by J. T. Warren
It was an hour later when, after washing the blood from his knuckles (they were undamaged though swollen and throbbing), Anthony looked for Brendan and couldn’t find him. He couldn’t find Tyler, either. And no one had noticed them leave. Least of all Chloe, whose drug stupor had kept her immune to her husband’s outburst.
3
Usually, images and thoughts flooded his brain and the only way he could hone in on something was to start writing. He had explained this problem, at least in part, to Dr. Carroll in October: “All these images crowd my head, each fighting for attention … and they’re all about bad stuff—like death.” Dr. Carroll nodded, told Brendan his thoughts were perfectly normal and natural, and then gave him Pilly Billie, which helped, but it had really only shone him the way to engage with his thoughts, not how to manage them.
Pilly Billie opened the paper (he wasn’t sure what he meant by that but it was the only way to explain how, after swallowing his daily pill, the disparate thoughts drifted to the margins of his mind and he could focus clearly and precisely on one thing). Once he put pen to paper, it seemed Pilly Billie was unnecessary—writing was its own kind of drug. The pill gave him access to his imagination, but the writing (Detective Bo Blast and his endless quest for The Darkman) kept him focused and, though he’d hate to admit it at times like these, happy even when the world was going to shit. He might even be able to do without the pill, but it was unlikely Dr. Carroll would have him stop: the doc was big on pills; he had been keeping Mom drugged up for a month now.
Watching Delaney’s dead body in a coffin had pushed away all of Brendan’s thoughts—well, almost all of them. It was a protective measure, no doubt, and stronger than even two Pilly Billies. To let all those thoughts (You Killed Her! You Killed Your Own Sister!) have free reign would be suicide. There was no way to rationalize what had happened anyway. Brendan dropped the bowling ball and Delaney went in a casket.
Only one thought made it through the filter: Why had the gods done this to me? He had done what they wanted and in return they took away a piece of what he had been trying to protect. In school, he had read about Greek mythology and had even created a family tree. People believed in these gods for hundreds of years and some people, if his teacher, Mr. Nicholson, was to be believed, still believed in them. They were the precursors to the modern, single God. Mr. Nicholson had presented mythology like an amusing anecdote in mankind’s history. Many people believed the stories, he told them, but certainly not everyone, especially not the educated class. That was a cop-out. Mr. Nicholson hadn’t read the book Brendan kept under his bed. Brendan thought about bringing it in to show him; they could discuss the real meaning of mythology, the real practices these “educated” people performed. Why was the idea of numerous gods so unbelievable but the notion of a single, all-powerful deity completely plausible? Didn’t it make more sense that many gods conspired to create the world the way it was? Such talk would probably send him to Guidance or, heck, even in The School Psychologist’s Office.
Brendan believed in many gods (even if he knew it meant others would recommend counseling) and belief was the magic ingredient that opened you up to blessings from on high. The gods demanded obedience and sacrifice, and Brendan gave them both, but still they had taken Delaney. Perhaps some kind of cruel joke. Were the gods, even now, laughing somewhere above him in the sky? Mr. Nicholson referred to the gods as “capricious,” which meant they were constantly changing their minds, bestowing favor on one person and then removing it without cause to place it upon another. Had that been what happened? The gods simply changed their minds and—oops—Brendan killed his own sister? Was there no fairness? No sense of obligation from the gods to a dutiful servant?
When Brendan read the following passage from Finding God: a History of Appeasing Higher Powers and Fulfilling Man’s Destiny, he almost brought the book to Mr. Nicholson and risked a trip to Guidance or The School Psychologist:
All rudimentary religions are founded on the cornerstone of polytheism, the belief in numerous gods. Whether this be from the Aztecs through the Romans or even the Native Americans (and their belief of spirits in all things—pantheism), the existence in multiple gods, each ruling a separate sector of the natural world and, presumably, the world beyond, is irrefutable as a belief common in early civilizations. To Man, it only made sense that multiple gods held dominion over the world—there was just too much for one god alone.
Brendan didn’t show that passage to anyone, but the top of that page was folded and the passage underlined and placed in crooked brackets, so he could access it the moment he needed support for his beliefs.
He still had a lot left to read. He ought to do that; maybe there was an answer in there somewhere.
Mom was asleep on one of the puffy chairs and Dad in the other was shaking everybody’s hand and thanking them for coming. People offered Brendan and Tyler a nod or two and a mouthed, I’m so sorry, but no one really spoke to either of them. They were the living counterparts to the body in the coffin and as such were like rare artifacts that should be left undisturbed for fear of shattering. Brendan saw the fear in the eyes of the mourners when they glanced his way; they were too scared to say anything because saying the wrong thing might make Brendan or both he and Tyler erupt into an uncomfortable display of grief. People cried at funerals, sure, but men, even boys, were supposed to keep those emotions under control. Tyler had cried during the first showing but Brendan hadn’t felt the urge. He was too confused to give in to the rising tide of pain. He had to figure this out first.
It was a complex math problem. He’d need time to unravel this mess. Grief and guilt would hinder him, like chains. He needed freedom from emotions to find an answer to his sister’s death. He needed to focus. He had taken Pilly Billie, but that was hours ago, and Pilly started to wear off usually after lunch and by this time was almost nonexistent. If he could write, that might help, but Tyler had his composition book and Dad would probably say it was rude or something, writing at his sister’s wake.
Tyler leaned close to him. “You want to hop outside for a bit?”
Brendan nodded. Tyler said something to Dad and then tugged at the sleeve of Brendan’s suit and Brendan followed him through the people gathered outside the Death Room (Dad said it was actually called the Viewing Room, but Death Room sounded more appropriate), and finally outside onto a wooden porch that wrapped around the funeral home. The house was old and the paint was peeling in places on the railing. It was the type of house that creaked no matter where you stepped. Did the funeral people live here, hidden away upstairs somewhere?
Brendan followed his brother to the corner of the porch looking over the parking lot. Almost every spot was filled. Tyler gripped the railing with both hands and leaned back to stare at his shoes. He was going to say something about Brendan’s composition book. Brendan knew when he returned to the bowling alley (after You Killed Your Sister!) that Tyler had taken it, fallen for the bait. Had he realized it was a trick? Did he think Brendan was hiding something?
“This is so fucked,” Tyler said. The words ached with the pain he had displayed during the first viewing. Not only was Delaney dead, Mom in a drug-coma, Dad depressed, but Tyler was overwhelmed with grief, too. Brendan had wanted to protect his family, and look what happened.
“I’m sorry.”
Tyler glanced at him from under his arm. “For what?”
Brendan shrugged. He couldn’t confess. That was insane. He’d end up in jail or at least in some psychiatric center. Dr. Carroll would probably keep him loaded with all kinds of drugs, maybe even operate on his brain. A lobotomy, it was called. He’d never be able to tell anyone and certainly no one in his family. They’d never forgive him, regardless of Brendan’s good intentions.
The cops had tried to get the truth but Brendan said he never left the bowling alley and that satisfied them. Why would he leave? Why would he want to drop a bowling ball off an overpass? Brendan cried for Delaney and the cops told him to relax. That w
as it. Detective Bo Blast would not have been so easily fooled.
“It’s not your fault,” Tyler said. “You know that, right?”
“I guess.” It was the gods’.
Tyler paused, thinking. “I just can’t believe she’s gone. And I spent the morning making fun of her at breakfast. They say you should never say anything you don’t mean because people could die at any second and you’d be left with the guilt of what you last said. It’s nobody’s fault but we still feel guilty. Least I do.”
Though sincere, Brendan sensed that this was the setup for something. His brother was the one, after all, who taught him all he knew about tricking people. Duplicity was the vocabulary word for it.
“Who would do this? Drop a fucking bowling ball onto the highway. You’d have to be crazy, right?”
“Right.”
“And isn’t that really just fucked. The bowling ball, I mean?”
Tyler waited but Brendan had no response. Was this the duplicitous moment? Better to remain silent, just in case.
“Fuck, Brendan. You were bowling and I left you there and at the same time some wacko got it in his head to drop a bowling ball off a bridge not two miles away. That’s what I mean. Makes you wonder.”
“Yeah.” That sounded noncommittal enough.
Tyler was shaking his head. “The ball was probably from that alley. I bet it is. The police figure that out and I won’t be surprised. The sicko might even have been there at the same time, could have walked right past us. That can’t just be a coincidence. Right?”
Would the police really track the ball back to the alley? Could they get fingerprints off of it? Brendan had been smart enough not to use his own ball but he had forgotten to wear gloves or use the sling. They would have confronted him. They wouldn’t wait on information like that. Would they?
“I don’t know.”
Tyler let go of the railing and knelt in front of him. “You’re only twelve, but you’re smart, so stay with me on this, okay? You know what I’m saying, I see it in your eyes. Don’t be afraid. Shit is going down, that’s all. This is not your fault. It’s mine.”
Was this a trick to pry out a confession? “What do you mean?”
“I did something I shouldn’t have and this … bitch is trying to punish me or something. I didn’t really do anything that bad, either. She’s just crazy. Not really her, anyway, but her mother. Crazy psycho.”
Brendan had not been prepared for a reverse confession and he almost blurted out how he had overheard the cell phone conversation Friday night. He wanted his brother to know that no matter what happened or didn’t (fucked up real bad with that weird bitch), he would stand beside Tyler and do whatever he could to help. Tyler would laugh, of course—the notion of a twelve year old doing anything really helpful was hilarious—but Brendan could explain about the gods and … but that would lead back to Delaney and the bowling ball.
“I can’t tell Dad,” Tyler said. “He might have a heart attack or something, surprised he hasn’t already. He’s so stressed you can see it in his face, way he keeps grinding his teeth. Probably doesn’t realize it. I tell him and that’ll be it. We’ll be back here for yet another fucking funeral show. I just can’t believe she’s gone. And it’s my fault.”
Tears gathered in his eyes. What had his brother done? It was probably something to do with drugs or alcohol or maybe vandalism. He cut some (weird bitch) lady’s tires and now she was out for revenge. Tyler thought this woman was somehow responsible for Delaney’s death. If Brendan didn’t set him straight, didn’t confess, Tyler was bound to do more stupid things. Right?
What if this was all part of the gods’ will?
“It’s just something that happened,” Brendan said and enjoyed how adult that sounded.
“Yeah.” Tyler wiped his eyes. A green two-door car bumped over the sidewalk into the parking lot. “Shit.” The car parked at a strange angle behind two other cars and Tyler’s friend Paul stepped out of the driver’s side. He was wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. He hadn’t come for the wake. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”
Tyler went down the porch steps, jumped over hedges lining the walkway, and joined Paul. After a few moments, Tyler threw up his hands and then linked them on his head like he was being arrested. While Paul spoke, Tyler paced back and forth. While walking, Tyler faced Brendan for just a moment but it was long enough to read the expletive slipping from his mouth.
Brendan went down the stairs, past people who were talking about what a tragedy this was, how horrible it was that such things happened, and headed for the parking lot. He was about to cut through the bushes when a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. The guy owning that hand was short but wide and wearing a black suit with wrinkles like veins running all over it. He could have been wearing shoulder pads, really large shoulder pads.
The man smiled large, almost comically so. “You’re Brendan.”
“Yeah?”
The guy must have put a gallon of gel in his hair and yet several strands of hair squirmed off his head like worms. His teeth were impossibly white; he must use those white-strips they advertise on television. Maybe he was wearing some now. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your sister was very pretty.”
“Okay.” The guy hadn’t removed his hand and Brendan tried to throw mental clues to the people walking past them that this guy might be a creeper. No one even glanced at them. Too busy talking about what a tragedy this was.
“You must be upset,” the man said.
Brendan glanced over his shoulder. Tyler was getting into Paul’s car. A moment later, they sped out of the parking lot, barely missing a head-on crash with a lady in a blue Town Car. So much for discovering what Tyler had done. Fucked up real bad could mean any number of things. “I should go back inside,” Brendan said as calmly and evenly as he could. He couldn’t let on that this guy and his super-wide smile with bright white teeth was making Brendan’s pulse race.
“It is a horrible thing, but out of this can come something wonderful. Don’t let this tragedy destroy how you see the world, how you see God.” He squeezed Brendan’s shoulder. In his other hand, the man held a Bible. At least a Bible preacher was better than a kidnapper.
“I don’t see God anyway,” Brendan said. “I don’t see any of the gods.”
The man’s smile wavered for just a moment. “Gods?”
“Yeah, like Zeus and those guys.”
“You believe that?”
“Why not?” Brendan felt smug talking this way to an adult. The man was a Bible thumper (Dad’s phrase), anyway, so it didn’t matter how Brendan treated him. The Williams family was not buying any Bibles or the God that came with the order.
The man knelt on one knee. He was shorter than Brendan now, but his shoulders and chest loomed large like the front of a big pick-up truck, the kind with a steel grille. “Do you know The Commandments?”
“Don’t kill, steal, or curse at your parents.”
Brendan had intended this as a laugh but the man showed no appreciation for his flippantness. “You’re forgetting the First Commandment: Thou shall have no other gods before me.”
“You ever think that maybe there are tons of gods but they’re all part of one bigger god? Like all the gumballs in a gumball machine are individual gods but the machine is a single god made up of the others.” He was paraphrasing the book and it sounded beyond adult; it was brilliant. He wished someone had recorded it because he was already forgetting what he said.
“You’re a bright boy. That is quite an interesting idea and I must admit I’ve never thought about it that way before. But God is not one gumball or many in a machine; He is the all-powerful, the empowered. He can make magic. Do you believe in magic?”
“You mean like changing water to wine?” He had seen that in one of those religious cartoons sometimes played on PBS.
“I mean like awakening the soul. You know how depressed you feel right now, how hurt, like the pain is buried inside your heart? God can re
lease that pain. He can free it from you. I know because He freed me from my pain.”
“My sister died. People die. That’s what happens.” Something hurt inside him as he said those words.
“Do you know the story of Jesus and Lazarus? In it, Jesus brings back to life a man who has been dead for several days. Jesus simply says, ‘Lazarus, Come Forth’ and the man does.”
What was the point of wasting so much time on Brendan when Dad was right inside? What did this guy want? Brendan knew how to get rid of him, or at least annoy him. “Then why can’t Jesus bring my sister back to life?”
“He can.”
That made Brendan pause.
“How?”
“If you believe in Him, even after you die, you will live forever.”
“In the clouds? Floating around and whatever?”
The smile wavered again, but just for a second, and his right eye blinked. Was that a signal or a twitch?
“Did your sister believe?”
“In cloud-floating?”
The man took his hand from Brendan’s shoulder, finally, and gripped his Bible with both hands. The hand still felt like it was there on his shoulder, pressing down with invisible weight.
“Do you know the story of Abraham and his son Isaac? God told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, Abraham’s only son, to Him as a sign of complete devotion. Abraham and Isaac went to the place God had commanded and gathered sticks to create a fire. While doing this, Isaac asked his father where the lamb was that God wanted scarified. Abraham told him that God would provide a lamb. Can you imagine the terror Isaac must have felt when Abraham tied him up and laid him upon the pile of sticks? Of course, when Abraham raised the knife over his son, an angel appeared and told him to stop, that God was pleased by his sign of devotion.
“Or the story of Job? Job was a devout believer and one day Satan told God that Job was only a believer because his life was so good. God gave the devil permission to ruin Job’s life. Job’s sons are killed, his farmland destroyed, his cattle slaughtered. His body is infected with oozing boils and excruciating illnesses. And through all this pain, Job contends that we can not accept the good things from God and refuse the bad. He refuses to turn his back on God and in return God ultimately empowers him with an even more blessed life than he had known. People say this story shows why we must be obedient to God, do what he says. But that’s not the real reason. Think about these two stories. What do you think the point is?”