We Now Return to Regular Life

by Martin Wilson

  I take the phone and go into the family room. My heart thuds. Normally, Sam calling wouldn’t be so weird. But I haven’t heard a peep from him since Sunday.

  “I have the portrait done,” he says. “Can I drop it off tomorrow? Mom has some errands after lunch and she can drive me over.” Hearing his voice, a tightness in my body eases. “Sure,” I say. I’d almost forgotten about the portrait.

  “Okay then,” he says. “See you tomorrow.” Then he hangs up.

  I stand at the window, with the phone still pressed to my ear, because when I hang up I know Dad will want to keep chitchatting in the kitchen. I’m glad Sam called. I just wish he’d said more. He sounded kind of cold, but maybe I imagined that.

  Later that night, at home, in my room, I think back to the call. I’m not crazy—Sam sounded angry. And as I lay on my bed—in almost the same spot as the other night—I start thinking that it’s likely he hates me now. He hates me because of what happened. He will give me the drawing and that’s it, I’ll never see or hear from him again.

  And I can’t call Nick or the other guys, because they hate me, too.

  And it’s like something physical starts raining down on me. Shock and fear and sadness, pricking me like cold drops of water. Still dressed, I get under the covers and I start shivering, like when you have a fever, and I close my eyes and just try and breathe in and out, in and out. My body eventually slows down. But I feel heavy. I feel like I can’t move. I can’t even summon the energy to undress.

  I start to doze, but my brain won’t let me fall asleep. I think about how happy I was just a few days ago, watching Alien with Sam, and then those moments when Sam passed me the little bottle of liquor, smiling. Before things got weird. I wish I could go back, and do things differently. Not just the other night, but years ago, that day, when I saw the man in the white truck and did nothing. But I know I can’t. And I feel that heaviness again, and the heaviness finally drags me under to sleep.

  ===

  The next day, when I wake up, I see a note from Mom on the kitchen counter: She’s at work and Dad’s on campus, grading exams. I make some coffee and let it flow through me, waking me up. Somehow, I feel better. I feel okay. And then I realize it’s probably because I’ll see Sam soon, and maybe he won’t be so mad about everything. Maybe things will be okay after all. So I sit around and watch TV, waiting, feeling both hopeful and anxious.

  Around noon, Mrs. Manderson’s car pulls up. I see Sam get out, carrying what must be the drawing, wrapped in brown paper. The car drives off, which surprises me. I thought this was just going to be a quick handoff. I open the door and greet him, the muscles in my body suddenly feeling rubbery.

  “Hey,” he says. “Mom’s running a quick errand, but she’ll be back soon.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  He comes in and we settle on the couch in the family room. He’s holding the wrapped portrait against his chest and looking down. He’s barely made eye contact since I opened the door. I feel all of those heavy feelings from yesterday rushing back in. “I hope you like it,” he says. He unwraps it, but keeps it faced away from me. It’s in a frame. He stares at it, like he’s having second thoughts about parting with it. Then he slowly turns it around.

  It’s under glass, in dark gray pencil, and yes, it looks like me. Seeing it, the tension in me loosens. In the portrait, I stare off to the side, the way I did in his backyard, and there’s a slight smile on my lips. The strands in my hair are ruffled as they would be after a long day, and my eyes—it’s almost like I’m looking at myself in a mirror. Sam has gotten me exactly right. “It’s so good,” I say.

  “It’s okay if you don’t like it.”

  “No, it’s . . . it’s great, it really is. It’s . . . like, I can’t believe you can do something like this. It looks just like me.”

  “You sure it’s okay?” he says, looking at me now, but in a shy way, a slight hopeful smile on his face.

  “Yeah,” I say, looking back at him, and I can see how stupid I’ve been. He doesn’t hate me. He’s my friend.

  He needs me.

  I look back at the drawing and stare at it for a bit, because as much as I wanted Sam to look at me, I feel shy, too, and I don’t know what to say to him now. The stuff from the other night—it’s still hanging in the air. I can’t talk about it, and I know he can’t either. So I focus on each detail of the drawing, each swerve of the pencil.

  “Mom says I can take art classes, eventually,” Sam says, breaking the silence. “I mean, I basically taught myself.”

  “Yeah, you told me that,” I say. “From the TV. While you were . . . in Anniston.” I look over at him, and he’s nodding gently.

  “You can tell me stuff, too, you know,” he says. “Things about yourself.”

  He looks serious. I know he means it. I can tell him things, if I want to. I can tell him I’m gay. He already knows it. And he’s giving me an opening, isn’t he? But there are still things he doesn’t know. About the white truck. And I realize that I want to get it out of me. It’s like the alien from the movie, waiting to burst through my chest.

  “That day,” I say, then pause. I feel a little sick to my stomach, but I know I have to go on. “When I rode my bike back home, after I fell off. Well, a little bit later, he drove up next to me. That man. Russell Hunnicutt.”

  Sam’s eyes flicker at the name, then narrow a little.

  “He offered me a ride. But I didn’t get in. I guess he gave me the creeps. I rode off.” I’m speaking quickly, feeling the urgency to get it all out as fast as I can. “But then I looked back and saw that he was following me. I jumped off my bike and hid in someone’s backyard, in one of those houses along the road that goes to Pine Forest. I sat there and waited and he drove by slowly, like maybe he was searching for me. I stayed for a few minutes, then when I came back out his truck was gone. I rode home, fast, in case he came back.” When I stop, I take a deep breath because I feel like I just ran a sprint. But I’m not done. I’m about to tell the worst part. That I didn’t tell anyone about this. Not my parents. Not Beth. Not the police.

  “I know about all that,” Sam says. “That first night, when he took me. Rusty told me.”

  “What?” I say softly, because it still feels hard to breathe.

  He swallows. “He told me that he’d wanted to get you. That you were his first choice. But that you got away. And then he drove back to Skyland. He knew I was still out there, alone. And he saw me. He saw me walking on the side of the road.” Sam looks toward the window.

  My heart is pounding. It could have been me. It should have been me. The terror of Sam’s words slam into me like a blast of cold air.

  But I have to go on.

  “Sam,” I say, and I start shaking. “I never told anyone. I never told the police or my parents or Beth. I didn’t tell anyone about the white truck. About seeing him.”

  His eyes dart back to me, face scrunching. “You didn’t? Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, wishing I felt even the slightest bit of relief. Instead, I feel sick. “I thought . . . I thought I was overreacting. Like maybe this man was just trying to help me, and he was an innocent guy and I’d just get him in trouble. Plus, I never got a look at the license plate or anything.”

  A car horn blares. Mrs. Manderson.

  “I have to go,” Sam says, spotting her car through the window.

  “Please,” I say, though I don’t know what I mean. Please stay? Please forgive me?

  He gets up and walks toward the door. I follow, and he turns back to me before going out.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I want to hug him or something, so that my body will warm up, so I’ll feel better, but I know he wouldn’t let me. He stands by the door, poised to leave, looking at me blankly.

  “It’s okay, Josh,” he says. But the expression on his face says that i
t’s not okay, at all.

  The car horn beeps again. He opens the door and leaves.

  I go back to the couch and lie down. I stop shaking after a while. When I finally get up off the couch, I pick up the portrait resting on the coffee table and take it upstairs to my room. I hide it in my closet because I can’t bear to look at it anymore.

  CHAPTER 11

  Gone but Not Gone

  Beth

  Driving home from the movies, the streets are mostly empty since it’s late. It was my first night out with the girls in forever. We saw a dumb romantic comedy—Ainsley chose it—and I ate too much popcorn, and then after we just talked in the parking lot, even though it was cold out. It felt like old times—just the four of us, no cares in the world now that school was out. Excited about Christmas, which is only a few days away.

  I turn into Pine Forest. Lights are on in the first few houses I pass, which is weird at this hour. Then I notice our neighbors peering out their windows, looking in the direction of our house. And when I drive a little closer I see the news trucks and vans. Five or so. Reporters and cameramen hovering about, staking spots.

  Just like in October.

  I slam on the brakes and just idle in the street.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  After a moment, I press the gas again, turn slowly at the corner, easing past some reporters into our driveway. Even before I can get out of the car I see Earl racing out from the kitchen door. He gets to me fast, before all the reporters by the driveway can hurl their questions at me. “Come inside,” he says, huddling me against him.

  “What’s going on?” I ask once we’re in the kitchen. “What’s happened? Is it Sam?”

  That’s when I see Bud Walker, in the living room on his cell. “What’s he doing here?” I ask, feeling that horrible tightness in my chest.

  “Shhh, it’s okay. Come into the den.” He guides me in there, and Mom is sitting with Sam on the couch. Thank God. Sam looks shell-shocked, his hair messy, his eyes kind of glazed over, but he’s there.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “That man,” Earl says softly, like he’s trying not to wake someone. “Russell Hunnicutt. He was killed today. Another inmate stabbed him in the prison.”

  I hug Earl, to steady myself as the blood rushes around my head, a whooshing sound drowning everything out around me. When I’d seen all those news trucks, I thought something awful had happened to Sam. And now I’m trying to process what Earl has just said. Killed. The man who took Sam is gone from this world. It’s like stumbling off a cliff and then a hand reaches out and jerks you to safety at the last possible second. The rush in my head slows and I feel steadier. When I pull back, I say, “He’s really dead?”

  Earl nods. “I guess it happened earlier tonight, but the sheriff’s office only called about thirty minutes ago. And now the media knows,” he says, motioning outside.

  Mom comes over and hugs me. Over her shoulder, Sam looks shrunken in. Maybe that’s how I look, too.

  “We tried your cell,” Mom says.

  It takes me a few seconds for her words to register. “My phone was on silent, because of the movie.”

  “I figured,” she says. “Come, sit.”

  I look over at Sam, hoping I can see something in his eyes that will give me some clue as to how he’s feeling. And maybe then I’ll know how to feel. “Reporters are calling,” Earl says, “wanting our reaction. That’s why Mr. Walker came over.”

  “What are we going to say?”

  “Nothing,” Mom says, like that is the final word on the matter.

  I look back at Sam. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  It takes him a second, like no one has asked him this yet and he’s surprised, but he nods. “I can’t believe it,” he says softly. Mom sits back down and pulls Sam close against her, but his body seems limp.

  I can hear Bud Walker on the phone in the living room. Earl takes a seat in his recliner. We sit there in tense silence, like we’re waiting out a tornado. I keep looking at Sam, but his eyes are closed now.

  One by one we hear the news trucks leave. Eventually Earl goes and talks to Mr. Walker, quietly, so we can’t hear what they’re saying. He finally leaves and Earl comes back and sits down. And then we’re all sitting there again, no one saying anything.

  It’s weird because we should be happy, shouldn’t we? And yet it feels like we’re at a wake. A wake for the man who destroyed our lives.

  I glance over at Sam but his eyes are still closed, like he’s asleep.

  Earl stands and starts turning out the lights and that snaps us out of our spell of silence. Mom stands and goes to lock the kitchen door. It’s just Sam and me on the couch, the room lit only by the small lamp on the desk. But even in the dimness, I think I see a tear leaking down his cheek, and then, quickly, his hand flicks it away.

  “Let’s get some sleep,” Mom says, walking back into the den.

  We both stand from the couch, Sam’s eyes open now, and that’s when Earl flicks the desk lamp off, and we’re all in darkness.

  ===

  I wake up all of a sudden in the middle of the night. I sit there and wonder why my body shook me from sleep. Then I hear a crashing sound. Jesus, I think, a cold fear rippling through me. I hear a door opening, voices. Then I hear a kind of wailing. A boy’s wail.

  Sam.

  I jump off the bed, open my door, my heart pounding. I look down the hall, Sam’s door open, light spilling into the dark hallway. I take a few quick steps and I’m at the doorway. I see that Earl has Sam in an embrace on the floor at the foot of the bed, while Sam moans and thrashes around, trying to get free. It’s scary, like watching some animal in a trap. I just stand there, frozen and uncertain, my body itching to do something useful.

  “Calm down, buddy,” Earl says. “I got you. I got you. You’re okay.”

  Mom is hovering over them, her face stricken as she watches Earl try to calm Sam. She keeps trying to touch Sam, but he keeps thrashing.

  I see that the mirror over his dresser is cracked, dangling askew. The whole room is a mess. Picture frames and books and clothes on the floor. Marks on the wall. I’m still afraid, but it’s a different kind of fear from a few seconds ago. That was the fear of not knowing. Now I feel afraid, seeing my own brother act like someone having a violent seizure. Sam’s face is wet with tears and pinched with rage. He’s still fighting Earl, trying to get free. But then he almost goes limp, so sudden it’s like someone has pushed an off button. He stops moaning. Mom squats to the ground in front of him and takes him from Earl, cradling him in her arms, his eyes open, looking at the ceiling.

  “I miss him,” Sam says, his voice faint and cracked.

  “Shhh,” Mom says.

  Did I hear him right?

  “I’ll never,” Sam says, his voice faint and cracked.

  “Shhh,” Mom responds.

  “I’ll never,” Sam says. His voice sputters, the way it does when you’re in a crying fit and try to speak. “I’ll never . . . see him . . . see him again.”

  My legs feel suddenly weak. I look over at Mom, holding Sam, and she’s stroking his head, but her eyes are on Earl, and they look at each other like two people who’ve just witnessed a horrific accident—with fear and shock and uncertainty.

  “Oh God,” Sam moans again. “I want it to stop,” he says. “I want it to stop.” Sam opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on me. His face is wet and red, his jaw shaking a little, but he just looks at me in a way that’s hard to describe. Like he’s pleading with me to help him.

  But I’m frozen. I don’t know how to help him at all.

  “Here, come on,” Earl says, gently lifting Sam from the floor. He and Mom settle him onto his bed. Earl stands while Mom sits next to Sam.

  I shake myself into action and start cleaning things up off the floor—clothes, a few frames, books.
<
br />   “Leave that, Beth,” Earl says, so I just drop everything in a corner.

  “Beth, will you go to my bathroom and get an Ambien,” Mom whispers.

  I do just that, glad to have a task, first grabbing a glass of water, then cupping the pill carefully in my hand when I walk back to Sam’s room. Mom nudges Sam gently and says, “Here, baby, take this.” He whimpers a slight protest, but Mom asks him again and he takes it and gulps down the water. He lies back down and closes his eyes.

  I just stand there till Earl says, “Go back to bed, sweetie.”

  Back in my room I don’t sleep. I just sit on my bed. I keep seeing that man’s horrible face. The mug shot. He’s dead, he’s gone, but I know he’s not, really. He might never be.

  ===

  The next morning, Sam is calm, like nothing ever happened. But I feel wrung out. Mom cooks us breakfast—pancakes and bacon—and we all eat in silence at the dining room table.

  The news vans are gone. They’ve moved on to the next thing. But Mom says we shouldn’t turn on the TV. My phone’s still somewhere in my purse, on silent. I don’t care. I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone.

  Later, Sam settles in the living room with that sketch pad. Mom and I work on the Christmas decorations—pulling out boxes of ornaments, hanging the stockings on the fireplace, putting out the ceramic Nativity set. Meanwhile, Earl works in Sam’s room, painting over the marks on the wall, cleaning up the traces of last night, eventually taking the cracked mirror to the trash can outside.

  Aunt Shelley gets here at lunchtime. We help her lug in her suitcase to my room, and then two big bags of presents, which Sam and I start placing under the Christmas tree. “Oh, Shelley,” Mom says, shaking her head, looking at all the gifts. Mom begged everyone not to go overboard. She said that the only present any of us needed this year was Sam being home. But she’s smiling, surrendering to the occasion.