Unfolding

by Jonathan Friesen

  Mr. Cartwright strode before the rows of sardine-packed seniors. He looked at each one of us in turn. It was a fearsome gaze. A how-dare-you-be-alive gaze. He paused in front of me.

  “We will have words following.”

  I peeked up and nodded, and he turned and took his place across the aisle.

  A tap on my neck. “Man looks serious,” Connor whispered. “Don’t envy you, explaining to Cartwright why you and Stormi axed his daughter.”

  I spun around. “What the heck?”

  “Shh!” Ma’s hushing reached me from the back of the church. I rolled my eyes and reassumed my position.

  Only stupid Connor. Let it go.

  “Now would be a good time for one of those seizures. A real big one,” Connor’s whisper again floated to my ears. I swatted the air to quiet him, but he was determined to see my party trick.

  “What comes first? Ma says its dizziness. Or is it tingling?” He leaned way forward. “Stormi says your vision blurs; yeah, in our moments she tells me everything.” He ran his fingers across the hairs on my neck. “Are we tingling? Is it blurry yet?”

  The power of suggestion is a mighty weapon, and Connor knew how to wield it. There, resting on the pew, I turned my head, and needles prickled my fingertips.

  Not here.

  Had I been at home, maybe it would have stopped there; maybe I could have ignored the sensation and my mind would have quieted.

  But in the church, cramped, tense, and on display before the entire town, Old Rickety eased onto my lap.

  I closed my eyes tight, and when next I opened them, Carly, seated to my right, was fuzzy, as if someone were taking a giant eraser to her edges. I blinked hard, and she doubled, not sideways but up. One Carly floated on top of another Carly.

  Old Rickety reached inside.

  My hand clawed, and Carly scooted away in horror. I quickly stood and stumbled over her legs, desperate to escape. I reckoned I had about twenty seconds to make it out of the church.

  I reached only the aisle. I crashed to the floor, and there, for the next ten minutes, the entire town of Gullary witnessed my funeral, my little death. Only there was no casket in which to hide, and I didn’t die. Not completely.

  I remained partly conscious throughout my thrashing. Those were always the tough ones. Thrown about, while my mind suspended me in that middle place—like the murky end to a nightmare. Terror has you bound and you can’t wake up.

  My thoughts were still my own, and while on the floor they traveled from Connor to Gina to wondering how pissed Mr. Cartwright would be that I stole the show at his daughter’s funeral. I wondered about my positioning, how visible my hunch was to the audience, had I struck oak on the way down, and if so, was my pressed white shirt now stained crimson.

  I wondered why the God of this good universe took time to fashion a freak.

  My body finally stilled and my vision stabilized.

  Crap.

  The easel and Gina’s picture frame lay in splinters beneath me. There was Ma, crying softly at my side. Dad sat on the stage and gently cradled my head. I wished Stormi would appear, and on the heels of that hope, I wished I would vanish. But neither happened and there I was, spread-eagled on the floor.

  The Monster. The Spectacle.

  The Funeral Thief.

  As I rose, people slowly retook their seats, all except for Connor, who glanced at me and winked. He clapped slowly and quietly, mouthing, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

  I was too exhausted to care.

  Dad wrapped his arm around my warped back and hoisted me up, led me down the aisle, parting a sea of faces I partially recognized. He herded Ma and me into the last open row. “You okay?” he whispered.

  “Yeah, but I can’t stay here now.” I panted. “I’ve messed up enough, haven’t I?”

  Dad exhaled hard. “I need to sit up front with the rest of the Circle. We’ll leave right after the service.”

  I rubbed my face. “Yeah. Whatever.” Ashamed to sit by your freakish son, huh?

  Likely concerned that this change in plan might alter the created order, somehow circumventing the ham sandwiches that normally followed proceedings, Pastor Hildegard beelined for the pulpit. He opened his notes and his mouth, and at that instant the congregation came alive with mumbling. I’d heard that this type of ruckus occurred in Waxton Pentecostal, but never here, and good pastor Hildegard peered up and, after adjusting his glasses, squinted at the entrance behind me, the epicenter of the disturbance.

  I forced myself around, and watched three men walk into the room. I’d never seen them before, which in this interconnected town meant nobody else in the room had either. They were old and jittery and dressed in identical black suits and hats. Creepy. Dad rose and, for the second time in minutes, walked down the aisle. He whispered to the first visitor, who took hold of Dad’s elbow.

  “Came to pay our respects.” His reply was gentle. “News reached of the accident.” The old guy sighed, like he really cared. “Shouldn’t end this way for anyone.”

  By now, Mr. Cartwright had joined them in the aisle. He set a hand on Dad’s shoulder, face aglow that even strangers would honor his daughter.

  “You got that pegged right. You’re more’n welcome to stay.” He glanced down at me, and his eyes narrowed. “Move over, boy. Have you not been taught to make room for gentlemen?”

  Truthfully, I had not. My appearances in church were few, usually following some inconsiderate behavior by Dad on Saturday night. Like the time he forgot to pick Ma up from Tulsa, after choosing to worship at the shrine of Sooner football. Did we not rise early the next morning to atone for his sin?

  Ma and I slid to the wall, and soon the three creepies sat next to me. It wasn’t long before they had all discovered the wayward wanderings of my spine.

  If you’ve an infirmity or deformity and have endured harsh and obvious gawks, you know that pride somehow survives.

  “What?” I hissed. “Never seen a back like this before?”

  “No, Jonah, I guess I haven’t,” whispered my neighbor dressed in black. He paused, leaned over. “Where’s Stormi?”

  Oh, the power of a name, my name. It caused a deep, unsettled quaking. I blinked hard. “How do you know me?”

  The pastor interrupted and launched into the remem brance talk. Filled with left-us-too-soons and we-don’t-really-understands, the sermon was respectable, if not predictable. At least what I heard of it. My thoughts were fixed on the man seated to my left. He was dressed like an undertaker, and I didn’t appreciate him knowing me so early in life.

  The aroma of ham and potato salad wafted into the room, and the pastor brought the service to a speedy close. He hurried out the side door while those gathered mopped up with a very depressing rendition of “We Shall Overcome.”

  The last note sounded, and I turned to the stranger. “Okay, so now you can tell me how you know Stormi.”

  He glanced down at his hands. “She hasn’t told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Everett.”

  He stood, fitted his hat, and slipped into the exiting flow.

  “Hang on,” I called.

  The men did not turn, and by the time I hauled my body into the large meeting room, all three visitors had stepped out the front door.

  I stood surrounded by crowds and conversation, conversations again sprinkled with my name. Twice, members of the hospitality committee offered me plates of food. Twice, I turned them down. Old Rickety had dampened my appetite. The strangers stole what remained.

  “Jonah, what a dramatic opening to a funeral. Unusual.” Arthur pushed toward me, caught me, shook my shoulders, and then quickly let go.

  “You liked that?” I offered a quick smile, and lowered my voice. “Just trying to liven things up a little before I leave town tonight.”

  “Tonight? You do remember your promise—”

  “Yes, Arthur. Your precious move.” I pointed at the door. “Did you see those
old guys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen them before?”

  “No.”

  “Right. And did you find them . . . unnatural or unusual or—”

  “Unexpected.”

  “Yeah!” I grabbed his arm and he quickly pulled free. “Sorry, but they were unexpected, weren’t they?”

  He sighed as if my questions were boring him. “Yes. And they left because they didn’t belong and they didn’t know anybody.”

  I folded my arms. Nobody except Stormi and me.

  “Jonah, come now!” Ma called from near the door and quickened her good-byes. She tugged on Dad, who looked tired of fielding seizure questions. They beckoned intensely and I grabbed a pillow mint and almost reached the door.

  “Boy!” Mr. Cartwright and his wife weaved through a sociable crowd. Potato salad and ham sandwiches do wonders for the downtrodden. He planted himself squarely in front of me. “Where is she, son?”

  First Creepy, now Cartwright.

  “We had this talk already.” Dad stepped forward. “You’re not the only one eager to reach the bottom of this. When Jonah and Stormi return, we all have questions.”

  “We all didn’t bury daughters,” Mrs. Cartwright snapped.

  “No,” Ma said, her jaw tight. “Today, we didn’t, but I can grasp the grief. There’s nothing Jonah can do to ease it. He’s had enough of his own pain today. You saw it yourself.”

  Mr. Cartwright grabbed my wrist and I grabbed Dad’s, who grabbed Cartwright’s. We stood there for a moment, firm gazes all around. Slowly, the pressure eased and I extracted my arm.

  “You know what? Here’s the ridiculous thing: Stormi didn’t do anything to harm your daughter. She didn’t,” I said. “She tried to save Gina. But you can’t wait to blame her for something. And you’re in the Circle, so she’s officially screwed.” Ma tried to touch me, but I stepped back, my face hot. “Stormi tried to get everybody off that bus, including Gina, but Gina wouldn’t move. In fact, she smacked Stormi with her textbook. There’s the truth. Wasn’t in the paper, but there it is. Your girl isn’t here because she didn’t move. That’s all I know.”

  “Come, Jonah.” Ma rounded my shoulder and whisked me out of the church, with Dad protecting our backside. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Who else is going to stand up for her?” I spit out my mint. “Not Ms. P, not Cartwright, not Dad—”

  Dad squeezed my shoulder, spun me, and stuck his finger into my chest. “Enough, Jonah.”

  “Well, are you?” I lowered his hand. “Sixteen kids told the Circle exactly the same story. And you’re still going to put Stormi through an inquisition. How many witnesses do you need? Why are you so afraid of Cartwright?”

  Dad’s jaw tightened, and then loosened, releasing an exhale long and loud. “There are things in motion that you don’t understand.”

  “Bingovis! Absolutus! So tell me, ’cause it seems really clear to me: you have seventeen breathing kids who owe their lives to Stormi.”

  Dad glanced at Ma. “Gina would have made eighteen.”

  Silence fell heavy, and I plodded home, knowing there would be no more words.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Your father and I have been thinking.” Ma set the cling-wrap on the counter. She’d been following me around the kitchen. “Four seizures in one week. It’s best you not head out alone.”

  I grabbed a root beer from the fridge. “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m also not tickled that you’re heading out at night. Why not wait till the sun rises?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jonah! A little attention. You don’t need to understand us, or even like us right now, but pay heed to sense. Let your father drive you to wherever you two are meeting.”

  “Oh, no.” I stiffened. “You know every inch of my life, except this place. Wait, so tonight, you’re hovering because of my seizures? You’re worried about my safety?”

  Ma leaned against the doorframe. “I’m hovering because you’re in my kitchen, and I needed to prepare a tide-me-over for Tres.” She paused. “And yes, contrary to what teens think, kids’ seizures do steal a mother’s sleep.” Ma twisted her face around. “Is there another cause for concern?”

  No. No, there wasn’t, and the fact made me ill. Ma, self-appointed moral compass for the entire town of Gullary, and the unyielding, righteous buckle of the Bible belt, had no problem sending her eighteen-year-old son on an overnight with a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl.

  How many times had she passed judgment on Connor for his nightly exploits? How many criticisms of Ms. P slipped from her lips, such as “That woman need keep a tight rein on that boy,” and, “We all know what pulls at the bit of a young man”?

  I blinked hard, and Ma rubbed her hands on her apron. “You all right?”

  “Sure.”

  I was not, and as I stared at Ma, rage took root. She shouldn’t feel at peace about Stormi. Wasn’t I also a young man? Sure, I was deformed, and I’d been recently compared to Stormi’s mother. Sure, I flopped and gagged, but I was still a guy—a good-looking one at that, aside from my torqued torso—and guys get ideas.

  I’m a dangerous young man with dangerous urges.

  I sighed. Or maybe not. Certainly my parents did not think it true. To them, I was barely male. I was a pitiful, lurching, castrated child, and Stormi another cute babysitter. No, Ma didn’t say the words, but they rang clear in my mind: My poor Jonah Everett. Take good care of my monstrous eunuch.

  I spun around, grabbed Tres’s covered plate off the table, and walked by her outstretched arms. “Hug some other kid. I’ll be back for my things. Don’t wait up.” I slammed the front door behind me and slumped back against it.

  “Who am I kidding?” I thumped my head against the knocker and winced. “What right does a monster have to Stormi’s affection?”

  “I’ve never given thought to rights of monsters.”

  I jumped, temporarily losing hold on the tray, allowing corn to mingle with burrito meat. I calmed and rubbed my face hard when I saw it was Arthur. “You can’t do that. You can’t stand outside my home. That’s called lurking”

  His face was unaffected. “This is called assuring that my move will be made. I’m coming with you.”

  Arthur looked so determined, so settled on his course. He shifted his feet, as if bracing for a fight. Having been stripped of my manhood, no fight remained, and all I could do was sigh.

  “Okay, but you need to stay in the gallery while I deliver the food and your instructions. That’s a rule. Nobody follows me back there.”

  Arthur scrunched his face and adjusted the bridge of his glasses, fighting to loosen hold on his resolve. “That sounds reasonable.”

  We reached SMX, imposing by day and downright ominous beneath a pale moon. The yard lights stretched and warped my hunched shadow, enough so that Arthur stopped and pointed.

  “You’re basically a walking boomerang. A boomerang carrying a plate.”

  “Thank you, Arthur.” I tongued my cheek. “You wanted me to move your pawn, right?”

  “No. No! You can’t mess this up!”

  “That’s what I thought.” I smirked and removed the shark tooth necklace bearing the museum key from around my neck. I pushed into the gallery. “Here’s where you wait.” I switched on the lights and gestured around. “Feel free to browse. I won’t be long. Odds are he’s already asleep.”

  I opened the red door, and slid the brick in the crack.

  “Jonah? That you, boy? Mighty late for a visit. Closin’ in on midnight,” Tres called. “You know how I be needin’ my beauty sleep.”

  “You got that right.” I shuffled to his cell. “Listen, I’m going off for a day or two. I don’t know exactly who’ll come to take my place—probably Dad—but Ma threw together a plate to hold you through in case provisions don’t arrive in a timely manner. Burrito, I think.”

  “Mighty generous.” He rose from his bed. “Where are you going, Jonah?”

&
nbsp; “I can’t say exactly, but I’m going to see Stormi.”

  “She left then. Without saying nothin’. No words. Nothin’.”

  I frowned, pushed my hand through my hair. “What was she supposed to say? She said enough in the note. Wait, that note. Yours and hers. They were the same.”

  “Huh.” Tres began to pace. “Fancy that.”

  I set down the plate. “The same paper, Tres. Two halves, the same note. Can you explain that?”

  “Not in a way that will bring you satisfaction.” He glanced around the cell, cursing. “You done it now, Stormi.”

  “That’s exactly what Stormi would say—well, the first part, not the cussing.”

  I watched and waited for Tres to explain his note trick, but minutes later he was still pacing.

  “You know, it’s late, so forget it, okay? Not a big deal. Probably a coincidence, that note.” I stretched and released a mighty yawn. “The funeral took it out of me. Old Rickety showed up.”

  Tres slowed and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry ’bout that, Jonah. Really am.”

  “He wasn’t the only visitor. Three old guys showed, never seen them before. They sat by me the entire time, and they knew me. At least my name.”

  “Hats?” Tres stopped pacing and looked off, gathering thoughts from somewhere else. When next he returned, his voice was a hair above a whisper. “Suits?”

  “All.”

  Tres grabbed the bars and pressed his face through the opening, his eyes filled with urgency. “Do you trust me, son?”

  I stepped nearer; don’t know why, but I did. “I guess as much as any guy can trust a person he’s known for six months, who’s been locked up forever for doing some hideous thing, and who never shares a lick about his own life or what he’s done or where he’s been or . . . I mean, I trust you as much as that.”

  “That’ll have to do.” He reached out through the bars and his hand settled on my shoulder. Strong and gentle at the same time. “Time to lead. It’s time for you to take the lead. She doesn’t have courage without you.”