“Good.” He seems pleased. He leans back against his truck and shuts his eyes. I look around the empty playground.
“You know, you probably shouldn’t be calling me crazy,” I say. “You’re the one playing on the swings in an old park all by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself. I’ve got Paul with me.”
“Where?”
He opens his eyes and scans the field and the edge of the tree line, a confused look on his face. “I spaced out for a second. I thought he was just walking.”
Paul is nowhere to be seen.
“He was going that way,” Matt says, pointing toward the woods. “I didn’t think he’d actually walk off.”
“Christ, Matt, I don’t think he can be off by himself—the river’s that way.”
Matt takes two steps toward the woods.
“We should call the police,” I say. He spins back around.
“No. No, we—we can find him. He’s probably just a few steps into the woods. And there’s no reception out here anyway, and . . . come on.”
Without saying anything else, we run side by side across the field and into the trees. There’s a little trail, and we follow it. It’s silent, and it’s immediately cooler. I call Paul’s name once, but I don’t hear anything back. I’m not sure he would answer.
“When did he walk off?” I finally ask. I want to ask what the two of them were doing in the park to begin with, but that can wait until later. Matt stops walking and gets that confused look again.
“I don’t know. What time is it?”
“Almost two.”
“I’m losing track of time.”
“You look like shit.” He does. His shirt doesn’t look clean; his hair is messed up; one of his shoes is untied. He smells of BO, too. “What time did you get here?”
“Maybe one?”
“So he could have been gone for an hour?”
“Not that much . . . maybe forty-five minutes, though.”
“Jesus.” I look around. There’s more land here than I thought. The woods stretch as far as I can see to our right and to our left. The playground is behind us, and the river is not far ahead. We’re near a fork in the path. “We’ll split up. You go that way, and I’ll go this. Yell if you find him.” Matt nods and, without another word, takes the branch I’d indicated. I set off in the other direction.
I tried to be friends with Paul after the shooting. He didn’t have anyone after Andy was gone. He was in a different classroom, but I’d see him at recess sometimes, walking the lines on the basketball court, sometimes wandering into other kids’ games and getting yelled at. He didn’t seem to fit in anywhere. He just seemed a little bit forgotten.
I tried to play with him. I remember doing it; I tried to get him to play foursquare once, but he couldn’t. I told my parents we should have him over to play, but they kind of looked at each other funny, and it never happened.
So I walked with him. All around, at recess. We’d go up one side of the basketball court and down the other, and even when he’d want to walk down the line in the middle and I knew we’d get yelled at, I went with him. We never talked. He never even acted like he knew I was there. I just walked beside him, around and around, all recess long.
But we stopped having recess together in the third grade. I don’t know why, we just saw less of the kids in that special classroom, and I don’t want to say that I forgot about Paul, but time went on and other things happened, and by the time middle school came around, I hardly ever saw him. When his parents asked me to help him line up at graduation, I wasn’t sure he even knew who I was.
The woods have grown in close to the path on either side of me now. I don’t see any sign of him, anywhere. I stop for a moment and listen; I can’t imagine that he’s moving that quietly, but it’s silent, barely any noise from the animals and the distant rush of water from the river.
And then I do hear something.
It’s behind me. The snap of a twig, and somehow there’s no question in my mind that it’s a footstep. I spin around, but I don’t see anyone.
“Paul?”
Silence. Nothing stirs.
“Matt?”
Nothing.
I take a few steps back the way I came, the hairs on my arms standing on end, scanning the trees and the bushes.
There’s no sound, no movement, but something is telling me that I want to go in the other direction, an urge so strong that I’ve taken a few steps backwards before I know what I’m doing.
This is crazy; I’m stressed and sleep-deprived and acting like a baby. There’s no one out here other than Matt and Paul and me. I turn and walk quickly away, glancing back over my shoulder, still seeing nothing.
The river grows louder, and after another minute, I come around a bend and am standing on the bank, looking out at the water. There are rocks but they’re not too big, and I can see everything, the rocky shore and the far side with a weeping willow and more woods. I dimly remember that this is some sort of preserve that’s attached to the land around the lake. I scan the water, imagining Paul floating there, drifting in the shallows, his hair fanned out around his head, and the police coming, and then someone having to go to the Gerbers’ house and tell them that their other son is dead.
He’s not here. I turn and go back into the woods.
It’s not much farther along that I find him. There’s a spot where the trees break on the side of the path and you can step off, almost into a tunnel, and I think it looks like just the sort of little path that someone looking to hide would want to go down. And I’m right. He’s there, in a small clearing, sitting on a fallen tree trunk. He has his T-shirt off, and he’s holding it in both hands, twisting it and untwisting it like a towel he’s about to whip someone with. His naked torso is very white. He’s crying.
I step into the clearing. “Hey, Paul,” I say. “Are you . . . okay?”
He doesn’t respond. I sit down on the log and let the minutes slip by. There are so many things I could tell him, questions I’d like to ask, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. I don’t know if it would make the situation worse. What is there to say, anyway? To him, to anyone? What’s left, after all these years, after everything there is to be said has been said? I don’t say anything.
Maybe just sitting together is enough, though. Paul slowly stops crying and clenching the shirt, and after a few minutes, we hear Matt calling for us.
“We should go,” I tell him.
We both stand and make our way back down the little tunnel. I look back at him just before we come out onto the main path.
“I miss your brother.”
Paul nods, so quickly that I almost don’t see. He doesn’t look at me, but as we walk toward the sound of Matt’s voice, his shoulder presses against mine, just for a moment. He probably stumbled over a tree root or something, probably didn’t mean to touch me. But I choose to believe that he did.
Sixteen
— Matt —
BLT, no mayo; caesar salad with dressing on the side; onion rings. I’m not an imaginative eater.
I’m standing in front of the counter at the steakhouse, waiting for the same takeout order I always get. They’re busy, even though it’s early, barely past five. I check the time again. Cole has less than an hour and a half until his date with destiny.
It took a while to get Paul settled and to get his shirt back on, and then we took him to the diner and bought him something to eat and tried to get him to wash up in the bathroom. He went in and came back out looking just as bad, so Cole went in and must have washed his face for him, because he did look a little better afterward. I wouldn’t have done that, wash another person’s face, but that sort of thing seems to come naturally for Cole.
I took Paul home by myself. By the time we got there, he was calm enough; his shirt was dirty, but I told Mrs. Gerber that we’d been to the park, and she didn’t seem to mind. I didn’t see Mr. Gerber there. His car wasn’t outside, and it occurred to me that
he probably wasn’t in any shape to drive, but there were only so many things I could worry about at once, so I said goodbye to Paul and his mother. Then I went out and drove around until I finally got hungry and came here.
The restaurant is in an old, sprawling house. I’m just inside the front door; there’s a dining area ahead of me, and off to the left, there’s another room with a bar. I stare at the menu on the counter, looking at all the things I never order. Then there’s a voice from right behind me, and I jump.
“Mr. Simpson.”
It’s Officer Lucas. I never heard him coming. He’s out of uniform, wearing jeans and a plain red T-shirt that’s incredibly free of wrinkles, like he actually ironed it. He’s holding a glass of beer and he’s smiling at me, though not with his eyes.
“Officer.”
“It’s nice to see you again,” he says. I nod. “Picking up dinner?”
“Yes.”
“For you and your friend?”
“No, just for . . . What friend?”
“The good Mr. Hewitt. Maybe you’d like me to deliver it for you? Save you the trip.”
I study his face. His cheeks are flushed. This probably isn’t the first drink he’s had. “What are you talking about?” I finally ask him.
“I’m going to have to have a talk with Mr. Hewitt. A long talk. He seems a little jumpy, though. I’m worried that it’s going to be tough for him. He actually seemed more than a little jumpy today in the woods.”
The words I’d been about to say get stuck in my throat, and I stare at him with my mouth wide open. He laughs without trying to hide it.
“That was quite a large bag of pills you gave him. I assume that Mr. Hewitt is still in possession of them, were he to be pulled over while driving this evening?”
“What . . . the . . . fuck are you talking about?” I finally manage.
“Watch your language, Matthew. You’re speaking to a police officer, even if I am out of uniform.”
“Listen, Lucas—”
“Officer Lucas.”
“Listen to me, dammit—”
He shakes his head. “No, you listen to me. I warned you. Several times, I warned you. And still, I’ve seen you at her house. You don’t seem to understand, but I think I know how to get your attention. Cole Hewitt and I are going to be spending some quality time together, very soon.” He pats my shoulder. “Have a good night, Matthew. Keep your phone on. We’ll let him make a call, as long as he behaves himself.”
Lucas turns on his heel and retreats to the bar while the words crowd into my throat and stick there.
“Sir, your order is ready.”
I don’t turn toward the counter, just take one step and then another toward the doorway Lucas disappeared through.
“Sir?”
Every possible thought I could be having is blotted out of my brain by one image: Lucas, creeping through the woods, following Cole. Cole, defenseless, alone. Me, not there to protect him. Again.
I follow him into the bar.
There’s about a half dozen of them, three in casual clothes and the rest in suits, some seated and some standing, all of them talking loudly with one another. Lucas is by far the youngest. Even though it’s not a big room, there are two TVs above the rows of bottles on the far wall, playing two different ball games. The bartender looks up at me and frowns in disapproval. He knows that I’m not twenty-one.
I step to the center of the room and speak slowly and deliberately, loud enough for everyone to hear me over the sound of the TV.
“Did you really think that you were ever going to be the guy?”
A few of the other men stop talking and turn, following the bartender’s gaze. Officer Lucas is seated on a stool in the center of it all, a fresh glass of beer in his hand.
“I’m talking to you, Lucas.”
He looks up in surprise, sets his glass down on the bar, and stands up while keeping his eyes on me. He’s not that big. I can handle him.
“You were never going to be the one,” I continue, keeping my voice steady. “You were never going to be able to give her what she needs, so you try to scare off anybody who can. It’s pathetic. How long have you been following her around, hoping she’ll notice you?”
He takes a single step toward me, his eyes locked on mine.
“She does notice, Lucas. She notices that you’re just like her dad. You’re the opposite of what she needs, another cop who wants to tell her how to live her life. And she’s way too smart to wind up with you.”
Lucas laughs and shakes his head. “You’re such a little cocksucker, Simpson. Why don’t you go on back to your daddy’s house? Maybe take a dip in that big pool to cool yourself off.”
One of the men behind Lucas steps forward, spreading his hands. He’s older, with gray hair and a mustache, dressed in khakis and a starched button-down shirt and blazer. “Gentlemen . . .” he begins. I look right past him.
“You know about a lot of things,” I say. “You know all about my house and my friend, and you know where I work and what I drive. But you want to hear about the one thing you don’t know? The thing I know all about and you never will?”
The bar is completely silent except for the sound of the announcer, droning on about the Mets’ September call-ups.
“You want me to tell you what it’s like with her, Lucas? I know you think about it all the time. Because it’s nuts, dude. I’ve seriously got scratch marks all up and down my back. You should fucking hear her.” Even as I’m saying it, I know it’s an incredibly shitty thing to do to Sarah, but I see his eyes widen and his face turn red, and I can’t stop. “She always likes it on the living room floor, Lucas. You should get up on your tiptoes and peek in the window sometime when she’s on top—”
I don’t get to finish the sentence. Lucas is on me, moving incredibly quickly, too fast for me to even get a hand up. He cuts around the older guy, and I’m on the ground before I know it; he drives me down and I can feel the floorboards shudder as I hit them. My head snaps back, and there’s a burst of light in front of my eyes. He’s on top of me, his knee grinding into my groin, a flurry of punches to my chest and face.
There’s shouting and the crash of barstools, a voice bellowing above the others, which I somehow know is the bartender. I don’t know where my hands are, can’t even begin to put together a defense, and I know it wouldn’t do me any good even if I could, because I wouldn’t be able to deploy it against this force of nature. I try to bend my neck and look up; Lucas is straddling me, and I catch a glimpse of his face, twisted in anger, a semicircle of people behind him, and the game on the TV screen above his head, the Mets coming up to bat. And then his fist drives into my nose and my head snaps back again, and the last thing I think is that I’m going to throw up here on my back and that I’ll drown in my own vomit and that Cole would remind me, if he were here, that I’m nauseated, not nauseous.
And then everything turns to black.
* * *
I’m vaguely aware of someone pulling me to my feet and pushing me toward the door; an arm around my waist; leaning over onto whoever’s supporting me; smelling cologne and hair gel. The night air, “Steady there” whispered in my ear, and then I’m stumbling down the steps. A hand on the back of my head, guiding me, and then I’m sitting, and slumping to one side, and my eyes close.
I open them, and I’m in the back of a car, lying on a bench seat. It’s vinyl and smells of plastic and antiseptic spray, clean and anonymous, comforting somehow. Like if I bleed on it, which I already have, it will be all right.
I push myself to a sitting position, feel like I’m going to puke, and lie down again. My shirt is stained with blood, but it doesn’t look like there is anything else, so maybe I didn’t throw up after all.
I know about head injuries from our mandatory concussion training. They create a blank period when your brain stops making new memories, and the longer the blank, the worse your brain’s been banged up. The trainer who gave the presentation said that he’d
landed on his head coming off a ski jump; the last thing he remembered was breakfast, and then the next thing was two days later in the hospital. “An amnestic period of fifty-two hours,” he’d said. He sounded proud, and we were all impressed.
I’m thinking that my brain is probably okay, because I remember everything: Lucas pulling his fist back for the final shot into my face, the men behind him, even who was coming up to bat on the TV. It’s all crystal clear, right up until it goes black. And now here I am, in this car.
It’s some sort of police vehicle. There’s thick plastic and mesh between the back seat and the front, and grills in the side windows. I panic for a moment and wonder whether Lucas has me in his patrol car. No, that’s ridiculous. The other cops wouldn’t let him carry a bleeding, unconscious kid out of a bar and drive off with him. The car isn’t moving, anyway.
Man, I correct myself. I’m a man, not a kid.
There’s a knock on the glass above my head, and I look up. A man who is not Lucas is looking in the window. I sit up again and wipe my nose. He opens the door, studies the seat, and then gets in and pulls the door most of the way shut behind him. It’s the older guy from the bar, the one with the mustache.
“Matthew.”
I lean against the door on my right to steady myself. I look down. There’s a handle, but of course it wouldn’t open from the inside.
“I’m Jerry DeLong. I’m the chief of police.”
I nod. I know the name, and now I recognize the face.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right.”
“Of course you are.” The chief chuckles. He reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and produces a pen-size flashlight. “Look at me.” I do as he says. The chief shines the light into one eye and then the other, looking closely, and then nods and tucks the light away again. “To be young and headstrong. You feel like you’re going to throw up?”
“No.”
“Tell me if you do, and I’ll let you out. I don’t need that smell inside my car. The blood is bad enough.”
Every Moment After Page 24
