Fade to Black

by Alex Flinn

  “Unfortunately,” Mom adds, “I was asleep then. But I believe my son when he says he didn’t do it.”

  Mr. Eutsey shrugs. “If mamas’ believing won cases, not one of my clients would ever go to jail.” He tents his fingers in front of his big face and looks over them at me. I wonder how many of his clients are in jail. “Clinton, this is a very serious charge.”

  “I know. But I didn’t do it. I never touched the little fag. I mean, I’d never do that.” I stop. Mom is giving me a hard look.

  “That’s not a word we use around here, boy,” Mr. Eutsey says.

  It takes me a second to realize he means fag. I feel my whole body getting hot and almost sweating. I mean, I know that to some people, that word is bad. But my friends use it all the time, even with people you don’t think are actually gay. I hadn’t even realized I’d said it.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “I apologize, Bernard.” That’s Mom. “Sometimes my son doesn’t think.”

  “Not thinking can get you in trouble.” He looks at me. “As I was saying, it’s a serious charge. Because the boy is HIV-positive, this may be treated as a hate crime under Florida law. That means tougher penalties if you’re convicted. It means jail.”

  “But I’m not like that. I don’t hate him.” But even as I say it, I’m wondering if I am like that. Because if I wasn’t in trouble for what happened to Crusan, I know I wouldn’t mind that it had happened. I might even have laughed about it.

  “And, of course,” Mr. Eutsey continues, “if the boy takes a turn for the worse, there could be other charges as well.”

  Other charges? I remember what that Jennifer girl said about Crusan dying. Could I get charged with murder? I look down at my arm. It’s red, and I can see blood through the pieces of skin. I don’t even feel it.

  “I was calling my dad yesterday,” I blurt. I’m looking at Mom. “I went to a pay phone because I didn’t want Mom to know. I call him Monday mornings to make sure he makes it to work on time. He … drinks weekends.”

  “Oh, Clinton,” Mom says. But I can see by the look on her face she’s not mad at me. She’s sort of feeling sorry for me—which is worse.

  “Excellent,” Mr. Eutsey says. “Where was the call made?”

  “Gas-n-Sip on East Main. They’re open early.”

  “That puts you right near the crime scene.” Mr. Eutsey frowns.

  “But I wasn’t there when it happened. I rode my bike down East Main; I saw that retard girl. But Crusan wasn’t there when I passed by.”

  Mr. Eutsey is dialing. He speaks into the intercom.

  “Sandra, can you call the Gas-n-Sip on East Main. Tell them we’re looking for some surveillance tape from yesterday around six a.m.… Yes, thank you.” He looks at me. “The footage is stamped with the date and time. If we can get it, we may be able to establish that Clinton was elsewhere at the time of the assault.”

  “But if it wasn’t the exact time, wouldn’t that show that he was near the crime scene when it happened?” That’s my mother. “That could hurt more than help.”

  “We need to take one thing at a time.” Mr. Eutsey looks at Mom. When she nods, he says, “And, of course, your ex-husband would be able to corroborate the length of the phone call.”

  “If he remembers. I’ve called him five times since this happened because I suspected Clinton’s absence might have something to do with him. He hasn’t returned my calls. My ex-husband was once a respected businessman. But sometimes Jim would go on a bender and not come around for a week. When that happened, his family, his children, were meaningless.”

  I remember my dad’s angry, crazy voice on the phone yesterday. My mother reaches across the table to pat my hand. I grab hers.

  I can’t believe she called him five times already, and he hasn’t called back.

  “Mr. Eutsey?” the voice on the intercom says. “I spoke with Mr. Allen at Gas-n-Sip. They said the tape would have been erased. They only keep them twenty-four hours.”

  My arm is throbbing, and I feel tears clogging up my head. I screwed up, screwed up big-time. Mom squeezes my hand hard, and the only thing in the whole world that feels good is having her believe in me again. Which sucks, because I know I may kill it by telling the rest of the story. About the rock. I don’t want to.

  “Okay, minor setback,” Eutsey says. “There will be other things we can do if charges are filed—subpoena the phone records to show the call to your ex-husband, for one.”

  If charges are filed. Subpoena. I see my life stretching before me like one long hell of reading in the cafeteria. Or worse, jail. I almost envy Crusan. Mom squeezes my hand again. She believes me. She said she believes me. I squeeze back, hard. Even though I know it will kill everything, I say, “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  Tuesday, 6:00 p.m., Bickell residence

  DARIA

  Mac and cheese

  for dinner.

  I like

  to say

  macncheese

  macncheese.

  Kids at school say,

  Macncheese.

  Mama says,

  Macaroni and cheese.

  “Makes

  me happy,”

  I say

  to Mama.

  “What does?”

  she says.

  “Macncheese.”

  I point.

  Mama smiles.

  She gives

  me some.

  I taste

  orange

  lumps

  on my tongue.

  “Makes

  me sad,”

  I say

  to Mama.

  “What?”

  “Get

  get confused.”

  “About what?”

  Mama looks

  worried.

  “School.

  Girls talk.

  Can’t

  remember.”

  “Remember

  what?”

  “Names.

  All the names.”

  “That’s okay.

  You can ask

  again.”

  I think.

  “And another.”

  “What?”

  “Not sure.

  Clinton

  Clinton

  Clinton

  Didn’t see

  see him

  Breakawindow.”

  “You mean

  with the rock?”

  “No.

  Other.

  Baseball bat.”

  The words

  are hard

  to know.

  “I don’t

  not

  sure.”

  Mama

  doesn’t answer.

  “Sorry,

  Mama.”

  Tuesday, 7:00 p.m., Memorial Hospital

  ALEX

  Mom walks in with two cops.

  It’s seven o’clock, four hours since Jennifer came and I told her off. She hasn’t been back. Big surprise. I know she must have been in this area. She probably even had a break, but she hasn’t stopped by. I need to face the fact that she isn’t going to. I screwed up with her. I remember the story she told me about her dad. That’s not the kind of story you tell everyone. She reached out to me, and I slapped her down.

  “Alex, I’m Officer Reed, and this is Officer Bauer. We’re here to talk about what happened yesterday.” He’s sort of squat and, when he talks, he doesn’t look right at me or get too close. Are you scared of me, little police officer?

  “I told the doctor I didn’t feel well enough,” I say instead.

  “Your mother said it was all right.” Officer Bauer steps closer and looks at my dinner tray, chicken breast with no skin, mixed veggies, mashed potatoes, pudding, and milk and says, “Looks like they have you on normal food anyway.”

  I grimace. “If you can call this normal food.” But HIV does weird things to your sense of taste, so I left picky eating behind months ago.

  Reed
speaks again. “It will just be a few questions. We’re investigating the crime against you.”

  Yeah, I got that.

  “I didn’t really see the guy, not well enough to ID him.” I feel a twinge when I say it. I saw the guy well enough to identify him as not Clinton Cole. He was thinner and had darker hair. I saw him well enough to know I’d never seen him before. Pinedale’s a small school, maybe four or five hundred students. I know all that.

  But it’s so much easier to let it be Clinton Cole. A victimless crime, really, because Clinton’s guilty of a bunch of other crap. This will get him off the street, not to mention off me.

  Officer Bauer’s talking again. The other officer still hangs back, like he doesn’t want to get too close. “Sometimes if you talk about what happened, details come back to you that maybe you’d forgotten before. Sort of like people who remember witnessing a crime by seeing it reenacted on America’s Most Wanted.”

  Or maybe they’re just making stuff up.

  From across the room, the other cop says, “Why don’t you tell us what happened, son, what you remember?”

  Why don’t you come closer, and I’ll tell you.

  But Officer Bauer says, “We’re trying to help you, son.”

  “Alex…” Mom says. “Just tell what you know.”

  So I tell them. I tell them about driving, about seeing Daria and the baseball bat and about how the glass didn’t start flying right away, that the window was just cracked, but then it shattered on the second or third blow of the bat. “So I crawled onto the floorboard. That’s why I didn’t see much.” I tell them about how I drove away even though I was a little worried about hitting a dog or something because I couldn’t see. I tell them things that don’t matter at all, things that are just in my head for no reason. I tell them everything, everything except the physical description of the guy who attacked me, the face in the mirror. That, I don’t tell them.

  “That’s it,” I say.

  Officer Bauer looks disappointed. He says, “Your attacker, you didn’t see his face at all?”

  I look at him and shake my head. I feel so sleepy. I bet if they left, I could go right to sleep now with no Nick at Nite or anything. I yawn.

  The officers close their notebooks. My mother smiles at me. She’s happy I didn’t tell them the truth, that I decided to fry Clinton Cole even if it means letting the really guilty guy go. She’s so sure that it’s Clinton and I’m mistaken. I realize that in the months since I was diagnosed, her pain and fear and anger have become so huge, they’ve taken over, and it’s all about Us versus Them. I know she loves me. But somehow, what I stand for is almost as important as the fact that I’m her son. Maybe that’s how she deals—I don’t know.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Officer Bauer shakes my mother’s hand. Neither cop shakes mine. Big surprise. “We’ll be in touch if there are any new developments.”

  “Excuse me.”

  I’m surprised to hear my own voice. Everyone turns back, surprised too, like they’d forgotten for a moment there was anyone in the bed.

  “Could I maybe…” I stop. It sounds like a request, and it’s not one. Not really. “I have to talk to Clinton Cole.”

  Tuesday, 10:05 p.m., Clinton’s room

  CLINTON

  Mom always says it’s never good news when the phone rings after nine. According to her, most people know that you’re not supposed to call that late. So if someone does call, it’s either because they’re rude or clueless or because somebody died. Or it was Dad, calling because the bartender hid his keys.

  My friends pretty much always call whenever they feel like it, which is what Mom means by rude and clueless. But my friends are MIA today, so when the phone rings at ten, I wonder who died.

  A few minutes later, Mom knocks on my door.

  “That was Bernard… Mr. Eutsey.”

  Mom told the police and the newspapers they should call my lawyer about anything for my case. Now she says, “Bernard just got off the phone with the police. Apparently Alex Crusan told them he wanted to talk to you.”

  Shit.

  “Do I have to go?” I don’t want to. Aside from the obvious reasons of not wanting to be in the same room with the guy, particularly with open wounds, I also don’t want to see him when I know he thinks I’m scum. Mom says she’s trying to understand about my throwing the rock. She knows I went a little crazy over Melody going there. But I don’t think Crusan will be as understanding. I know I wouldn’t be if my sister got hurt.

  “Bernard was a little concerned that you might say something wrong. But we decided it could be a good idea. Bernard thinks maybe if Alex talked to you, it would jog his memory about what happened, that it wasn’t you.”

  “What if he hates me so much he doesn’t care either way?”

  “Alex has said that he wanted to talk to you without police present. It wouldn’t be a statement to the police, just a conversation. They have agreed that nothing in the conversation will be used against you.”

  “Then why does he want to talk to me?” I’m thinking anything could happen without the police there. I mean, what if he bit me or something? Part of me knows that’s crazy, but why does he want to meet me? Or what if I screw up and say something really stupid?

  “I don’t know, Clinton. I think we have to wait and see. Maybe you can…” She stops, looks down.

  “What?” I say.

  “Clinton, you need to connect with this boy somehow. You have to make him see that you couldn’t do something like this.”

  “Do you believe I couldn’t?”

  She looks at me a second before saying, “I believe you didn’t do this. And I hope maybe you couldn’t do anything like that ever.”

  I nod. I know I have to go.

  Tuesday, 10:06 p.m., Daria’s room

  DARIA

  Wait.

  Wait.

  Mama says

  wait.

  Maybe

  Alex Crusan

  saw better.

  He will

  tell.

  Maybe.

  Mama says

  she is not

  sad

  I saw it,

  said it

  wrong.

  I wish

  I knew

  the right thing.

  Wednesday, 8:49 a.m., Memorial Hospital

  ALEX

  In that play Rent, that we saw in New York, the main character’s a songwriter with HIV. He’s trying to write the perfect song, one perfect song before he dies. One blaze of glory, he says.

  I like that idea of doing something special, something to be remembered by. I don’t know what that is for me yet. Not that it’s critical now. I’m living, not dying. Living, not dying. That’s what I’m telling myself every day. Except when I can’t.

  I don’t know why that’s what I’m thinking about while I wait for Clinton Cole to show his face here.

  I don’t even know why I wanted to talk to Cole. My parents, Mom especially, think it’s a terrible idea, but I insisted, and the cops said okay. I guess I hope if I see Cole, if I look into his beady blue eyes, I’ll know what to do. I’ll know if he’s the type of guy who’d do something like this, even if he didn’t this time, or if he’s some regular, normal asshole who’s in way over his head. Maybe it shouldn’t make a difference. Maybe I should just go along like Mom says, let him take the rap. But it’s easy to say things don’t make a difference, like trying to say being sick doesn’t matter. It’s harder to believe it.

  Someone’s at the door. I turn, expecting Cole.

  It’s my mother. “Alex, you do not have to do this.”

  “You already mentioned that.”

  “Then why—”

  “Please, Mom, I appreciate everything you’re saying, really. But you have no idea what it’s like to live my whole life with other people deciding stuff for me.”

  “You are a child.”

  “I’ve grown up fast. I’m asking you to trust me to decide this one th
ing. The police think it’s okay.”

  She looks at me. It’s so quiet here. I’m going home tomorrow, but everyone thought it would be better to meet Cole here—neutral ground and all. And security. But I’m wearing regular clothes—khakis and a T-shirt that says “AIDS Project Florida 5K Run/Walk”—and sitting on the bed.

  “I am only afraid for you to get hurt again,” she says.

  “Everyone’s parents worry about that.”

  “But you are different.”

  “I don’t want to be different. Don’t you understand?” I meet her eyes. “Look, I know I made mistakes. I know I’ve given you plenty of reason to worry about me, to be disappointed.” She knows I’m not talking about sneaking out on Monday anymore. I’m talking about having HIV in the first place. “But I’m asking you to trust me even though I haven’t always given you reason to. I’m asking you to forgive me and let me try and move on.”

  We stand there a second, looking at each other, and I feel like for once, she really sees me. She knows what I’m talking about. Finally she sighs and walks over to my bed. “There is nothing to forgive you for.”

  I look at her like, really? She hugs me. I hug her back, hard.

  After she leaves, Clinton Cole walks in.

  I know he had to walk by the cops to get to me. They’re in the hall in case there are problems. I didn’t want them close enough to listen in, though. I wanted to be able to talk for real. After a little argument, they agreed.

  Clinton stares at me, and if I didn’t know him better, I’d say he looks sorry. Maybe. But I don’t have to remind myself to hate this guy. I remember his crap in the cafeteria and in class. I remember the notes. I remember the rock. I remember everything.

  “Wow,” he says finally.

  “Que?” I ask, because I know the Spanish will bug him. I can’t resist.

  “Nothing.” He puts his hands behind his back. “Sorry. It’s just … wow.” He stares at my face, the bandages, but he doesn’t come closer. I wonder if he thinks I’ll attack him, or bite him. I fight this incredible urge to lunge at him, just to hear him scream.