by Scott Kelly
He folded back the dresses to reveal a worn banker’s box. Within: books of sheet music, some loose and others bound in tomes. Bach, Chopin, Beethoven. There were photos as well, of Pamela as a young girl all the way into adulthood, seated at a piano in concert halls and private practice rooms. In one, an orchestra sat behind her as she smiled in concentration at the keys. “She used to play. Must have quit; there’s junk all over the one in the living room. Tucked it all away in here, you know? She wakes up every morning, and lives in an accountant’s house. So—is the box in the closet because she stopped playing piano, or did she stop playing because the box is in the closet?” He picked up the container of Pamela’s music. I followed him out to the living room.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he set the cardboard box down on the piano bench.
“Rearranging her priorities,” David answered.
“You think that’s a good idea? Isn’t this wrong? Won’t she find out?”
He shrugged. “I won’t get caught; I’m not stealing anything.”
“It’s still wrong!” I exclaimed. “You’re trespassing, you’re spying—not stealing doesn’t make this okay.”
“Objection noted,” David said. He began to clear away the clutter that sat atop the piano, carefully folding up a picture of Pamela hugging an elderly man. Next, her framed degree in accounting. Then a set of white candles, and finally, the red cloth that covered the instrument.
“How often do you do something like this?” I asked.
“Often,” he said simply, putting a music book on the piano’s stand and flipping through it. “I just dig around, you know? Not stealing, just curious. She’s going to know someone wants her to play piano. Does the home make the person, or does the person make the home? We live in a shithole, and the people there are shit. This house is nice, the lady seems nice, too.”
“Aren’t you just going to scare the Jesus out of her, when she finds out someone broke into her home?”
David shrugged, smiling as he placed a picture of young Pamela at the piano inside the book of music. “I’ve been scared before. It’s not that bad.”
3. You’re in luck. I’m the normal one.
Now
My handler opens the car door; I step out of his cruiser and am surrounded by people in uniforms. Latex gloves shield their skin from me. They untie and strip away my shoes.
“You can keep them,” I offer.
The guard grunts and opens a thick metal door, leading me by the arm into the jail itself. My feet are cold against the linoleum; colored lines mark paths for the inmates to walk from one area to the next. Signs explain: red is for meals, black for administration, and blue for court.
The far corner of the jail is a large cell where a group of bored looking men sit. We follow the black line to a sort of doctor’s office. The handcuffs release with a rapid series of metallic clicks; I like the sound. A woman grabs my wrist with one hand and fingers with another, pressing them into an ink pad, then onto a sheet of paper next to the words “Jacob Thorke.”
Jacob Thorke. My label, but not the description of a person. The prints are the most permanent thing about me.
After this, we walk to a small office inhabited by a sweaty policeman who—judging from the grimace on his face—appears to be in pain. He stands as I enter; easily triple my width, and a foot taller. I’m directed to a chair that faces his, placed so close together, I can’t imagine where our legs will go. As we both sit, I feel I’m nearly in his lap—our noses almost touch. This forces eye contact, forces attention. There’s no ignoring him.
As he watches me, tortured grunts escape his fat lips and puff hotly against my cheek. “What happened to David Bloom?” he asks.
“Jealousy. Betrayal. Maybe revenge? I’m not sure. Do you have any idea what kind of person David was?”
“I know he was practically homeless. I know he was valedictorian of his class, though that’s got a controversy attached to it. I also suspect he was an arsonist, although we never managed to prove it.” The detective reaches into a black leather case sitting open at his feet and retrieves a file.
“Arsonist?” News to me.
“I could probably tie him to two separate fires, same time period he did a dozen home invasions. About six years ago. No deaths, though, and not enough evidence for an arrest.”
Hearing this is like being punched in the stomach. David was burning down houses? I thought we had no secrets.
I give him one word in response: “Interesting.”
“You know what happened to David Bloom?” he asks.
“Someone wearing a mask pushed him off the water tower. I got there just in time to see him fall; I don’t know who pushed him. I didn’t get a good look. I can narrow it down to four people now—his followers. I used to be one of them. But, I have a psychologist, a special advocate for children’s something or other. His name is Mr. Aschen, and he counseled David and I. If he were here, I’d happily give you more details about what I suspect happened, and he could corroborate it.”
“You said David had ‘followers.’ He was the leader of what, like a gang or something?”
“More like a cult.” If my counselor heard me admit this, he’d celebrate with champagne.
Another groan as my interrogator stands and moves to a small bookshelf lined with yearbooks. “Sadly, I find these to be very handy in my line of work. What year?”
“I’m a senior this year. I’d be graduating…right now.”
The most recent yearbook is pulled. “Give me names. Faces. Then we’ll talk about your counselor.”
Can smell the fresh ink as the pages are peeled open; the laminate squeaks under my fingers. “You’re going to love these. You’ve got records on all of them, I’m sure. Let’s see. You’d have a file on this guy,” I point at a wiry little nerd with glasses. Under the picture: Steven Thomas. “In connection with one landlord of Broadway Park, whom my friend Steven wanted to kill, but settled on having arrested. He’s…wrathful.”
“Wrathful?” the detective asks, a bemused grin forming.
“Like the Old Testament.” The pages fan the cop’s reeking breath away as they flip. I stop at the baseball team’s photo and point at a chubby, egg-shaped kid on the far right. “Kent Gimble. His dad—the aforementioned landlord—tortured us growing up, and molested one of the girls. So there’s that file, and also one you’ve got on Kent for a manslaughter charge you stuck him with. Oh, and the drugs, but the nerdy kid framed him for that. Hell, Kent might be in this jail right now.”
The detective grunts as I flip through the pages, stopping on a full-color photo of a young girl. She is vibrant with life like beehives and freshly fallen fruit. She has curled, crimson tinged hair and tan skin, and looks like someone an ancient hero would find bathing in a lake.
“Cameron Merrill. Object of the child molester’s desires. Mom was a whore. The wrathful kid and the big kid both have a history of fighting over her. But, she was sleeping with the guy who died—David.”
The detective murmurs something, but I’m too excited by the next face staring out of the book. A pale-skinned girl with thick, dark makeup, looking like the reanimated corpse of a homecoming queen. “Emily Maebe. Also screwing David. And me, sometimes. Otherwise, just screwing with me. You’ve got her down for identity theft and grand theft auto. Or at least, you should.”
He cracks his knuckles. “And who was this landlord? Kent Gimble’s father?”
“You’ve arrested him at least once before, for molesting Cameron. He tortured all of us—some, more than others. Without him, we wouldn’t have any of this. David never would have become who he did, and the others wouldn’t have listened to him.”
My keeper leans back and runs a hand over his barren scalp. Another pained sigh escapes him; a pack of antacids is torn open and five are eaten.
“You’re a screwed up bunch of kids.” A grunt is cut short by a hollow laugh. He takes the yearbook away and we lock eyes.
“You’re
in luck. I’m the normal one,” I say, grinning.
“I’ll get your counselor, if you tell us everything that happened. Until then, we’re going to hold onto you. Within forty-eight hours we will either charge or release you. Think about that.”
No way can I ignore it. Guards lead me back to my own private holding tank. I sit on the single concrete bench and lean my head against the wall. I think back to the first thing I can blame for the death of David Bloom. Before Eureka, before any of it, came the problems that forced us to make changes. Problems that still haunt us today.
4. Landlord
Eighth grade
I liked to roam around the woods outside of Broadway after school, instead of going home. Anything to stay out of the trailer park, I suppose.
The forest—Kingwood’s namesake—bordered a marsh, and the soil always flooded. Only fresh ferns and towering trees sprouted from the earth, and I stepped around both as I wandered through the thicket. Once the trailers were out of sight, it was easy for my imagination to take over and transform the forest into my playground.
A loud metallic snap clapped in my ear. A bird began screeching from the ground behind me—a distress call, same shrill note played on repeat. I followed the sound: one of the iridescent birds, a male grackle, struggled in the dirt. One wing flapped, the other stuck extended; the bird pivoted on the wrecked wing, incapable of understanding its body was broken, or determined to fight anyway.
Its struggles intensified as a chubby, pale young boy approached, air rifle in hand, serious look on his face. The grackle’s frantic calls sped in rhythm, sporadic squalling, as a foot lowered on its head.
A muffled pop. The bird fell silent.
Shocked, I watched the landlord’s son. Kent was my age, in my grade. But, his dad abused our parents—and us—regularly, so Kent was an outcast twice over, lonely prince of Crap Mountain.
Kind of weird, too. Short blond hair, big head that melted into his squat body. Eyes squinted into angry slits, like the bird wronged him somehow.
I started to back away, hoping to avoid him.
“Hey, Jacob.”
No luck.
“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“I have to kill grackles,” Kent mumbled.
“Why?”
“Dad says they’re keeping people away.” My neighbor stared at the still bird below us. “I hate when they don’t die fast. Come on, I gotta go get a trash bag.”
Kent walked back to the trailer park; I followed.
“I have to kill three grackles a day,” he said as we trudged along.
“That sucks.”
We stopped at the corner of the Broadway property, at the nicest trailer on the lot. The home of the landlord, hulking and squat, white plastic glistening in the sun.
Kent’s dad slept under an awning outside his trailer. Rolls of fat spilled out from the sides of the lawn chair. A sweaty thatch of faded yellow hair gave way to heavy cheeks and thick jowls. Kent’s dad looked sad—not mad at all. Just a defeated frown, like he was about to start bawling in his sleep. Like dreaming was torment. Like it hurt to be.
Kent motioned for me to follow him into the trailer; I did so, creeping over the grass and up the steps. I held the door for Kent then closed it gently behind me, relieved to be away from his dad. Kent flipped on the lights, revealing the shining surfaces of a high-quality mobile home, full kitchen and tidy living room. He leaned the air rifle against the wall, then opened a cabinet under the sink.
We were interrupted by a timid knock on the back door. The sound came from the opposite side, away from the slumbering landlord. Kent abandoned his search for a trash bag and crossed the living room, opening the door.
A girl my age stood in the doorway, lips pressed tightly together, stress evident in the lines on her forehead. Cameron’s hair was an angry mess of strawberry blonde curls; she held a package of sugar in her hand. The package was half-full, rolled over at the top, and looked ancient and dirty.
“Mom sent me to give your dad this,” Cameron said, voice tired. “Hi, Jacob.”
“Hey, Cameron,” I responded.
“My dad’s asleep,” Kent said. “You should go before he wakes up.”
Cameron nodded, smiling. Her tension released immediately, smooth complexion returning.
A sound came from the opposite end of the trailer: the creaking of a lawn chair, then cursing, a steady low mumble like the idling of a diesel truck. “Go!” Kent said. She turned and hurried away, sugar in hand.
Just as Cameron left, Kent’s dad pushed the front door of the trailer open, dark figure forming a silhouette in the sunlight. The steady stream of curses was broken up by three real words: “Who was that?”
“Just Jacob,” Kent said, pointing his thumb at me.
Mr. Gimble stepped inside, twisting his body slightly to fit through the door. Beady eyes honed in on me. “No friends over,” he declared.
Kent shrugged helplessly.
“I said, no friends over!” Mr. Gimble shouted a moment later. I jumped, shocked by the sudden outburst. Kent pushed the back door open and put a hand behind my back, forcing me through. I didn’t argue, hurrying out instead. Kent followed, sighing an apology the moment he stepped outside.
“Goddamnit, Kent!” a voice roared from inside the trailer. The steady stream of curses renewed; I turned to Kent. The color drained from his face.
“What’d you do?” I asked.
My neighbor shrugged, bottom lip trembling, eyes wet. The answer was obvious, the question redundant: he’d done something, somewhere—or maybe nothing, nowhere—and would be punished.
I grabbed Kent’s arm. “Come on. Come with me.”
He shook his head no and brushed my hand away. The door of the trailer opened. Survival instincts kicked in: I ran, leaving Kent to his fate.
I jogged out of the park. Strange, how even the open air made me claustrophobic.
The paths within Broadway were rough gravel; white shale shifting under my feet as I walked. There was a special way you learned to move in the park, always expecting the ground to slide out from under you. No going barefoot. Where the path ended, a slick black road connected Broadway to the rest of Kingwood. The road, property of Kingwood County.
The way was lonely; seldom traveled. A crisp white SUV flew down the street, gleaming in the evening light. Baby on board. Child seats and DVD players; leather upholsteries and air conditioning. Nice things for nice people.
5. Eureka
Eighth grade
Evening, and the adults were fighting again. I sat on a slight hill, chin on my knees, between two tall oaks. Enough ivy underneath to keep my shorts from getting dirty. The other five kids who lived in Broadway sat nearby, silent, hiding with me at the tree line. We always listened to the grown ups fight; it let us know what we’d be in for that night.
“She’s worthless!” Kent’s dad yelled, shoulder hair climbing around the straps of his wife beater. He pointed at the pile of trash bags surrounding David’s trailer. “Place looks like hell because of her. That’s why the grackles come and cover this place in bird shit—because she dumps garbage on her front steps, like an animal. Everyone else cleans up. She should clean up, too. I’m fed up with it.”
Dad stood between the landlord and David’s trailer, hands raised, palms open. Apologizing, trying to calm Mr. Gimble down—I couldn’t hear him from here, but I’d seen this play out before. David’s sick mom could barely leave the trailer, let alone take the trash out. Didn’t seem to matter until Kent’s dad was drunk enough.
Could almost feel Kent behind me, where I knew he sat. Too awkward to look back. I tore a clump of three-leaf clovers from the ground and twisted the plants in my fingers.
Mr. Gimble’s gut looked like the egg from which he was still emerging, and the flesh jiggled as he pivoted, lunging for my dad. Dad stepped back; the landlord tripped in the gravel, landing on his side. The grown man howled, clutching the arm he’d landed on.
Dad took the opportunity to retreat, long legs leading him back to his car. Red-faced and cursing, he shut the door, locked it, and pulled a small bottle from the glove compartment. We watched him unscrew the top and take a drink. He usually drank in the car, especially when he thought I was home. Didn’t drive anywhere, just sat there and listened to the radio.
Mr. Gimble staggered to his feet. I got a glimmer of hope as he stumbled back to his trailer—finally, he was inside. We could let our guard down, at least for now.
I stood and wiped the grass from my shorts. Nighttime; had to get home before eight, or I’d get in trouble.
“Gotta go,” I said, turning to leave.
“Wait!” David’s voice behind me. He walked up, smiling. “What are you about to do?”
All eyes on me. “I’m about to go home and lay down, I guess,” I said, unsure, pointing my thumb at my trailer.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it’s time. It’s night, that’s when Dad wants me back.”
David took a step closer, five fingers on his left hand pointing at me to emphasize the point. “We all stay out late. Your dad’s getting drunk in his car, Jake. You think he minds? Stay out with us. You always go home; you don’t need to.”
Suddenly I couldn’t swallow; strange wetness in my eyes.
He continued, voice softening: “Sorry, look. I want to try an experiment. I watch you walk back there, seems like every night, while we stay out here and have fun. You don’t want to go, right? But it’s what you do. You go home at eight, for no real reason—no one is watching us. What if I just…derailed you, right now?”
The others came closer. I felt Emily, Cameron and Steven press in. Only Kent held back.
“What do you mean, derail me?”
David walked closer, enough to touch me. The last bit of sun fell below the trees, and he was shadow-clad. His hand rose into the air, then landed on my shoulder. “Do anything other than going back to your trailer.” His voice was stern, commanding.