by Glen Krisch
Chapter 2
Just inside the doors of the Warren Cove bus station, Kevin already lagged behind his parents. He couldn't help it. His excitement about the trip to Chicago made him have to take a leak that could put out a forest fire. The station wasn't crowded since it was so early in the morning. Even so, a woman clipped Kevin on the shoulder as she rushed to catch a bus on time.
"Sorry," the woman said, barely giving him a glance.
"No problem, Mrs. Hepner." Warren Cove was a small town, nothing more than a rest stop in a long journey through the endless farm fields of central Illinois. Kevin had started a newspaper route when school let out two weeks ago, and he already knew every customer on his route by name and face. Mrs. Hepner lived four blocks away. Kevin delivered to her the thin Cove Herald every other weekday and on weekends.
"Oh… Hi." Mrs. Hepner gave him a vague look of recognition, her freshly applied makeup making her look like a clown.
"Kevin Dvorak. I deliver your paper."
"Yes. Sorry, Kevin. I'm running late." Mrs. Hepner looked at her watch, looked even more exasperated, and gave him a slight wave. "You're doing a fine job with the paper. Better than that Callahan boy ever did. I'll see you later."
Whenever he saw one of his customers, he made an effort to acknowledge them, hopefully resulting in better tips. His parents trudged on ahead, distracted, without looking back to see if he was keeping up. He could probably ditch them and duck into a restroom, but they would throw a fit even though he felt old enough. They let him ride his bike at 5:30 in the morning for his route, but wouldn't let him go to a public restroom on his own. Go figure.
He was getting desperate. His palms were sweaty and it pained him to walk. Stopping in mid-stride, he called out to his dad, but he didn't seem to hear. The overhead lights were so white, like the lights he imagined shining down in an operating room. The tile floor echoed his mom's heel clicks, seeming to amplify them. His dad tried to take hold of her hand, as he often did when they walked together, but she shrugged off the attempt. She increased her distance from him and their hands swept by at their sides, alone and empty.
He felt like screaming, anything to get their attention. But he didn't want to anger his dad. He was angry a lot lately. Something about his job, and people at his job. Whatever it was made his mom angry, too. She focused her anger more at his dad, while at the same time, his dad would grumble under his breath about things Kevin didn't really know about. Things like entrapment. Things like harassment.
Kevin had an idea about harassment. People talked about it all the time on T.V., boring him to the point he'd change the channel in search of cartoons. He was fuzzy about entrapment. It sounded like something straight from one of the army movies his dad liked.
Walking faster through the station, Kevin focused on keeping his bladder full, trying not to think of anything wet or anything cold. Or anything wet and cold.
"Dad!" This time tension strengthened his voice, cutting through the empty bus station. His dad turned around, and after a couple of steps so did his mom.
"For God's sake, what is it, Kevin?" His dad looked tired, like he hadn't slept in a thousand years.
"I have to go…" Kevin started to say, but then just nodded his head and bugged out his eyes, the obvious universal sign for MY BLADDER IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE!
"Can't this wait? The bus is about to board. You can use the bus toilet after you find your seat."
It would be a mad thrill to take a leak while on a moving bus, but Kevin couldn't wait."I-Have-To-Go…" Kevin explained.
"Carin, I better take him."
She already had her arms folded and tense in front of her. "Fine. I'll be right here. Hurry up. The bus is leaving in ten minutes," she said and then leaned forward. She whispered to his dad, trying to keep her voice from Kevin's ears, but he heard anyway. "Don't take so long that you can't say a decent goodbye to your son."
Kevin had no idea what his mom was talking about. Goodbye? What was that all about? He thought they were all going to his grandma's house. He was excited because he envisioned the trip bringing happiness back to their family. Sure, he had been aware of the tension between his parents, but it wasn't the end of the world. Or so he hoped. Just awkward silences during meals, or his dad working late and missing dinnertime altogether. They didn't fight all of the time. They never had any shouting matches, and thank God, never threw any punches. And now this… goodbye?
His dad placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him toward the restroom, but Kevin was still looking back at his mom.
Goodbye?
He tried reading her face, but just as his dad looked really tired lately, her face seemed as expressive as a clean chalkboard. She watched him watching her, but her look was cold, the pained glassiness of her eyes the only sign of any emotion.
Kevin's dad led him to the restroom, and his mom disappeared from view. Finally, he was going to take a leak.
Kevin, feeling considerably lighter in the bladder, was washing his hands when a man entered the restroom. He wore his black denim shirt tucked into his faded tan carpenter pants. His sleeves rolled to the elbow, Kevin couldn't help noticing that his thick gray arm hair matched the color of the unruly hair on his head. He stepped up to a urinal next to a balding guy with a gut so big he had to stand back about a foot to avoid bumping into the white porcelain.
The new guy stared intently at his urinal neighbor as if trying to memorize his features for future reference. A number of silent seconds ticked away, and when the fat guy became uncomfortable with the invasion of privacy, he gave the man a scowl. The old man frowned, his unshaven face sagging as he looked away. He seemed to be stuttering under his breath, small bursts of air escaping between his clenched teeth.
Kevin was getting a bad feeling. His dad was in a stall smoking a cigarette, and he wished he would hurry up so they could get out of here. He turned on the hand dryer, but his eyes didn't leave the two men.
The old guy turned, once again studying the other man's face. His hair stuck out in weird spikes, as if he hadn't brushed it in a week. His eyes were yellow and seemed somehow both fatigued and frantic. When his urinal neighbor faced him, he didn't look away.
"Do you have a problem?"
The old man paused, as if considering the question, a puzzled look deepening the wrinkles across his forehead. "I'm afraid I don't."
"Keep your eyes to yourself."
The fat man hunched over, grunted, and closed his fly. He tucked in a loose tail of his shirt, glowering over his shoulder as he walked over to the sinks. As he washed his hands, he nodded to Kevin. "Stay clear of that guy. I think he's a perv."
Kevin wondered if his dad was ever coming out. First that weirdo came in, and now this other stranger was talking to him. He was uncomfortable and just wanted to get on the bus, even if his dad wasn't coming with. He could sort out his family problems later.
The guy wiped his hands on a paper towel, and then turned to exit. The old man was already blocking his path, his back against the swinging exit door. He casually zipped his own fly.
"I'm only going to say this once, get the fuck away from me." The strength of the big guy's voice deflated with uncertainty as he faced this odd crossroad.
"Hey now. I'm talking. You're listening."
"Why you little shit--" The big guy snapped, charging with his shoulder lowered like a battering ram. The old man sidestepped the charge and shoved him shoulder-first into the cinderblock wall. Kevin, seeing the pained contortion of the man's face, backed away from the sinks.
The old guy grabbed the stranger's neck with both hands, his fingers twisting into his considerable jowls. The wounded man cradled his shoulder and fell to his knees, but didn't slip away from the old man's grip. The old guy's yellow eyes were bloodshot and a rope of drool descended from his lower lip. Suddenly stirred by rage, he was panting, forcing the fat guy to stand up. He then pressed the man's meaty face against the mirror, the steam of his frantic breath clouding his reflection.
The hand dryer stopped. The man's breathing, a wet near-sob, sounded incredibly loud without the whir of the dryer.
"What'd I do!" the fat man cried, the old guy's palm pressing his face into a morbid sneer.
"It's your turn, jackass. Just your turn is all. Ain't no shame in taking your turn."
Kevin inched away, his back against a stall. The toilet flushed behind him and his dad opened the door.
"What the hell's going on?" His fists tightened at his sides, the muscles alive under his skin. Kevin cowered on the floor next to him.
The old man didn't even flinch at the interruption and didn't seem to notice anyone else in the restroom. The fat man was still smashed against the mirror and he couldn't move at all. Kevin had no idea how such a feeble-looking man could manhandle someone so large so easily.
With sympathy in his eyes the old man looked at his victim, as if might even decide to let him go. But then swiftly, violently, he slammed the man's skull against the foggy metallic mirror. The stranger's unconscious eyes rolled back to full whites as he fell to the floor. Before anyone could react, the old man started stabbing him with what looked like a steak knife.
His dad rushed forward to grab his arm on the back swing. Kevin knew his dad was strong, just about the strongest person he knew, but the old man somehow lifted him off the floor with his stabbing motion. His dad lost his grip and tumbled across the stranger's body.
"Dad!" Kevin cried, tears clinging to his cheeks.
"Looks like it's your turn now," the old man hissed as he feverishly attacked his dad, the knife a big blurring motion of metal and blood. His dad tried to deflect the stabs with his forearms which were soon littered with wounds. He looked defeated, afraid. His eyes met Kevin's, even as the crazed man continued his assault. His lips moved wordlessly, his life drifting away.
But something steeled in his dad's eyes, and the fear disappeared. He struggled to one knee and then stood fully. Ignoring the knife, he grabbed the old man's face between either hand, leaving his abdomen unprotected. The old man took advantage by pressing the knife in deeply, just below the ribs. As the stranger lifted the knife handle, his dad slammed his gray head into the wall, hard.
Kevin wanted to look away, but couldn't. Not even as both his dad and the old man fell with dual thuds to the floor.
"No, Daddy. No…" Kevin whimpered, losing coherence. He slumped down the side of the stall until he sat with his legs sprawled out before him. He blinked and saw the nightmare in front of him: his dad's ravaged body, his wheezing last breath, his empty eyes left staring at Kevin.
Kevin's eyes glazed and his mind cowed away, finding shelter in a safer place. When he opened his eyes again, how long later, he had no idea, he began to scream for his mom. He screamed with a fear bordering on madness. He screamed until his words became a simple wailing pain.
Chapter 3
As she pulled the Ford Explorer into her mother's driveway in Chicago, Carin's heart felt empty. Kevin sat in the passenger seat, wearing the same blank expression as the previous two weeks. She was hoping that completing the move to her mother's house would help draw him out of his grief. It would take some time, but she was hoping to see some inkling of her sweet little boy still inside him somewhere.
The front yard was so lush and green that it looked like a bed of emeralds. Newly planted baby pine trees lined the drive on either side. The leaves of the two large oaks in the front yard hung limply and had curled in the heat. The yard was mostly shadow and cool air, a luxury during the heat of summer.
She eased the Explorer to a stop, and shut off the engine, leaving them in silence. It was as if with the turn of the ignition key she expected Kevin to snap out of it, for him to show the same joy he always did when they would go to her mother's house. A minute or more slipped by and neither one of them stirred. The mounting pain behind her eyelids wanted release. It would be so easy to let it overwhelm her, to let it drown her in its violent and brackish waves. Her temples pounded and if she didn't get things under control, she was going to start crying again. She didn't want to be in that condition around her mother.
She took a deep breath, fighting the hitching in her chest with every inhaled ounce of air. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white and trembling.
Come on Carin, you can do this. You have to do this.
She slowly let out the pent up air from her lungs. She had to do this. "Hey, bud, let's go inside. Your grandma's waiting for us."
Kevin didn't say anything or even look at her. Tucking his baseball glove under his arm, he opened the passenger door. He was nearly to the front door before she remembered to move. She grabbed her purse and hurried to catch up to him.
That wasn't so hard, was it? Carin thought. But getting out of the car wasn't the worst of their problems. Moving on with the rest of their lives would be their true challenge.
Kevin stood staring at the door, his eyes rimmed with brown bags. Carin was digging in her purse for her key when the door opened.
"Oh, my babies, you made it." Carin's mother reached out to touch them. She had been blind since childhood, but she got around so well that Carin sometimes forgot.
"Hi, Mom. Thanks. Thanks for everything."
They didn't say anything else. Her mother leaned in for a deep hug with Carin, and then shared a dead-fish embrace with Kevin. He slinked away to the living room and turned on the T.V. He flipped the channels until he landed on cartoons, and then he watched like a zombie, barely blinking.
When the door closed behind them, darkness shrouded the interior of the house, even with the sun still high in the sky. All the curtains were closed and not a single lamp was alight. A rush of air that bordered on an arctic freeze greeted Carin and she realized her mother had the air conditioning cranked up high. Her mother was raised poor, and not until Carin was into her early thirties, did her parents pull out of it. Some of the frugal practices never went away, and Carin doubted her mother was aware of most of her quirks. She almost never used the air conditioning, even during the blistering heat of summer. Her mother had consciously cooled the house for their benefit.
The smell of the house was comforting and familiar. The well-oiled molding and oak shelving her father had built into their home, a little each year until it looked so much more than the cookie cutter G.I. housing it had once been. A repotted plant, moist and freshly turned soil, fragrant leaves and snaking tendrils, probably in the kitchen window where it would get the best light. The rose-scented powder her mother dusted the carpet with before vacuuming. For the first time in months, even long before James's murder, Carin felt a measurable amount of ease. Walking into the home of her youth and knowing she would find solace here once again seemed to wash away the coppery tinge of anxiety from her mouth. In its wake, she was aware of how emotionally raw she felt. It was a palpable feeling, yet distant, almost as if they were someone else's emotions mentioned to Carin in hushed tones.
"Would you like some chamomile tea?" her mother asked, hopefully.
"That sounds wonderful." And it did. Carin suddenly felt tired. She could imagine taking a nap after a soothing cup of tea.
Carin followed her mother into the kitchen and sat down at the dinette. She thought about helping, but knew that her mother wanted to make it herself, mothering her as if she had never moved away. "I should probably get the suitcases from the car while you make the tea."
"Don't be silly. You're home now and your car is in the driveway. It isn't going anywhere and neither are you," she said, nodding for emphasis. "We can unload it after we catch our breath." She put the teapot on to boil, and then took a tin of tea from the cabinet.
"Jeremiah is dead," Carin said. She didn't want to bring up her husband's killer, at least not this soon after coming home. He didn't deserve to be spoken about, not in such a welcoming environment. But she had to get the weight off her chest.
Her mother turned from the stove and stood quietly.
"He had a heart attack, or
at least that's what the police told me."
"When?"
"Two nights ago. He was asleep. They told me he went painlessly."
"I don't exactly know what to say."
"Neither do I. But I do know I feel cheated. I was praying that the prosecuting attorney would be able to steer away from the insanity plea. I knew that probably would've never happened, and he'd end up at some cushy mental hospital. I wanted him to suffer in prison, I wanted him to see those bars and feel the loneliness and see them every minute of every day and I wanted him to suffer for seeing them."
"At least he's gone." The teapot began to whistle. Her mother turned off the stove and poured the steaming water over the teabags to steep. Her movements were flawless, her light, flickering fingers comprehending details from the slightest surfaces of her world, a sense of touch keener than most people's sense of sight.
"I know I should be grateful," Carin said. She took the enameled cup offered by her mother. "At least he won't hurt anyone else."
They both sat at the dinette, sipping the steaming tea.
With the burden of Jeremiah's death off her chest, Carin wanted to change the subject. She couldn't remember the last pleasant conversation she'd had. First it was the police, and then a brief talk with the F.B.I., then the funeral home, the insurance company, the realtor, and the moving company. It never seemed to end. "You look good, Mom."
"Thank you dear. You seem to be getting on all right, all things considered. But, Kevin, he doesn't seem to be doing the same." Her voice softened upon mentioning Kevin.