We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  After lunch, Mom and Shelley spruce up and grab their purses. “I have to get some last-minute things,” Mom says before they leave.

  I stay in my room, wrapping my gifts. A candle and some slippers for Mom. A scarf for Aunt Shelley. A nice brown belt for Earl, because his usual one is falling to pieces. And for Sam I found this sketch booklet, with a hard backing, nicer than the one I’ve seen him using. It’s more like a notebook, he could even write in it if he wanted. I also got him a soccer ball, since I took his old one. I hope he’ll have use for it one day, if he goes back to school. When he goes back.

  When I finish my wrapping, I go out to the den. Earl’s watching TV in his recliner, and Mom and Shelley are still out shopping.

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “Out there.”

  “Isn’t it cold out?”

  “Yeah, but he bundled up. He says he’s okay.”

  I look out at him, sitting there, staring off calmly. “Do you think . . . last night—you think that will happen again?”

  Earl looks at the TV, like he’s barely paying attention to me, but I can tell by the way he scrunches his eyes that he’s thinking. He rubs his beard a little and says, “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  “Are you happy that man was killed?”

  Earl’s quiet at first. “I guess in some ways, yeah. But part of me wishes he had to rot in prison. That would have been the true punishment. A life in prison, knowing that Sam is out in the real world. That he’s getting better.”

  I’m about to ask about what Sam said, about missing him. Missing Rusty. But Mom and Shelley walk in right then. Shelley is carrying a few bags. “Nothing to see here,” Shelley says, walking past us to my room.

  “Want to help make cookies?” Mom asks me, smiling to maybe distract me from the redness of her eyes.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Shelley hovers about the kitchen while we bake, talking away like she does, but it’s soothing, like listening to music. Earl comes in and grabs a beer. Sam finally comes inside, too. He grabs a Coke from the fridge, cracks it open, and stands there, smiling and watching us. I watch him back, wondering if he’s really feeling okay, or if he’s holding something in. How can he seem so happy now, after the past few days?

  When the cookies come out, Sam helps me ice them with sugary frosting—one bowl white, one bowl reddened with food coloring.

  “Remember when we used to wake up at like four in the morning, so excited about Santa?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, relieved that he remembers those happy years. They haven’t been snuffed out of his memory. “How did we ever believe that?”

  “Once you said you saw the glow of Rudolph’s nose coming from the roof, that you heard the hooves and stuff.”

  “I did?” I ask, laughing.

  “Yep,” he says. “I was so bummed you saw it and I slept through it. The next year I slept in a sleeping bag in your room so you could wake me up if it happened again.”

  “I remember that now,” I say. And I do: the two of us little kids, trying to stay awake by talking to each other, but eventually falling asleep. I remember waking up to Sam shaking me, “Get up, get up, time to open presents,” his eyes wide with wonder, his hair messed from sleep. I remember him taking my hand and dragging me to the living room, where our treasures awaited. How old were we then? Was Dad still around? It feels like my life but also someone else’s—like something I read in a book.

  Once the cookies are done, we watch movies in the den. A Christmas Story. Mom makes lasagna for dinner, which we eat on plates on our laps while watching It’s a Wonderful Life.

  After the movie, feeling full of Christmas spirit, Earl flips off the TV and we all just sit there and look at the tree, its colored lights flashing.

  “Remember that time when Sam got so excited about the presents he puked all over the floor?” Shelley says.

  “I did not,” Sam says.

  “You did!”

  “I remember,” I say. “Dad had to clean it up, and then he puked.”

  Sam puts his face in his hands and shakes his head.

  “I remember, too,” Mom says, smiling to herself.

  And on we go like that, trading stories of past Christmases. Even Earl chimes in, sharing memories from before he knew any of us. But of course we don’t mention the past few Christmases. And I try to squash down any thoughts about what Christmas was like for Sam, with that man.

  We call it a night, and once I’m ready for bed I remember my phone. I have some texts, and a missed call from Dad. I call him back, hoping it’s not too late.

  “Hey, honey,” Dad says when he answers.

  “Dad,” I say. It feels good to hear his voice. We’ve texted a few times since Thanksgiving, and each week he e-mails me. Just stupid stuff—like about the house he showed that day, and how cold it was and then asking me about school, and soccer.

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I wish you were here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Earlier, we were talking about that time, when Sam puked.”

  “Oh, lord have mercy,” he says, laughing.

  We talk for a bit before he gets silent. “How’s . . . How did Sam take the news?”

  I know right away he means the news about that man being killed. I lower my voice a little. “He freaked out,” I say. “But he’s okay now.” I wonder if it’s true even as I say it.

  Dad sighs. “Well, I’m glad that . . . I’m glad that man’s dead.”

  “Me too,” I say, even though I don’t know how I really feel.

  “Will you do something for me tomorrow?” Dad says.

  “Sure.”

  “Will you hug Sam for me?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  ===

  There’s no snow on Christmas morning—there never is—but a winter chill came through overnight, dropping the temps below freezing, and we’re all bundled up sitting by the tree. Earl has even started a fire in the fireplace, our first of the season. The logs crackle as we open gifts.

  I receive gift cards, a necklace from Aunt Shelley, a few sweaters, some novels. Sam seems to like his soccer ball, even bouncing it on his head a few times. He also says he loves his sketchbook, flipping through the pages and touching the paper, maybe imagining how he will fill them.

  “This is too much,” Mom says, looking at all the wrapping paper littering the floor after we’re done.

  “Wait, there’s one more,” Shelley says, handing Mom a card, looking proud and mischievous.

  Mom rips it open. “What on earth?” She flashes around what looks like a ticket. “What is this?”

  “You’re going on a cruise with me next week. That’s what it is,” she says.

  “Shelley, I can’t,” Mom says.

  “Yes, you can,” Earl says. “You deserve a vacation.”

  “It’s my fiftieth birthday present to myself and I’m not going alone.”

  “But Shell—”

  “Mom, you’re going,” I say, excited for her.

  “Oh my God,” she says. She stands and hugs Shelley, but then looks over at Sam, like she’s worried about his reaction. “I can’t leave the kids, though.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake,” Shelley says.

  “We’ll be fine, Mom,” I say. But I know she’s not worried about leaving me.

  “Yeah, Mom,” Sam says, sounding like he’s annoyed she’s even worrying. “You have to go. We’ll be okay.”

  She nods, still unsure.

  “Well, it’s settled,” Shelley says.

  Earl grabs a trash bag and we start piling in the wrapping paper, ribbons, boxes.

  “Ready for some breakfast?” Mom asks.

  “Wait,” Sam says. He walks down the hall and into his room. He comes back with four little pa
ckages all wrapped in red tissue paper. Each one is marked with a sticker that bears our names. He passes them out. “Go ahead, open them,” he says.

  I tear away the paper and, wrapped inside, is a little framed colored-pencil drawing of the whole family—Shelley included—posing against a bright yellow backdrop, or maybe an otherworldly sky. It’s even better than the sketches I saw, the ones that Tony gave me. Somehow Sam has captured how we all really look—our cheekbones and hair and smiles, though the bright colors of our clothes, and the yellow hovering behind us, somehow make us look like we are posing in some fantasy world. “I love it,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Oh my God,” Shelley says slowly, then turning her portrait so that we all can see it. It’s much the same as mine—the whole family—but hers is also slightly different. We’re wearing different clothes in hers, and everyone is set against a lavender background. Everyone’s is different, I realize.

  “These are gorgeous, honey. Gorgeous,” Mom says.

  “A true artist indeed,” Shelley says, getting up and hugging Sam.

  We set them all in a row along the mantel. I watch Sam as he watches us admire his art, and it’s like I can see relief spreading through him, and also a kind of happiness that I realize I haven’t seen in him before. I give him that hug then, the one from Dad. But it’s from both of us, really.

  When we pull apart, I stay in the den while Sam joins everyone in the kitchen. I want to look at the pictures on the mantel a little more. And only then do I notice something. We’re all smiling, in every picture—me, Mom, Shelley, Earl. Everyone except Sam. In each picture, Sam stands there, gazing out, not frowning, really, but looking blank, like his mind is miles away.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Better Place

  Josh

  It’s a few days before Christmas and we’re in the family room finishing a late dinner when the news comes on and the anchor from Channel 4 announces that Russell Hunnicutt has been murdered by another inmate while in prison. His mug shot flashes on the screen. Then a shot of the prison where it happened.

  The anchor throws it to a reporter speaking from outside Sam’s house. The reporter talks, filling the air with what little information she has. Behind the reporter, I see the house, lit up.

  “Good,” Mom says.

  Dad gives her a funny look.

  “What?” she says. “He was a horrible man. Good riddance.”

  Dad still looks at her funny, but he seems too flustered to say anything. I look back at Mom, and she has this fierce, determined look on her face, and for some reason this gives me comfort.

  “Don’t you think at least Diane and Earl can have some peace,” Mom continues, “knowing that the man who did this to Sam can no longer harm them anymore?”

  “He was locked behind bars. He was probably going to be sentenced to life in prison,” Dad says, sounding exasperated.

  “So? He would still be able—”

  “Can I call Sam?” I ask, breaking into their argument.

  Mom looks over like she’s just remembered I’m there, and her face softens.

  “Not now,” Dad says. “Give them some time, okay? Give them some space.”

  “Okay,” I say. It was a stupid idea anyway. Sam doesn’t want to hear from me. Not after what I told him.

  I take my plate into the kitchen and leave Mom and Dad to their argument. Up in my room I wonder about Sam. How he feels about what happened to Rusty. Is he happy? Upset? Shocked? I wish I could call him and ask. I wish I could be there for him. I think about that awful story Sam told, when Rusty tried to kill him. And all those other days and nights when he put Sam through so much pain.

  Rusty’s dead now. That man who was just a few feet away from me all those years ago. I wonder if he died instantly, or if he bled to death, slowly and painfully, so that he had time to think about the horrible things he did. And if it was slow, did he think about Sam at least a little bit, and did he feel sorry? Did he wish he could go back to that day, too? Go back and just leave Sam alone.

  ===

  The next night Mom and Dad are hosting a small little holiday gathering, like they do every year. The house is all decorated, candles are lit, appetizers are out on the side tables, and Dad has set up a makeshift bar in the kitchen.

  I was planning on staying up in my room, but Mom knocks on my door. “You dressed?” she asks, barging in. When she notices I’m still in sweats and a T-shirt, she says, “Josh, people will be here any minute!”

  “Why do I have to come down? They’re your friends.”

  “You know Nick and his parents are coming over.”

  I knew that, they’ve been invited for years. But I was hoping Nick wouldn’t come this time. That he’d make some excuse to stay away.

  Mom leaves and I jump in the shower. I start to feel nervous, which is stupid, because why should Nick make me feel nervous?

  Once I’m dressed and presentable, I go downstairs, where I can already hear voices. It’s a kind of torture, walking in the living room and having to say hi to everyone, answer their small-talk questions. A few of dad’s colleagues and their spouses. Mr. Spencer, the head of Mom’s firm, and his wife. And the Lanzanos. Nick’s parents make a big production about seeing me, asking me about exams, that sort of thing, and I see Nick standing back. He got a haircut, finally, but it’s almost weird seeing him without his dark brown bangs falling in his face. He has on these dark gray dress pants and a button-down, and he looks kind of dorky, but then I realize I probably do, too.

  I’m careful that he doesn’t catch me watching him. At one point, amid all the chatter, I spot Nick by himself, eating almonds from a bowl. I know he can sense me staring, and he’s careful not to acknowledge me. He even seems kind of nervous. I feel a kind of power then. I avoided him at school, but I feel bolder here, safer in my own house. I want to point out the front window, up in the trees, where stray strands of toilet paper still hang and blow in the breeze. “You did that,” I want to yell.

  But I go over and just say, “Hey.”

  He lifts his head, “Hey.” He shoves a few more almonds in his mouth.

  “Nice haircut,” I say.

  His resolve slips, and maybe my words cut through his nerves, because he smirks at me and says, “Ugh. Mom made me. She says I looked like a hippie.”

  “You kind of did,” I say, enjoying the jab.

  A few of the adults start laughing, really loud, and then I see our moms looking over at us fondly, like they plotted getting us together and they’re celebrating the achievement. Mom waves at us.

  “Can we go to your room? I’m over this,” Nick says.

  “Sure,” I say. I mean, I’m not thrilled to be alone with Nick, but at the same time I feel annoyed at our moms, watching us like we’re two cute puppies.

  When we get to the stairs Nick says, “Hold up.” He goes to the kitchen, and he comes back walking fast, carrying two bottles of beer. “Go, go,” he says, and we both rush up the stairs.

  When we get to my room I shut the door. He hands one of the bottles to me and I hesitate before taking it. It just reminds me of what happened with Sam. But I don’t want to be lame, so we clink the bottles together, and I pretend to take a sip from mine.

  “Not fair they’re the only ones who get to have a good time, right?” Nick says, pulling out the chair at my desk and sitting.

  “Right,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed.

  After a moment, it’s like we both realize we’re stuck in my room together because we just sit there in awkward silence. It’s funny how quickly we went from being best friends to being—well, what?

  “Do you wanna watch something on Netflix?” I finally ask. I’d rather do that than talk, even if a ball of anger is starting to bounce around inside me.

  Nick doesn’t respond. He chugs a few sips of his beer. “Not really,” he final
ly says.

  I start tearing at the paper of the beer label, which is mushy and comes off easily. “Why did you guys do it?” I ask. I feel kind of bad, throwing that accusation out there, because what if I’m wrong? But I’m not wrong. I can see it in his face, the brief flash of panic, realizing he’s caught.

  “I don’t know, we were drunk,” he admits. But he won’t face me.

  “It’s still up in our trees,” I say. “Like, who does that to his best friend?”

  He rolls his eyes. “You don’t even want to hang out with me. You’re always with him. With Sam. Ever since he got back.”

  I flash to a vision of Sam, in this very room, without a shirt on. I stare down at the floor, hoping my face doesn’t redden.

  “Like, what’s your fascination with him?” Nick says.

  “What do you care?”

  “It’s like . . . I mean, you always told me you hated him, and now he’s back and you just drop everything to hang out with him.”

  “He needed . . . a friend,” I say. “He needs someone to talk to. After what happened.”

  “Gross,” Nick says. “I don’t even want to think about all that.”

  “You don’t understand,” I say, which is the truth, but I’m not sure I can explain it to Nick. “That day he disappeared, I was with him.”

  “I know, you told me that a million times.”

  “It’s my fault,” I say.

  “What?”

  “It’s my fault he got . . . It’s my fault. I left him.”

  “That’s stupid. It’s not your fault.” He looks over at me, and I can see that he thinks I’m being ridiculous. “It’s his own fault,” he says. “He’s a guy. Guys don’t—that stuff doesn’t happen to guys.”

  “You’re stupid,” I say. “It does happen. It did.” My mind flashes to that moment Sam told me about, by that pond when it might have all ended for him. But it didn’t. He fought. He lived. “He’s not some freak, or someone you can just make fun of. He’s strong. Stronger than us. He’s a survivor.” I stop, anger burning out of me.