Damage

by Shea, Stephen

  An image formed in his mind, layer by layer. The world was all lines of black and gold, the world stretched by a carnival mirror. A car was upturned, its front end pulverized and behind it, looking like a huge sandworm ready to devour the car, was a semi. The mood of the whole picture spread like blood over Rand's mind. He knew the occupants of the car, knew who they were as he had known where the keys were on top of the fridge. The whole scene was vaguely familiar.

  Rand became aware again that he was driving, that there was a steering wheel in his hand and a road ahead of him. The image of the worm/truck retreated to the back of his mind and pressed against his thoughts for a time. He forgot it: a trapdoor opened and it fell down.

  He drove carefully for the remainder of the trip and by the time he turned into Kinniwaw his hands were tired and he was worn to the core. His nerves felt raw and dull. He pulled up at home, grabbed his night bag, and went towards the house.

  As he opened the door, he had a feeling that the house was empty, but then his mom's voice rang out with a happy "hello" and she came to meet him smiling.

  He had something to tell her, something important that tickled the bottom of his tongue. Something he had to say. But what was it? The universe slammed to a halt, waited for him to speak, to change its course, but he said "hello" back and the universe barreled forward down the same path.

  Hello. Wonderful hello. With those five letters he had killed his parents.

  Because he had dismissed the dream as being nothing, his imagination. Too small, too silly to mention. There had been another chance to warn them, only moments before they left, when the memory of the worm/truck slid a fin through the waters of his conscious mind. The fin circled for a moment then he spoke, but he said goodbye.

  Hello. Goodbye. It was as easy as that.

  The memory slowly pulled itself from his mind and Rand sat staring, feeling empty, as if his core had been wiped clean. Then he heard a soft noise. He had the feeling that someone was watching him from inside the house. He looked up and saw a flicker of movement to his left.

  What's that? Rand stared directly in that direction, saw nothing else. Curious, he stood and walked towards the hall. He heard a weak, quiet noise, almost like crying. He stopped to listen, holding his breath, but the sound died.

  He started walking again. When he reached the hallway, he felt a cold chill that made him catch his breath. There was definitely someone else in the house, he could feel tiny disturbances in the air. The noise, like crying, grew again from the end of the hallway, past the door to the kitchen. But Rand wasn't sure if it was crying or laughing.

  "Hello," Rand said. He searched the wall, fumbled across the light switch and flicked it on. The hallway was empty, but he was sure that if he had hit the light only a moment earlier he would have seen something. Rand stepped ahead, then saw, lying in the middle of the floor, an old blue shirt he had used to wash his car. He was certain he had left it crumpled up near the front door, but here it was lying spread out on the floor. He went to it, leaned over, and picked it up. A memory came to him in a rush as if someone were pushing it into his mind.

  He was a child sitting on the couch, feeling very small and uncomfortable, unhappy. Little blue jeans, little blue shirt. Daddy had just yelled at him, had just said he didn't love him, then left, slamming the door to his room.

  "Daddy really doesn't feel well, now," his mother was saying. She had watched the whole scene, impassively. "Daddy's not happy with the way things are going."

  "What things?"

  "His life. He's just not happy with it right now. That's why he got so mad with you. He's not happy."

  Rand stared at the back of his hand as it rested on his knee. A pale hand with little blue veins running though it. "Is it me? Is it me?"

  She paused (and she did pause there, didn't she, Rand?). "No, don't be silly, it's not you." A hiss as she breathed in. He was afraid to look up, to look into her eyes and see that she was really lying. "You didn't do anything, Randy. Nothing. He's just not happy today. That's all, he's not happy. We still love you."

  And there the memory starts to fade, to die.

  Rand dropped the blue shirt. It was six thirty now and Kari would be there in half an hour, but that didn't matter.

  He got his keys from the coffee table. The phone started to ring but he ignored it. A few minutes later he was out on the highway heading north, his stereo screaming, four tires spinning like fate underneath his car.

  16.

  Conn stepped out of the hotel. The night wind gathered around him, a moving shroud. He felt as if her were part of that wind, part of the night and the darkness. The moon, staring out behind a thick cloud, was smiling at him. Beneath the gloves, his hands were tingling again.

  But this time the tingling was a natural process of the universe and it didn't bother him. He clenched his hands into fists.

  Rand, in his Mustang, drove by. Conn caught only a glimpse of him but in that moment he was sure that Rand had seen him then turned his head away. Conn stared after the car.

  The turning away, how often had that happened in his life? People always turned away because of the color of his skin.

  Conn smiled. It didn't matter anymore, not now that his hands were tingling. It didn't matter at all.

  But the world deserved one more chance, didn't it? Yes, of course. For posterity. Conn made his way to his car, a blue dented Toyota Celica he'd bought for fifty dollars.

  When he got onto the highway he headed south.

  15.

  Kari pulled up to Rand's house in her car. She felt good about seeing him, she had talked to him at six thirty, a little after Angie had left, and he had laughed and joked with her. She was tired from work and the thought of cuddling with Rand on the couch and watching t.v. sounded like the perfect evening.

  When she got out of the car and saw only one light on in Rand's house, her mood darkened. How many times had he sounded happy on the phone and she'd come over a few hours later to find him sitting on the couch, smoking and staring at the wall? His car was gone, which meant he was gone. Either something had happened or he had completely forgotten about her.

  What am I going to do now? Kari wondered. Go home? She felt a sudden bolt of anger. How many times? It seemed to be happening more and more often, not less and less. She hesitated between the car and the house.

  Kari stared through the open front door and saw someone inside, lurking in the living room. "Rand?" she said, walking up the steps. She pulled open the door, but knew whoever she had seen wasn't Rand: the shape had been all wrong. She went slowly inside and closed the door. "Rand," she said again. Whoever she had seen was gone. There was a long coat hanging on the closet door and Kari wondered if she had mistaken it for a person. She walked forward and turned into the darkened living room.

  At once she felt ill at ease, tiny aches in her body throbbed; faded and forgotten bruises, as old as childhood, filled with familiar pain. The room was charged with another presence, she felt it in the center of her mind, overwhelming her with its strength. Kari took another step forward and the aches and pains doubled, became arthritic. Her ears filled with white noise as if someone had just cranked up a t.v. tuned to a dead channel.

  The living room was dark except for the moonlight coming through the curtain. Standing in the corner was a thin man dressed in a long rain jacket.

  He looked up angrily at Kari. His mouth flapped open and closed repeatedly, violently. Kari's ears began to hurt. He twisted his head from side to side, his eyes boring into her; piercing, hating her.

  His hate hit like a wave, bursting through every pore. It twisted inside her skull and memories rose and coalesced in her mind, bad memories of Rand, of her parents, of mistakes she had made. Her own anger grew inside her, joined with his. The man began to shudder, waving back and forth, his mouth opening and closing with such force his teeth surely should have shattered.

  And Kari knew then, intuitively, that he was a ghost. She had felt this sort of
feeling before. When she was younger there had been a ghost in her house, a little girl's ghost that everyone in the family called Lucy. No one ever disputed her existence and they would talk to her or about her. They didn't know why she was there, but they knew she belonged. She had disappeared when their house burned down.

  The feeling Kari had with this presence was similar to what she felt with Lucy, but darker. When Lucy would come into a room it would feel suddenly warm, here there was only coldness and bitterness. Something threatening was building here, gaining strength.

  Kari stared at the thin ghost, scared. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was as if she had swallowed a lung full of water. She couldn't force anything out—she coughed, she sputtered—then finally words sprang forth: "Why are you here?"

  Rage! the man screamed, opening his mouth as wide as a chasm. Glass shattered somewhere and Kari was knocked staggering back by the force of the word. She struggled with her balance, twisted around, and grabbed the wall. She straightened herself and turned back. The man was gone. Tiny red lights swirled where he'd stood, then blinked out.

  What the hell was that? She stared at the place where the man had been. The aches and pains in her body had disappeared, but her heart was beating with crazy speed. She breathed in deeply and leaned against the wall. Her hand slipped down and she knocked three times gently against the wall and she whispered the Lord's Prayer.

  She felt better when she was finished, relieved. She knew the ghost was gone, she could feel it deep inside her.

  Kari stepped to her left and something cracked beneath her feet. She looked down. A picture of Rand and his parents had fallen from the wall. Broken glass circled the picture. Kari picked up the picture and removed the shards of glass that remained in the frame. When she was finished, she looked at the picture. It had been taken the previous December. Rand was standing beside his father, his mother was in front of them sitting on a chair. They were in their best clothes. Rand had his hand on his mother's shoulder. They were all smiling and Kari could see that Rand's smile came from his mother, his hair from his father.

  They really helped screw you up, Rand, she thought. Kari had loved both of them and yet there was always this reservation to her feelings, because of the scars they had left in Rand.

  Kari set down the picture. She picked up the glass from the floor, went to the kitchen, opened up the cupboard and dropped the glass into the garbage. When she pulled back her hand she noticed it was bleeding.

  Kari examined the cut between the index and middle finger on her left hand. I didn't even feel it. She turned on the tap and stuck her hand under the cold water. It hit her skin with a shock.

  Rage, the word echoed again in her head and she turned off the tap and glanced around. She stared for a long moment then reached into the cupboard above the fridge and found the bandages. As she wrapped one between her fingers, a dim memory of childhood skimmed the surface of her conscious mind. It had something to do with her mother kissing it better, but it sank before Kari even really acknowledged it.

  Kari made her way back to the couch. She sat there, her whole body feeling unsettled as if she had barely escaped a serious car accident. What am I going to tell Rand? she wondered. The ghost had been a threatening presence and she knew she should tell Rand about it. But will he believe me? Rand had listened once to her story of Lucy and had said nothing negative, but underneath she had sensed cynicism.

  She picked at the edge of the bandage. It doesn't matter now, she decided with sudden anger, he's not here. She looked around the house, realizing how empty it was. There was no use staying anymore, she decided, there was nothing for her here, now. With that she left the house, went out to her car, and headed home.

  16.

  Tyler was late for Karate so after he had changed into his gi, he entered the Dojo and knelt. Sensei Roberts nodded to him. Tyler rose and began to warm himself up along with the rest of the class. He stretched the muscles of his body mercilessly, well beyond the point where the body cries out to stop. He would hurt tomorrow, but that didn't matter.

  When the class finished warming up they divided into two lines, each member facing a partner and they began practicing pre-ordained attacks and defenses. After about ten minutes Sensei Roberts got the class to sit on the floor.

  He motioned to Tyler to rise. Tyler did so. Sensei Roberts then gestured for a brown belt, Barry, to stand and face Tyler. They bowed to each other then sank back into defensive stances.

  "Today," Roberts said, "these two will demonstrate jiyu kumite, the type of fighting you'll be expected to perform in November's tournament. As I've said before—and will probably have to remind you again since all of you are good at forgetting—Shotokan Karate is the fusing together of two contradictory elements. The first being Kime. Which means?" he pointed at a yellow belt, a high school boy with a shock of hair so blond it seemed yellow.

  "Uh, I..."

  "That's right," Sensei Roberts continued, "Kime is a quick, powerful, technically correct blow that connects with the target. Essentially the perfect blow, whether it be block, kick or punch. Now Kime is what we all are attempting to attain, but if we did it to each other we would all have broken noses and bruised ribs and hospital bills. That's why Funakoshi introduced the concept of sun-dome which means we will stop the technique before the target. We decide that the true target exists only millimeters before our opponent's body. Jiyu Kumite involves both of these concepts performed at full speed. Which is what these gentlemen will show us." He turned to Tyler and Barry and motioned for them to begin.

  Barry moved forward, testing the invisible line between him and Tyler. Tyler stepped back, evading his opponent, confident that his reactions were much faster than Barry's and that if he let Barry attack first his body would naturally respond. They circled each other staring, waiting. Tyler shifted to his right, knowing Barry was weaker on that side. Barry adjusted, trying to bring his right leg into the arena. Tyler circled away from it forcing Barry to shift again. Tyler saw Barry's face tighten a little and he knew Barry was becoming unnerved, that it bothered him to have nothing happen.

  Barry darted forward, performed a quick front snap kick that fell short then started to turn and execute a back kick. Tyler sensed the kick and responded with a side thrust kick that knocked Barry to the ground. At once he stood, assuming a defensive position.

  "No contact! Jiyu! Jiyu!' Roberts yelled. "Concentrate!"

  Tyler nodded. He hadn't meant to make contact, he had commanded his body to stop, but it had carried forward that extra minute distance. His shoulder and neck muscles tightened up. He shook his head like a horse. Keep your muscles loose! His nostrils flared as he sucked air into his lungs and sank back into position.

  Sensei Roberts motioned and Tyler and Barry began to circle each other. Again Tyler waited for Barry to move, trusting that his body would respond to any attack. Barry didn't hesitate, he moved in with a roundhouse kick. Tyler shifted back out of the way then shifted in, but his punch fell short and he recovered too slowly; Barry was able to land both a straight and reverse punch, arresting the blow before contact and scoring a point. They backed away from each other.

  Tyler knew those blows should never have landed. He had hesitated, a fatal error. Concentrate! He felt the anger grow in his skull, pounding its own tattoo along with his heart. Control it, he told himself, channel it, use it against him.

  Sensei Roberts motioned and they began again. This time Tyler was more aggressive, he challenged Barry by moving past the safe zone. Darting forward and back. He sensed an opening so he struck with a roundhouse kick that he halted before it made contact, followed by a punch that landed on the side of Barry's temple. Barry stepped back blinking.

  "Tyler!" Roberts yelled.

  For a moment Barry's legs wobbled and it seemed he would fall, then he straightened. Roberts motioned for him to sit, then turned to Tyler. "Your concentration is off! You've got to concentrate!"

  Tyler nodded. "Oss," he said. Sensei
Roberts motioned for him to sit. Tyler did so, his mind burning with anger. He watched as Roberts directed two brown belts to display Jiyu Kumite. They performed flawlessly.

  A few minutes later Roberts dismissed the class. Tyler went and dressed quickly, threw his jacket over his shoulder and left the change room. As he made his way to the stairs he was relieved to see that the door to Sensei Robert's office was closed. He headed up the stairs and went out onto the street.

  He walked down the sidewalk, reliving the kumite in his mind. It was as if his body had intentionally betrayed him. But it wasn't his body, he knew, it was his mind. Because the body was essentially a machine wired up to the brain. And something in his brain had made his kick too long, had made his concentration shift just enough to throw him off.

  Tyler pulled his jean jacket on and walked north down the street towards his apartment. After a few blocks he changed his mind and headed west. A block later he was on Stegler street. There was a hotel there, an old hotel with a few yellow-lit windows, one or two covered with cardboard. A neon light flashed GEORG S.

  He pulled open the glass door and walked in. It was eight thirty, so only the regulars were there—twenty or so blue collar patrons, mostly male, who had stopped for one drink after work and never quite made it home for supper. Smoke filled Tyler's nostrils but instead of his usual reaction of distaste, he inhaled it greedily.

  A woman laughed with the sound of a shovel scraping concrete. Tyler glanced in the direction of the laugh. Three women, one Tyler had seen before and was certain was a middle-aged streetwalker, were sitting at a table. The other two were older, tough-looking women. Tyler walked past them and the woman laughed again and he wondered if they were laughing at him.