The Big Door Prize

by M. O. Walsh

  It also needs to have an ending. A capstone, if you will.

  You can’t just let people carry on however long they want to. And have you heard that Ben Shields has been doing nothing but making ­chain-­saw sculptures in his front yard the past week? Is that what those are? Yes, and they are terrible. He told Kate Holden he was trying to carve Snoopy out of a tree trunk but she thinks it looks more like a leprechaun than a dog. And Deuce Newman also thinks it needs an ending, that nobody in this goddamn town listens to a damn word he says, and he wishes he could end a lot of things right now, such as this meeting, just to prove them all wrong, and he is so tempted, although he doesn’t say this, to show them the blue slip of paper in his breast pocket and be done with it.

  21

  We Ate Turkeys and Pistols

  What to do with the guilty?

  Do you divide them from their own bodies? Does x ÷ x = justice? Was that Trina’s math? If so, then why every single one of them? Or, does y × ∞ = justice? And justice for what, exactly? His brother driving drunk off the road? His brother being forced to drink, maybe? Being hazed? How many athletes had survived it before? Countless, Jacob knew. It was one of a million idiot high school traditions. And was Toby really one to just do whatever people told him to do? To be that out of control of his own actions? If so, did that mean Jacob was also this way? Was something hardwired in his DNA destined to make him a follower? He was second born and always second fiddle to his brother, it seemed, who was himself perhaps second fiddle to some C-­student senior shortstop. How depressing was that? Yet Jacob was also second fiddle to Trina, he knew, and whatever she wanted. So, was this the one true thing about him? The thing people would always remember? Jacob was trying to piece it together. Or, rather, he was trying to pull it all apart, in the same way he was deconstructing the nasty lump of mashed potatoes and gravy on his lunch plate.

  He sat at a corner table, alone for now, though the cafeteria was filling up. In the center of the room he saw Chuck Haydel and the dickheads. They joked and pushed against one another and seemed to operate as if the world had no context but themselves. They were loud and fit, their muscles visible beneath their uniform shirts, all of them athletes who lugged around jugs of water as if succumbing to dehydration was the only thing that might upset their future. They seemed to be playing numerous games with one another all at once, two of them laughing at something on a phone, another two rolling a baseball back and forth across the table. They ate ridiculous portions of turkey.

  What was it about the sight of them that made Jacob’s lungs grow hot? What was it that made him want to render them all empty, to embarrass and dethrone them? Was it merely the way Chuck had knocked off his hat the day before? The way he was so presumptuous, to think he had any right to touch Jacob’s body, his clothing? Maybe he was guilty of important and invisible things. Maybe they all were. Every single one of them. Maybe Trina was right. What did they not feel the authority to touch, to grab, to take? Or was it simply their gluttony in the lunchroom that irked him, the way they got double portions from the servers without even asking, the way they constantly consumed PowerBars, Gatorades, gallons of water, and, on the weekends, liters of booze. Was it the way they acted as if what everyone else received was not enough for them, that they deserved and would take more, and that no one would ever call them on it? And for what reason? Because they were born tall and athletic or that their fathers were born tall and athletic? So much consumption. Taking the food, taking the air in the room. Where, Jacob wondered, did it eventually come back out? In what fashion? To what result?

  Or was the reason Jacob could not stop feeling sick at the sight of them, not stop hating them, because he knew that’s where Toby would be sitting if he were still alive?

  More than this, Jacob wondered, could Toby still be alive if Jacob had chosen to be the type of person to also sit at that table? If he had gone out for football or baseball or been able to either ignore or fight through the crushing boredom that he felt every time he entered a weight room, which seemed one of Toby’s favorite places to be, would Toby still be there? Could he have watched out for him that night? Had his back? Driven him home? Couldn’t he have done that for his brother? How much was that to ask? They were twins, after all, supposedly bonded more tightly together than anyone else, almost the same person biologically. Had he abandoned his brother?

  After so many years of getting the same presents from relatives, so many pictures taken of them wearing the same clothes, was Jacob, he wondered, the one who first pushed himself out? And, if that was true, if he had chosen to not be like Toby, the one who seemingly everyone liked, the one with the friends and the girls and the social life, then what lot in life had he chosen for himself? And, if so, how could he trust that person to choose anything for himself again? Where was the line, Jacob wondered, between being independent and being alone? Who draws it for you?

  Jacob’s head was full of questions with no answers.

  Yet he missed Toby at that moment, he had to admit. He believed perhaps Toby could put him at ease about Trina, could laugh it all off in the way he seemed to laugh everything off, and in doing this make Jacob feel less alone. And so, despite their differences, despite the way he despised his friends, Jacob missed him. Whereas he could often feel his brother looking at him from the center table, where they would sometimes make eye contact and give each other the simple recognition of hello, of I see you there, Jacob now saw only Steven Garrett looking back at him. This was someone both he and Toby were friends with when they were younger, but who had also made his own decisions about who to show allegiance to along the way. When Jacob made eye contact with him now, Steven only pressed his lips together as if to say I’m sorry and looked back down at the table. Jacob turned again to his plate, using his fork to make tiny rivulets at the top of his mashed potatoes, and heard a paper sack hit the table beside him.

  This was Denny Cadwalder, one of Jacob’s few friends, and a person allergic to nearly everything. Peanuts, gluten, eggs. You name it. Jacob had seen him have no less than four unfortunate reactions at school over the years and Denny had now given up on cafeteria food entirely. He seemed to eat nothing but seaweed and gummy bears and sat down at the table across from him.

  “Riddle me this, J,” he said. “I stayed up all night streaming an entire season of Pokémon and I just have one question.”

  Jacob inwardly cringed at the subject. Although he liked Denny, he also knew that Denny was so blatantly desperate for his friendship that he constructed nearly his entire identity to match Jacob’s interests. He’d spent a fortune on Pokémon boxed sets and amassed an even more extensive collection than Jacob’s, though not more impressive, Jacob knew, because his binders were full of duplicates Denny was unwilling to trade. He didn’t get the spirit of the game and never would, which bothered Jacob. As an example, Jacob had even told Denny about the company in Japan where he got his Latios cap and Denny showed up the next week wearing a purple cap with Meowth on the front, of all monsters. It was not a good look. Still, anyone who would choose to rock out the whiny cat Meowth, when given their choice, deserved pity instead of scorn, and so Jacob humored him. Any conversation, he thought, would be a welcome distraction from Trina.

  “Which season?” he asked.

  “Sun and Moon,” Denny said.

  “Okay,” Jacob said. “What’s your question?”

  “I don’t get Pikachu, man,” Denny said. “I mean, why does Ash keep him around? He loses every battle. It’s like the battle starts and Pikachu does some sort of ­weak-­ass Electroblast and then the other Pokémon attacks and Pikachu ends up on the ground with little spirals in his eyes. I get that he’s cute with his little ‘Pika! Pika!’ shit all the time, but it seems like Ash would just realize he’s weighing him down.”

  Jacob stared at Denny.

  “Is this a serious question?” he said.

  Denny peeled off the top of his
plastic tub of seaweed. “It is,” he said. “That dude never wins anything.”

  “Think about the story, Denny,” Jacob said. “Ash is a stranger everywhere he goes. He’s just a kid, like our age. Pikachu is the only one he can trust. It doesn’t matter how powerful he is. Ash will always go to him when he needs help. It’s the same reason a lot of great players keep a Pikachu in their deck. It’s not really to do damage. It’s more about having someone that can help you absorb a blow when you’re figuring everything else out.”

  “All I’m saying,” Denny said. “Is that it’s highly illogical.”

  “Says the guy eating dried seaweed crisps from Walmart.”

  “Anyway,” Denny said, and reached into his backpack. “I’ve decided I’m done with that little yellow fucker.” He pulled out a binder full of Pokémon cards and opened it on the table. Two full pages of duplicate Pikachus. “Take them if you want them. I’m offloading them all.”

  Jacob knew most of the cards were worthless, but immediately saw one he liked. It was what he called a “misfile,” and had everything written in Japanese instead of English, though it was sold in America. Jacob loved these cards, as something about the mystery of their translation interested him, the idea that two cards with identical pictures could be saying something entirely different, and he slipped it out of its plastic sleeve.

  “Keep it,” Denny said.

  “You know,” Jacob said. “Principal Pat will get rid of all these cards for you if she sees you with them.”

  “No shit,” Denny said. “That’s why I have them in here. She’s doing locker checks right now. I heard she was just walking down the hall, opening every single one. Not sure what she’s spooked about.”

  “Wait,” Jacob said. “She’s checking every locker?”

  Denny picked a green square from his teeth. “That’s the rumor,” he said.

  Jacob took up his plate and threw his backpack over his shoulder. “I gotta run,” he said, and headed out of the cafeteria.

  When he got to the school building, it was mostly quiet, with half the kids at lunch and the other half still in class. He was sweating as he approached the main hall, looking in the windows of each classroom to see if Pat was in there, and she was not. When he turned the corner to where his locker was and saw that hall empty as well, he worried that he might be too late. Perhaps she had already opened it? But what would she even find, really? An empty duffel bag? What was he so worried about? He’d tried texting Trina since first period, looked for her in the halls, but to no avail. Maybe she had taken it back out? Maybe it wasn’t even there.

  Still, Jacob nearly ran to his locker. He quickly dialed in his combination and opened it up and the bag was still there. He grabbed it and stuffed it into his backpack. He had no idea the reason. He thought, Maybe I can erase myself from this entirely. Maybe I can remove every trace. I can delete all texts. Shred all notes. Throw this bag in the bayou. I can be done with it all.

  He shut the locker and zipped his bag and saw Principal Pat rounding the corner toward him. “Mr. Richieu,” she asked him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at lunch?”

  “I am,” he said. “I mean, I was. I’m not feeling very hungry.”

  “What is it,” Pat said, “Turkey day? I don’t blame you. I’m afraid this place has ruined me on Thanksgiving.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’re sweating.”

  “I’m not feeling all that great.”

  Pat looked down at his brother’s locker. They both studied the makeshift memorial. After a moment, Pat placed her hand on Jacob’s shoulder.

  “You know,” she said. “I’m realizing now that we probably should have asked how you felt about this, huh? I think people’s hearts were in the right place, but we never asked you, did we? I wonder if it makes it harder for you, now, coming to school and seeing this locker done up like a flipping pageant every day.”

  Jacob looked up at her and felt exactly like he did when Mr. Hubbard singled him out in class. Some sort of searching in their eyes. What did these people want from him? What did everybody want from him? The truth? About what? Where would any sort of truth he had access to begin? Why would they think he would know it?

  “It’s okay,” Jacob said, and looked back at the locker. “I believe I’d be thinking of him either way.”

  “I bet,” she said, and patted him on his arm. “How’s your father holding up, by the way?”

  “Okay,” Jacob said. “Busy.”

  “I’m sure he is,” she said. “So, you haven’t seen anything suspicious today, have you? I’m sort of on the lookout for a blue duffel bag.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, and pressed his backpack against the ­lockers.

  “What about Trina? You two are close, right? Have you heard from her?”

  “I haven’t seen her today,” Jacob said.

  “Okay, then,” Pat said. “Get better. Don’t want to be sick for the big weekend.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jacob said, and stood there as Pat walked down the hall jangling her keys.

  Jacob was struck, not only by her mention of the blue duffel bag, but by her question about Toby’s locker. It was true. Why had nobody asked him how he might feel? Had they even considered it? He looked at the cards taped across the locker and had a terrible realization. He and Toby used the same passwords for everything: their lockers, their phones. It was their ­four-­digit birth date, the month and the year.

  He wondered if Trina knew this, too, if that was how she got into his locker earlier, and Jacob checked up and down the empty hall. He then leaned over and dialed in the code to Toby’s locker. He lifted the latch and opened the door.

  Inside the locker sat an envelope with a single rock placed on top of it.

  This was not good.

  Jacob knelt down and examined the items as if they could be ­booby-­trapped, somehow, connected to invisible trip wires or lasers. The idea was ludicrous. Still, the awful experience of seeing himself on video remained fresh enough to make him question everything, and so he was careful as he reached into the locker and pocketed the small rock and envelope.

  He then walked quickly to the bathroom and locked himself in a stall. He pulled out the rock and ran his thumb over it. It was thin and flat and beige as gravel, with only the thinnest veins of color running through it. It had the oval shape of a skipping rock. He put it back in his pocket and pulled out the envelope.

  This item was also nondescript and plain white, the flap tucked in instead of sealed. Jacob unfolded the flap with his finger and looked inside. He reached in and pulled out a single slip of blue paper.

  This paper was meant to look like a DNAMIX reading, he could tell, but it was not. Jacob had seen enough of these to know, and he’d held Rusty’s just that morning. This one, however, was fashioned out of a different material and appeared homemade. It felt as thick as construction paper and, when Jacob turned it over, he saw that it was written by hand and not by a printer. All capital letters, very small and neat, that read:

  Jacob Richieu

  Potential Life Station

  Toby Richieu

  22

  You Forgive Us and We’ll Forgive You

  Look. I’ve read about bees, Father. And you know all those bees are dying because of cell phone towers or satellites or something like that and it turns out that we need bees just to live because they pollinate everything. It’s not just about the honey, is what I’m saying, although that’s important, too. Anyway, we’re redoing our porch. The whole house needs an upgrade, really, but we’re starting there. So, I knocked down this column on the porch and there was this beehive in there, Father. You wouldn’t believe it. It was bigger than anything you’ve seen on TV, I imagine. And my wife is allergic to bees, you see. And she was off at work and I didn’t want her to come ho
me and see them because Lord knows what kind of fit she’d throw. We’d probably end up living at her sister’s place. And no telling how long they’ve been there, too, you know, without us even knowing. But it sort of floored me, Father. I mean, I just watched them crawling over one another. I just watched them forever. And I thought about all that stuff I’d read. I thought about how sort of beautiful it all is, the whole shebang. How we’re all connected together. About how something little like a bee ends up putting food on my plate and lets me and my family live but, not only that, how they depend on other little things like flowers to do it, too. How there is this whole grand design to the deal where nothing’s wasted. But I also thought about my wife, you know, and how I told her I’d get this porch redone, how I could handle it and we didn’t need to hire nobody to charge us three times what I could do it for. And so, I guess what I’m telling you, Father, is that I gassed them. I killed them all. It’s not sitting well with me. So many of them, Father. After the gas. They just kept falling.

  * * *

  —

  Forgive me, Father, but I don’t really have much to confess. I’m only fifteen and I don’t have a car and I’m at school most of the day and I do my homework at night and I don’t get out much on the weekends so I don’t have that many opportunities to commit any really spectacular sins. Anyway, I got this readout saying I am supposed to be a priest, too. I’m not all that psyched about it, but my parents are. I just sort of figured, well, that’s typical. Of course that’s what mine would say. I’ll be a virgin forever. Anyway, they wanted me to ask you, like, how does that happen? Is there some sort of school you go to? What’s the pay like? Any health benefits?