MARC E. FITCH
Boy in the Box
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
‘How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat? It is an enterprise you rush into while you dream, and are glad to make your escape with wet hair and every limb shaking.’
Joseph Conrad
*
‘I shall then suppose, not that God who is supremely good and the fountain of truth, but some evil genius not less powerful than deceitful, has employed his whole energies in deceiving me; I shall consider that the heavens, the earth, the colours, figures, sound, and all other external things are nought but the illusions and dreams of which this evil genius has availed himself, in order to lay traps for my credulity.’
René Descartes
Chapter One
Gene Hendrickson was not a good man.
That singular thought pierced Jonathan Hollis through the heart as he stood in line and waited to kneel before the closed casket of his former friend. The term ‘good man’ is generally bestowed upon any male who has reached adulthood without being documented to be awful. It is used far too often to describe the dead, to hide the reality of their true lives, and Gene’s somber, muted wake at Marshall’s Funeral Home was no exception. Only Jonathan Hollis and the Braddick brothers knew the truth.
Family, friends, co-workers and acquaintances stood in the big, melancholy room and whispered quietly about how much fun Gene was at parties, that he always had a big smile and loved to laugh. But in truth, he was a drunk trying to hide from his past – a past Jonathan shared with him. The mourners milled about like they were lost and trying to find their way home. Some of them assumed Gene’s propensity for booze and smiling meant he contained some kind of inner goodness – a light snuffed out when he put the barrel of a rifle beneath his jaw and pulled the trigger. But Gene’s death wasn’t the tragedy. The tragedy was much bigger.
His obituary gave the usual platitudes, but left out the cause of death, saying only that he was found deceased in his home at 41 Crestwood Terrace. In lieu of flowers, mourners could donate to a charity, but a jungle of flowers surrounded the cheap coffin anyway.
Jonathan understood why others would think well of Gene; he had tried to be a good man, but the burden was overwhelming. They had all grappled with it, trying to live with this secret for the past ten years. Jonathan tried his best to be a good father and husband despite the singular, brutal and unalterable fact that comprised his existence. He wondered how the scorecard might stack up at the end of his life. If no one knew, did it count?
Jonathan stood in the procession line against the wall. Folding chairs arranged in square patterns checkered the center of the room, and mourners – some of whom he recognized, but most he didn’t – sat in them, forming small semicircles of quiet conversation. Gene’s mother was still alive and seated in a wheelchair beside the coffin, heart so broken her legs couldn’t or wouldn’t work enough to hold her upright. It was a closed casket. A .30-06 will do to a face what no mortician can piece back together.
Jonathan reached the casket, knelt and, feeling the eyes of the room on him, did his best to say a Catholic prayer to a god he wasn’t sure existed. He crossed himself – north, south, east, west – and moved to his right. Gene’s mother was receiving condolences, the life gone from her, like a puppet whose strings had snapped. He bent down and kissed her cheek. Her skin was like paper. He had known Mrs. Hendrickson since he was a young boy, when he and Gene would play together on summer days, riding bikes, eating lunch in her home, having sleepovers together with Conner and Michael Braddick. But in this moment Jonathan felt he had betrayed her. He’d let Gene slip away and never raised a hand or uttered a word to stop him. Perhaps, having reached this point in their lives, it was almost a relief. No one wanted to talk about the last few years of Gene’s life when the pressure – the guilt and remorse – had truly broken him down, left him a drunken, rambling mess. He was without a wife or children, his friends came and went with the seasons of his insanity, and his job with the town Public Works Department was tenuous at best. Gene had been Jonathan’s best friend since they were eight years old, and Jonathan had just watched him wander away into the darkness.
Perhaps he had secretly wanted it.
“He missed you,” Mrs. Hendrickson said.
Jonathan didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say he missed Gene, but he did miss something, and he wondered if this might have been the best outcome. Was it then the best outcome for himself and the Braddick brothers, as well? Perhaps one less rogue, living reminder of their shared guilt was better for each of them. It was a horrible thing to think, but horrid thoughts had a way of sneaking into the mind.
Jonathan imagined the feeling was mutual between the remaining three of them. Conner and Michael probably wouldn’t be upset if Jonathan took the same way out. If he was honest with himself, he was heading down the same path as Gene. His guilt over that night drove him to drink, alienated his wife and seven-year-old son, drove away friends. Sure, he wasn’t as bad as Gene. He was at least able to keep the appearance of respectability – a wife, child, house, car. He didn’t live like he was raging against life. But still, in the quiet hours at home, the times when he should have been nurturing his small family, he was losing himself down a well of alcohol and remorse. In the end, his demise and subsequent wake would probably not be much different from Gene’s. It felt inevitable, as if he’d been suddenly transported to an unfamiliar world and had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Everyone was a stranger and he was completely and utterly alone. Decisions and consequences had a way of doing that.
He wished it was different. He wished he was valued, a positive force in people’s lives, a good man who would truly be missed by his oldest friends, but in the end, he was unsure.
All Jonathan could offer to this frail woman he’d known for thirty years was “I’m sorry for your loss.” Then he moved down the line of aunts and uncles to mutter the same tired, meaningless phrase while weakly touching strange hands. Mrs. Hendrickson watched him as he went, her eyes wide with rage.
Jonathan spotted Conner and Michael in the adjoining room. The brothers had arrived together and stood together, both wearing similar suits. They had always been like that – a little too similar, too close. They were like two arms of the same body, controlled by the same mind. Conner politely nodded in conversation with an elderly, bald man whose body seemed to shrink from its own skin. Michael kept his hands in his pockets, staring at nothing in particular, barely acknowledging the old man’s existence. Conner was good with people – he always had been. Good-looking, charming, with a trendy, close-trimmed beard and well-kept hair, he could feign interest and make conversation with nearly anyone if a situation required it. He was now a manager at one of the major insurance companies in Hartford, cajoling with other executives, entertaining his bosses with sports statistics and the ability to hold his alcohol, taking frequent trips to Boston to discuss God knew what in relation to insurance dealings. He was always destined for that kind of social climbing; his confidence and competence was etched in his genetic code. Conner’s chameleonlike ability made people comfortable around him. He conformed to their desires so easily that even he was unaware of it. So he nodded and shrugged and looked at the floor and gave all the physical signals of a man completely aware of where he was and why he was there and how he should act to assure others of the solemnity of the moment, to show the appropriate amount of remorse, whether he felt it or not.
Michael just stared and said little. He was bigger built than his younger brother, but was of such a min
d that he could not be bothered with the little inanities that made humans so boring. He was the smarter of the two, perhaps to a fault. Michael was an engineer with multiple degrees, his days spent stress-testing military aircraft to the point they broke in order to find the weakness and fix it. He looked at the world the same way, seeing how it worked, finding the weaknesses and then despising them because, unlike aircraft, human weakness couldn’t be fixed. Michael looked uncomfortable in most social situations but seemed especially uneasy at the wake for his old friend. Jonathan could almost sense Michael’s thoughts: Gene broke, Gene took his own life, Gene was weak. Right now, Michael was probably calculating the statistical chances of people in the room driving home tonight and killing themselves.
Gene had certainly been the most boisterous and fun-loving of their small group. He had been one of those naturally happy people, those who are content with minor lots in life, getting joy from easy, simple things like Patriots football, beer, and a job guaranteed to go nowhere but that paid enough to keep him fishing and hunting with his buddies. Who his buddies were these days, Jonathan was unsure. Gene had married once and then divorced, but even that did not deter him from being the kind of guy who was only looking for a good time and nothing more. Luckily, there were no children from that marriage, and Diana wasn’t at the wake. Gene wore his heart on his sleeve, so to speak. Couldn’t play poker to save his life because he had the type of face that constantly betrayed his emotions, his thoughts.
That had all changed ten years ago. Jonathan, Michael and Conner were the only ones who knew why, but everyone else saw it. His mood changed. He wasn’t a good time at the bar anymore. Instead he became that drunken oaf who would either cry into his beer or start a fight. But, of course, no one would acknowledge the change. They preferred to remember Gene as he had been before and ignore the downward spiral. There were a couple of the bartenders from the East Side Tavern in attendance. They had probably seen it coming a mile away.
Jonathan watched Conner and Michael at a distance and then looked away to the rest of the crowd. He didn’t feel he could leave yet, so he waited, shifting back and forth on his feet, hands in pockets, then out, staring momentarily at a generic painting on the wall as if contemplating its meaning, and then staring down at the carpet, tracing geometric shapes in its pattern. He stayed for the penance. He at least owed Gene an hour of his day. Jonathan was comfortable being alone. More and more he found himself alone these days, on the outside looking in and wondering, What the hell happened? Usually, the answer to that question was quiet, sad, and inconsequential – something that could only be expressed with a resigned shake of the head, the way one might react upon hearing news that a child was shot and killed in some far-off place. Jonathan caught a glimpse of himself in a large, gilded mirror. He looked tired and old.
He turned and drifted purposefully nearer to the exit. The outer room had couches, rarely sat upon, which looked as if they were purchased at an estate sale. More suits and dark dresses mulling about, people shaking hands, exchanging the same greetings used at other social events, which in reality are totally inappropriate for a funeral. Guests would shake each other’s hands and say, “How are you?” and respond with “Good” or whatever they automatically say every other day of the year. Mere inanities, yet uttering it always came with a twinge of guilt or shame. He was sure there was probably some culture in some other country that had a more appropriate way of socializing during funerals. Here, though, death was ignored through vagaries and social convention.
In the corner of this anteroom was an easel holding a large cardboard mosaic with pictures of Gene from childhood through his adult years. Jonathan stood before it momentarily and felt the years slip behind him. There he was as a child. All of them together, smiling at a birthday party or standing on the roads with their bikes. All of them so young, their faces grainy on old Kodak film, their clothes from another era. Certainly, something more than just a friend had been lost. Age. Jonathan felt it. It was more than just growing older; it was a shift from one world to another, leaving behind people and moments – the beauty and value of those moments preserved in two-dimensional still shots of fading, corruptible memories. The past was gone, seemingly eaten up by the mundane horrors of life.
Jonathan leaned close and stared at a picture of himself, Gene, Conner and Michael standing with their bikes on the road, arms and legs nothing but joints and awkward angles. He stared into Gene’s young eyes and wondered if he somehow knew back then these dark days were ahead.
He turned to leave and found Conner and Michael standing before him, each a head taller, each mumbling a ‘hey’. They all shook hands in the strange way old friends do who know so much about each other it breeds boredom and resentment.
Conner leaned down close to Jonathan’s ear. “We have to talk,” he said quietly and then stood straight again.
Jonathan looked around and then waited, arching his eyebrows, waiting for Conner to begin, doing his best to be a prick.
“Not here. Can you meet us tonight? East Side Tavern around seven?”
Jonathan said nothing, but nodded. It was an excuse to get out of the house and get a drink away from his wife and son, whose presence during his drinking binges just made him feel more desperate and alone. The brothers walked away and Jonathan watched them go. He then made his exit and walked outside into the deep light of an autumn evening.
Conner’s tone was serious, worried even, which was odd for him – a man who seemed unshakeable most of the time. The fact that they wouldn’t or couldn’t discuss it at the wake made him uneasy. Gene, the poor bastard. He’d become such a drunk in the past few years it was entirely possible he’d broken down and told someone, spilled his guts. He was always the weakest of them in that way. Perhaps he was the weakest in every way. He had been like a big, dumb, injured animal and every year he became worse. Jonathan had at least been able to discipline himself enough to live with the guilt. He could be a good little actor, go about the stage of life, go through the motions of kissing the wife and kid goodbye and going to work and pretending he was a good little battery in the great machine. It was an entirely manufactured persona, he knew. But it was also his only survival mechanism. Time doesn’t heal wounds, he thought, it just hides them in the little, everyday treacheries until you can’t tell the difference anymore.
But there were still those times when his heart and mind spun out of control. When the guilt overwhelmed and consumed him. When he would drink himself to sleep and hope to wake in the morning to find the past ten years were nothing but a misstep in a waking nightmare. But it never happened like that. He was trapped, trying to be the best man he could be, while that noxious memory grew tendrils reaching out for the light of day, killing him from the inside out.
Jonathan drove home in the soft light of September dusk. Theirs was a home situated in a small enclave of his hometown. The house was a small but fairly new Colonial on an acre of land that dipped into trees and a surrounding lowland area of swamp and streams. The forest had been carved out of those trees, and the house was surrounded on three sides by remaining tributaries of wet, woody land.
Technically, the forested backyard was considered wetlands and they had to obtain special permission to build. In reality, their property was the lowest point on the street, a dip in the landscape, and all the runoff water flowed into their patch of land, muddied the forest and settled into a marshy swamp between two long, low ridges. In the summer, with the leaves in full bloom, Jonathan could barely see his neighbors to the right and left through all the thin trees with their leafy branches. They had a yard that seemed forever choked with clover and crabgrass, a small patio with a firepit in the back, and a two-car garage that was barely large enough to actually house two cars. He and Mary purchased the property after learning she was pregnant, and, shortly after Jacob was born, they moved into a newly constructed house. The neighborhood was set off from Route 4 – which had the disti
nction of actually bringing people to shopping centers – and shaped like a horseshoe with a few cross streets. The only cars that traveled the neighborhood roads belonged to those who lived in its confines – blue-collar people who were striving for middle class and almost pulling it off, men who wore work boots and women who were teachers, and combined they were able to make a small family and maintain a small, respectable life.
A small, respectable life – Jonathan Hollis felt he had the small part down, but he was falling further and further from respectability. He tried, he pretended, but in the end he always saw himself as far, far short of that. He felt polluted, forever guilty and small. He had never moved out and away, had never shed the clutches of that small, quiet place that hung like low clouds over his life.
Harwinton was a place of rolling hills and one traffic light. Too small to have its own high school, patrolled by state police because the population of 5,000 didn’t require more than one officer at any given time. Jonathan had lived here his whole life. Gene, the Braddick brothers and himself had all attended the tiny elementary school together. They rode their bikes through these small neighborhoods where everything seemed perpetually uphill and made bike riding an arduous task with occasional downhill thrills. Gene had skipped college and gone right to work for the town. Conner and Michael attended the state university, their parents always a bit more well-off than everyone else, and Jonathan attended community college for journalism.
Now, he wrote for the Gazette, which was lying on death’s door and barely able to pay the bills. Jonathan didn’t make a lot of money, and he would probably end up jobless in the next year, forced to join the unwashed hordes of professional internet writers. Mary worked weekends as a nurse at the local hospital. She made more money in a weekend than he did in a week. Perhaps he should just give up the writing completely and get something more respectable, where one works with his hands all day and all week and in the end has something to show for it – a new deck, a house, a building, something more than a five-hundred-word article that disappears into the annals of forgotten history.
Boy in the Box Page 1
