by J. Warren
I shook my head.
The look on his face said, thought so. He leaned back against the wall. “It’s like some—some fucking science fiction film. Like someone made the most horrible thing they could think up; something out of a zombie movie or something. You watch them smile and laugh,” he said, “sometimes you think that maybe it’s something God’s doing on purpose—not to wipe out gay people—but something to wipe out people,” he said, and looked down at the mattress, the whispered “Sometimes you wonder what the world is going to be like after there is a cure You wonder if the whole world will just have a big sigh of relief and then go on as if nothing happened. As if millions of people haven’t just vanished because of this—this—thing that acts like something out of a stupid drive-in zombie movie,” and with each word he crumpled some; some writer guy would say that better, but that’s what it looked like.
“So you think that it’s something someone did?” I asked after a long pause.
He glared at me, “I don’t know dick about it, Mikey. All I know is that I don’t have it, and it makes me feel like shit to be thankful for that. It makes me feel like a horrible person every day.”
“Did you—?,” I started, but my throat closed up. When it opened again, “did you lose someone to it?”
He looked at the floor, then walked toward the bedroom door. “Do you like your eggs scrambled or how?” he asked.
I felt stupid. I wondered if he’d always been this smart as a kid. I wondered what might have happened if we’d been friends then. He walked past me and out of the room. I sat on the bed for a while longer. Then I got up, and put my pants on. I looked at my shirt, thought about putting it on, but didn’t. I heard Susan’s voice from a few months ago in my head, “you never just slum it, do you?” When I’d asked her what she meant, she’d said “you always put all your clothes on, even if we’re not doing anything that day. My brothers were always running around without their shirts or socks on. It’s like they didn’t care who saw them. You even wear your belt right up until it’s time for a shower or bed.” I don’t think I understood what she meant until that moment. I didn’t care if Kevin saw me without a shirt. Somehow, that felt important.
When I walked into the living room, Kevin was standing near the stereo. He put a disc in, and pressed play.
“Who’s this?” I asked as the song started playing.
“Johnny Cash,” he said, and I noticed that when the man sang a line, Kevin closed his eyes.
“You like country music?” I asked.
His eyes opened. He looked at the front door, then he looked at me for a second. He shook his head slowly from side to side. He went into the tiny kitchen, and pulled a pan out from an overhead cupboard. He set it on the stove, then opened the refrigerator. I looked in over his shoulder as the scratchy voice on the speakers asked how many roads a man had to walk down before he could be called a man. I wasn’t hungry anymore. “I’m not really all that hungry,” I said. He stopped, then closed the refrigerator slowly.
Without turning around, he said “So, you’re leaving?”
“You seem okay, now. I don’t know how you aren’t still sick after last night, but…”
“You’ve never taken anything in your life, have you?” he asked, turning toward me. On his face, something had changed; something had grown more distant and cold. I shook my head ‘no’. He nodded. I could see him grow more distant with each second. His eyes, so clear and focused a moment ago, back in the bed, were growing cloudy. I could tell he was waiting.
It felt like I had to wrench my eyes away from him. I turned, and walked toward the door. I could feel his eyes on my shoulders the whole time. At the door, I stopped. I put my hand on the knob, and turned around. He hadn’t moved. “I’ll call you,” I said. He blinked, and looked down at the countertop. I immediately felt like I’d said exactly what he thought I would say; and that saying it had stung him very deeply. I didn’t know what to do; I wanted to rush back to him and do the things we’d done last night all over again. I wanted to do anything to make him not feel hurt. I wanted to leave, too. I wanted to get in the car and gun it.
I couldn’t see, but I know his whole body jumped with the click of the closing door.
NINETEEN
In all of the jumble and confusion, I’d forgotten that it was Kevin’s car I’d driven from Sully’s. I’d walked from my parent’s house. I’d have to walk all the way back. I looked up; the sun was just a little past the horizon. The large hand of my watch hovered near ‘7’, as if undecided. The morning was mild, though growing brighter. The road shimmered at the far edge every time I crested a hill. The only cars on the road were empty, and the shop windows all had ‘closed’ signs.
I looked down at my watch as I turned the corner and saw my parents house. It slid over the top of the ‘8’. The car was in the driveway. The paper was already gone from the front porch. Some small, naive part of me had hoped they’d still be in bed. I knew better, though.
The front door opened with a creak. I closed it and locked it. My mother appeared as if by magic the instant I turned around.
“Well, good morning,” she said in a way that meant she didn’t think it was one.
“Hi.” I rubbed my eyes. I was still tired, and I knew what I smelled like.
She looked at my shoes, then slowly up to my eyes. “Is that Mikey?” my father asked from the other room. I heard the rustling of the paper.
“Yes, Albert,” she responded.
“Where’s he been?”
Her right eyebrow cocked. I felt twelve all over again. I walked past her.
“I went over to Sully’s last night and had a beer with Bud Gantner,” I said. I heard my mother’s footsteps just behind me. My father was in his chair, his feet (in black socks, of course) propped on the ottoman. He didn’t look up from the paper as I slid by. My mother followed me all the way into the kitchen. She stood at the counter as I took down a box of cereal from one cupboard, a bowl from another. I had to wait for her to move as I went into the refrigerator.
“I wasn’t aware the Doctor Gantner drank,” my mother said. She meant she didn’t know I drank. That took me aback for a moment. I was thirty, after all; what had made her assume that I didn’t drink? “Susan has called this morning. She says she would like you to call her back as soon as you’re in,” she said as I poured milk. As usual, some slopped onto the counter. The disgusted click of her tongue sounded like a gunshot to me; I felt so small at that moment, all I wanted to do was to leave the house again. Before I could set the milk back inside the refrigerator, she’d already gotten the rag and was wiping up my mess.
I wanted to say I was sorry, but I didn’t know what I was supposed to be sorry for. “Thanks,” I said, picking up the bowl and moving to the table. She shook her head, and her hands went onto her hips.
“Well?” she asked. I stared at her for a second, then took a spoonful of cereal. She exhaled loudly.
“What?” I said with my mouth full.
“Michael James Kendall, you were taught better than to talk with your mouth full,” she said.
I made a show of chewing the remaining cereal, and swallowed loudly. “What’d I do?”
She rolled her eyes, “Where were you? Your father and I were worried sick—”
“You were not. Come on, mom, I was just out—”
“Drinking, yes I know! Making an ass of yourself, no doubt, as well.”
My spoon hung in mid-air. I couldn’t move. My head started to shake a bit. I’d never heard her cuss at me before.
I started to lower the spoon back to the bowl, but my eyes never left hers. After a few seconds, she exhaled loudly again, and stormed out of the kitchen. I heard her heavy steps on the stairs. I had just managed to get my neck relaxed when I heard the paper rustle, and my father came into the kitchen. He looked at me for a second, then asked “Any more of that left?”
I nodded. He went to the same cupboards. Without saying anything, he poured the milk and go
t a spoon. When he sat down next to me, I saw he’d fixed almost the same exact amount. He took a spoonful, and chewed for a second. I did the same.
“So,” he asked, without looking up, “who was she?”
“That’s not what happened,” I said, looking over at him, “I ran into an old friend from school. He was having a rough night and got himself too drunk to drive home. I took care of him. Crashed at his place.”
He looked up at me, nodded to himself, then began eating, again. I finished my bowl, and leaned back in the chair. Outside, through the blinds, the sun was going from yellow gold to pale white. “You smell bad,” he said. I smiled, and got up from the table.
The hot water streamed down over me, and I tried not to think about how much it felt like fingers. I tried not to think about whose fingers it seemed like. Every time it happened, though, it was either Susan or—or him—just behind my eyes. I didn’t want to think his name. Every time I didn’t think about his name, though, my body responded.
I was thinking about doing something about it when someone knocked on the bathroom door. I tried to cover myself with my hands, and thought, Christ, I am twelve all over again! “Yes?” I asked.
“Don’t forget, dear, you said you would go to the Sheriff’s office to take care of the paperwork from our little accident,” my mother said.
I didn’t remember agreeing to do that, but I said “Okay,” just to get her away from the door. I thought back to every time she’d ever come bursting in on me while I was showering or doing something else that I didn’t want to be disturbed while doing. My cheeks got hot. In a house with two sisters and a mother who didn’t believe in door locks, I learned to hide things. The second therapist had talked extensively about that. “Boundaries,” he’d said, “Michael, they’ve left you with no boundaries.” He’d been right, of course, but at the time it felt like he was attacking my family. I’d been twenty-two, what the hell did I know? I paid for that session and never went back.
I didn’t want to shut off the warm water, but I did anyway. The cold air filtered in so fast, my jaw tensed. I toweled off and slid into my jeans. At the mirror, I started to shave, but stopped. I looked at my face. Something in it was clearer than it had been yesterday.
I watched my eyes the whole time I shaved. It was like I kept expecting someone else to spring out from behind them. I washed the lather off and walked to my room. My mother had folded the clothes, again. I growled under my breath, and took a shirt from the top of one of the stacks. Sliding into it, I walked down the stairs. In the living room, I fell onto the couch with a loud exhale. My father didn’t look from the paper. I pulled my shoes on, again, and tied them. They were still damp from the long walk.
“I have to go take care of the paperwork with the Sheriff,” I said, “okay if I take the car?”
The paper shifted slightly, then “Sure. Keys are on the table.” I stood and went into the kitchen. My mother wasn’t there, and there was a real emptiness. On the refrigerator was a small note: ‘Mikey—call Susan ASAP.’ Below it was the number back to the apartment, as if I didn’t know it. I shook my head and, out of instinct, reached for the phone. I stopped myself, though. What would I tell her? My hand slid down off the phone slowly, and I left the kitchen.
After the long walk, the car felt like a luxury. I turned on the radio and dialed around a bit. I found an oldies station, and listened to it. The DJ said that it was “Wreck Wednesday;” all songs about car wrecks, all day long. I rolled my eyes, and turned the volume up.
I thought maybe I’d have to ask for directions on how to get to the Sheriff’s office, but didn’t. I remembered exactly where it was. The town moved all around me as I drove; life on the sidewalks, life in the windows—I felt cut off from it. I wondered what they’d say if they knew what I’d done. I dialed around some more on the radio, until I found one of my father’s talk radio programs. A baseball player had died recently, and everyone was talking about his career. I wasn’t listening; it was nice to have noise that was easy to shut out, though.
I parked the car just up the block. The meter read ‘expired’ in yellow. The sign above it said “No Parking 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. Mon.-Thurs.” I started to turn the car back on, but decided to let it go—I would be talking to the Sheriff, so it was unlikely anyone would be reading the meter. I got out, and checked my zipper. It wasn’t until that moment that I got nervous about seeing Sheriff Aiken.
As I walked, I remembered how he’d been a sort of scarecrow to all of us as we’d grown up. He lurked around every corner, in every darkened window. The Sheriff saw everything you did, and if you were bad, he’d come and take you to jail. Our parents planted this fear in us from the time we were small, and it grew with each strange story. Any time someone was missing from class for more than two days, we were sure the sheriff had taken them off somewhere and eaten them. Aiken was larger, and more horrible than life. I felt like I was walking into the den of some monster, and that I might not make it back out again. I wanted armor and a sword, like one of the movies Susan loved so much.
‘Placerville Police Station’ was stenciled on the glass, with a yellow five-pointed star just underneath. I took a breath and pulled on the handle. I stepped inside and, as the door closed behind me, I felt the cold air inside. A small wooden wall that came up to about my knees separated a five foot area from a larger area beyond it. A tiny gate lead from one to the other. I stepped toward it. A large desk, piled with paper, sat on the far wall, and a hallway began just behind it. From this angle, I couldn’t see where it went to. The window on the rear wall showed cars passing by through the slats of an ancient blind.
“With ya in a minute,” someone said from a back room. I heard the dull thud of boots on hard wood coming closer. I had to breathe in deep, then out through my mouth. One of my therapists had taught me that. I tried to remember which one, but couldn’t. The thudding grew louder until the Sheriff emerged from that hallway. He seemed to be adjusting his collar. He was looking at the floor. When he looked up, he stopped. His eyes squinted, folding the skin along his eye sockets some.
“Help ya?” he asked. His hands were near his hips.
“Um—I was just—,” I started.
“Say, son, I remember you from the other night down at the store. Albert Kendall’s boy, aintcha?” I nodded. He walked over to his desk and sat down.
I gestured toward the tiny gate, “Can I—?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, smiling. I was immediately afraid of that smile. I remembered seeing pictures of barracuda; it was the same. He smiled and leaned back further in the chair, “Ol’ Albert Kendall. How is he?”
“He’s doing fine,” I said, coming through the small gate. It clicked shut behind me. I stepped closer to the desk as he put his feet up on it with two dull ‘thunk’ sounds.
“Yeah, I bet,” he leaned back even further, and I thought for a second he might fall over. He pulled out a cigarette from the top drawer of the desk. He lit it, puffed on it twice, then set the lighter down. He put his hands behind his head. “Ol’ Albert Kendall,” he said around the cigarette. “Well, you ain’t come this far just to hear me jaw about the past. What can I do you for?” He smiled a bloodless sort of smile.
“The other day at the church, umm—,” I started.
He took his feet down off the desk, and leaned forward. I had to stop myself from jumping back. “Hell, that’s right. Ol’ Albert smacked up into Missus Dodgeson. Ain’t it always the way?” As he talked, he rummaged through some papers. He picked two or three from the pile, read them, then handed them to me. I had to force myself to step forward. I took them. “Now, you tell Ol’ Albert I said it was okay if he reads those before he gets ‘em back to me. When them folks up to New York or wherever call, I’ll set ‘em straight.”
I nodded, and he smiled. I could tell that was supposed to be all. I tried to turn to go, but couldn’t. Before I could stop myself, I heard my voice ask “I’ve, uh—,” I began, “I’ve been reading about the
case. The, umm, the remains?” I said. Something in his eyes went instantly from glossy and far away to focused and intent. I waited.
“God damn shame what this world has come to, ain’t it?” he asked, his lips still moving around the cigarette.
“Yeah,” I said, “Umm, I guess—I guess I was wondering if there’s been any investigation into who, umm, who the bones might belong to.” I said.
He sat up, the chair protesting the whole way. He put the cigarette in the ash tray, and put his arms on the desk. “They’s over at Jim Clarke’s place right now. He’s workin’ ‘em,” Aiken said, then “Something on your mind, son?”
I swallowed, “Just—,” I started, stopped, started again, “just wondering. I dunno if you remember a while back, a boy named Randy McPherson came up missing.”
“You ain’t the first one come askin’ ‘bout that particlar case. When Jimmy’s done sawin’ away on ‘em, I’ll get someone over here from the paper and give out somethin’,” he said, leaning back some once more, “God damned shame what happened to that boy. Pete McPherson wan’t never the same after that. Went a little loose in the skull, if you know what I mean,” he said, and I did, “Shit, I’s just a young buck back then, myself. Didn’t know nothin’,” he said. His eyes grew far away and he turned his head to stare out the window. He was quiet for a long time, and I started to think I should leave, but then he whispered “Gwen Ladd.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, craning my head forward.
“Gwen Ladd,” he repeated, “Was to ‘ventually marry Pete McPherson. Though, not right away, you can be sure ‘a that,” he said, turning his head to catch me out of the side of his eye “God damn shame, that was. You know Pete McPherson?” he asked, head still sideways. I got an image from a film Susan and I watched on sharks. Any minute, I expected his jaws to open impossibly wide, and four rows of teeth to glitter out. I nearly had to shake my head to clear it.