by Jeff Jackson
—I found that old cassette, she says, and added it to the shrine in front of the theater. It was my tribute to her. I thought it’d make me feel better, but as I walked away I realized it was meaningless now that she’s gone. I was just like everybody else, adding more trash to the sidewalk.
* * *
Florence stares at her hands and chips away at the green nail polish. Shaun watches her expression fluctuate as memories flicker across her face, catching a glimpse of a younger girl who fleetingly possesses her features.
—I wasn’t at the show that night, she says. I was going to go, but—
She intends to say more, laying out the reasons, but she’s overwhelmed by her own words, swallowed by the magnitude of her confession. Her eyes are glazed, still she holds back the tears she knows haven’t earned the right to fall.
Shaun reaches over and places his hand next to hers on the bar.
—Florence, he says.
—Call me Flo, she says. That’s what Xenie always called me. Tonight, I’m Flo.
* * *
Somebody has also bought their next round. The bartender gestures to the booth in the corner where a skinny girl with a nest of brown hair sits nursing a tall can of beer. Edie, the unofficial manager for Xenie’s band, offers a shy wave. There’s something rehearsed in her greeting that gives Shaun the odd sense she’s been expecting them.
Neither of them knows Edie well. Shaun is familiar with her mostly in the context of various backstage scenes, offering his congratulations after shows and a helping hand with the equipment. She’s always struck him as exceptionally careful and quiet.
She walks over and gives both Shaun and Flo an awkward hug.
—I’m sorry, she says. It doesn’t seem real. I know everybody says that when people die, but it’s true.
She acknowledges the shimmering green fabric of Flo’s dress with a nod. Although Edie favors a tomboy style with a tatty cardigan sweater and jeans, her lipstick is also a conspicuous shade of green.
—It was today? she asks.
—Yeah, Shaun says. Her aunt kept it private.
—That’s too bad. I really wanted to be there.
He suspects she knew all the details of the funeral and has been drinking at this bar precisely because of its proximity.
—You didn’t miss anything, he says. It was a horror. A complete horror.
* * *
Flo downs her White Russian in a single swallow and pushes the glass toward the bartender for a refill. Actually, she says, she had a memorable funeral.
At first Shaun thinks this is a malicious dig, but then he realizes it’s spoken as a compliment, a gesture of camaraderie.
—I tried to open her casket, he says. I got kicked out.
Edie looks confused and waits for a punch line. None is forthcoming. She pushes her oversize glasses closer to the bridge of her nose to bring Shaun into sharper focus.
—I needed to see her, he says simply.
None of them can bring themselves to say her name.
* * *
—I tried to talk her out of playing the show, Edie says. I wanted you to know that. I tried, but none of the girls listened to me. They thought the epidemic was fizzling out. They thought it wouldn’t come here. Or they just didn’t care.
—Even if I’d canceled the show without telling them, she says, they would’ve played it somewhere else.
—I know what I know, she says. But I still feel like shit.
* * *
The evening of the concert, Xenie couldn’t decide on an outfit. She tried on shredded jeans, drainpipe trousers, a short black skirt. Shaun lay on the bed while she asked his opinion of each ensemble, and he kind of loved how she didn’t give his words much weight. As she surveyed her reflection from every odd slant, he worried that she might be growing addicted to the crowds and the applause. He wanted to beg her not to perform, but she made it clear that she’d never cancel the record release show. So, stupidly, he stayed silent. Before she left the bedroom, Xenie tossed a purple guitar pick into the air. It was like she was flipping a coin to decide whether to play. She caught the pick in her palm and examined it closely, even though both sides were the same.
* * *
His mind won’t stop replaying the purple guitar pick twisting in the air.
* * *
At the back of the bar, on a tiny wooden stage, a woman starts to sing. She nervously grips the microphone with both hands and presses it against her lips. Shaun wonders if she’s performing on a dare or because she lost a bet. She stands there petrified, eyes pinned to the karaoke video monitor. Though she wears gobs of mascara, a tight miniskirt, and spike heels, the words pouring from her mouth sound ancient and apocalyptic. Love is a burning thing, she sings. It makes a fiery ring. Her hesitant high-pitched voice throws the phrases into sharp relief. Shaun feels an eerie kinship with the song. I went down, down, down, she sings. And the flames went higher. The woman’s barely inflected warble floats atop the synthetic rhythms and simulated mariachi horns, insinuating itself into the prerecorded backing track, until voice and machine vibrate on the same frequency, sharing the same tremulous breath. When hearts like ours meet, she sings. Bound by wild desire. This was always one of Xenie’s favorite songs. Shaun had forgotten it’s also a love song.
I should be the one singing this song.
I should be singing it for you.
The entire bar is transfixed by the tune’s hushed spell. Despite herself, the woman has become a vessel for the song. Shaun remembers when Xenie sang there were glimpses of this alien aspect, as if her body was tuned to a foreign frequency and she was host to a sound separate from her. I fell into a ring of fire, the woman intones. It burns, burns, burns. It reminds Shaun of the incantatory language of the funeral litany, except these lyrics have their own fatalistic power. The woman’s stoic presentation transforms the song, making it seem as if she has already been consumed by the flames, though the fire continues. She has already fallen, though her descent is perpetual. A ring of fire, the woman sings. A burning ring of fire.
* * *
Shaun stands up and keeps applauding even after the karaoke machine is switched off and the woman returns to her table. Edie orders them a fresh round and insists on paying. Flo pours a shot directly into her flask and immediately orders another. Around them, casual flirting resumes and friendly bets are placed on games of pool, but he can tell the mood has shifted. The air seems curdled with smoke. The hazy lights radiate a reddish glow. The heightened atmosphere of the song has infected the bar and opened up the possibilities of the night.
* * *
The pool games grow increasingly spirited. Balls are racked and rolled. Stripes and solids scatter in unexpected configurations. Pockets are called and angles calculated. Slowly Shaun registers the sullen teenage boy who leans against the wall. There’s something odd about how he continually chalks his cue but never joins a game. His eyes fixed on the clock behind the blue felt table.
* * *
Shaun tries to work out the details of the boy’s appearance in the gauzy light. His brown hair is shorn almost to the skull. His pasty cheeks are chubby. His gray tracksuit is so thoroughly matted with dirt that he must have been crawling through mud. As the boy turns in profile, Shaun’s scalp begins to tingle.
* * *
The clamoring conversations around the bar, the clack of the billiard balls, the unconcealed stares of pity, Aunt Mary’s purposeful send-off, the old people lining the pews, the photograph of the pigtailed girl on the program, the closed casket—all the incidents of the evening coalesce around the darkened line of flesh that slaloms down the boy’s face.
* * *
Shaun leans toward Flo and whispers to avoid attracting attention. He maintains a neutral tone and refrains from making eye contact, careful not to influence her in any way.
—See that boy standing against the wall? he says. Does he look like anyone to you?
For several long seconds, Flo squints into th
e halo of light generated by the glass fixture above the pool table. An involuntary shudder ripples up her spine that makes her skinny shoulder blades flutter.
—Look at the face, he says.
—That does look like his face, she says.
—Look at the eyes, he says.
—Those do look like his eyes.
Shaun is relieved this isn’t some drunken hallucination.
—But it’s not him, right? he says.
—It can’t be, she says.
They keep staring. The possibility proves too potent to shake.
—Is that a scar on his cheek? he says.
—It looks like a scar.
—A zigzag shape?
—Looks like, she says. Looks like a zigzag shape.
They’re locked into the moment, their minds humming on the same wavelength.
—It’s not him, he repeats.
—It can’t be, she says.
But they can’t stop looking at him.
* * *
Edie returns from the bathroom to find Shaun and Flo focused with unnerving concentration on the pool game. She’s alarmed by their feral expressions, perspiring faces, lunar pallor.
—What are you guys staring at?
Shaun tips his chin toward the teenage boy. He has just propped his cue against the wall and is rubbing his hands together, sloughing the powdery residue of blue chalk from his fingertips.
Edie blanches.
—Oh, she says.
—But that’s not him, she says. You know that, right?
—That’s not the killer, she repeats. The killer is in jail.
Shaun and Flo don’t reply. They’re perched on the edge of their barstools, their attention absorbed entirely by the boy, who steps away from the pool table. He winds his way past the booths along the back wall, head low and shoulders hunched, aiming for the exit.
* * *
They watch the boy push open the front door and slip out of sight like a mirage. Shaun isn’t sure whether he feels relieved or distressed. The encounter seems incomplete. Flo stares at him with a stricken expression, and he realizes how deeply they’ve committed to their unspoken conspiracy.
—What do we do? Flo asks.
—Follow him, Shaun says.
—What are you talking about, Edie says. He’s not the killer.
—For a few blocks, Shaun says. To see what happens.
He pours his remaining whiskey onto the bar and slams down the glass. Flo does the same. The alcohol floods across the counter, causing the regulars to jump back and the bartender to curse as he lurches for his towel.
—Come on, Edie says. Be reasonable.
But their barstools are already empty.
Is this what you want?
They spot the boy a few blocks ahead. He’s the figure whose footsteps thread the dotted yellow line down the center of the road. The streets have been unusually empty since the massacre. Edie jogs after Shaun and Flo, still pulling on her jacket as she joins them. Hope I’m drunk enough for this, she says breathlessly. Shaun wonders if she’s spurred by a crush on Flo, or a manager’s instinct for keeping people out of trouble, or some cocktail of regret and anger about missing the funeral. Or perhaps some part of her wants to believe they’re trailing the killer. Shaun sets the tempo, keeping them from encroaching too close to the boy. This pursuit seems like something plucked straight from his subconscious, and he finds himself standing on the precipice of his own daydream.
* * *
The boy leads them past the strip of sporadic businesses on the edge of Arcadia. The check-cashing agency with the polished metal bars on the windows, the pawnshop stocked with ancient radios and stereos, the insurance office advertising the final days to take advantage of low prices on a term life policy. There’s something uncanny about walking among these dormant establishments, enveloped in darkness. Shaun notices how the erratic lighting from the streetlamps and shuttered stores shifts the boy’s shadow in size and proportion every few steps, as if it belongs to several people at once.
* * *
Shaun recalls Xenie’s obsession with the killers and the epidemic. She seemed simultaneously disgusted and intrigued. She’d muse aloud about the motivations of the very first shooter, the mundane incidents that might’ve incited him on his path, the fraught family situation that could’ve included being caretaker for his wheelchair-bound mother, how he spent the months leading up to loading his weapon and walking into the veterans hall during the battle of the bands. Shaun pretended not to notice the faraway expression that crept over her face as she imagined the various scenarios. Her speculations increasingly seemed like questions she was asking herself. As much as he doesn’t want to consider it, maybe some part of her welcomed the violence, reenacting the courtship of the circling moth and flickering flame.
What fascinated you about the killers?
The bearded killer with the hunting knife.
The black-overcoat killer with the semiautomatic weapon.
The dreadlocked killer with the backpack of explosives.
The trio of killers in the white ski masks.
The boy stops in front of the window of a sporting-goods shop. The gently glowing display highlights hiking boots, camping tents, and orange flak jackets. He presses his palm against the illuminated glass. Standing across the street, submerged in the shadows, Shaun wonders if he’s testing its resistance against a possible break-in.
—You know what they sell in that store? Shaun says.
—Sports stuff, Edie says. Obviously.
—Guns. You can get assault rifles.
—That doesn’t prove anything, Edie says.
Flo thrums her fingers against her pocketbook, creating an insistent rhythm, steadily ratcheting in intensity.
—Maybe he’s out on bail, she says.
—Maybe he escaped, Shaun says.
—How? Edie asks.
Neither answers. They’re both watching the boy lick his index finger and inscribe a set of circles in the dust on the windowpane, an increasingly tight series of spirals, one inside the other. The pattern resembles a target.
* * *
Shaun says: Maybe he escaped from prison a few hours ago. His gray tracksuit looks an awful lot like a prison outfit. Maybe his clothes are so dirty because he was crawling through some drainage pipe, splashing through an inch of muddy water, navigating toward a pinpoint of light.
He says: The prison is close to town. Maybe he was waiting at the bar until he could safely head to a friend’s house. Or maybe even his own place.
He says: Maybe that’s where he’ll lead us.
* * *
The boy picks up the pace as he turns down a side street lined with shabby bungalows. He must be close to his destination. Shaun wants to believe his story. From Edie’s and Flo’s intense expressions, he guesses they do, too. Flo bites down on her bottom lip, as if she’s trying to draw blood. Her eyes remain locked on the boy while her fingers knead the satiny green fabric of her dress. Edie walks with her hands plunged in her pockets and hums under her breath, a sequence of soft sighs that matches her footfalls on the pavement. They each absorb and expand the narrative in their own way.
The killer you never imagined.
—If it is him, Flo asks Shaun, what’ll you do?
In her resolute gaze, he can make out reflections of the boy’s bruised face, his body cowering on the floor, kicked to a pulp, tied to a chair, squealing in pain.
—It’s not what I’ll do, he says. It’s what we’ll do together.
* * *
A series of loud shots. It could be a car backfiring, except the detonations issue in deliberate succession. They originate from a nearby block, the echoes rippling through the night, slow to dissipate. Shaun lets his long hair obscure his face and tries to maintain his cool. Edie turns her head every few feet, anxiously scanning the surrounding houses for clues. Flo acts unflustered. Don’t worry, she says. It’s probably fireworks. But the arcing blackness of the sky
is unburnt.
* * *
The terrain grows unfamiliar, but none of them suggest turning back. The boy leads them past bulldozed plots, now weed choked and overgrown. He taps a small stick against the windows of the rust-mottled sedans parked along the street. Shaun worries the boy knows he’s being followed and is purposefully pulling them deeper into this sketchy neighborhood.
* * *
In the distance, they’re serenaded by the keening wail of an ambulance siren. Shaun wonders whether this is connected to the earlier gunshots. He pictures the emergency vehicle careening toward the hospital and the condition of the person inside, perhaps another blood-soaked girl, twitching on a stretcher, rasping for every breath, two bullet holes in her chest.
I should’ve been there with you.
They watch the boy veer into an overgrown wooded lot. He heads toward an oak tree and casually shimmies up the trunk. Crawling out on a low branch, he lies flat against it and extends his hand toward a bird’s nest. His fingers squirrel through the thatched twigs and produce a silver key.
* * *
The boy walks to a ranch-style home framed by a stand of overgrown boxwoods. The house is dark. He lingers on the front porch, as if listening for something, then quietly inserts the silver key in the door and vanishes inside.
Shaun exhales and stands up from behind the parked car. When he turns to Edie and Flo, his face is beaded with sweat.
—We can’t let him get away, he says.
—If it is him, Edie says, we need to call the police.
Flo shakes her head.
—Fuck that, she says. I know what Xenie would do.
* * *
Shaun remembers Xenie in bed, perched on her elbows, wearing nothing but his oversize black T-shirt. They were arguing about the epidemic, and Xenie playfully shaped her hand into a gun, thumb as the hammer, extended finger as the barrel. She straddled his chest and aimed the weapon at his head. He can still feel the pressure of her index finger against his temple. He can still hear her whispering: I’ll protect you.
* * *
Shaun’s knees wobble as he leads them down the brick path toward the house, but the night pushes him onward. There’s no bell, so he raps his knuckles against the translucent glass door. No reply. He knocks harder, the blows convulsing the wooden frame. No reply. The house remains still. The only sounds come from the itchy pulse of the cicadas. Edie keeps swiveling around, attentive to every stray shadow, on the lookout for anything unexpected. Flo stands directly behind him, her fingertips grazing his shoulders, determined not to let him back down. Shaun discovers he’s standing on a doormat whose cursive letters spell out the greeting WELCOME HOME.