Beneath the Weight of Sadness

by Gerald L. Dodge

  I realized what I really wanted to do was get my bag and leave. I felt sad, suddenly. I guess I’d never really seen Truman as a gay kid. I mean, most of what we did together was alone and he was just Truman to me. But now I was clearly in the middle of a quarrel between three gay guys and it seemed Truman was the reason there was tension. He hadn’t done anything, really, except hug Rog and kiss him on the cheek, but I didn’t know what the relationship was between Logan and Truman.

  The worst part, though, and the part that was staring to piss me off, was that in a way Truman and Rog were transferring their feelings for each other by using me. Their fake interest in me, my looks, how much Truman talked about me to Rog, was all a way to tell Logan he was the odd man out. At least that’s how I interpreted it. I knew Truman, and him suddenly being this demonstrative, especially with other people around, was not too fucking usual.

  “Tell you what,” I finally said. “I’m going to head on out.”

  I went to the couch where I’d been sitting and got my bag from the floor. I fished through it and found Truman’s trunks and tossed them to him.

  “If you want to stay,” I said as I watched the trunks sail through the air.

  “Hold it, Carly,” Truman said. “Don’t go. You said you wanted to go swimming with me.”

  I could tell Truman was sincere, but I’d had enough.

  I looked over at Logan, who was standing there with a kind of smirk on his face.

  “I don’t know what exactly is going on here, but I don’t want any part of it, Truman.” I looked back at him. “Do you want a ride home or are you staying?”

  “Logan will take you home, Truman,” Rog said quickly. “But really, Carly, you should stay. I’ve heard so much about you and now that I have the chance to meet you, you’re going to disappear on us.”

  I shrugged and looked at Truman. I could tell he was stoned and I think he didn’t know what to do. He knew I felt uncomfortable and that he’d invited me with him, but, now that Rog was here, I knew what he really wanted to do was stay. I hoisted my bag on my shoulder and started to walk toward the door.

  “It was nice meeting you, Rog,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  “C’mon, Carly. Don’t be that way. Please stay,” Truman said in a pleading way.

  Truman didn’t want me to go, but at that point I didn’t really care what he wanted. I wanted to go home and just try and process all that had happened. I knew I would probably like Rog. He seemed genuinely sweet and I could tell he was in love with Truman. I could also tell the feeling was mutual, although that was really hard for me to admit.

  All of that part would get settled. I knew it would. But what really rattled me was this side of Logan Marsh I’d never seen before. I sensed from the moment I walked through those glass doors that there was a mean part to that guy. He’d hurt me, and I could tell he wanted to hit someone once it became clear to him how close Truman and Rog really were. That was the part I knew would take some getting over. Logan was a friend of Truman’s and yet I couldn’t believe that Truman didn’t see in that kid what I’d just seen. Maybe he didn’t want to, or maybe, because so few people in Persia were gay, he felt he had few options. I opened the door and went out. I followed a flagstone path around the fenced-in pool, and then the path led to the front of the main house. I was about to walk through a garden of flowers and hedges when I heard someone calling my name. I was hoping it was Truman. When I turned, I saw it was Logan. I stopped and waited for him to get to me.

  He stood in front of me and smiled, but it didn’t feel to me like he was smiling. I thought to walk on, but he put his hand on my arm to stop me.

  “I just want to know one thing, Carly.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Did you invite yourself over here today?’

  “Fuck you, Logan.” I looked at his hand and he took it away.

  “I mean, because you need to know something, Carly.”

  “I don’t really feel like talking to you, Logan. I really don’t.”

  He ignored that and said, “Truman’s gay, Carly. I suppose you know that. What you don’t seem to know is that he doesn’t really give two shits about you.”

  I looked up and for a very small moment I thought of slapping him. Instead, I walked on. This time he ran in front of me and stood in the way of the path.

  “I know all about your friendship with Truman, how long it’s been going on and all that. But what I mostly know, that most people have no idea about, is that you think you still have a chance to have him. Which is, of course, a laugh on so many levels, the least of which is the fact that you are dating a moron.”

  I stared into his face for a long time without moving my eyes away from his own. Finally, he looked away. When he did, I moved around him and started to walk again.

  “So my advice to you, Carly, is to stay the fuck away from him. He doesn’t want you around and I don’t want you fucking around him. He’s too kind to say it so I’ll say if for him. He’s in love with me, Carly.”

  He shouted all this as I was walking away, and when he was done I started walking faster. As I finally got toward the front of the main house and the circular driveway, I heard him shout something, but I’m not sure what it was. It sounded threatening. When I got into my car, I tried to put the key in the ignition, but my hand was shaking too much. I started to cry and I think I cried for a long time. I don’t know how long, but I knew it was very long.

  When I could see well enough to drive I went home and ran up to my bedroom, taking two stairs at a time. I closed the door and fell onto my bed. I realized, as I lay there in the silence of my room, that I had never been so sad in my life.

  Detective Parachuk

  Six days after Truman’s death

  There is no evidence to speak of. No hair left behind, no prints, no weapon, no cell phone, no footprints. That was the greatest setback: There were no footprints. The rain had begun, the coroner was certain, at almost the same time Truman Engroff was bludgeoned to death by what the coroner was also convinced was a baseball bat. The bruises—few, because death came after four blows—one to the stomach, one to the kidneys, one to the neck and finally, the blow that killed him, the one to the head—and the indentation in the skull all were consistent with a baseball bat. My leads, weak and probably going in the wrong direction, were Steve Brown, because he clearly had a thing for Carly Rodenbaugh; Tommy Beck, one of the prime suspects in my mind because of his violent tendency and jealousy toward Carly; and Logan Marsh. I don’t know why exactly I felt they were important. But all other avenues were murky at this point and I wanted to stay on the case as long as I could before I succumbed to Riddle’s pressure to turn it over to the state police.

  Like the town itself, which had been smudged for a protracted period of time by wealth and privilege, Steve Brown had an attitude of entitlement. He was a tall kid, probably nerdy in most kids’ eyes, and fashioned himself as something of an intellectual. He was going off to Cornell in the fall as an engineering major. His parents allowed me to question him at home, in the father’s study, and alone without the participation of the father. He sat on a leather chair, and directed me to the desk chair “where it will be easier to write in your notepad if that seems necessary.”

  He had dark hair, dark eyes and very dark eyebrows. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but I could see that there was an energy about him, or perhaps a confidence, that would’ve given him a certain appeal and, most likely, would be a stronger and more attractive part of his character as he grew older. He was still too tall for his personality, which he tried to hide by stooping when he walked.

  “You’ve had plastic surgery recently, I’ve been told.”

  I saw no signs of it on his face, which was testament to his parent’s wealth.

  He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “Who told you that?”

  I smiled at him. I didn’t want confrontation. I wanted him to be forthright.

  �
��Carly Rodenbaugh told me. She said Tommy Beck broke your nose and your ribs.”

  At the mention of Tommy Beck, I saw a mixture of wariness and distaste. He was safe at home, though, and soon he would be in a world where Tommy Beck would have no influence on his life.

  “It’s true,” he said. He subconsciously put his fingers to his nose.

  “You decided not to press charges.”

  “We decided to not press charges.” He nodded his head toward the closed door and his two devoted parents on the other side, I presumed.

  “Why, Steve?”

  “Well, for one thing, we’d all been drinking and most of us had been smoking weed.” He knew he had impunity and it probably made him feel good to tell a law enforcement official he’d been smoking marijuana at a party.

  “Is that the only reason?”

  I could tell he was weighing whether to say more. He was attempting to grow a beard, but it looked more like a lawn that had suffered from heat and lack of water. He rubbed it now in a display of contemplation.

  “I didn’t know what he’d do if I turned him in. Carly told me he had a full ride to the University of Virginia—not for academics, you can be sure—and if he got into trouble with the law, he’d more than likely lose it.”

  “What do you mean you ‘didn’t know what he’d do’ if you turned him in?”

  He shook his head and I could tell his ego was standing in the way of him telling what I knew he wanted to say.

  “Were you afraid he’d come after you?”

  He looked at me quickly and smiled. It was genuine.

  “Yeah, I guess I was. I mean, he was a fucking lunatic that night. All I’d done was talk to Carly. God knows what he’d do if I was responsible for him not getting into school.”

  I made as if I were writing something important in my notepad. I looked up with my pen poised.

  “I think I know what you’re saying.”

  “What?”

  “Well, if he was that off the wall that night, then if he lost a scholarship because of you, in his eyes, anyway, no telling what he’d do. Right?”

  “I did think about that, yeah.”

  “Did you have a thing for Carly?”

  He laughed. I liked him for that. The laugh was genuine, too.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  I laughed, too.

  “So you did or do have a thing for her?”

  “I think she’s a pretty sweet girl. Sweet looking and just plain sweet. That’s one thing I could never understand.” He shook his head.

  “What’s that, Steve?”

  “I mean she fucking loved Truman Engroff. Everyone knows that. She would’ve dropped Tommy Beck in a heartbeat. All Truman would’ve had to do was say the word. But there was no chance of that, of course.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Carly and I had long talks. I knew a long time ago he was gay. I kept it confidential because of Carly. And most of the time that’s what she talked about: Truman.” He shook his head again. “It’s terrible what happened to that kid. I still can’t believe it.”

  I was surprised this had turned to the subject of Truman without me directing it toward that end. Now that the opportunity had presented itself, I didn’t want to seem anxious.

  “It’s part of the reason I’m here, of course. I wanted to talk to you about Tommy Beck and his temper.”

  He’d had one leg tucked underneath him in a casual way, but he pulled it out and leaned forward.

  “Are you thinking Tommy Beck has something to do with the murder?” His face brightened and I was suddenly reminded he was just a kid. He might’ve been a brainiac, but he was still only seventeen. “I wondered why you’d come over here just to ask me questions about what happened last summer.”

  “Do you think Tommy might’ve been involved, Steve?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past that son of a bitch. He definitely has the temperament for it.” He raked the hair back from his face. “My mother and father, when they heard about Truman, first thing they said was, ‘Wonder if the Beck kid was involved?’ I mean, it stands to reason if he was willing to beat the crap out of me for just talking to Carly, I can’t imagine what he’d do about Truman.”

  “Was Tommy drinking the night you two had the fight?”

  He laughed again, smugly this time. He was enjoying this now that the attention had been turned toward the Beck kid.

  “I wouldn’t call it a fight, Detective. He hit me on the side of the head before I even had a chance to know what was going on. And yeah, he’d been drinking.”

  “Do you think Tommy was aware of Carly’s…what? Her strong feelings for Truman Engroff.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have been. Though I guess you never know. I don’t think he’s too bright.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I don’t, really. I know he’s a great athlete…I mean, sometimes the two go together.” He touched the side of his head with his finger. “But I doubt if it was the case with that kid. I mean, I never knew what Carly saw in him, actually. She said he was really kind to her.”

  It was clear from his tone he looked down on sports. I let it go. I’d known people like that my whole life. People who thought that if you played sports, you were obviously not qualified intellectually.

  “Do you know if he ever hurt her?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” He looked at his watch as if he had a pressing engagement. I ignored the gesture. He looked at me impatiently.

  “I just have a few more questions.”

  He shrugged again. For an instant I wanted to pat Tommy Beck on the back. “Did Carly ever tell you why she broke it off with Tommy?”

  He suddenly sat erect in his chair. “I didn’t know they had broken up. Where did you hear that?”

  “She told me.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “It’s about time, if you ask me.”

  “So you didn’t know they’d split with each other?”

  He shook his head and smiled. He actually rubbed his hands together. I’d read a good amount of Charles Dickens, loved his novels, how his characters matched their personalities. I’d admired his view of people and their behavior, and I thought Steve Brown, young or not, was a perfect example of his looks and actions matching who he was. I had a strong feeling Carly Rodenbaugh would never be attracted to this kid. I didn’t want to disabuse him of his hope, though. I wanted him to learn it on his own.

  “I didn’t know,” he said.

  “Is that something that would be common knowledge in school? Would a situation like that reach kids fairly quickly?”

  “I don’t really know, Detective Parachuk. I don’t really get the inside info from the…the hoi polloi…I don’t hang with a lot of kids, is what I mean.”

  The last part was for my benefit. I guess he considered me part of the “hoi polloi” and figured I needed the term defined for me. I stood and he did also.

  “Thank you for your time, Steve. You’ve been a great help to me.”

  “Well,” he said magnanimously. “I can’t imagine I’ve been too much help, but I hope I’ve helped in some small way.”

  “You have,” I said. I put my pad back into my jacket pocket and then put out my hand. We shook and, like one of Dickens’s characters, his handshake was predictably feeble. I started for the door and then turned back and looked at him.

  “By the way, Steve, what were you doing in the early hours of March 28th…say around three a.m.?”

  Immediately his face flushed. I could tell the question had unhinged him for a moment. “I was here, I think. At home here…sleeping.”

  “You ‘think’…you’re not sure?”

  He put his fingers to his chin and looked up at the ceiling. “No, I’m sure. I was here. Why?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Do you know Logan Marsh?”

  “Logan? Yes, I know him. I think him and Truman were pretty good friends. I imagine he was prett
y devastated.”

  “Is Logan gay?”

  He laughed at the question.

  “I really wouldn’t want to say, detective. I don’t like to pry into a person’s personal life.”

  “So you wouldn’t have heard that particular bit of information from the hoi polio. Is that right?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  As I let myself out I wondered if there were any copies of Dickens’s novels in his father’s library. I imagine that would’ve been too full of irony.

  Ethan

  Ten days after Truman’s death

  Loss. There is no intelligible means in which the loss of a child can be described or defined. I thought about it when Truman was alive, of course. Amy and I both thought about it. From the moment the child is in the womb, its parents begin an odyssey of overwhelming happiness and fear.

  Initially I was selfish. I wanted a Truman, a boy. I was cavalier toward that desire and goal. But the larger Truman—eventually yes, Truman, and what a delight when he was pulled out of Amy’s birth canal—became in Amy’s womb the less I was concerned about gender and the more my only wish became good health. That concern was compounded the day I walked into Truman’s room, sat on his couch and was told by my only son, my lovely son, that he was gay. Not that Truman hadn’t already etched out a life that was different from the life Amy and I had both expected. He was different. But we delighted in that difference. We celebrated his aberrant view of childhood and teenage-hood the way some parents rejoice in honor rolls or athletic achievements. We knew, smugly, that he was capable of what he considered mundane accomplishments. And aren’t they, after all? What do first in the class, star athlete, member of the National Honor Society really mean in the large scheme of the human journey? But along with that pride, engendered from his unique personality, was also a dread that persisted like a yearlong toothache. I can’t really mark the moment when we began to worry, formally, about Truman’s safety.

  And then our worst fear became a reality. Someone killed our son! And what is that loss like? There is an emptiness, a void that will never be replaced as long as I live on this earth. I feel it the moment I wake up. No matter how I feel when I open my eyes, the actuality that Truman is not here floods my consciousness and overtakes every other emotion. Every time another thought begins to suffuse the dread I’ve felt since the moment those cops knocked on my door, their hats tucked under their arms, the reality of my dead son returns.