Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

  Maybe this is payback for Katie’s death. Maybe it’s part of some grand balancing act by powers far greater. A karmic correction to set the balance right.

  Katie’s face came to my mind, and the word “fate” rose to my lips. But karma, in my world, was a bitch with sharp teeth and a vicious appetite.

  “Well, I can be a bitch too,” I mumbled. My feet scraped the sidewalk as I stepped up from the curb, deciding to have a drink after all. “I didn’t come this far only to lose.”

  As the door to Romeo’s creaked shut behind me, the cozy sounds and smells swallowed me whole in one juicy gulp. My troubles stayed outside, and I melted into the restaurant, a gluttonous haze covering my body. I followed the waitress—a young thing who was new, who came after Katie went away. She gave me a lazy smile and settled me at a table by the windows. I glanced over to the table where Katie and I usually sat just as the face of the maître d’ popped into view. He leaned over the white linen, asking if I was certain that table would be okay. Beads of sweat nestled in his thinning hair, telling me he’d come from the kitchen. I nodded, but he fixed the young waitress with a glare anyway, a scold buried in his mannerly smile. I nodded again, assuring him the table was fine. I’d have to learn to sit alone eventually and today seemed as good a day as any to get started.

  “Are you certain? No troubles to move.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Thank you.” My voice sounded soggy and tired. I’d begun to rethink the visit and considered going home instead. My stomach pitched and rolled, the kitchen smells getting to me. I was hungry. “I’m only staying for a drink and a small salad if that’s okay . . . and maybe some bread and fried cheese too.”

  “Of course. And I’ll bring the dipping sauces you like,” he replied as he began to clear the table setting across from me.

  The jangle of flatware rang out in the air. He stopped with his hand on a plate, unsure. I gave a nod and he bowed his head, slipping back to the kitchen. I gazed through the window to my alley, to where the homeless man had been. I expected to find the blackbirds swooping in from overhead. The sky stayed empty, though, a hazy green curtain starting to yellow. A few of tree leaves randomly winked, flicking like switches as thick drops of rain found them.

  I should have told the maître d’ two settings and made an excuse later when the seat across from me remained empty. With only the linen and a single table setting, I felt alone. Katie’s death had become a reminder of who I was. But more so, Katie became a reminder of why I was.

  Was my mother responsible for my becoming a murderer? What about my father? Was I born a murderer, or raised to become one?

  I began to try and piece my thoughts together, to sew them into a sickening quilt. I knew it was a waste of energy, though. The truth was, I had no idea why or how.

  I am what I am.

  I thought again about karmic corrections and considered that maybe I was put here to be the balance, put here to fix things.

  “Maybe I am karma incarnate,” I mumbled sarcastically. “Maybe I am the vicious bitch with the sharp teeth and the wicked appetite.”

  I bellowed a laugh, a pitchy and wheezy chortle. I didn’t care if anyone heard me. The notion made me feel better, made me think of something other than my father and mother. I’d never know the answers anyway. I decided right there and then that I didn’t care to know.

  The waitress returned to my table, balancing a wine glass and a carafe in her hands. Her earlier smile had been replaced with a solemn look that I’d come to recognize at Romeo’s. The maître d’ was always nice to Katie and me, but to those who worked for him, he was a hard-ass. I was sure he’d given her a difficult time. I just hoped it hadn’t been on my account. I made a mental note to leave a little extra in her tip.

  “Some wine?” she asked, offering the carafe, her brow raised. I looked at her, watching her mouth move, but paid no attention to her words. And before I could say no, she set the glass down and poured. “To go with your meal.”

  “Thank you,” I answered. I turned to look out the window again just in time to see Steve’s truck pass the restaurant.

  A full head of red hair flashed in the passenger seat of his cab. My heart squeezed to a cold stop. His truck slowed, and I jumped up from my seat to get a better look. My thighs clipped the underside of the table with a loud bang, making the plates and the carafe rattle. A few heads turned as I pressed my hands against the windowpane. The glass felt warm and moist, and I cupped my eyes against the daylight glare to see the reddish hair fade and disappear like a late sunset.

  But in my head, I suddenly saw a terrible image that knifed at my insides. I saw Detective Summer-red kissing my husband passionately, licking his lips, her hands rubbing and grabbing him. And then I saw her going down on Steve and moaning in that same voice I had heard come over my computer’s speaker. I shuddered, disgusted, and shook my head, trying to clear it away. I hated the images I saw in my head. I hated that my feelings about us had become so confused, could trick me into thinking something so ridiculous and impossible.

  And it was impossible, wasn’t it?

  THIRTY-TWO

  WITH THE NEW SCHOOL year just around the corner, Michael had retreated into the game room again. He disappeared in there as if to store up some late-summer gaming points, like a bear readying to hibernate. And while I was careful not to overstep or to smother him as much as I wished I could, there was one excuse I could always use to garner some of his company. Team Deathmatch, a favorite game of ours. It helped that I could hold my own too.

  “Need a partner?” I asked. I couldn’t help but notice his sneakers touching the floor. It seemed as if just yesterday his bare feet still only hung over the edge of the sofa, bouncing to the tune of the video game’s music. He was becoming a man, and this was the summer that I would have to say good-bye to my little boy. His voice had lowered, and hair sprouted below his knees. In the bright reflections of the screen, I thought I saw a scraggly growth on his chin as well.

  Too soon, I thought, comforting myself for my motherly sadness.

  Michael’s gaze stayed fixed on the game. A miniature battle of characters bounced in his eyes and then exploded in red as the game ended in victory. He let out a small cheer and shoved a controller toward me.

  “Duty?” he asked, his fingers fluttering over the buttons.

  “You bet,” I said, settling onto the couch, moving as close to him as he’d allow. “Team Deathmatch?”

  He scoffed, but then smiled. “It’s just us two, ya know.” His fingers rattled over the buttons some more, clicking through the list of opposing teams. “We’ll be outnumbered three to one.”

  “Does it matter?” I asked with a playful, menacing laugh. I nudged his shoulder. “Does it, really?”

  “Never has before,” he answered, but the boastful tone I’d expected wasn’t there. He clicked farther down, selecting a map, and the screen flashed at the beginning of the game. We stood in a wintry war zone, our virtual characters facing off against a collection of opponents who were spread across a snowy setting filled with deserted railcars.

  “Shi—,” he started to say, catching himself before finishing. “I mean, darn . . . Mom, this is the toughest map.”

  “What? This one?” I asked, knowing the map was not a particular favorite of his. An opponent appeared from the corner of a tipped railcar and lunged toward Michael. I reacted, pressing the controller’s joystick up to block and fire with a pull of my trigger. But I was too far away and hadn’t reacted fast enough. “Turn! Turn around—”

  Michael’s character pitched back when the bullets found him, and his body tumbled and collapsed into a mess of snowy blood.

  “You missed him,” he scolded, disappointed. “Should’ve had my back.”

  But I hadn’t missed. I never even had a shot. Another opponent’s footfalls clopped over the screen’s speakers, warning me. I sprang into battle mode, killing two. Michael’s character stayed still when he should have gone to my back so that we could
turn and shoot, guarding each other—it was a move we loved. Instead, his character did nothing.

  Michael put his controller down and lifted his hands. For a second, I thought he might have to sneeze or run to the bathroom. I circled his character, protecting him from the onslaught of gunfire and a knife-wielding melee, but it was a futile effort and soon a swarm of opponents were upon us. We died lying next to each other on the screen. It was a rare defeat for our mother-and-son team.

  “Well that ended kinda quick,” I said, lifting my voice, trying to sound funny. But Michael said nothing. He just stared blankly at the screen. “Come on, Michael. What’s going on? We can try another map if you want.”

  He closed his eyes. I put my controller down, catching his vibe. I could tell he was bothered.

  “Mom, I think I have to show you something,” he mumbled. He gave me a look suggesting he was about to tell on himself, but in my heart, I knew it wasn’t about him. I rubbed the back of my neck. My heart sank while a lump rose in my throat.

  “Okay,” I began, reminding myself to listen and not to overreact. “Did you do something?”

  “Not me,” he answered. And as he lifted his face, I saw the dampness under his eyes. My mouth went dry the way only a parent’s can when imagining the worst. “Mom, it’s Snacks.”

  “What is?” I asked, but felt almost reluctant to hear more. “What is it?”

  Michael motioned me over to his old Thomas the Train table that we’d repurposed for Snacks as an arts-and-crafts center. Low to the ground and with raised edges, it was perfect for her. Michael joined me at the table and knelt down. I surveyed the mess that was her “creative place” and expected to find a disturbing drawing. Clumps of dried Elmer’s glue with glitter bombs and shiny gold stars littered the green surface. From corner to corner, the laminate surface was hidden by paper and ribbons and scabby, dried puddles of glue.

  A collection of recycled papers from Steve’s office fell over it like dominoes. Snacks had already drawn on some of the sheets. I saw typical drawings: a smiling sun, a waving tree, a boy playing fetch with his dog, and even her attempts at a drawing a jungle gym. Next to the stack of spent paper was the variety box of five hundred crayons I’d bought a month before. The carton was turned on its side, and the crayons spilled out into a rainbow jumble, the paper wrappers spelling out delicious-sounding names like “Tangerine” and “Vanilla” and “Espresso.” I shuffled through some of her projects—pulled apart sticky arts and crafts—but found nothing.

  “Not there,” Michael whispered in a grave voice. I shrugged at him, confused. “Underneath. I found them by accident when I was looking for my—”

  “Underneath,” I interrupted, shoving my hands beneath the low table, anxious to reveal what I already knew about my baby girl. I blindly poked around until my finger jabbed a wood staple. The sting made me flinch, but in moving my hand away rapidly it hit upon a roll of papers that had been tucked into a crevice. I yanked down. Michael shuffled back as if they were dangerous. I unfurled my baby girl’s drawings while I listened to the patter of her feet above me—she was playing with her father.

  I let out a gasp, but was careful not to alarm Michael. The drawings were far more elaborate than what my mother had showed me. These were unmistakable in meaning, left nothing to question. Snacks had drawn a collection of her own Killing Katie designs. I sat back—fell back—onto my heels, tracing the tip of my finger over a line of blackish-brown crayon that curved into the edge of a knife. Apple red had been used to draw the outlines of blood drops and crimson pools. A mix of cherry-red and tangerine-orange crayons were used to fill in the outlines, aging the blood. It was almost impressive.

  “What are these?” Michael asked. His voice shook, and in his face I saw that he was afraid. “I mean . . . aren’t these like murder scenes or something?”

  “I’m not sure what to make of them,” I said, lying. I knew I’d have to show Steve, I’d have to discuss them with my husband. My stomach rolled. “Don’t say anything to your father. I’ll talk to him.”

  “But Mom!” Michael objected, raising his voice and tugging on one of the designs, freeing it from the others. “Look at this one! Who’s that supposed to be?”

  He pointed to a stick figure drawn on a bed. Crayoned strawberry blood covered the body. Below the bed was another crudely angled knife, dripping more candy-apple red. On one side of the paper there was a bookcase, and a dresser faced it on the other. I could tell by the stick-figure trophies lining the shelves that she’d drawn Michael’s bedroom. My chest felt like it had been caught in a vise when I saw the door leading to his closet and saw slanted arrows with smudgy symbols to indicate her hiding place. In the upper left corner, there was a circle drawn in Snacks’s unsteady hand. Steve had been teaching her how to tell time, and inside the circle, she’d scratched in the hour and minute hands. She’d set her crayon-time to nine thirty, and beside the clock she’d drawn what I guessed to be a crescent moon in the middle of a rectangle.

  “A window,” I mumbled, understanding her design.

  It was a design for killing her brother. She’d hide in his closet until he went to bed, then kill him while he slept. I cupped my hand over my mouth, but not because I was afraid she’d go through with it—she’d never act on it. She adored her brother. I was surprised because she’d started to use her brother in the same way I’d used Katie. A kind of sick affection—but normal to my mother and me.

  You’d have to be a murderer to understand.

  “Mom, that’s me, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice shaking again as he broke down and cried. “Mom, why would she draw that?”

  I shook my head, unsure of how to explain the drawing. “You don’t have to worry,” I quietly told him, but I knew my voice wasn’t convincing. “She’d never, ever hurt you.”

  “Are you sure!?” he snapped. “I’m afraid!”

  His sharp tone cleared my mind like a slap across my face. I put the designs down and pulled Michael into my arms, comforting him. “She’s just a baby . . . a little confused is all.”

  “Is she going to be like your mother?” he asked, lifting his head. His eyes had become red and puffy. He wiped his nose and asked again. “Is she going kill people too? Kill me?”

  I shook my head. “Michael, your sister is not going to be like my mother.”

  I lied, knowing nothing for certain. I hugged him and encouraged him to stop his crying. “Maybe she saw the news about your grandmother. Maybe she’s acting out because she loved her so much and misses her.”

  “I hate your mother,” he said in a low, cold voice. “Why would she do that? How could she do that?”

  I rocked my boy as if he were little again—to the rattle of sobs rising in his chest.

  “People get sick,” I began to tell him, trying to sound adult. A sickness seemed a better explanation than telling him my mother was just a born killer. “My mom was sick, Michael. Sometimes people get sick in their bodies, and other times they get sick in their minds.”

  “She was mentally ill?” he asked, holding his breath as he waited for an answer. I knew he didn’t understand the full meaning of that phrase, but I decided to go with it.

  “I think she was,” I answered.

  “But how does that happen?”

  I considered his question, not believing it was an illness myself. What we had was as much a part of us as the color of hair or eyes, or what made us laugh and cry—it was part of us. I decided to stick with the lie.

  “Think of it like any other sickness . . . like cancer. But in this case the ‘cancer’ is in the brain, and it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do.”

  “Your mom had cancer?”

  “Not exactly, but she was sick.”

  “You’re gonna show Dad?” he asked, tiring of the questions as he tugged again at the drawings. “I’m still going to check my closet tonight. And lock my door.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, trying to reassure him. His body s
tiffened, and he broke our embrace to face me. “I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

  “I’m going to lock my door anyway,” he repeated. Then he brushed his lips over my cheek as he shot up and went back to his video games.

  I pushed the Killing Michael designs from my lap, dropping them onto the floor. And although I knew the designs to be harmless, the tears came anyway. A flood of sadness numbed every part of me. I stifled my cries, hiding them, not wanting Michael to hear me.

  My baby girl is going to grow up to be just like me. She is going to be a killer.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I LIKE THE WET air in the summertime. The sky spitting rain, the occasional hot breeze, electricity hidden in the clouds like a secret. The city’s subway trains reminded me of that too—racing east and west, burrowing through humid tunnels that smelled of charged air and carrying an untold number of secrets. And between the stops, there were long stretches completely devoid of light but teeming with life. I wondered how many had disappeared beneath the city. If I ever needed somewhere to go, if everything went to shit, could I disappear there too? Not that I’d ever expect to need to do that. Nerd was a miracle worker, but I think we both knew that I was the biggest liability to our team.

  While I liked the subways’ mysteries, I liked the elevated trains even more. Running above the ground—north to south—arms stretching and long fingers brushing the edges of suburbia. Every morning the trains fed the hungry city, and at night they bled it dry like arteries from an emptying heart.

  Our latest case rode the trains every day. I started my day in her shoes, leaving my office on foot, catching a shuttle to the closest line, riding to the train platform destined for the city. I checked my burner phone for any messages, waiting for an update from Nerd, one that would give me more details about the case’s history. No messages. I watched the outskirts of the city pass by, the big windows and the elevation giving me the sense of flying. I loved that.