by Edward Bloor
Mr. Archer looked amazed. "May I ask ... Who is this benefactor?"
"He gave the name of some Arab gentleman, a Mr. Samad. He said that this Mr. Samad wanted to take care of the whole thing."
"Why?"
"Mr. Samad said it's 'cause the boy worked at that mall, out at Route Twenty-seven there."
"I see."
"So I said to the man, 'That's all right, so long as he gets a decent Christian burial. Don't want no Arab burial for him.' He said, 'No, it'd be a Christian burial.'"
Mr. Archer nodded cautiously.
As soon as I could get away, I joined the others by the wall. Kristin was telling Karl, like he was a little kid, "Do you see what Roberta just did? That's the right thing to do. We have to go talk to that man."
Karl looked sick at the prospect, but he said, "Okay," and followed Kristin toward Hawg's stepfather.
I was glad to get Sam alone so I could ask him about that "Arab gentleman" story. I said, "Is your father paying for Hawg's funeral? Up in Georgia?"
Sam swallowed hard. He spoke softly, "Yes, he is."
I looked over at Hawg's stepfather. "Is that why he asked if you were Mr. Samad?"
"That's right."
I didn't know what to say next. I tried, "Your father is very generous."
That made Sam smile, a sad smile. He said, "It's not easy getting money out of my old man. He makes my brother and me work for everything we have. But I told him what happened here, you know, over the past two months, and he insisted on doing this. To him, it was a matter of family honor."
"Why?"
"I accused a man falsely. I set events in motion, and he wound up dead. I'm responsible for that."
"You're not responsible for what Hawg did. He did that to himself."
"No. But I'm responsible for what I did. I accused him, and I was wrong." Sam struggled with the explanation. "I accused him because I had stereotyped him. To me he was a dumb, prejudiced redneck. I assumed that he had stereotyped me, too—because of the color of my skin, because of the sound of my name."
Sam hung his head down. "So tell me, Roberta, who was the prejudiced one?" He walked slowly over to the casket, so I turned back toward Hawg's stepfather.
Kristin and Karl were standing with him in a circle formed by Mr. Archer and Mrs. Biddulph. I'm sure they had no idea who Mr. Archer and Mrs. Biddulph were. I watched Kristin's eyes drift toward the door. Then I watched them grow wide.
Uncle Frank had appeared in the doorway. And Uncle Frank was drunk. He was standing with a funeral home guy, following the direction of the guy's pointing finger. He started toward Kristin and Karl, walking with a rolling gait, like a sailor on a ship.
Kristin and Karl backed away instinctively as he approached. But Uncle Frank didn't address either of them. He pulled himself upright before Hawg's stepfather and said, "We're truly sorry about your loss."
Hawg's stepfather answered, "Thank you, sir."
"I am, uh, Frank Ritter. Your son worked with us at Arcane."
"My stepson."
"Yes." Uncle Frank and the man stared at each other for a moment. Then Uncle Frank asked, "So have the arrangements all been made?"
"Yes, sir. The boy's going up to Georgia tomorrow."
Uncle Frank repeated, "Georgia." Then he told him, "I lived in Georgia. Up above Atlanta."
Hawg's father said, "Uh-huh."
Mr. Archer and Mrs. Biddulph peeled away from the group. I watched them walk directly to the door and leave.
After another awkward pause Uncle Frank said, "Atlanta. Good hunting up there."
"Yes, sir. There sure is."
"I hunted some boar up there, I remember." Suddenly he started to laugh. Everyone in the room became aware of him then. "Let me tell you something about hunting boar down here in Florida. First of all, there's no such thing."
Hawg's stepfather kept looking at him, respectfully but with growing discomfort.
Uncle Frank smiled wide. "I went up to this boar farm up near Lake Okachobee, Florida. You know what the hunting was like up there? It was like shooting somebody's pet. It was like I took you into my backyard and said, 'There's my dog. See if you can pump a few rounds into him.' In fact, it was worse than that. They drive you out to this blind. You don't even walk, they drive you. Then they pull a chain, and all these ears of corn come plopping down onto the ground, and the boars come trotting up for their breakfast, you know. Like friggin' Lassie. And you're supposed to shoot one, like you're the great white hunter. It's not even hunting. It's the hunting 'experience.' And you're guaranteed a kill or your money back. You're guaranteed to bring home the bacon."
Hawg's stepfather quickly scanned the room for an escape route, for someone else to talk to. But Uncle Frank wasn't finished with him. He stood as erect as he could and said, "You know, I fought in Desert Storm. But I never killed anybody. Most soldiers don't. They go through a twenty-year career, and they never kill anybody. I never did."
Hawg's stepfather answered him nervously, "Yes, sir."
Uncle Frank's horrible smile spread farther. He said very seriously, "You don't have to call me 'sir.'"
Hawg's stepfather said, "Excuse me. I got some new people to greet." He moved swiftly toward the door.
Uncle Frank turned to Kristin and Karl. Kristin whispered, "We have to get you home, Daddy."
Karl wound up driving me home in the Volkswagen. He drove like a maniac—even though he was driving illegally after dark on a restricted license, even though he was already in trouble with the law. I don't know what it takes to reach some people.
I got out of the car in my driveway and hopped out of Karl's path, just in case he tried to run me over in reverse. Dad's car was parked in the carport.
I let myself into the kitchen. Dad was seated at the table looking at a wide, colorful brochure from Sea Ray Boats. He said, "Hey, Roberta."
I asked him, "Why didn't you go to Hawg's viewing?"
"Oh, honey. I'm going to go. I'm going to go to the funeral, instead."
"Well, then, you're going to go to Georgia."
"What?"
"The funeral is going to be in Georgia."
"You're kidding me. I figured it'd be local. I figured I'd go there tomorrow and pay my respects."
"No. Sorry. You're going to have to think of some other way to pay your respects."
He looked at me sheepishly.
I added, "By the way, Mr. Lewis called from Arcane Industries."
Dad pointed at the answering machine. "Yeah, I know. He left another message at eight. I already erased it."
"You didn't talk to him?"
Dad looked surprised. "No."
"He said you had to talk to him tonight, or we'd lose our franchise."
Dad smiled. Then he chuckled softly. He said, "Come on, Roberta. You don't believe everything that people tell you, do you?"
SATURDAY, THE 7TH
I was late leaving for work today because of a morning thunderstorm. Huge black clouds rose up out of the Everglades, crackling with lightning bolts. The rain pounded deafeningly on the carport and on the roof of the house. The lightning flashed and the thunder boomed, rattling the windows. It went on like that for thirty minutes, a storm like the end of the world.
When it finally stopped, I walked outside. The floodwaters were already receding from the street. Steam began to rise from the black asphalt as I hurried along through the clean, wet air.
As I turned onto Everglades Boulevard I spotted Ironman up ahead of me. He was already at Route 27.1 squinted and tried to focus on him. It seemed like an optical illusion, seen through the watery layers of air, but it looked like he was kneeling down. I was still a hundred yards away from him when he got up and scurried across the highway. I could see that he had left something behind him. And I could see what it was—a white cross.
As I got closer, I could see it more clearly. The cross was made from two pieces of white Styrofoam, the sturdy packing kind that comes in UPS cartons. A one-foot piece was glued
across a three-foot piece, forming the cross. The bottom part of the long piece was stuck deep into the muddy ground.
I looked around me and studied the spot. As I did I heard again the murderous rushing of the northbound cars, and I realized where Ironman had set his cross. It was on the spot where Hawg had spoken his last words to us, the spot where Hawg had begun his last desperate run.
I touched the top of the cross lightly with my fingertips. I swallowed hard. I felt something welling up in me, welling all the way to my eyes. They filled quickly with tears that overflowed and ran down my cheeks. I looked around again, embarrassed, wondering if anyone had seen me.
The light changed and I ran across, fixing my gaze on the Toby the Turtle banner in the distance. I ran all the way to the mall entrance, stopping at the front door to wipe my fingers across my cheeks. They were still wet. I was still crying. I veered off quickly and walked along the wall, breathing in and out of my mouth, deeply and slowly. I thought about Griffin, and Ray Lyons, and Angela, and anything else that might distract me. After about five minutes I wiped my cheeks again. They were dry. I had stopped.
I went directly to Arcane. Kristin and Karl were standing behind the register. They looked sad, like two little kids who'd been put in time-out. I stood next to them and affixed my name tag.
Kristin said, "My dad's not here. He wasn't feeling well enough to come in."
I said, "It's not the chicken pox, is it?"
"No. He has a headache. He'll be back tomorrow."
A minute later Karl asked me, "Do you remember your aunt Ingrid?"
Kristin reminded him, "She's never met her."
I looked from one to the other. "Why? What's going on?"
Karl raised his eyebrows. "She's coming."
Kristin added, "We don't have all the details yet."
I said, "That's great. Then I will get to meet her. Finally."
Kristin smiled brightly. "Yeah."
Karl, Kristin, and I ran the arcade all day. Ironman helped out a little, but not much. Ten minutes before closing time Kristin gathered our drink cups into a Taco Stop bag and carried it into the back room. The bag was still sitting there at nine-fifteen, which was unusual.
Kristin remarked to me, a little annoyed, "Why is this bag still here? Doesn't that guy live to take out the trash?"
"Ironman? Yeah. Usually."
Kristin said, "And Karl is gone. Well, forget it. It can stay here until tomorrow."
"Karl is gone?"
"Yeah. We brought both cars today."
"I guess Ironman left, too."
"Maybe he left with his mother. She's been closing early."
When we finished with Kristin's shortened version of the checklist, we walked out into the muggy night. Kristin had parked the Mercedes in the north parking lot, outside the empty anchor store. All the way to the car, though, I found myself looking east, troubled by some thought.
I tried to find the spot where Hawg had died. Then I squinted at the grass beyond that, and I could just make out, in the passing glow of headlights, the shape of a white cross. For some reason, I stopped walking.
I became fixated on that white cross. The harder I looked, the closer it seemed to get, like I was slowly turning a zoom lens. Suddenly a shiver went right through me, and my blood turned cold. An awful picture came to me, clear and distinct. Like a vivid dream. But I knew, without a doubt, that it was real.
I turned and screamed, "Kristin! Come on, follow me!"
She looked at me, puzzled. "What?"
"Come on!" I took off running around the perimeter of the north anchor store. I heard Kristin yell behind me, "Roberta! I can't run in these shoes!"
I yelled back, "Kick them off!"
"Where are we going?"
"The trash trailer. I know where Ironman is!"
Kristin did kick off her shoes. She can run faster than anybody when she wants to, and now she wanted to. She rounded the corner of the empty store and sprinted ahead of me like I was standing still. She reached the trash trailer, grabbed the handle, and yanked it open. I got there in time to see the look of horror on her face.
"Oh, my god, Roberta! He's dead!"
Kristin stood, trapped in the doorway by the sight before her. I pushed past her and looked, too. Ironman was seated with his back against the wall. He was an inhuman color—blue, like a fresh bruise. I insisted, "We don't know that he's dead. It takes a long time to freeze to death."
"He's dead. Look at him. People don't look like that."
"We have to get him out of here."
"I'm not going to touch him. I'm sorry, Roberta. I can't."
"I can." I shoved her aside and stepped up to Ironman. I grabbed his body by his two shoulders and pulled him toward me. His shoulders were cold and slippery, and I lost my grip. He slumped over sideways onto his face.
I yanked on him until he was back up in a sitting position. I got a better grip under his armpits and started to pull. Then I felt Kristin's arm in between mine. She grabbed hold of his shirt, in the middle of his back, and pulled, too. We dragged him steadily toward the door. Kristin stumbled outside and landed, sitting, on the blacktop. I heaved one more time, and Ironman's body slid out, landing on the ground next to her.
I yelled, "What do we do?"
"Get help."
I looked around, thinking, Should I scream? I ran to the door of SpecialTees and pounded on it, but no one answered. So I took off running again, back the way we came.
I rounded the north anchor corner and saw Verna's car moving slowly up a row in the parking lot. I tried to scream at her, but I was out of breath. I tried to run toward her, too, but by then I was only lurching along, waving my arms.
Verna drove all the way down the end of one row, turned, and came back up. She clicked her high beams on me, so I finally stopped. She accelerated to my spot, rolled down the window, and yelled, "Roberta? Is that you?"
I stammered at her, "Ironman—the trash trailer."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Royce's son. The owner of SpecialTees."
"What about him?"
"We think he froze to death. We pulled him out. He might not be dead."
Verna told me slowly, with authority, "You calm down. Don't panic." She called 911, identified herself, and gave them a special security code. She told them to send an ambulance to the back of the West End Mall for "a possible freezer death." She hung up and said, "They're on their way. Come on, hop in."
I ran around and got in the passenger side. Verna looked up something in a notebook as we started rolling. She punched in another number. "I'm calling that Royce woman at home. I know she's there. She doesn't even wait until nine to close anymore."
She held up a finger to indicate she had an answer. "Mrs. Royce, this is Verna from mall security." She listened for a second. "It's Verna, the security guard at the mall. The West End Mall." She listened for a few seconds longer this time. "This is Verna, from mall security. I know you understand that much. Now understand this: You need to get back here. Your son has been in an accident, and an ambulance is on the way."
Verna listened to a reply. "Then you need to pack up your daughter and bring her with you." She paused very briefly. "No. Right now. That's all you need to know."
Verna pressed a button and disconnected the call. Now I could see Kristin and Ironman in the headlights. We braked to a halt by the back door of SpecialTees and ran out to them.
Kristin was sitting up, right where I had left her. But Ironman had moved. Or he had been moved. Kristin had pulled him over to her and was cradling him like a baby. She had her right hand on his heart. She had her mouth inside the back of his shirt, blowing warm air down his spinal column.
Verna asked her, "Is he breathing?"
Kristin looked up. Her eyes sparkled like I had never seen them before, like I had never seen anyone's before. She whispered, "His heart is beating, I can feel it."
An Atlantic County Medical Center ambulance pulled up with its lights flashing. Three
people got out—a muscular woman with short red hair, a tall, skinny girl, and an older guy.
The woman with the red hair took charge. She pointed at the trash trailer and hollered over to Verna, "What is this contraption? A Deepfreeze?"
Verna said, "Yes, ma'am."
"How cold does it get in there?"
I said, "It maintains a steady temperature of twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit."
The woman turned to me. "Did he get stuck in there?"
I didn't know how to answer that one. Kristin spoke up. "Yes, ma'am."
The woman leaned over Ironman and examined him quickly. She said, to no one in particular, "How long was he in there?"
I stammered, "I—I don't know." I asked Kristin, "When's the last time we saw him?"
"It was before seven-thirty."
The woman looked back at me and waited, but I had nothing to add. "So he could have been in there for two hours?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She started to bark orders at the other two. Kristin finally let go of Ironman's body as the three paramedics flew into action. Ironman wound up strapped to a stretcher inside the ambulance, hooked up to a monitor with a green screen.
Mrs. Royce squealed up in her Ford Escort wagon. She parked next to Verna and got out. Verna called over, "Your boy got caught in the freezer. They're taking him to the hospital for observation."
Mrs. Royce sputtered, "I have to get Dolly back home. She has allergy-induced asthma. She can't be out in the night air." She walked over to the back of the ambulance and peered in. "William, how do you feel?"
Ironman opened his eyes and grinned weakly.
Mrs. Royce told Verna, "Let me get him home. I'll observe him at home."
Verna's voice hardened. "No, ma'am. They are taking him to the hospital."
Mrs. Royce whispered, "We don't have insurance. I will take him to the hospital if he needs to go. He seems fine now." She told the paramedics, "This is a false alarm."
Verna blew up. "False alarm! I called in the alarm, and there was nothing false about it. You're paying for this ambulance, so you may as well let the boy ride in it."