We All Fall Down Page 9
But where were they?
He went into the stores, looking at the clerks, and learned that most of the clerks were girls, especially in the department stores. He spotted boys carrying boxes or pushing carts piled high with merchandise. Guys worked in the food places—McDonald’s, Papa Gino’s, Friendly’s. The Avenger got sick of eating pizzas and hamburgers, although he would not have thought that possible before his vigils at the Mall.
One day he saw Jane Jerome. His heart swelled up, seemed too big for his chest. Then began to pound. She was beautiful. She did not see him. He could not take his eyes from her. Like those nights when he used to watch her in her bedroom. She’d put down the window shade but not all the way, leaving an inch or so at the bottom. The Avenger watched her through that inch. Saw her doing her homework, the pencil tip between her lips. Full lips, pink. Saw her undressing. Taking off her blouse, revealing her white lacy bra. Dropping her skirt to the floor. She never picked up her clothes, left them draped over a chair, or flung on the bed, or simply to the floor, a puddle of skirt, blouses, or sweaters. She sometimes walked around in her bra and panties. He felt his eyes bulging. Felt hot and cold at the same time. Like chills and fever. Could hear his breath going in and out. He wondered if she knew he was watching at the window. Was performing for him, walking around almost naked. He blinked, confused. What if she took off her bra and panties? He had never seen a naked woman before. Did not know what he would do if she took off everything. But it was impossible for Jane Jerome to do something like that. Not his Jane. She was not like other girls. Not like her sister who did not even say hello to him when she walked by, always in a hurry, never stopped to speak to him. He would not bother looking into her window. But at Jane’s window, he always felt strange—shivering and warm at the same time, hoping she would take off her bra and panties and yet not wanting her to do that. Only a bad girl would parade herself around knowing that someone was watching at the window. And Jane was not bad. As she tugged at the top of her panties, pulling them tight around her behind, he wondered: was she bad, after all?
One night, he found the shade pulled all the way down. Still down the next night. And all the other nights afterward. He was sad at first, as if he had lost something precious, and then he was relieved. You must resist temptation, his mother always said. He knew that Jane must be temptation, especially with the shade up.
Seeing her now in the Mall, he faded into the shadows under the escalator, watching her pass, eating her up with his eyes. Everything bright and shining about her. The way her body moved when she walked. Her hair bouncing. She had tied it at the back of her head in a ponytail and it bounced gently as she walked. He liked the back of her neck, the white skin peeking out of the wisps of hair. Why does she make me feel feverish? he wondered. She’s only a girl. She entered a store, out of sight, and he was both relieved and sad.
The Avenger began to dream of the Mall at night. Dreamed of himself walking through the place like it was a museum all black and white and the kids standing around like statues. Statues with big eyes staring at him. Following him as he walked by. He woke up sweating. And discouraged. Which was unusual because The Avenger never allowed himself to be discouraged. But all those afternoons at the Mall had been without success. Maybe the trashers were not from around the Wickburg area. Maybe they came from places like Boston or Providence. Too far away. He groaned, tossing in the bed. How could he track them down in Boston? Or, wait, maybe they were just lying low. Keeping out of sight. Maybe they suspected that The Avenger had seen them that night and were staying away from public places. That could be the answer. Which meant that he would have to be patient again. Watch and wait. Bide his time. Wait for the means and the opportunity. It had worked before. With Vaughn Masterson and his grandfather. It would work again. He was The Avenger and The Avenger never failed.
He fell asleep and his dreams were sweet this time, although he could not remember them when he woke up in the morning.
“They’ve caught him,” her father announced, coming into the house, dropping his briefcase on the small table next to the front door.
Jane and her mother were descending the stairs from the second-floor bedrooms and said simultaneously: “Caught who?” Like a comedy act on television.
But it wasn’t comedy at all as they immediately realized who had been caught.
“One of the trashers,” her father said. “The ringleader, in fact.”
“Who is he?” Jane asked, strangely reluctant to hear the answer. She was afraid that it might be someone she knew, someone who was supposed to be a friend or a classmate at Burnside. Which would be worse than a stranger.
“Kid by the name of Harry Flowers. Lives in Wickburg. He’s a senior at Wickburg Regional.”
As her father talked Jane realized that something was wrong. But what? The words were right. The way he spoke, fast as usual, was also right. But something else was not right at all.
“How did they catch him?” her mother asked.
“Jack Kelcey who lives around the corner on Vista Drive? He just came back from a business trip to the West Coast. He’d been gone almost a month and didn’t know about the trashing. When his wife told him about it, he remembered seeing a car on the street that night. He’d been suspicious and actually wrote down the plate number. Just in case. He’s a methodical guy, keeps a small notebook, records everything. He didn’t think any more about the car until he came home and heard about Karen and the house.…”
Still something wrong, Jane thought.
“They traced the plate number to Wickburg. To a big-name architect. Winston Flowers, who’s involved in designing condos. This kid is his son….” Her father loosened his tie. “The boy admits doing the damage. But he denies touching Karen. Said she fell down the stairs. He also says he was alone in the house, that nobody else was with him.”
“But the police said there must have been at least three or four of them,” her mother said, sinking to the bottom step of the stairway.
Finally, Jane knew what was wrong.
“He claims he was alone although he’s obviously lying,” her father said. “He’s probably also lying about not touching Karen.” Her father hesitated, still fumbling with his tie. “Thing is—the police don’t have much to go on.”
“Much to go on?” her mother said, rising to her feet again, voice shrill with anger. “Karen in a coma, what he did to this house, Mr. Kelcey who saw his car and he admits being here. What else do they need?”
Her father frowned, perspiration glistening on his forehead, face flushed. He patted his pockets as if searching for cigarettes, although he had not smoked in years.
“The police have to go according to the evidence,” her father explained. “There is no direct evidence that he touched Karen. The boy denies it and Karen can’t testify. There is no evidence that he was not alone. There is no evidence that he broke into the house so they couldn’t arrest him for breaking and entering …”
This is what was wrong: her father had not looked at her since he had entered the house. Had looked only at her mother, as if Jane weren’t here, did not exist.
“Dad …” Jane began, chilly suddenly as if someone had left a window open and a cold wind was blowing across her flesh, causing goose pimples.
But her mother interrupted, still indignant, face flushed: “Why can’t they arrest him for breaking i
nto this place? He was in here, wasn’t he? He admitted doing the damage, didn’t he?”
“There were no signs of forced entry,” her father said slowly, pacing the words, emphasizing each word separately, as if he were writing on a blackboard.
“What does that mean?” Jane’s mother asked.
While a shadow crossed Jane’s mind.
“It means,” her father said, still not looking at Jane, “that he didn’t have to break into this house. Didn’t have to break a window or break down a door.”
“Then how did he get in?”
Look at me, Jane wanted to shout, why won’t you look at me? But stood there, silent, in dread, a stranger in her own home.
“Because he simply walked in,” her father said, voice harsh and dry, as if his throat hurt. “He had a key to the house. He put the key in the lock, opened the door and walked in.”
“A key to this house, our house? In heaven’s name, how would he get a key?”
For the first time since he arrived home, Jane’s father looked at her. Looked directly into her eyes, his own eyes flashing with—what?—anger? More than anger. She groped for the word and, to her horror, found it. Accusation, That’s what she saw in his eyes.
“He said that Jane gave him the key.” His voice flat, the voice of a stranger.
Standing in the hallway of her home with her mother and father, while a lawn mower whirred away someplace in the neighborhood, Jane Jerome suddenly knew what the end of the world would be like.
PART TWO
Marty Sanders was waiting for Buddy when he stepped off the bus in front of Wickburg Regional the next morning. A dull ache in his head and his eyes stinging from the morning sun, Buddy grimaced as Marty’s foghorn voice greeted him:
“Hung over?” Fake concern in his eyes.
Buddy did not bother to answer. He saw Randy Pierce lurking near the school’s entrance, bland as usual, as if waiting for someone to draw an expression on his face.
Marty drew Buddy aside and spoke out of the corner of his mouth like a gangster in some cheap old movie. “Bad news, Buddy.”
The other students streamed by them, one guy jostling Buddy with his elbow. The bus emitted stenches of exhaust.
Trying to figure the categories of bad news, he came up with a name: Harry Flowers. The dull ache in his head intensified into a sharp pain that embraced his entire skull. The sun made him blink. He looked toward Randy, whose face was a sunspot.
“Harry was picked up yesterday by the cops,” Marty said. “Rang the bell at his house about four o’clock and hauled him off to the police station. Arrested him for vandalism—that house in Burnside we hit …”
Buddy moaned, a strange alien sound he barely recognized as his own as he watched the bus lumbering away. We Are Sunk. The End.
“Don’t worry,” Marty said, confidential, face so close to Buddy’s that a pimple near his nose looked like a crater on the moon. “Harry won’t tell. He’s not a squealer.”
Tell, squeal. Fifth-grade words.
“Everybody squeals,” Buddy said, but what he meant was: I would squeal. I wouldn’t want to squeal but I’d do it. I would break down and admit everything.
“Look, Buddy,” Marty said, voice deeper than ever, if that was possible. “I’ve known Harry all my life. We were in preschool together. Harry never double-crosses his friends.”
But I am not his friend. I could never be his friend.
“Have you talked to him?” Buddy asked.
“Just a quick talk. He called last night, about eight when he got home. He said not to worry, he was taking the blame. He won’t be in school today—has to go back to the police station today. With his father. He said his father’s going to make restitution for the damage, doesn’t want to make waves, doesn’t want publicity. Which lets us off the hook. Harry said he’d call me tonight with the details.”
In the distance Randy nodded his head, as if he could hear what Marty was saying.
I could use a drink. Even at eight-ten in the morning. Even though a drink this early would make him sick to his stomach.
“How did the police find out about him?” Buddy asked, barely aware that the first warning bell had sounded, usually the loudest bell in the world that jolted most students into an instant run for the front door.
“Harry said a witness saw his car that night.”
“What witness?” Buddy asked. “And why did he wait so long? It’s been more than three weeks.” Three weeks plus five days—Buddy knew exactly when the trashing had occurred.
“I don’t know,” Marty said, leading Buddy toward the school’s entrance, where Randy greeted them, a sickly smile on his face now, the smile like a bandage covering a wound. “All I know is that Harry said not to worry. And he’s a man of his word.”
In the first place, he’s not a man. He’s a high school senior. And what do I know about his word? Buddy looked over his shoulder, as if expecting to see a police cruiser streak toward the school, turning on the siren the instant the cops spotted them.
“If the witness saw Harry, he probably saw us,” Buddy said.
Randy finally spoke: “We don’t know if the witness is a he or a she.”
“Stop splitting hairs, for crissakes,” Marty said to Randy. “Who cares if the witness is a he or a she?” The kind of stupid argument Marty and Randy usually carried on. “The witness, he or she”—emphasizing the words for Randy’s benefit—“saw the car. Got the license plate number. The cops traced it to Harry’s house.” Still talking sarcastically to Randy, as if speaking to a little kid. “They didn’t think his father had done the damage. Middle-aged guys don’t ordinarily get their kicks trashing houses. So they arrested Harry.” Snorting with contempt as he shook his head.
The second warning bell sounded, clanging inside Buddy’s head. Two minutes remaining to get inside the place and to their lockers. Then to their homerooms for attendance.
“Relax, Buddy,” Marty croaked, his voice more like a bullfrog’s now than a foghorn. “Harry won’t let us down.”
Famous last words, Buddy thought as they pushed their way into the school. His locker contained a hidden half pint of gin that he kept for emergencies. He wondered whether he had enough time to sneak a couple of gulps. He felt in his jacket pocket for Life Savers. Despite his throbbing head and queasy stomach, he needed the easing of tension and dread the gin would supply while waiting for the cops to come and take him off to jail.
That evening, he leaped with alarm when a knock came at his bedroom door. The cops, he thought. His mother, grim-faced, greeted him as he reluctantly opened the door. “Could I have a word with you, Buddy?” She knows, he thought, as his face grew warm, like shame made visible. “Addy’s in my bedroom, waiting …”
He followed her there and found Addy sitting on the dainty delicate chair in front of his mother’s dressing table. Addy shot him a look of curiosity, as if saying: I don’t know what this is all about, either.
Hands on hips, shoulders stiff, as if standing at attention, his mother drew a deep breath and said: “I’m thinking of going away for a few days….”
Buddy sagged against the wall, a surge of relief flowing through him, as if he’d had a fever that had suddenly stopped. Then wondered in a panic: Is she leaving us, too? He looked at Addy but found no answer in her eyes.
As if reading his mind, his mother said: “No, I’m not moving out or anything like that. And I’m not taking a vacation, either. I’m thinking of going on a retreat….”
The word echoed vaguely in Buddy’s mind, something to do with religion and prayer. But he asked the question anyway: “What’s a retreat?” And immediately felt stupid as usual when involved in a conversation with his mother and Addy.
“It’s a place to go for meditation and prayer,” Addy explained but not in a wise guy voice, trying to be helpful.
“Exactly,” his mother said. “It’s a five-day retreat, a long weekend, Friday through Tuesday at a kind of monastery south of Worcester.
” She sank down on the bed. “I’ve got to get myself together. I mean, I’ve only been going through the motions, at work, here at home with the two of you. During the retreat, I’ll have a chance to think. To meditate, pray. There’s a counselor. I’ll be going with a group of women from all walks of life.”
“That’s just great, Mom,” Addy said heartily.
And Buddy echoed the word: “Great.” Trying to inject it with enthusiasm.
“We’ll get along fine,” Addy said. “We’ll load up on frozen stuff, order Chinese goop, and I can make my specialties …”
“Meat loaf and shake-and-bake chicken,” Buddy said, chiding her pleasantly, wanting to be a part of her cheerfulness and his mother’s decision. At the same time, he looked searchingly at his mother, trying to see her not as his mother but as a woman. A troubled, unhappy woman. Saw the small network of lines at the corners of her eyes, the thin, downturned lips. Had her lips always been so thin? Had she always looked this way? Sadness made him take his eyes away from her. Since his father’s departure, his mother had been only a presence in the house, as insubstantial as a shadow. He had awakened each day thinking, today somehow we’ll talk, I’ll ask her how she’s doing, how she’s really doing, we’ll get past all that polite table talk and get things out in the open. But as each day wore on, and the booze took hold, his morning vow dissolved.
His mother remained preoccupied, distant at the table although she talked—how she talked—but mechanical talk, about work, inquiring about school, but not absorbing the answers, distracted.
Look, kids,” she said now. “Maybe I haven’t been the best wife and mother and I’ve also been a lousy Catholic. Your father did his best for you. He went along with all the demands of the Church when we married. Agreed that our children would be brought up Catholic, although I decided at one point that you both should make your decisions about religion and what to be.”
When did that happen? Buddy wondered. All he knew was that at some point in his life, his mother had stopped going to mass and they had stopped too. And she did not insist on those boring religion classes anymore. Was that one of Addy’s sins of omission?