by Sean Platt
He’s not the monster people think he is.
He’s good. I swear.
Alex wondered if the people outside were praying that Roger Heller went straight to Hell, without passing Go or collecting $200.
He closed his eyes to quell his anger.
The door opened behind them. Katie and her mother, both dressed in black, made their way into the room, bringing the total to five mourners at Roger Heller’s service, except the pastor and an old man Alex didn’t know.
So, that’s what? Five people who still care about Roger Heller.
Not a single friend, neighbor, or coworker could find the same forgiveness that Pastor Avery swore was inside all men and women.
Katie and her mom approached their row. Alex’s mom leaned over and whispered, “Thank you for coming.”
Katie’s mom turned to Liz, smiled, then sat two seats from Alex.
Katie sat beside him, offering her hand. He held her warm hand in his lap, fighting his rising tide of tears.
The pastor asked if anyone wished to speak on Roger Heller’s behalf.
Alex turned to his mom, who couldn’t dam her flood of tears. Seeing her shaking, almost violently, while quietly sobbing, was the cold of a knife slipping into the raw red meat of his heart.
“Come here,” Katie said, reaching toward Aubrey and taking her from Liz.
Aubrey turned to her mom, her confused expression flickering at the edge of tears.
Katie distracted her, offering her the bottle. Aubrey took it, then started sucking on the nipple. Pastor Avery asked again if anyone wanted to come to the front and speak on behalf of the departed.
Alex looked over at Liz, face buried in her palms. He knew she’d been planning to say something, and had even talked a little bit about it on the ride over, trying to gather her courage.
She could never speak if she couldn't stop crying.
Alex stood, then went to the front of the chapel. His father’s urn, an ornate gold-colored container, sat on a pedestal surrounded by wreaths and flowers. Alex wondered if those were the flowers his mother paid for as part of the service or if someone had sent them.
He met Pastor Avery at the podium. The pastor hugged him, then gave Alex his space, sitting several feet away in the front row of pews.
Alex’s leg was shaking. He had no idea what to say. Alex had torn pages from his notebook until well past midnight the night before, scribbling ideas for stuff that he might like to say, just in case. In the end, he hated every drop of ink he’d spilled. It all seemed so trite. Yet, as Alex stared out at the eyes of the pastor, his mother, sister, Katie, her mom, and of course the old stranger, he would have happily settled for trite.
Alex ignored the upset in his stomach, swallowed the lump in his throat, then opened his mouth to wing it.
“My dad was my hero growing up. I suppose most kids, or most boys, anyway, probably would say the same thing about their own dads. Your father can do no wrong. He’s Superman, our hero and model, rolled into one. I remember when I was seven and I borrowed a toy from my best friend, Milo. It was this super expensive robot. I can’t imagine why Milo even let me borrow it, except that he always had cool expensive toys that we couldn’t afford, and I think he felt bad that I didn’t have anything as cool as that robot. So Milo let me take it home over the weekend. I took that robot everywhere with me on Saturday. I even woke up with him and watched cartoons with him sitting beside me on the couch. I brought him to lunch at McDonald’s, and napped with him when my mom said I had to take a rest. When I woke up, I took him to my treehouse to play. Sunday morning, I couldn’t find the robot anywhere. Turns out, I left him in the treehouse and he got ruined by the rain. I was so scared to tell anyone what happened. I felt horrible. I wanted to lie to Milo, to swear that the robot had simply stopped working. I wanted to tell him that I had no idea what happened. Anything would be better than my best friend being mad at me.”
Alex wiped the tears from his eyes and continued, “The night before I was going to bring the broken robot back to school, and lie to Milo, Dad asked me how I would feel if Milo had broken my robot. I told him I’d probably be mad, for a little while, anyway. Then Dad asked me how I would feel if Milo lied to me. I said I’d feel sad. Dad asked if I’d be sadder over the lie or a broken toy? Of course,” Alex shook his head, “a toy is nothing compared to the truth, even when you’re seven. Dad told me I owed my friend the truth, even if it looked uglier than the lie.”
Alex looked past the small handful of people breathing in his broadcast, and saw Milo standing in the doorway, watching.
Alex quickly turned, not wanting to make eye contact with Milo, or lose his train of thought.
“My dad taught me many things over the years. How to play ball, how to write, even how to fish — though we were both horrible at fishing. But what I remember most, is how he taught me the importance of being a friend, and always treating the people you love with kindness and respect.”
Alex swallowed, struggling to avoid his mother’s eyes. The wrong look would send him into a matching torrent of tears.
“I don’t know why my dad did what he did, and I guess I never will. But the man I know, the same man who taught me to treat the people I love with kindness and respect, would never harm anyone, especially his students.” Alex hung his head. “And I’m so, so sorry for what he did to the families.”
Alex wanted to say something else to wrap it up. Something profound that would summarize his father in the most beautiful, meaningful way possible.
He drew a blank, and allowed fresh tears to fall down his face instead.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said again, then stepped down from the podium. He pretended not to see Milo standing in the doorway as he returned to his seat beside his mom.
She wrapped her arms tightly around him and whispered. “That was perfect. Thank you, honey. He would be so proud of you.”
They sat in silence as Pastor Avery finished the services. Katie squeezed his hand. Tears welled up in her eyes and she whispered, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he whispered back.
* *
After the service, the mourners filed out towards the center doors. Alex’s mom was holding his father’s urn while Katie held Aubrey, asleep in her arms.
Alex saw Milo sitting alone in the back row. Alex felt uneasy, wondering if Milo was there to shout at them, just like the people lined in rows outside were waiting to do.
He’d better not cause a scene, or I’ll kick his ass.
Milo slowly approached.
Alex felt his jaw clench, prepping for attack. Hell, he almost wanted a reason to punch someone, though not in front of his mother or sister. Or Katie and her mom.
Milo cleared his throat. “Hi, Alex,” he said.
“I’ll meet you all outside,” Alex said, meeting Katie’s eyes. She nodded, then ushered his family into the family room.
Alex and Milo were suddenly alone.
At first, Milo could hardly meet his eyes, let alone speak. Milo finally stuttered, then said, “I just want to say, I’m sorry for being such a dick.”
Alex was surprised, and dropped his guard immediately. He wasn’t sure what to say, but ended up with, “I’m sorry, too. . . for everything.”
“I know,” Milo said. “I heard your speech. And you’re right. I’ve been thinking about what happened, a lot. What your dad did, and what Beatrice did aren’t really all that different. Something happened to her. I don’t know how much you know or what’s been on the news, since I didn’t see anyone saying what really happened”
“What are you talking about?” Alex asked.
Milo said, “Beatrice didn’t lose control of the car. She was aiming for the front of Jordy’s.”
Alex stared at his best friend, who was finally meeting his eyes for the first time since the unimaginable. In those eyes, Alex saw the unmistakable shadow of fear. “Are you sure?”
“Well, I don’t know that Beatrice was trying to hur
t us, but she was all weird looking, sort of all pod people and not really there.” Milo shook his head. “And it wasn’t the first time she was like that. The day before, I came home and she was just standing in front of the TV, watching nothing but snow, just staring, like she was in a trance or something. When she finally started blinking like a minute later, she went straight to the fridge and started shoving meat into a handbag that cost twice as much as my bike. She left the house like a minute later. Weirdest thing ever.”
Alex stared at Milo, feeling slightly dazed. “What the hell? That is weird.”
Milo nodded, “I know, and I swear man, something weird is going on. I think whatever happened with Beatrice might have been similar to whatever happened to your dad. He had that weird not himself look when he . . .”
Alex wasn’t sure where Milo was going on about, or if this was a natural reaction of trying to make sense of tragedy. Under normal circumstances, Alex would have been happy to debate Milo on the merits of his suggestion. For the moment, though, Alex was just glad Milo was speaking to him.
While Alex hadn’t seen weird signs from his father, like cold cuts in a purse or standing in a trance, the two of them had spent practically zero meaningful minutes together in recent weeks, if not months. His dad could have been zoning in front of a snowy TV screen every night for months, while slipping deli cut slices of salami into his wallet. Alex would have been clueless.
Alex wondered if Milo was onto something, or if his friend was thinking Hitchcock like he sometimes did.
Alex said, “What do you think might be happening?”
“I dunno, but some guy named ‘Cody’ contacted me swearing I was in danger. Right before Other Mom drove us through the front of Jordy’s, actually. He also said Manny was in danger, right before he died.”
“Who the hell is Cody?”
“I dunno, and I haven’t heard from him since the accident. He was on LiveLyfe, claiming to be in the classroom when your dad started shooting. I called bullshit. A minute later, he private messaged me, telling me weird shit was going on. But every time I ask for more, ‘Cody’ pulls a vanishing act.”
“Sounds like he’s trolling you, don’t you think?”
“I dunno,” Milo said. “I’ve thought that a few times. But to be honest, I’m not sure what to think. I do know I’ll think better when you and I put the worst of this behind us.”
Milo’s hand was in Alex’s in a second. He pulled his best friend into a hug, then said, “There's nowhere I want it more.” Alex managed to hold his tears inside. Barely.
It was one thing to cry while holding your girlfriend, another while hugging your best dude.
As they hugged, Alex noticed Katie peeking inside the chapel.
He gave her a thumbs up then pulled away from Milo.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Well, I couldn’t let you finish that script on your own. Man, it was shit.”
Alex laughed, not taking the feeling’s beauty for granted. Maybe for the first time ever.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7 — Milo Anderson Part 2
Milo headed home from the funeral, finally free from the fat emotional splinter that had been stuck in his psyche. While he’d been resistant to forgiving Alex, he felt infinitely better after having gone to the funeral.
He went straight upstairs, collapsed into bed, and closed his eyes; snoring in seconds. When he woke up, it took Milo a good 10 minutes to pull himself from the warm blanket of sleep. He could have slept until morning. It felt after five, so his dad would be home soon. Though he shouldn't give a half-shit or otherwise, Milo didn’t want his dad to think he’d moped the day to nothing.
He went to his bathroom, turned on the faucet, then waited for it to get warm since he hated splashing cold water on his face. He soaked his cheeks in the basin of his palms, rubbing his eyes bright before flipping off the light and heading downstairs.
Milo hit the bottom stair and rounded the banister, seeing a slip of blue paper, half-wedged beneath the doorframe on his way by.
He bent over, heart beating fast, wondering if it were some message from Cody. The sheet was face down, blank on the back. On the front, it read:
SURVIVOR’S MEETING —WEDNESDAY 6 p.m. at HAMILTON K-12 AUDITORIUM. CONNECT. DISCUSS. HEAL — TOGETHER.
Milo crumpled the paper, then opened his fist, flattened it out, then folded it in fourths and slipped it inside his back pocket instead.
He went into the kitchen. The red light was blinking on the phone. He touched the button and heard his father’s voice:
“Hey Milo. I’m really, really sorry man. I’m caught up at work. Just go ahead and order a pizza or whatever you want, assuming Dani’s lunch is already gone. Get started without me. Be home soon. Sorry Milo.”
The message ended.
Figures.
Milo pulled the flyer from his back pocket and unfolded it.
I should go.
Milo was happy to be mending things with Alex, but was still angry, fat with feelings he couldn't even find a place for. A group of survivors would give him an intersection of pain and honesty, and the crossroads to see clearly.
But that wasn’t why he felt he should go.
He had to go to the meeting because the hush inside him was screaming.
Something weird was happening on the island, and the survivors group might be a great place to see more of the pieces, maybe even fit a few of them together.
Milo scribbled a note to his dad, then went to the garage, grabbed his bike, and pedaled furiously toward the meeting, racing the dark clouds gathering overhead.
**
Milo locked his bike on the rack just outside the school auditorium, then zipped up his hoodie, climbed the stairs, and entered the dimly lit auditorium, with seating left for around 460 or so of the 500 people the room could hold.
A few chairs were scattered across the stage, without shape or pattern. Most of the attendees were sitting in the first few front rows, though there were others dotted across the theater, as well. Milo took a seat in the second to last row, pulling his hood over his head, as if it would make him invisible in the dark room.
Milo listened as survivors took the stage, and considered the difference between the general anonymity of LiveLyfe and the world in front of him, filled with red eyes and sad faces.
Milo wasn’t exactly sure what he expected a survivor’s group to be like, but he did think he’d see some of the students from the recent shooting. But none of these survivors were telling tales about Mr. Heller, or Hamilton K-12, despite the location.
The last thing Milo thought was that he’d be the youngest person in the room by at least a decade.
The moderator, a rail-thin woman with a fat braid of silvery white hair, thanked Jenna — the tiny blond mom with the missing husband — for sharing. She reminded the room that the group was “a place to share and connect with others going through similar struggles,” then told her story, like Milo was sure she must have done to open each meeting.
The silver braid was named Connie Fawcett. Connie never had children when she was younger, and thought she couldn’t. She was even more surprised than her husband Tom when the blue line lit the white plastic just three weeks after her 42nd birthday. She about had a heart attack. Tom did. Though it took him another four years to have it. He died at 59, just a few months shy of retirement from Lab E at Conway, where he worked most of the past three decades.
Connie raised her son, Nathan, as if the moon would dim if he wasn’t smiling. At least for the first seventeen years, until Nathan vanished into thin air.
Others were vanishing, too. So Connie went to the police, but they didn’t care. No one did.
The police said they were runaways. All of them.
Words from the stage echoed the pamphlet in his hand. Milo slowly turned the narrow glossy pages, moving his eyes from the type to the stage and back.
Connie lost her son five years ago, then started the survivors group
three years into her grief because she recognized the need for a single harbor to dock the island’s collective grief.
Connie cleared her throat. “We’ve extended the meeting to survivors and family members of the Hamilton K-12 Shooting. Everyone deserves a place to connect and bond with others suffering through a similar loss.”
She looked down, probably remembering her Nathan, then invited Suzanne Hawthorne up onto the stage. As Suzanne curled her hands around the front of the podium, slowly breathing her way into an introduction, a short man with thinning hair slipped into Milo’s row and sat six seats away.
Like the place isn’t big enough?
Suzanne Hawthorne, ninth grade algebra teacher at Hamilton, told the room about how she saw Mr. Heller a few days before the shooting, and knew something was wrong. She blamed herself, since she knew deep inside, right at that moment, that something was off. Really off. Instead of doing something, she simply ignored it. The format was AA, not Q&A, so it took Mrs. Hawthorne a while to say why. When she did, Milo felt a frost inside his veins.
She went into Heller’s room, to ask if he happened to know if the Williams brothers were sick, since both boys seemed to have been sporadically absent throughout the week. Heller’s head never budged. He just stared at the TV, the screen full of snow, his eyes wide and jaw swinging low, like he was watching live footage of the end of the world.
She called three times: “Mr. Heller, Mr. Heller, Roger,” but it was if he was in a trance.
In a trance!
Mrs. Hawthorne shook it off and figured he must be exhausted. Since the theory matched the red in his eyes, she left. He probably just wanted to be alone, anyway. Ignoring the stir in her gut, she went back to algebra, and didn’t think about Mr. Heller’s red eyes or swinging jaw again, at least until she heard the first gunshot, and found Jimmy Marlowe running through the hallway a half-minute later yelling, “Mr. Heller has a gun!”