being able to do so in the presence of another person. Like in many other ways, this is a way in which Todd is an exception. He drives me to my place in his freshly retrieved car, his driving virtually unimpeded by his gimp arm. The steadiness of his hand instills yet more comfort in me.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say. I realize that we’ve both been silent since we left the cemetery. He parks and accompanies me to my apartment without invitation. Ordinarily, this would peeve me to unknown extremes, but this time it feels endearing.

  I’m discovering more and more that Todd makes me question things that I thought I knew about myself; the sort of solid, absolute truths that one simply knows, like their phone number or middle name. If I were to look at this moment as a past version of myself, looking into the future, I would assert that I would need to be alone now. As it is, I want to be mostly alone. It seems that being alone was never really what I was attracted to, but the comfortable ease that it brought with it.

  I can often find a measure of solace and camaraderie with Beth, but my masks remain firmly in place in her presence, and in particular, I constantly feel the need to keep up with her wit and sarcasm. Don’t get me wrong; they’re fine qualities. But at times when I’m low on energy or need a break from people, the poking-prodding-quick-witted smart-assery is a bit much. But Todd doesn’t make me feel those things. I don’t feel the need to withdraw, nor do I hide behind my masks.

  As every human knows, putting on a mask takes energy. It’s exhausting, draining to the same degree as entertaining houseguests. Or so I would assume. For me to be around people is to deploy my masks, power up my shields, and don my camouflage. The art that is subtlety and secrecy is a taxing one, and even Van Gogh had to put his brush down now and then.

  Until now, I thought that my only refuge was to be alone. But alas, there is a human who doesn’t spark my layers of defensive shrouds.

  As someone who’s been romantically disengaged for as long as I have, it’s hard (albeit important) to ask myself the glaring, obvious questions that need discussion now: how do I distinguish affectionate feelings for another person as romantic, as opposed to a simple but powerful combination of trust and happiness? Am I even capable of romantic love, the way it’s portrayed in books and movies and songs? Is anyone capable of intimacy of such a caliber, or is it all exaggerated in an effort to pump life into the capitalist exploitations of Valentine’s Day and pop radio?

  To be considering the dynamic as a real possibility overwhelms me, a persistent itch that pulls me out of my numbness.

  My consciousness reinserts itself into the reality of my apartment. A mild rain has begun to fall outside, drumming a soothing pitter patter on the windows. I’m on the couch while Todd rummages through the cupboards, fridge, and pantry in search of any food that has survived the past week.

  “Todd,” I say. The volume of my voice in contrast to the comfortable ambience of Todd’s bustling startles me. He looks up from a loaf of wheat bread, eyebrows raised.

  “What … is this? What are we? What’s happening?” I try to deliver it in the form of a genuine question, fearing that it may be mistaken for the same manner one might say, What are you doing? to a toddler who’s been caught smearing peanut butter on the TV screen.

  He sets down a butter knife and sighs. “I’m not sure. I guess I just really like how I feel when I’m around you,” he says. “There’s a constant storm in the world, but when you’re around, it takes a break.”

  If he’s as clueless as I am, we’re fucked.

  “If you’re as clueless as I am, we’re fucked.” A happy little side effect of not employing my masks is that my filter rests with them, and apparently there’s little else to stop gems like this from evolving from thought to speech. Oops.

  But Todd just laughs. And laughs. Between doubling over and catching his breath and repeating, he makes his way around the counter toward me. It seems silly, to laugh so hard, especially at something so desperately unfunny. But for reasons beyond me, I join him in laughter. Maybe it’s the raw silliness of the situation, or the contagiousness of his laugh (a quick, chittery laugh that borders on a giggle). Perhaps I’m all out of fear and sadness and anger and guilt and numbness and my brain simply has nothing else to throw at me.

  He sits on the couch, and after a series of quelling and uprising laughter repeated an absurd number of times, we’re about to ease into a comfortable silence, but my phone rings.

  It’s Beth.

  I pick up halfway through the first ring (You always have your phone in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?).

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Huge fucking news. Well, huge news. No fucking involved. Not yet, at least. Maybe behind bars.”

  “Wait. Did they get him?”

  “They fucking got him. They got one of those professional profilers from the FBI to look through a series of security footage that they pulled from gas stations within a two hundred-mile radius. The profiler must be some kind of savant. The footage he caught him on was blurrier than drunk dial-up porn. Saw his face for all of half a second. Anyway, they caught him heading south. He tried to lie low in some shitty motel just north of the California border. Shoulda gone east, put as much distance as he could between us and him as he could. But hey, better for us, right?”

  “Holy shit. Holy shit,” I say. Todd looks at me inquisitively, clearly understanding that it’s big news, probably guessing what it is.

  “I know, right! Walsh wants to call a press conference, but I called … what’s your guy’s name? Jason?”

  “Jordan.”

  “Right. I got in contact with him first. The news will break tomorrow morning.”

  We only have the one local newspaper in town: The Riverdell Daily. I think it’s an attempt at alliteration, but really there are only so many options you have for clever wordplay with a name like Riverdell. Surely there’s a pun in there somewhere, but they either have yet to unearth it or decided that it was too late to change the name when it was proposed.

  Most of Riverdell’s residents are either under thirty years old or over sixty; between those ages, people think they’re important enough to live elsewhere. They always come back, though. The residents who fall into the first category almost invariably receive their news from the Internet. The Internet is great for state, national, and global news, but when it comes to our small town, there’s nobody running a blog on the goings-on of Riverdell. Well, one guy is, but it’s mostly about the alleged mass alien civilization breeding and preparing an army miles beneath our feet, the hea
rt of which happens to be directly under Riverdell. Nobody is sure whether or not it’s satire.

  The latter category is the primary demographic that subscribes to Riverdell Daily. But in this case, the most efficient enzyme to accelerate the spreading of news will be the classic, cliché, small-town love of gossip. This pastime is one that transcends all generations, ethnic backgrounds, genders, education levels, classes, and occupations.

  Possibly the sole unifying factor between Nate-who-goes-by-Nathaniel-and-splits-his-time-between-thrift-stores-and-coffee-shops and Cletus-the-eighth-generation-redneck-with-a-Confederate-flag-tattoo is that they both secretly love to hear that their mutual neighbor, Terrence-the-uppity-salesman-who-called-the-police-on-you-for-leaving-your-garbage-out-that-one-time, got caught having an affair with the secretary of his work while his wife got caught having one with Terrence’s boss.

  Because of this handy feature (now standard with all small towns!), the entire town will have its eyes on Big Bad Keroth. Once it slips that Keroth had ties to my dad, in addition to being involved in a kiddie porn ring, there won’t be a juror in the state who doesn’t think he killed my dad. Maybe the country.

  The article is printed the next morning, as Beth promised:

  The residents of quiet Riverdell are accustomed to a life of peaceable interactions, accented by friendly baristas and line cooks, seldom with need to reach beyond our small town. But due to the recent murder of Don Thorn, single father and long-time Riverdell resident, the comfort that we’ve taken for granted has been ripped from us like a lone sheet of paper in a harsh wind. Law enforcement took every measure imaginable to maximize their chances of arresting the killer, including barring Thorn’s son, Jeremy from participating in the investigation. Jeremy, known to friends and colleagues as ‘Remy,’ was not available for comment.

  I was wondering whether I’d be mentioned.

  Shortly after the investigation began, local police uncovered a link between the late Thorn Sr. and a detective of the mighty Portland Metro Police Department, Detective Jeremy Keroth. Keroth, a long-time hotshot of Portland Metro, enthusiastically accepted a request to assist in solving the murder of his friend, and was in town that very morning. With his assistance, the department made what seemed to be several advances in the case, and even appeared to be closing in on a suspect: Don’s own son, Thorn Jr.