Shadow Man

by Grant, Cynthia D.

  You have to get back to shore before the tide comes in and reclaims the throne where you’ve been sitting.

  It won’t be in for a few more hours. By then Gabe will have rescued me from this terrible dream I can’t stop dreaming.

  5

  Carolyn Sanders

  The news hit school like a bomb. Within seconds, kids were falling apart; boys with their fists in their pockets, scowling; girls clutching one another and sobbing.

  For a while they were just milling around in the halls, asking one another, “Did you hear about Gabe?” then repeating the details like a litany.

  Gabe was like a god to a lot of these kids. They thought he was indestructible.

  I’ve finally corralled my kids in class. The intercom keeps crackling. The principal is expected to make an address. In the meantime, the kids talk among themselves. Girls’ faces are puffy and red.

  There’s a political struggle in the front office. A group of the teachers want a school assembly, to acknowledge and discuss the accident. The anti-Gabe faction, led by Coach Troy Decker, wants to press ahead with business as usual. We don’t want to make him a hero, the coach says.

  As if we’ll get a damn thing done today. A boy these kids loved has just been killed and I’m supposed to preach the importance of punctuation?

  Gabe’s brother Gerald was here a while ago, tearing the place apart, looking for James. He burst into my classroom, shouting: “Where the hell is he? He’s dead meat!”

  James happens to be absent today. With a terrible hangover, no doubt.

  I said, “What do you want, Gerald?” I taught him, or attempted to, years ago. Once he actually threatened to hit me. He was suspended for three days.

  “I’m looking for James! He killed my brother!”

  “Your brother ran off the road,” I said, trying not to feel the words I was saying.

  “James knows how drunk Gabe gets! He shouldn’t have let him drive!” Gerald looked at me sideways, like a dog about to bite.

  From the back of the room Ray Jackson spoke up. “James couldn’t stop him. Nobody could. Nobody can make Gabe do anything.”

  “You tell that little sucker he’s dead. When I find him—”

  “Get out of here, Gerald,” I said. “Get out before I call the police.”

  He killed me with his eyes. Then he slammed out of the room. The kids were frozen at their desks.

  “Don’t worry,” Ray told me. “James can take care of himself.”

  “Right,” I said. “Like Gabe took care of himself.” A wave of despair engulfed me. Gabriel is dead. I saw this coming in his eyes. I saw this coming and I couldn’t stop it.

  I’ve heard that Jennie is not in school. Nobody has seen her. At first I was afraid that she’d been in the truck with Gabe, but they said no, Gabe was alone. He was always alone, in the long run.

  I wanted to talk to Jennie about Gabe. I wanted to warn her, but it was not my place. I should call her house and see how she’s doing, but teacher has no answers today, no words that will take away her pain. Nothing I could say would explain what has happened. It was an accident. If something that deliberate can be called accidental. He threw his life away; batting aside every helping hand, thumbing his nose at every offer of assistance, as if he were entitled to unlimited chances—

  Incredible. The kid’s dead and I’m still mad at him. He was a splotch on my record, a reminder that I’d failed. The master teacher could not reach him. He shot through life like a falling star. Look, there goes Gabe! we said, dazzled by his brilliance. Then he burned out.

  I’ve been sitting here, reading the pages he wrote for the weekly writing assignment in senior English. He hated that assignment. He didn’t trust words. They’d been used to hurt him too many times.

  Looking at what he wrote, at that brave, childish scrawl, I can see Gabe’s face, I can almost hear him speaking.

  6

  Gabriel McCloud

  Dear Mrs. Sanders,

  I don’t like this asinement. I don’t think its fair. You say just write like your writing to a friend but if you don’t I’ll flunk you.

  That’s not to friendly.

  I think it should be up to us if we do it or not. I am not the kind of person who likes to write. I don’t read much. The stuff I like to read (comix) you would say doesn’t count. But some of them are really good I like them a lot. There funny and they tell you stuff about life.

  Like this one, this guy’s name is SHADOW MAN. He has powers over the weather and the stars and he makes something happen just by thinking it. Mostly he does stuff for good but don’t get him pissed off or its tornado time!

  I like the way he looks his eyes are like stars I mean they flash. Did you know that when you see a star twinkle its not really happening now it happened a long time ago in the past. It took all that time to get to your eyes because its so far away. That’s the kind of thing I learn from this comic and its true.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to write. You say write 250 words but I can’t its torcher. Anyway its not like people are going to read it just you and its not like I’m going to be a writer or something. We don’t have to many books at our house exsept in my mother’s room. You can’t write at my house its to confusing but that’s another story. Anyway my spelling is pretty bad.

  282 words! Do I get extra credit?

  SHADOW MAN

  Gabriel:

  Who says you can’t write? You’re doing it!

  Don’t worry about spelling and punctuation now. Just get those thoughts on paper.

  And no, you don’t get extra credit for extra words. Nice try, though. Learning is its own reward. Right? Write!

  Keep up the good work.

  C.S.

  7

  David McCloud

  Man, this place is a madhouse. What a way to start the day. My brother’s dead and my head is killing me. I wish I had some vodka.

  The sun’s too bright bouncing off the coffee table. We need more curtains. Ma should get some curtains. Jeez, do I feel lousy.

  My little brother’s dead. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s gone. The first thing I heard is my mother screaming. Five o’clock in the morning. The cops at the door. All the lights go on. I’m lying on the living room couch. Ma’s reeling around the room with her hands on her mouth. Frank’s pulling on his pants. He almost fell down.

  “Are you sure?” he’s saying. “How’d it happen?” So then he was supposed to go identify Gabe, like the cops didn’t already know he was ours. I kept my eyes closed so I wouldn’t have to go. The cops said it wasn’t a rush kind of deal.

  Ma said she was going. Frank said no, it wasn’t something for a woman.

  I didn’t see what happened next, but it sounded like she spit at him.

  Ma went into her room and shut the door. I was lying there thinking. I kept wishing I were dreaming. I wanted to get up and get something to drink, but I didn’t want to talk to my father.

  After a while they went down to the funeral parlor. Since they got back, Ma hasn’t said a word. Not a thing. She’s sitting on her bed, just staring, not crying. Gerald went out of here raving like a maniac, saying he was going to kill James. Ma didn’t even try to stop him.

  When he left, Gerald almost ran over the dog. Frank had tied him up outside because he wouldn’t quit barking. He still wouldn’t stop. Frank said, “I’m going to shoot him!” So I went out and let Jack loose. He ran down the road, looking for Gabe, I guess.

  Oh, man, my head is pounding.

  Got to pull myself together and quit doing all this stuff. It’s getting me all screwed up. Gabe says—

  There’s the damn phone again. It won’t stop ringing. Everybody’s calling. Ma won’t come to the phone. Even when it’s her own sister. Frank said, “Kat, it’s Abby.” She still wouldn’t take it. He’s got to do all the talking.

  I wonder who he’s talking to now. He’s pissed. If this was the old days, he’d rip the phone out of the wall. He’s s
aying, “Yes, yes, I’ll be right down,” looking lean and mean as a knife. We never called him Dad. He’s just our father. Some people call him Francis or Franny.

  When I was little I used to think he wasn’t my real father ’cause he didn’t act like I was his son. People say I look just like him and his dad, my grandpa. I hated that old bastard, but I loved my grandma. She died when I was little. Her name was May June. Her hands were real soft. She smelled like perfume. I can’t picture her in my mind anymore, though, and Frank tore up all the pictures one time when he was drunk. But I remember her being huggy and warm and singing me baby songs.

  I was trying to pretend I was still asleep, but Frank’s standing by the couch, talking to me.

  He says, “I have to go down to the police station. Get the phone if it rings.”

  “What about Ma?”

  “What about her?”

  “She won’t talk.”

  “She’s upset.” Frank blows out blue cigarette smoke, which makes him cough, which makes him even madder. But I’m not afraid of Frank anymore. I’m twice as strong as him. The old days are over.

  He puts on a jacket. “I’ll be back in a while. Clean up that mess.”

  “What mess?”

  He points. “You puked.”

  Oh, man, what a way to start the day. My baby brother’s dead and I’m covered with puke. I’ve got to get myself together. The problem’s not the booze, which I wouldn’t need if I didn’t have to take the edge off the speed so I can sleep. The problem is I don’t have, what do you call it, I don’t see myself right. That’s the thing. I’m not a bad person. I’m a good person. I could do something big. I need to start over. Clean. I’m not too old, only twenty-five. Twenty-six, I had a birthday last week. Nobody did nothing, no cake or anything, except Gabe gave me a wallet made of genuine leather with a twenty-dollar bill inside. I went down to the Elbow Room and bought everybody drinks.

  Too bad I can’t check into one of those places where the movie stars go to dry out. Those places cost thousands of bucks. Big money. When you’re poor, nobody cares what you do. You could die in the street, they’d sweep you up.

  The hell with them. I can make it by myself. That’s what Gabe always tells me. I’ll do it for Gabe. No booze, no dope. I’ll quit smoking too, but not today. There’s too much going on now. My brother’s dead and my head is killing me. He’ll still be dead tomorrow.

  I can’t believe it. I saw him last night. He was fine, he was laughing and smiling. My baby brother is dead! Where did he go? Is he up in heaven with my grandma? Can you see me, Grammy? Why is life so stupid? Why do all the good people die and the people like Frank live forever?

  There’s the phone again. I’m all out of smokes. I had a pack. Gerald must’ve taken them.

  8

  Francis McCloud

  One good thing was, he didn’t look too bad. I was afraid he’d be all messed up. A good-looking boy like Gabriel … that would’ve been hard on his mother.

  I didn’t want her going down to the funeral parlor, but she just got in the truck and gave me this look like—you’d think I’d killed him. I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t talk.

  At the funeral parlor Morrison rushed out and shook my hand before I could stop him. When I think about him touching my baby boy—

  His mother went in to see him first. I thought we should go in together. “I want to see him alone,” she said. Her face was like a rock.

  She went into this room while I waited in the hall. There was awful music playing and the light was all wrong. I felt like I was underwater.

  Katherine let out a scream—it cut right through me. I started to go in there, but Morrison stopped me. He put his hand on my arm and said, “Better wait, Franny,” so I sat down and smoked a cigarette.

  When Katherine came out she walked right past me and into the parking lot. I heard the truck drive off, but I didn’t get mad. The look on her face had spooked me.

  “I’ll give you a ride home later,” Morrison said. “Do you want me to go in there with you?”

  I said I didn’t. But he’d guessed right; I was afraid to see my own son. Just like at the hospital, when he was born. Kat was propped up in the bed, looking tired but happy, this tiny little face in the crook of her arm. Gabe was a beautiful baby. Even the nurses said so; he was so pretty and peaceful and pink. I stood in the doorway, afraid to go in, shy about laying any claim to him. He looked like something only Katherine had done, like he couldn’t have come from me.

  Morrison said he’d be right outside if I needed him. I opened the door and walked in. Gabe was on a table across the room, with sheets pulled up to his chin.

  His skin was almost glowing and his hair was so bright it looked like light. I pulled off my hat.

  I walked over to Gabe and looked down at his face. Suddenly it hit me: This was real, this was happening. My boy was dead. My boy is dead! And this … terrible wave rose up in my chest and I thought: Oh, son, how can it all be done? How can it be too late?

  My brain felt like it was being ripped out, like a tree going over in a storm; all the roots ripped up and the wind roaring—I had to get out of that room. I had to leave him.

  Morrison wasn’t in the hall, but his kid was there. He said to sit down, his dad would be right with me. That kid is such a poor excuse for a man. Soft as a girl, no muscles or balls. I’d be ashamed to have a kid like him. But what can you expect, with a father like that, who milks the dead for a living?

  Morrison drove me home. He smelled like soap. His fingers looked like slugs on the steering wheel. “We’ll get him ready,” he said. “Unless you want him cremated.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “The funeral.”

  “That’s fine, I guess.” Things were going too fast. Katherine usually handles stuff like that, anything having to do with the kids.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you later,” he said. “And don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything, Franny. You and me go back a long way.”

  We’ve despised each other for years. But I saw something new in Morrison’s eyes and I realized it was pity. He felt sorry for me, that slimy pervert, with his crazy wife and fairy son. I could’ve slugged him. Then I remembered about Gabe and I felt so weak, like all my blood was gone.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.” His black Caddy crunched down the road.

  David was in the living room, looking real panicked. He said, “Ma won’t talk to me. She just won’t talk. Even if you ask her something.”

  I went down the hall. We have our own rooms. It wasn’t my idea.

  Katherine was sitting on the edge of her bed. I stood in the doorway. She looked up and saw me. Then she reached out and pushed the door closed.

  9

  Donald Morrison

  Dad worked on Gabriel for a while, and now it looks like Gabe’s just sleeping. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are closed. He looks so peaceful.

  In a way, that’s worse than when they’re all torn up, because you look at them and think: Why don’t you just wake up and we can make believe none of this happened. I could walk across the room and say, Gabe, wake up, and it would turn out he was only sleeping off a drunk.

  Too bad wishes don’t come true.

  I’ve been sitting here, looking at him and thinking. I used to wish I were Gabe. It seemed like he had everything. He was really good-looking, and funny too. Everybody liked him, even adults.

  He didn’t make fun of me like the other kids did. Not that he was a saint. Sometimes he’d smile at the stuff people said (“Donald, you get a lot of stiff ones in that hearse? Haw haw!”), but he wouldn’t let them get too mean.

  Like that time years ago on the football field. There was a bunch of kids around me. They were going to pants me. Gabe stopped them.

  “What’s all this?” he said, walking up, just one of the boys, mildly interested.

  “Donald needs some sun. His cheeks are pale,” Reynolds said. �
��He’s been lying in a coffin too long.”

  I remember it was one of those perfect autumn days when you think, Yes, life’s worth living. The sky was so blue. Then boys were pulling on me, pushing. I could feel their hot breath. They wanted something to happen.

  “Don’t you boys have anything better to do?” Gabe didn’t sound critical; more like he was just wondering.

  “He’s a fruit,” Reynolds said.

  “How do you know?” Gabe asked. “Are you speaking from experience?”

  Reynolds looked mad, but he wouldn’t fight Gabe. The boys melted away, disappointed.

  That meant a lot to me. It wouldn’t have been the first time that had happened. Gabe’s brother Gerald was in my grade. He threw me out of the locker room naked. I felt like he’d killed me, like I’d died of embarrassment. I didn’t go back to school for a week. Once when we were kids he threw dog-doo at me. I said, “You stupid idiot! You got it on your hands!” He wiped them all over my clothes.

  People think I’m gay. I’m not. I don’t know what I am. I’m almost twenty-one years old and the only females I’ve ever kissed are my mother and my sister.

  When girls find out what I do for a living, they don’t want me to touch them. As if death were contagious and could be caught by holding hands. Like this girl I met in Ukiah last summer. We went out a few times: We really liked each other. Then I told her that I help my father. She changed; she looked at me so strangely, as if I’d done something bad. The next time I asked her out, she made excuses. I heard she went away to school.

  I am not cut out to be a mortician. So what if it’s a family tradition? Does it have to be passed from generation to generation, like a weak chin or heart disease? Once, I said that to my father. He didn’t say a word; he just looked at me. The disgust on his face spoke volumes.