We All Fall Down Read online

  On the fourth day, they took Artie to Dr. Allison back in Monument, their old family doctor who had taken care of the family during all their illnesses.

  Dr. Allison ran all sorts of tests in the small clinic he operated. The tests were negative. He said that preadolescent boys sometimes experienced night terrors of this sort. They passed with time.

  “Does he think it’s connected with the vandalism?” Jane later asked her father.

  “Possibly,” her father said, weariness in his voice. “Dr. Allison wants us to keep in touch. He said that it’s easy to deal with what can be seen—fractures, sprains, cuts and bruises. Or symptoms—fever, high blood pressure and such. But it’s difficult dealing with something that you can’t see. He said that in other cases of this sort, time takes care of it.”

  Dr. Allison had been right. A few days passed before Artie’s next nighttime terror. Then they stopped. “Let’s hope forever,” her mother said. Jane and her parents remained tense each evening as bedtime approached and Jane, tossing in bed, felt that a part of them remained awake during the night listening and waiting.

  And Artie? He remained an enigma to Jane and maybe her parents, too.

  He had always been the standard kid brother, similar to the brothers of all her friends. A tease, a pain in the neck sometimes, living in the private, mysterious world of boyhood, secretive, furtive, coming and going but barely touching her life except when he chose to torment her with his bathroom humor. His vocabulary was filled with words to describe bodily functions with which he plagued Jane when out of their parents’ earshot. He also provided sound effects for those same functions, which drove Jane out of the house, hands over her ears.

  “Is Artie okay?” Kenny Crane called to her one day from across the street while she was out half-jogging.

  She pulled up. “I guess so,” she said, puzzled at the concern on Kenny’s thin face. She crossed over to him. “Why are you asking?”

  Kenny lifted his thin shoulders in a kind of shrug. “I dunno,” he said. “He doesn’t hang out anymore. We used to swap Nintendos but now he’s not interested.”

  “I think Artie’s going through a bad time,” Jane said. “Like everybody does once in a while. But he’ll be all right.” Telling him nothing, actually, because she herself did not know what was wrong with Artie.

  “Artie’s my friend,” Kenny declared, chin lifted, his words sounding like a challenge.

  After that brief talk with Kenny Crane, Jane kept track of Artie’s comings and goings and discovered that he did not play his crazy video games anymore and, in fact, seldom went into his room except to change his clothes after school and go to bed. He wandered the neighborhood and sometimes disappeared for hours on his bike.

  “Where do you go?” Jane asked when he returned from one of his trips and was tightening the bike chain.

  “No place,” he said.

  This had always been his standard answer, even before the vandalism.

  “You had to go someplace,” she declared.

  He shrugged, concentrating on the chain.

  “How come you don’t play your Nintendos anymore?” she asked. Then, deciding to use a bit of flattery, “I thought you were an ace with the games.” Ace, one of his words.

  He shrugged again, looking away. “I kind of lost interest. It’s kid stuff, anyway.”

  “Kid stuff? I thought you had to be some kind of genius to play those games.”

  He looked directly at her, squinting: “How come you’re so interested, all of a sudden?”

  “It’s not the games I’m interested in, it’s you. And why you’re not playing them anymore.…”

  No answer but at least he wasn’t walking away from her. She took the big plunge. “Has it got something to do with what happened to Karen? The vandalism?”

  No answer again, still fiddling around with the bike.

  “I don’t like our house anymore,” he said, speaking so low that she barely heard the words. “I hate Burnside, too.”

  “I’m not crazy about it either,” she said. “But we’ve got to live here. We just can’t move.”

  “Why not? We moved here from Monument. Why can’t we move again?”

  “You heard what Dad said. That would be giving in, Artie.” She saw him suddenly not as a bratty kid but as a troubled boy for whom she had a lot of affection.

  “Giving in?” he asked, looking up at last. “To who?”

  “To whoever did that to us,” she said. “I think maybe they’d like us to move, to show that they changed our lives.” Discovering the thought for the first time as she spoke. “And damn it, Artie, we can’t let them do that.”

  He grimaced, eyes narrowing.

  “Can we?”

  “I guess not,” he said, looking directly at her.

  She felt that for the first time they had somehow touched each other as human beings. She had to stifle a desire to embrace him, the way she would embrace a friend.

  “Think about it, okay?” she asked.

  He nodded, their eyes meeting again before he went back to working on his bike. We connected, she thought, pleased, as she went into the house.

  But Artie still did not play his video games.

  Three weeks after Vaughn Masterson’s funeral The Avenger’s grandfather had begun asking him questions about his stolen gun.

  “Know what’s funny about that gun?”

  “What’s funny, Gramps?” The Avenger asked, keeping his face blank.

  “Here’s what’s funny,” said Gramps, who always talked slow and easy, drawing out his words. “I wonder how anybody from outside could have stolen my piece.”

  He always called his gun his piece but the word that hung in the air now, menacing and threatening, was outside.

  The Avenger did not say anything. His grandfather liked to talk. The Avenger always let him ramble on. Most times, he was a good talker and told stories about his days on the police force, especially the old days when he walked the beat in the toughest section of town, where the wise guys hung around.

  “I mean,” his grandfather went on as if answering a question The Avenger had asked, “I always keep the doors locked. How did the thief get into the place? No visible signs of entry.”

  The Avenger swallowed. “Maybe he had a key.”

  “A key?” His grandfather turned and fastened his dark brown eyes on him, his policeman’s eyes.

  “Maybe one of those skeleton keys you told me about, the kind that fits all doors?” The Avenger said, gulping.

  “Not this door, not this lock,” his grandfather said. “This is a special police bolt. Nope, we have to rule out a key. What does that leave?”

  His grandfather was still looking at him and The Avenger tried not to blink. “The windows?” he inquired. “You keep them open sometimes to catch a breeze.”

  “In two words: impossible,” his grandfather said. He was always quoting a man by the name of Sam Goldwyn, an old-time movie producer who said crazy things. Like: include me out. “How could anybody reach a fifth-floor window?”

  “A ladder?” The Avenger ventured.

  His grandfather did not bother to dignify the suggestion but snorted and looked out at the park, suddenly very interested in the joggers passing by. They were sitting on a bench in Cannon Park, across from the high school, basking in the September sun. Resting my bones, his grandfather called it. He had been a policeman for forty-five years, most of them standing on his dogs. He always called his feet dogs. He never drove a cruiser, always walked a beat. That’s what’s wrong with the world, he said, not enough cops on the sidewalks. Should take them out of the cruisers and put them on the sidewalks.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I would say it was an inside job,” his grandfather said now, stretching his legs before him, folding his hands over his small round belly and closing his eyes.

  The Avenger hoped he was about to take a nap, something his grandfather did at all hours of the day and night, slipping into sleep without any w
arning at all.

  “What do you mean, inside job?” He was sorry he asked the minute the words were out of his mouth because he had a good idea of what an inside job was.

  “Means somebody inside the place stole the piece,” his grandfather said. “Which is again impossible. I’m the only one living here.”

  “A visitor maybe?” The Avenger said, grimacing. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?

  “Not likely,” he said, voice faint. He seemed to be drifting off, into his nap maybe. “I only got four rooms. The piece was hidden away in the closet. Bullets in a separate box. No way a visitor could sneak two boxes out. Unless …”

  His voice grew even fainter and a moment later a soft snore came from his mouth, fluttering the ends of his mustache. The Avenger sighed “Whew …” softly, glad that the conversation was over. But he frowned as he stretched his own legs in front of him, although they barely touched the ground.

  “Of course, my memory isn’t what it used to be,” his grandfather said, startling The Avenger, who thought he was sound asleep. His grandfather spoke without opening his eyes, his hands folded on his round stomach. “Maybe I did leave the door unlocked by mistake. Maybe somebody did get into the place.” Silence for a while. “Can’t trust anybody these days. Anybody …” His eyes were still closed.

  Anybody.

  The word echoed in his mind, the way inside job had echoed earlier.

  He tried to finish the sentence that began with that word: Anybody … anybody in the world. Anybody … even you!

  The Avenger leaped with alarm, as if his grandfather had actually said the words, had flung the accusation at him. But the old man was still napping, eyes closed, breath rattling through his partly opened mouth.

  The Avenger closed his own eyes and made himself sit still on the bench, even though his nose immediately began to itch. He did not scratch it. He did not move at all, not even his eyelids. He sat there thinking anybody until his grandfather woke up, snorting and coughing. They walked out of the park in silence.

  The silence lasted all the way home and was worse even than that word anybody. His grandfather did not tousle his hair and pat his head as he usually did when he said good-bye to The Avenger at the corner of Spruce and Elm.

  The telephone rang as Buddy came into the house from school. Dumping his books on the couch in the family room, he picked up the receiver. Then was sorry he’d answered. Harry was on the line.

  “Want some fun tonight, Buddee?”

  That cool insinuating voice, this time a French accent.

  “Not tonight,” Buddy answered, clearing his throat first to make his voice steady. Feeling guilty about the house they vandalized, he had promised himself that he wouldn’t take part in any more of Harry’s adventures. Drinking was one thing, the exploits were another.

  “Busee? Beeg plans? Too beeg for your friends?” Maybe he was trying a Mexican accent.

  “No, it’s not that,” Buddy said, mind racing to find an excuse and coming up blank. Except for: “I’ve got a lot of homework tonight.” Frowning, knowing how lame this sounded.

  Silence from Harry’s end of the line. A silence filled with disbelief, Buddy knew. Then: “Conscience bothering you, Buddy?” In his normal voice.

  That was Harry, always capable of coming at you from your blind side. “Not really,” Buddy said, grimacing. “I’m just not in the mood.” Then, loading his voice with sincerity: “And I do have an awful lot of homework.” Somebody once said that if you can learn to fake sincerity, you’ll be a success in life.

  “Plan on drinking alone?”

  “What?”

  “That’s a sure sign, Buddy.”

  “Sure sign of what?” Buddy, helpless, asked. Not wanting to ask, not wanting to continue this conversation but helpless to end it.

  “Alcoholism. Drinking alone is one of the sure signs.”

  “I’m not going to drink,” Buddy replied. “Alone or otherwise.” But he was going to do exactly that.

  That was one of the reasons why he disliked Harry Flowers so much: He always spoiled things. What was wrong with a drink now and then? Or whether he drank alone or not? Harry delighted in finding the rotten side of anything. Always lifting a lid to reveal something terrible underneath. Like the other day in the park.

  He and Harry had been sitting in the car, trying to figure out what to do for “Funtime” that night, although Buddy hoped that they wouldn’t do anything, still recoiling from the events at the house they’d wrecked.

  Children frolicked in the park, soaring high on the swings, swooping down the slides, the air filled with happy squeals and laughter. Some little girls held hands as they walked around in a circle singing:

  “Ring around the rosy … a pocket full of posies … ashes, ashes … we all fall down …”

  “Stupid,” Harry said.

  “What’s stupid?” Buddy asked, annoyed that Harry would find something stupid about a bunch of kids playing in a park.

  “Those little girls don’t know what they’re doing,” Harry said, pointing with his chin. “Potter in English Lit. last week told us all about this nursery rhyme. It’s what kids sang back in the olden days when the Black Plague was killing millions of people. People would get a rosy kind of rash and rubbed themselves with herbs and posies. Then they fell down and died….”

  Buddy scowled, kept his eyes on the little girls, who had scrambled to their feet again, preparing to form another circle.

  “Know what you are, Harry?” he asked. “You’re a spoiler. I always thought Ring-Around-the-Rosy was kind of a nice thing for kids to do. But now you’ve gone and spoiled it all.”

  “I’m sorry, Buddy, but I didn’t make up that story,” Harry said. He did not sound sorry. “I aced the test Potter gave and that’s why I remember it at all. I usually don’t go in for that nursery rhyme kind of crap.”

  “It’s not crap,” Buddy said as the little girls began to circle, singing the song again, their small voices rising in the air.

  “Ashes, ashes …”

  One little girl with long blond hair tripped and stumbled.

  “We all fall down …”

  Down they went on the grass, in a tumble of arms and legs, the blond girl crying, her cheeks shiny with tears.

  “Maybe it isn’t crap, after all,” Harry said. “Because we all fall down, don’t we?” His voice dry, sharp as ice cubes clinking.

  And on the telephone now, his voice was dry and icy again as he said: “Of course you’re not going to drink alone.”

  Then snapping words like whips: “Remember this, Buddy. What happened the other night, you enjoyed it. You got your kicks. You’re probably having conscience trouble now, but you had fun that night.”

  Buddy didn’t answer. And didn’t try to deny it. Because Harry was right, damn it. Buddy had enjoyed himself, found great satisfaction smashing and trashing that house, like striking back at his mother and father and the whole goddam world. Or was that only an excuse? But an excuse for what?

  “Right, Buddy?” That cool persistent voice.

  “Right, Harry,” Buddy said, capitulating. But I didn’t pee against the wall. And I didn’t attack the girl.

  “Good, Buddy. Which means you’re one of us.”

  But I didn’t help the girl, either, did I? Did not come to her rescue like a hero. Some hero, Buddy.

  “See, Buddy? You’re not alone. You don’t have to drink alone.”

  Buddy let a sigh escape his lips. Then tried to inject his voice with more of the old sincerity.

  “I know that, Harry, and I appreciate it. But, actually, I do have all this stupid homework and I don’t feel that great. Maybe it’s the flu bug or something …”

  “Sure, Buddy. I was just checking in, anyway.” Brief pause. “Take it easy, Buddee.” French again. “Zee you around …”

  And hung up before Buddy could answer.

  Jane’s visits to the hospital had become as much a routine part of her life as going to school.
Although Karen did not respond during Jane’s visits, she felt a closeness to her she had never known before. Sometimes she held her hand, placed her finger on Karen’s wrist and was gratified to feel the pulse throbbing regularly, strong and vital. She pretended the pulse was a kind of Morse axle by which Karen was telling her that she would come back, don’t worry, all will turn out fine.

  Occasionally, when nurses had to attend to Karen’s needs, Jane wandered the hospital corridors, trying not to look into the rooms she passed, not wanting to observe other people’s misery or to invade their privacy. One afternoon, she discovered the hospital chapel. Barely a chapel, nondenominational, pews without kneelers, subdued lighting, a faked stained-glass window, back lit, set into the inner wall. Sitting in the pew, removed from all the activity outside the door, she discovered a kind of serenity. She even prayed, sort of, altering the old prayers of her childhood for Karen … “God is great, God is good, please help Karen to get better …” and “Now I sit me down to rest, I pray for God to help my sister.” … Should have felt silly doing such a thing, silly and irreverent, but didn’t.

  She realized that she had not really prayed for a very long time. Although she and her family attended Sunday services regularly, Karen had simply gone through the motions. Sunday mornings at the old Methodist church back in Monument had been more of a social act than religious. She liked to see the families gathering in the churchyard after services. Pastor William Smith had been old and holy and devout but also immensely boring. Here in Burnside, her parents had enrolled the family in the local Methodist church, a building so modern it resembled a recreation center, and the pews arranged in the round, like in a theater. The pastor here was not old or boring but he tried too hard, preached too long, and Jane’s mind wandered. Why do we go to church, anyway? she wondered. Somehow she believed—and did not know where that belief came from—that if you were kind and patient and did not hurt anyone intentionally, you would go to heaven someday. Someday seemed so far away that she did not think about it often. But she thought about it now in the chapel. I must make myself a better person, she vowed. Ran through the Ten Commandments, those she could remember, shocked to find she could only think of two or three—Thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not covet. She did not steal or kill or covet, dimly aware that covet meant being envious. But what was that to brag about? Honor thy father and mother. I must do better by my mother and father, she thought. Must be kinder to them, help them get over this. But didn’t know how.