Dead Silence

by Kimberly Derting

  “I just need to get some things,” he repeated as calmly as he could manage, leaving the room while the miserable bastard still ranted behind him. He needed to pack his shit and get out of there before the old man’s words morphed into full-on rage.

  He passed a darkened bedroom, the door slightly ajar, just like it always was, and he hesitated. Something inside of him stirred, something small and childlike. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge. “Ma,” he breathed almost soundlessly into the still room.

  There was no response but he knew she was in there; he could smell the fetid stench of her waste and her unwashed body. Smells that no child should ever have to smell. And along with her scent, he could hear the slight rustling of her sheets.

  “It’s just me,” he said, louder this time. “I . . . I just stopped by. . . .” He didn’t know how to tell her he wasn’t staying. That he was leaving her alone—once and for all—with her husband.

  But then there was another smell, the caustic stench that made the hairs on his arms stand on end, disclosing his father’s presence even before he spoke. He knew it had been a mistake, coming here. He knew he should’ve waited, till he was sure his old man wasn’t home.

  “You think she needs you, boy? You think she gives a flyin’ fuck”—he could feel spittle shower the back of his neck—“that you’re here? She doesn’t even know where she is. She doesn’t even know who you are,” his father spat. “She’s a junkie. No better’n that girl you got yerself hooked up with.”

  Evan turned as fury uncoiled, making his hands ball at his sides even though he told himself not to do it. Even though he begged himself to stop.

  His father saw too. “What’re’ya gonna do, boy? You think you can take yer ol’ man?” His mouth split into a hideous grin, baring teeth that were decayed and gums that festered, swollen and red. “Try it.”

  He thought of Kisha and Bailey and Boxer and Colton—Butterfly, too—all waiting for him. All counting on him. He couldn’t do this. He knew he was outmatched. His father outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, and drunk or not, he’d once gone toe to toe with some of the best amateur fighters in the circuit. He could throw a punch as naturally as he could polish off a fifth of bourbon.

  He loosened his fists and tried to duck around the bastard. “It’s not worth it,” he muttered.

  But it was too late. His father was already raring for a fight, he’d already pushed the old bastard too far.

  He felt his dad tackle him from behind and instinctively his arms shot up, covering the back of his head as his face slammed against the ground. That was the first line of attack—always was—his head. His dad landed a couple of solid blows, making his arms ache where they tried to shield him, but he already knew the rhythm of the punches—right, left, right. He dragged himself to the left, just as a hard right was coming at him, and he heard his father’s fist slam the hardwood just beside his ear.

  There was a pause, and then his father’s shrieks—outrage mixed with pain—rumbled off the wall of the house. “Son of a—You mother fu—”

  But Evan was already rolling away, taking advantage of the fact that he’d thrown the old man off kilter by fighting back. He kicked behind him, just once, and managed to catch his father in the gut. He heard the bastard land on the ground with a satisfying whomp!

  He wouldn’t have long, he knew, and he scrambled to get to his feet, knowing his only chance was to get the hell out of there. He could get his shit later, when his dad ran out of booze again and had to make another liquor run.

  He was almost to the door when he felt his feet jerked out from beneath him and he landed on his knees. His head reeled as he struggled to figure out what had just happened. He rolled onto his back, still trying to figure out why he’d fallen, only to see the old man waving something at him. His dad looked like a demented matador in a bullfight. Except that instead of a red cape, he was brandishing a floor mat. One Evan had walked on thousands of times before.

  His father had literally pulled the rug out from underneath him.

  “Nice try, fuckwad.” He threw the rug down and closed the distance in two strides.

  The first fist his dad landed was a hard left, and it hit him so hard his teeth clattered together. He might have bitten his tongue, or maybe it was his cheek, but he definitely tasted blood. The second was a right hook, coming up just beneath his jaw. He saw stars or fireworks or whatever you called it when white hot flashes exploded behind your eyelids making it impossible to see.

  Glancing around, Evan searched for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. Something that might stop, or even just delay, his father long enough so he could escape.

  There was nothing. Just an array of bottles and an overflowing ashtray and enough Playboys to make the old man look like some kind of perv.

  He reached for the nearest bottle, barely noticing that the lid wasn’t screwed on, and he felt the cheap whiskey dribble down his arm as he waved it in front of the old man. “Get away from me, you prick. Stay back.”

  His dad’s vision cleared slightly as he fumbled for the bottle. “Hey, knock it off, you idiot. That’s perfectly good scotch. Put it down or I’ll beat your ass.”

  Evan laughed as he staggered to his feet, still letting the contents of the bottle spill all over the floor. “Really, you stupid bastard? You’ll beat my ass?” He wondered what the miserable drunk thought he’d already done to him . . . this time, and a thousand times before. He threw the bottle down, feeling a sense of satisfaction as it shattered on the floor, sending shards of glass spraying everywhere.

  And then he reached behind him, while the old man was busy trying to figure out if there was any way to salvage the booze spreading outward around the broken fragments of glass—to mop it or sponge it up probably, possibly even to get on his hands and knees and lick it up if necessary.

  Evan’s fingers closed around the baseball bat that was propped there by the door, the one meant for protection from anyone who might dare to break in, might try to rob the old man of his precious stash.

  Now, however, it would simply be used against him.

  The first blow, when he delivered it, was a right. It hit his father square in the left temple, causing his knees to buckle as he reached for the wound, which was already oozing blood. The second was a line drive to the right side of his skull, and this time he heard—or maybe felt—the bone give beneath the wooden bat.

  This time, the old man shrieked, his mouth wide, until no sound was coming out. He stared at his son, blinking in disbelief, right before he tumbled forward, falling on his face.

  The next three blows were rights—his strongest hand—and came from above as he stood over his father’s slack form. Gratification surged through him each time he heard the sound of the bat crushing bone.

  It wasn’t until his arms ached and he was breathless that he stopped. He wiped his hands on his pants before throwing the bloodied bat on the ground.

  Panting, he waited until he caught his breath again before making his way back to the bedroom.

  This time he didn’t call out to her, he just slipped inside without a sound.

  He stood at her bedside, waiting for his eyes to adjust, until he could see the gray outline of the woman who’d once been his mother. The woman who’d lost herself, first to the pipe, and then to the needle. The woman who’d left him in the care of that bastard.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last, as he tried to make himself feel something.

  And then he lifted the pillow and covered her face.

  She didn’t struggle or fight to try to live, not the way a normal person would have. Instead she just lay there, letting her only son steal the air from her lungs.

  Letting herself die.

  When he felt her body shudder, a tremor he’d felt before, he knew she was gone. He lifted the pillow and set it aside.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, before smoothing a hand over her cheek.

  He went to the cupboard then, to
where the old man kept the lighter fluid, the kind that normal families used to start charcoals when they barbequed in their backyards, but that his own dad had used to refill his stupid D-Day lighter that he claimed had belonged to his dad—the miserable drunk who’d come before him. He pulled off the stopper and squeezed, dousing his father until the stream of butane made the blood watery, spreading the pool.

  He pulled a pack of matches from his front pocket, then changed his mind and went back to the littered coffee table, where the ashtray spilled over with cigarette butts and ash. Beside it, he picked up the lighter his dad used to scold him for touching.

  He stood at the door, surveying his handiwork; glad the prick could never hurt him again. Glad his mother wouldn’t have to spend another day suffering because she needed her fix.

  Then he lit the flame, mesmerized by the dancing blue and yellow blaze that flickered and flashed.

  He threw the lighter down, into the pool of bloody lighter fluid and watched as the old man went up in flames.

  And he closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 8

  VIOLET STRETCHED OUT ON HER STOMACH, flipping through the pages of her grandmother’s diaries. Immediately, she was cocooned in the warmth of her grandma’s words, and even though she couldn’t eclipse her own music box, she reached over to her nightstand and wound the ivory box she’d found that first day, getting lost in the reassuring sounds of her grandmother’s lullaby.

  The entries would have been dull to anyone else . . . stories about her grandma Louise’s married life, their family, and anecdotes from her mother’s childhood. But to Violet they were a treasure trove. She learned that her mom had sprained her ankle and skinned both knees when she was twelve, trying to impress a boy at the roller rink. She laughed out loud when she read another entry about her mom, when she was a teenager, getting busted for sneaking out with her friends in the middle of the night. She’d even taken the car—something she would’ve skewered Violet over, especially since she was only fourteen at the time. It was hard to imagine her mom causing trouble or having crushes on boys—anyone other than her dad. But there it was, in black and white.

  Reading the journals was soothing, and she stretched again, until her toes were dangling over the edge of her bed.

  She was about to call it a night, when one of the entries caught her eye:

  March 4, 1987

  A man came to the door today. At first I told him my usual “no thank you,” certain he must be a salesman even before he’d opened his mouth. It was the suit. No one in our neighborhood wears suits. Not unless they’re selling something. But he assured me that wasn’t the case. He said he was here to see me, and then he lowered his voice and told me he knew what I could do. I almost slammed the door in his face, then and there. But then he said a name that I hadn’t heard in years—Ian Williams.

  Ian . . .

  I think I was too stunned, hearing that name after all this time to even react at first, giving him enough time to say what he’d come to say. Giving him more time than I probably should have.

  Whatever would have possessed Ian to tell someone about me all these years later? Whatever possessed me to listen to the crazy tale this salesman spun at my door?

  I probably should’ve closed it after all.

  Curious now, Violet rolled onto her back and kept reading, no longer sleepy. She scanned ahead, skipping past all the Maggie-this and Maggie-that entries that riddled this part of her grandmother’s life.

  Then another one caught her attention, this one dated just three weeks later.

  March 27, 1987

  Maggie’s been gone all week, spending her spring break in Palm Springs with Sabrina Luddy’s family. I would be worried, except that Sabrina’s father is as strict as they come. Still, it probably couldn’t hurt to worry a little, she is sixteen after all. But I’ve been too preoccupied to worry. The man in the suit has come back twice. I still haven’t told John about him, although I’m not sure why. I’ve meant to, plenty of times. I’ve opened my mouth to tell him everything, but each time I close it again, feeling like this is something that needs to be kept to myself. At least for now. The man always wears the same dark suit, and he’s tried and tried to convince me that he understands what I’ve gone through. He’s told me, too, in far-too-mysterious terms, that I’m not alone.

  Not alone? Even though he hasn’t answered any of my questions, I think I understand the implications of what he’s saying: He knows others who can do what I do. He knows people who have “gifts” like mine. Still, it’s hard to trust anyone, so I can’t bring myself to actually say the words to him. To admit that he’s right about me, that I can do the things he says I can.

  But I listen. And I desperately want to know if there are others.

  Violet sat up now, chewing the side of her fingernail, tugging at the skin with her teeth. She knew exactly how her grandma felt. She knew what it meant to no longer be alone, to realize that there might be someone out there who understands you.

  She kept reading.

  April 6, 1987

  I’m not even sure I should be writing this down, but I feel like my world has just been tilted upside down. The man—I know his name is Ari Espinda now—has finally persuaded me to come to where he works, although I’m not sure I’d call it work, exactly. This time, he made clear what I’d already suspected in my heart: that I shouldn’t tell John anything about him or our meetings. I suppose this should be a red flag to me, a clue that something might be wrong about this whole situation, but I’m so curious lonely. The idea of meeting someone else like me is seductive. I’m certain that was his intention. Either way, I’ve agreed to meet him. Tomorrow . . . after Maggie leaves for school.

  April 7, 1987

  It wasn’t the building that impressed me, although it was impressive, in a strange sort of way. There’s more security than I’d expected (cameras that moved whenever I did), almost like visiting some secret government facility. It wasn’t though—I’m almost sure of it.

  It was the people I met today that impressed me most. They weren’t exactly what Ari said they’d be—they weren’t like me. But how could they be? I’m not sure anyone else can do what I can. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t have their own amazing abilities. The best way I can describe those I met was to call them psychics. Real ones. Not like the ones who advertise on television, charging people by the minute for relationship and career advice. No, these were the kinds of psychics who truly can communicate with a world beyond our own.

  I’m generally not a skeptic—someone in my position has no right to be. But I couldn’t help having reservations. Or at least I did, until Ari introduced me to a woman named Muriel. She was intense—maybe it was her penetrating eyes. When she focused them on me I felt as if she were looking inside me. It turns out, she was. Ari used her to allay my doubts by asking Muriel to “read” me.

  At first the reading felt generic, like I could’ve been at the carnival having my palm read. But then . . . then she started to tell me things that were intimate and detailed. She said Maggie’s name, which could have been easy enough to find out, but she told me other things too. She knew about the miscarriages. And how later, after Maggie was born, I’d lain awake night after night worrying that she might have inherited my ability. She knew, also, that she hadn’t. She told me the names of my childhood pets, and that I’d once dreamed of being a ballerina (although what girl didn’t?), and that I secretly wished I could see my aunt once more, so I could tell her that what we can do isn’t so bad after all.

  By the time she was finished, I was exhausted, as if her gift had used up every ounce of energy I had. And then they invited me to join their group.

  I have no idea what I’ve agreed to, but for the first time in my life, I feel like there might be others who know exactly what it’s like to be as different as I am.

  April 21, 1987

  Ari insists we meet almost daily, which means I have to hurry downtown as soon as I see Maggie
off to school. Since I’m home before she is, John never even realizes I’ve been gone.

  We’ve spent most of our time so far testing what I can do. Strange, since I’ve never really known myself. The hardest part has been the bodies. Human bodies. It took some getting used to, and it helped to hear them being referred to as “cadavers.” Somehow the word dehumanizes them for me, at least a little. The autopsies were tough too, but they were necessary, to help us understand how exactly the “echoes” work.

  The two things I’ve learned so far:

  First, I was right about the heart. It must remain with the body in order for the echo to stay intact. During the autopsies I’ve witnessed, the heart is actually removed from the cadaver. First it’s weighed, and sometimes tissue samples are taken to test for drugs or toxins or anything else they can think of. It’s then that the body stops emitting an echo. It just goes . . . silent, so to speak. But once the heart is replaced—and it’s almost always placed back inside the chest cavity—the echo returns, exactly as it was before. I’m stunned every time this happens.

  Second, cremation changes nothing. That caught me completely off guard. I thought for sure that once the body—including its heart—was turned to a pile of ash and bone, it would eliminate the echo altogether. How could it not?

  How indeed? I have no idea, but the echo was still there. Still strong.

  And what I know more than anything else: Everything remains a secret. This fact is constantly drilled into me, although I have no idea why. I have to assume that the others are as worried about their privacy as I have been. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

  Violet thought about what she’d always known about echoes and imprints. She’d known that people in law enforcement and military could carry imprints as could those like her—people who’d killed in self-defense.

  She’d also learned from seeing the corpse of Mike and Megan’s father that a suicide could cause someone to bear both their own echo and imprint.