Stone Angels

by Michael Hartigan

  The shadow on his face ebbed slightly, revealing a hooked nose, pockmarked and scarred right across the bridge.

  Some spittle collected at the corners of Jester’s mouth, which bared his corn-kernel teeth in the same hyena smile. He thoroughly enjoyed Duncan squirming and shaking like cornered vermin.

  “So you were saying?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Duncan, barely louder than before. Jester was so close, the apology drifted from mouth to mouth. Under the hood, locked away again in blackness, Jester studied the boy. He seemed to make a decision then.

  After a moment, Jester straightened upright and as he did, snatched up Duncan from under the shoulder. The boy was in no state to fight back. He just hung from the tall thug like dirty laundry. Jester pushed him against the dumpster, forcing him to stand on his own before stepping back between the other two thugs, reforming the hooded wall. Duncan faltered but then caught himself and leaned on the dumpster.

  “How about he shows us his apology in material form?” the thug on the left said. The thug on the right nodded and said, “or he just pays us the cash he owes us.”

  “Come on boys, we aren’t animals. We can forgive that debt for now. It was such a long time ago,” Jester said, almost congenially. Then his voice went back to snarl. “But a little compensation for our hospitality would be appropriate, I think. Don’t you?”

  Duncan was swaying. The head rush from being ripped upright after being knocked unconscious (by me), partnered with leg-numbing terror put Duncan in an inescapable haze. So much so that he didn’t notice when Jester’s two bookends left his side to go and bookend Duncan. One grabbed a piece of the broken wooden pallet wedged under the dumpster.

  Jester swooped swiftly down upon Duncan. I wondered if he was even real? He moved like a ghost.

  He got face to face with Duncan again, who was swaying so much it looked as if he were on a boat adrift.

  “How about your wallet? I think that’s fair compensation,” Jester said with less cynicism in his voice. It was replaced with pure malice. “Right now, little man. Give us your wallet.”

  Before Duncan could comprehend, a thug slammed a fist into his kidney. He doubled over in pain just as another jab like an electric shock jolted his groin.

  Jester propped Duncan’s chin up with one wiry finger.

  “Your wallet. Now,” he demanded.

  Another kidney shot before Duncan could react.

  I was frozen in place, unsure of my feelings about the grisly tableau. My brain said go help but my feet just didn’t budge. It all happened so fast, but it felt like the world was blurred and in slow motion.

  Duncan was helpless. He coughed and spat blood redder than before. The fists came from nowhere, from the shadows of shadowy figures looming over him, each one precise and calculated, exacting maximum pain. They demanded his wallet, robbed him of any remaining dignity.

  I don’t know if he knew he was doing it, but Duncan reached into his right pocket for his leather wallet. He pulled out nothing but the inside liner. His senses came back to him in part. His wallet was gone. He shoved his hand into his left pocket, then to his back pockets. Empty. Nothing. He had no wallet, no money on him. He had no sacrifice to give these demons.

  Cold, hard clarity slapped him on the cheek followed immediately by Jester’s cold, hard open-palm.

  Duncan shook his head; sweat spewing from his drenched hair.

  “I don’t have anything,” he said with as much confidence as he could muster. “I lost my wallet.”

  Jester looked offended, like a boy picked last for kickball on the playground. At least his mouth did, the only visible part not hidden by the shadowy hood. The spittle on the corners of his lips fell away as they turned downward into a frown.

  “That’s disappointing,” he said and turned his back on Duncan.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I have no money,” Duncan said. He put a little extra sarcasm on the I’m sorry, either out of last-ditch bravado or sheer stupidity.

  “That’s not what he’s disappointed about,” the thug to his right said.

  “I’m disappointed because I never pegged you for a liar, little man,” Jester said, his back still to Duncan. “I guessed you’d just give us your wallet and we’d be on our way. Why won’t you just give us your wallet?”

  “I don’t have it!” Duncan screamed, terrified. “It’s gone, look!” And he pulled out the liners inside all his pockets.

  “Come on little rat, tell me the truth,” Jester said. He put extra emphasis on the last word. As he did, the two thugs collapsed onto Duncan. He slid down the dumpster, falling to one knee as a knee smashed into his shoulder. Two fists cracked against his already bruised face. A pair of huge paws pinned his shoulders against the dumpster. Another pair jackhammered his torso, working wildly and sporadically across his body with no intention or direction other than to do damage.

  Warm, fresh blood ran down Duncan’s face and he struggled to lift the lid on one swollen eye. Through it, he was watching Jester hopping madly above him. Then Duncan’s head cocked to the side, putting his gaze in the direction of the cemetery, in the direction of me.

  I looked at him from the blackness and knew he probably couldn’t see me, but that he could probably see the stone angel a few feet behind me. I wondered if Duncan knew what it was, or if he thought it was a real person, maybe his sister or Lily. I hoped he saw it for what it was—an angel.

  Jester stooped to pick up a piece of broken wood. He tapped one end on the ground like a homerun hitter stepping into the batters box. He swung it with purpose, directly at Duncan’s head.

  The alley was silent save one final wooden thwap and then the celery-snapping of Duncan’s various bones. Duncan never took his gaze off of the stone angel. He blinked once, twice and then the lids stayed down.

  Like hyenas they tore at the carcass, ripping open pockets and tearing away clothes. One even took off the boy’s sneakers.

  When the body was picked clean they scurried from the alley, lightly laden and disappointed with their meager spoils.

  “I guess he really didn’t have any money,” one said.

  “What kind of kid goes out without his wallet?” the other snarled.

  They scrambled out of the alley and crossed the street at an angle, moving closer to where I crouched in the cemetery. I held my breath and my heart was pumping wildly. They got to the iron fence and turned up the street.

  Jester grunted, “I guess the little rat was telling the truth.”

  He took a quick look at the broken pallet piece he still gripped and then hurled it over the iron fence into the cemetery. The plank clanged off a low headstone before coming to rest at an angle against the base of the stone angel, blood still dripping from the splinters.

  When I knew they were gone, melted back into the shadows, I finally took a breath. I dropped from a crouch to all fours and vomited, not thinking about Duncan’s leather wallet I buried beneath the stone angel.

  Chapter 30

  Shoddy was surprised to see me emerge from under the hazy streetlamp at the corner of the 7-Eleven. He thought I had snuck back to campus and was home in bed with Lindsey. But the drying blood on my face and neck, the grime and vomit and mud covering my clothes and the general look of a disheveled hobo not only startled him but elicited a slightly embarrassed crimson in his face.

  Instead of responding to me forthwith in the alley behind Primal, Shoddy had been flirting with a bunch of girls outside the convenience store. His pride, which was largely based on loyalty, was bruised. But like a true comrade Shoddy pushed the young girls out of his way and ran over to me on first sight. He had a bottle of water, a Slurpee drink and some sort of meat and cheese snack stick thing, which smelled like the alley I just left and almost re-induced vomiting.

  I snatched away the water, ignoring the mish mash of apology and questions scrolling from his tongue.

  I splashed my hands and face with the spring water, which was warm. I grabbed the Slurpee
and held the icy cup to my throbbing skull. The cup was mostly empty.

  “I’m so sorry bro,” Shoddy pleaded. He repeated it a few more times, his voice wavering. He was nervous and worried I was angry. Shoddy always devolved into superfluous apology when he was nervous. I wanted no apology.

  “That was the gymnast girl I’ve been trying to get with, you know? Anybody else I’d tell to go screw. But I figured you could wait while I . . .”

  “Forget it, Shoddy.”

  “But . . .”

  “I said forget it, Shoddy. You don’t have to say you’re sorry. Just forget it.”

  He nodded acknowledgment and put his hand on my shoulder. We both turned toward the sidewalk.

  We walked back to campus in silence, away from Primal, away from the cemetery, away from the 7-11, past the house from the Dance Team party, past the chapel, past Lily’s old dormitory.

  Shoddy followed me home and only pressed the issue at my door.

  “What happened, Shaw?” he said.

  I didn’t answer but fumbled with the doorknob.

  “You look terrible, like you just climbed out of a dumpster. Tell me what happened.”

  His voice had a tinge of compassion I’d never heard before.

  I opened the door and walked inside the pitch-black room, not intending to answer Shoddy. Out of fidelity or curiosity, he persisted. He ditched the compassion and substituted strength.

  “Shaw, what the Hell happened?”

  I turned to face him, took my hand off the heavy door. It began to shut in an almost comical, slow dramatic sweeping motion. I was barely visible to Shoddy, tucked away behind a closing door and unrelenting darkness.

  “Nothing,” I said before the door clicked shut. He may not have even heard me. “Nothing,” I repeated, probably to myself. “Nothing happened, it’s over.”

  My sleep may have begun as soon as the door shut. There was just nothing in my mind, or my heart. My body plummeted onto my bed. I didn’t dream that night.

  Chapter 31

  I stumbled into a wakened state the next morning; my memories of the previous night overlaid with pain. Pain so palpable in my neck and shoulders, I could hear my muscles throbbing. When I opened my eyes, the throbbing became pounding.

  It was Saturday morning, March 14, and we were supposed to leave bright and early. The plan had been to get out of Rhode Island and drive twenty-four hours straight to Orlando. We would then spend Sunday at Disney World and Monday morning take the final eight hour jaunt down through Florida, past Miami and across the series of bridges that link the Florida Keys to mainland America. We’d be in Key West until the following Friday, March 20, when we would turn around and do the entire trip in reverse.

  But the night before, Friday the 13th, I went out to Primal and let the night get a little out of control. Way out of control. Lying in my bed the morning after, I didn’t realize how far out of my control it was. I was more concerned that I messed up our departure schedule. And dealing with the intense, pounding pain that surged across my upper body.

  Duncan got me good, I thought. My head is ringing like a church bell.

  The pounding turned to banging. I sat up and rubbed my shoulders as another wave crashed over me.

  This time it was accompanied by what sounded like, “Hey, Shaw!”

  I was hearing voices.

  “Shaw, get up. We’re late!”

  Reality slapped me fully awake and the pounding in my head became the pounding at my door and drew me out of bed. The clock told me I had overslept and missed our designated departure time for Florida.

  “Come on, Shaw. What are you doing in there?”

  That would be Lindsey, or Emily. I couldn’t tell from in my bedroom.

  As I made my way to let them in I realized I was still wearing the clothes I wore the previous night. They were caked in mud and what looked like dried blood. I disregarded it but quickly changed and pushed the dirty clothes all the way to the bottom of my hamper.

  I opened my apartment door.

  “You suck,” Lindsey greeted me with a tray of Dunkin Donuts coffee in one hand and a roller suitcase in the other. “We were supposed to leave forty-five minutes ago. Now we might . . .”

  “Good morning, Lindsey,” I cut her off. The pounding reemerged, this time not from her knocking at the door. “Just go pack my car. My keys are over there.”

  I waved half-heartedly in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Way ahead of you, jackass. Shoddy used the keypad on the driver’s door. We’re all packed and ready to go. Now you need to be, too.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I just need to find a bag or something and toss some shorts in it and I’ll be ready.”

  She shoved the roller suitcase into my hands.

  “There, you’re almost done. I knew you didn’t have one, so use this one. I half filled it with clothes you left in my room.”

  She blushed a little when she said it. I felt a little guilty when she did. The little hammers were tapping away on that mental wall.

  “OK,” I said and took a coffee from her tray. I gave her a discreet peck on the cheek. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be right down.”

  She started to go.

  “And Lindsey,” I called after her, “thank you.”

  She blushed again.

  Thirty minutes later we were pulling out of the campus lot, turning left on Huxley Avenue, left on Eaton Street and away from Providence College. I had to stop at the gas station at the end of the road to fill up.

  “Anybody want anything?” Emily said, walking towards the 7-11 across the street from the gas station.

  “Grab me a bottle of water,” Lindsey said.

  “Yeah, me too,” said Shoddy. “Actually, you better get Shaw one too.”

  I was leaning nonchalantly against the Explorer, pumping overpriced unleaded when I saw the pretty girl in the next car over flip open a Providence Journal newspaper. I’d need something to do when I wasn’t driving.

  “Hey Em!” She was just about to cross the street but turned around at my voice. “Grab me today’s ProJo. I’ll do the crossword later on.”

  Emily nodded and skipped across to the store.

  Ten minutes and twenty gallons later we were repacked and set off down Douglas Avenue towards the onramp for Route 95 South; basically the only road we would drive for the next day and a half.

  I looked out the window and still had trouble recalling all of the previous night’s events. Most of it was hazy. I knew I had walked along that same street, Douglas Avenue, last night, bumping into Shoddy and stumbling home with a headache. But the prior happenings were slow to materialize.

  Regardless, the night was over, the sun had risen, I had a fresh coffee to kill the headache and we were on our way to less stress and more sun. Stopped at a light, I took the folded ProJo on my lap, creased it a bit more and wedged it between the driver seat and middle console. We were coming up on the cemetery and the local bar called Primal. I thought I remembered being there the night before.

  Emily and Lindsey chatted airily about the beach.

  “I heard the sunsets are beautiful,” Emily said.

  “I heard the bars are beautiful,” Shoddy butted in. “And the ass isn’t bad either.”

  Lindsey balked. Shoddy was chuckling, most likely because he was saying things he knew would piss her off.

  “Well there’s a big gay community in Key West, Marcus. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of friends,” Lindsey retorted. “But be careful, they may not be the kind you’re looking for.”

  “You know what Linds, I don’t say this often, but you’re right. I should be careful down there. I do have a sweet ass, I probably shouldn’t bend over too . . . whoa! Shit look at that!”

  Three heads swiveled to look out the driver side windows as we crawled past Primal Bar. Two Providence Police cruisers, blue lights whirling, were parked on the side street that separated the bar and the cemetery. One car was perpendicular to the street, its nose hidden b
ehind the bar, protruding into the hidden back alley that housed the bar’s dumpster. Yellow tape bearing the warning, “Police Line: Do Not Cross,” hung loosely from the side of the building. A few passers-by lingered long enough to get reprimanded by an officer on the corner.

  “What happened?” Lindsey asked.

  “Something serious,” Emily said.

  “Yeah, Shaw, do you know what happened?” Shoddy asked, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

  The memories hit me like a punch to the gut. All at once I remembered what I did.

  I barely noticed the light ahead turned yellow and I needed to turn left through it onto the highway. I sped up, made a less than 90-degree turn and escaped from Douglas Avenue, away from the Primal crime scene. I met eyes with Shoddy in the rearview mirror. I kept my expression vacant. His expression begged for explanation.

  The police cars faded in the distance and conversation about them disappeared as Emily and Lindsey lapsed right back into conversation about Shoddy’s chauvinism. He gave me one last glance in the rearview mirror and that was it. He jumped right back into it with the girls. The conversation took everyone away from the mystery on Douglas Avenue. Soon Providence was a faded memory.

  The first leg of our ride south flowed smoothly after that. We avoided traffic around the major cities. The chatter was light and excited.

  Not until we passed through Washington, D.C. did I relinquish driving duty to Lindsey. By then everyone had settled into his or her iPods and e-books. I moved to the backseat, driver’s side next to Shoddy and wedged out the Providence Journal. A long crease ran down the middle but the photo and headline above the fold were clearly legible.

  A nighttime photo of Primal Bar, police cruiser, ambulance and fire engine surrounding it, glared up at me underneath the words: STUDENT KILLED OUTSIDE LOCAL COLLEGE BAR. The subtitle read, Unidentified student said to be victim of foul play.

  That punch in the gut from before returned with force. All the joy drained instantly as the thought of Florida, the sun and the beach melted into oblivion. I looked up, blinked and from the corner saw Shoddy staring at the words blazing off the paper. We locked eyes again, his mouth agape but silent. I couldn’t keep my face vacant. He read the terror spreading over me. I know because it scared him. He was no fool. We were both thinking the same thing. I blinked again before looking back to the paper, wishing my eyes were playing tricks.